The tunnel began to shrink before us, condensing and tightening, trying to crush us. After all, who would notice if a ghost and one of many ballet rats disappeared? Perhaps the world would be a better place for it. And even in that tight space, I felt so small. It was him, I know now. In retrospect, there was always an air about him; of a man who knows so much of the world though he has seen so little of it, that made me feel like such a small part of something much, much bigger.
But I did not look at it in those terms. Not at the time. Then I had thought of my intrusion upon his life more as a second act. Christine had been the first one and she had ended her scene by leaving, unconcerned for what would happen next, thinking that the story was over. She didn't know that after the curtain fell that the second act began, that now it fell to me to see where this man ended. That is, until the third act. I did not know if I would be a part of that, or if I would still even be alive. Perhaps I was already dead, for no living person could ever feel so numb as I did at the moment.
Then the walls came so close together that I was forced to huddle against him, feeling the heat from his fevered skin diffuse through his thin shirt and infuse itself into my own chilled body. It almost burned! But forced into such intimate contact, with my breasts pressed relentlessly into his back and my hands desperately gripping his shoulders for guidance, woke sensations in me. I was no longer numb. Being this close to him, feeling that rise and fall of his breathing against my chest, made me realize that I was very much and devastatingly alive.
The tunnel opened gradually, the walls progressively separating and stretching into a great cavern. A small, steady stream of water trickled at my feet; barely as wide as both my thumbs pressed together though seemingly miles in length. Having water so readily available reminded me of the fire I had escaped from only hours prior and of how dry my throat felt, how I thirsted.
Erik made a point of removing himself from me, as if my touch disgusted him now. There was suddenly so much hatred emanating from him towards me, and I was oblivious as to why. Not too long before I had held him in my arms and he has wept into me with full trust. What had changed? I had not even spoken a word in the time since he had separated himself from my comfort. Why the sudden offense? I was completely in ignorance then, but looking back I can see why he might have acted as he did. He was angry, not at me but at himself. He had shown weakness in a crucial moment and there is little one can do to bury a first impression. What was more, he had dropped full guard before a stranger; some random ballet rat who could have been out for his head, or worse just for the gossiping rights. In his turmoil he had no defense left but to project that anger onto another, to pass the blame to the only other available candidate. It was my fault for coming after him. I had somehow tricked him. I was a harlot of a woman who had deceived him as he grieved the loss of his beautiful Christine.
In retrospect, it was all quite childish of him. Inconsiderate to say the least, considering he was kidnapping me. But I didn't blame him then and I can hardly blame him now.
Unable to bear his sudden aloofness, I knelt beside the stream. I let my fingertips brush the soft flow, the cold seeping into my bones. Yet the icy touch was gentle. I let myself relax, even as shivers began to trouble me. Then, cupping my fingers to gather as much water as I could from the small trickle, I dipped my hands into the stream. I felt the water slowly fill my chilled hands and prepared to lift them to my lips.
"I would refrain if I were you, mademoiselle." My head snapped up, hearing him speak to me for the first time since my initial imprisonment. He stood at the far end of the cavern, as far from me as possible. He seemed to be searching for… something. How had he seen me clear across the cave, in the dark, with his back turned to me, even as he focused on another task?
I turned my gaze back to the stream, though my attention remained with him. Why would he not want me to drink? Was it simply an act of cruelty on his part? To keep me parched and deny me any relief as he had been denied? I did not understand then and the possibility that he would do anything based solely on cruelty frightened me. But looking back, it was not an act of cruelty or of frustration. The water was probably polluted with traces of soot from the fire above us. The water from the lake was used to power several utilities in the Opera House. The stream was probably coming from the lake and would contain trace amounts of soot and other filth. In retrospect he was even showing concern, however reluctant, for my health.
Still, my own frustration and the darkness did not allow me this insight and I found myself frightened, thirsty, and now angry. The water was so close. Why couldn't I have just a taste? Just to soothe my inflamed throat, if not to quench my thirst?
I looked back. He seemed so engrossed in his task. Perhaps he would not notice if I moved slowly and made no sound. Just a lick of water, if even that. Keeping my eyes locked on his shadow of an outline, I dipped my hand gradually, barely into the water. When I detected the slightest amount of dampness I turned to face my hand and brought my fingers to my mouth.
