Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing related to this cast of characters, except, of course, my own plots.
A/N: Having by now read several one-shots, I decided to try one of my own. It takes place in a world-famous city, known