But before I could make contact I felt my wrist stiffen painfully. I tried to move it, to shake away the pain, but then I realized that something was holding me. Or someone. It became clear that a powerful hand had gripped my small wrist and was now holding me with just enough force to splinter bone if he so chose. How had he moved so rapidly across the cavern so that I did not even notice he had gripped me until a few seconds after? And how had he traveled the distance, not only so quickly, but so quietly?
I felt a pop in my wrist. Not of breaking bone, but of a joint loosening slightly in an attempt to relieve pressure. Against my better judgment I let out a squeal. He released me immediately and I found myself cradling my wrist against my chest as I had done to him not too long ago.
"I do not tolerate disobedience, Marguerite!" He spat, right into my ear. His breath was hot and dripping with spite. "If you go against me again I will be forced to take back my favor to your dear mother." Having him so close, having his hatred pounding against me, stimulated beyond my defenses. I felt my eyes begin to prickle. I fought the oncoming tears, refusing to let him reduce me to a sniveling child. I only had to wait until he moved away so I could calm myself. It was his pitiless presence that was weakening me.
But he did not distance himself and the pricking worsened. Still I resisted until my vision, limited as it was with such slight light, blurred before me. I could not make out my own hands in the blur and I made the mistake of blinking to clear my sight.
Tears spilled forth like long restrained water breaking through a dam. I did not make a sound but the flicker of his torch reflected the sparkle sliding down my cheeks. How could he not notice? I was shedding rivers.
I wish I could say that was the moment when everything changed. I wish I could write that seeing my tears brought to memory how I had comforted him and that he returned the gesture; as sincerely as he could manage amidst his own anguish. But there was no sympathy of the sort to be found. I was met with only a dry chuckle of the cruelest kind.
"Pining for home already? I fear you will not fare very long if that is the limit of your resilience." He stood, staring down at me as if I belonged at his feet, worth little more than the dirt. I did not lift my head to meet his stare. "But what more could I expect from some whoreish ballet rat?" He turned, striding back to what he was searching for. I heard him mutter to himself on the way. "Even if she is a Giry."
Distanced from him I felt the paralyzing fear lift. The prickling sensation in my eyes vanished. I tried to move my wrist in rotations but it throbbed in complaint so I tucked it back in the safety of my other hand.
On the other side of the cavern he had found for what he had been searching. A passage; hidden so well that even he, who had constructed it, had difficulty placing it. He bent at the knee to lift his torch and stood, sweeping his arm in a mock gesture of welcome. I rose defiantly and stepped passed him, my expression too haughty for a prisoner. It was an unwise action. In retrospect, my pride often led me to behave brashly. Though I suppose my brashness also held strength and I would need every ounce of that strength for what was to come. Not only for myself, but for him.
Making my way through the passage, I found myself in a cellar. Not like the long, large, plentiful cellars of the Opera house; but a room-sized cellar as one would find in a house to store wine or food stuffs. It was dusty and cold but the smooth walls and the concrete floor put me at ease. We had left the catacombs. I had returned to the normal world. I had forgotten he was behind me. I was still a prisoner. My return meant nothing if I did not have my freedom.
He came up, his torch brightening the room but bringing me only dread. I kept my eyes fixed on my ruined, soiled shoes. He did not even glance at me as he walked by, to a set of stairs, and opened the door to the house. I took a deep breath and followed.
The house was surprisingly well lit and tastefully decorated. It lacked the luxury of his underground dwelling but in retrospect, I suppose that was the point. This was not meant to be a place of mysteries and deception. It was meant to be a home. A normal home.
I noticed immediately that there appeared to be only one bedroom. In his lair there had been two. Why the change?
Then it came to me, squeezing my heart and shattering through my own momentary lapse into self-pity. It was meant to be a home. A home for him… and his wife.
"Christine…" I mouthed to myself. Though I made not a sound he caught the movement of my lips.
"Would you care to repeat that, Marguerite?" But his threatening tone made it quite clear that it was a demand, not a request.
"I said…" I looked up at him for the first time in the light. He was terribly disheveled, without his wig part of his deformity was exposed to the air, and though his glare was menacing I could see the tracts of dried tears. Lower down his ruffled shirt lay open revealing an ironically chiseled chest. "I said we match!" I replied without thinking, a compassionate laugh escaping my throat.
"What?" he snapped, more than mildly irritated.
"Our… clothing." Our tight auburn pants, our ruffled once-white shirts; without my dress and without his coat, our Don Juan costumes were the identical.
His visible eye twitched at the realization but he found no amusement in it. Instead he gruffly sent me to bed. I made to complain but decided against it, remembering his threat beside the stream. Silently I stepped to bed.
The room was gorgeous. Strange, oriental, paper lamps hung on the walls and Arabic rugs lined the floor. A lush, oyster-formed bed with thick, velvet curtains stood as the centerpiece. In the corner was an intricately carved wardrobe. Remembering how filthy I was from my adventuring in the catacombs, I opened the wardrobe a peered inside. It was surprising to find so many women's dresses, and such fine ones at that! But I understood that they had probably been made for Christine. My chest ached at the though of any man purchasing such beautiful dresses, and probably at great personal risk, only to know they would never be used. I sighed and searched for a loose fitting nightgown, settling on one of cerulean silk.
There was a private washroom in the room and I took full advantage. I removed my, now nearly black, shirt and tight auburn pants. As I moved to throw the grimy clothes in a corner, a mirror caught my eye. I stopped to inspect myself and nearly wretched at the sight. My face and hands were as dirty as my clothes and my hair was matted with clumps of grease.
I considered bathing. A warm bath sounded heavenly and I deserved it! After all, my home had been burned down, my closest friend had disappeared, and I had been kidnapped. It was not the best of days. But I knew that this was the only bedroom in the house and it bothered me as to where he would sleep. If he intended to sleep here as well then I had no time for baths. I could risk keeping him awake, and thus his wrath as well. Not even the warmest of baths was worth the gamble. Instead I found a sink with, thank the heavens, running water. I thoroughly scrubbed my hands, face, and even my hair until I appeared somewhat presentable. At least until I was, for the most part, clean. I did not bother to brush my unruly locks, however, and simply squeezed out the excess water which ran black into the sink, a sharp contrast against the white of my skin and the blonde of my hair.
Feeling the burden of filth lifted, I took the nightgown. Only then did I realize I was lacking undergarments. No corset, no chemise. The Don Juan pants and shirt had required none. With trepidation I slipped into the nightgown, the soft silk ticklish against my skin. I looked at myself once more in the mirror and blushed. The nightgown was all but transparent.
But there was no solution to it. So with a sigh and nod I walked out, shutting the door behind me. I pulled back the velvety sheets and slipped into the oyster. Silk against velvet, the sensation was delicious; I imagined myself a pearl.
He was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he would be sleeping elsewhere? Perhaps I still had time for that bath after all? But all thoughts and plans of baths would have to wait because the silk and the velvet were too soft and warm and I was too tired. The plush pillows did nothing to contradict this. I was asleep before I could give the bath a second thought.
I woke only once in the night with the feeling of weight opposite myself on the bed. My eyes snapped open and I instantly remembered I was not in my room. The air in y room was filled with the snores of other dancers and my bed was not nearly as warm or as soft or as large.
I was facing the edge so I made no move to inform the added weight that I had woken. He made no move to approach me but just lay there, opposite me, his back turned to me as well.
Time drifted, floating around us and in us, passing by relentlessly, yet neither of us found sleep. I out of fear. He for reasons of his own, I could only speculate. Then, after what seemed like hours of silence and forced stillness, I felt him shift. He had turned to face me, I knew. I could feel those blazing orbs for eyes of his boring into my back. I made no move but concentrated on keeping my breathing even.
After another while I felt him shift closer. I made no move but kept focused on my even breathing. In… and out… In… and out…
Then, slowly, a hand crept under the sheets to rest on my arm. Nothing more, nothing less. In that moment I felt a thousand paths open to me. Thousands of paths for millions of mixed emotions. In retrospect, I'm certain I would have chosen fear, thinking of how terrifying his closeness had become to me since his threat. But what I noticed then blocked off the path of fear, though not of caution. The hand he had so carefully and uncharacteristically gently placed upon my arm was trembling. I took note then of the intense anguish that seemed to be radiating from behind me. And it was harmless really. Just his hand on my arm, was it so terrible? I couldn't imagine how difficult it must've been for this man to try and sleep, knowing that he was alone in the bed he had intended to share with the woman he loved.
I settled and let the simple contact continue. He made no move to increase the contact but it took another while yet for his trembling to cease. Once it had, I felt myself calm and slip into an undisturbed sleep. In retrospect, I slept unbelievably well after such a day.
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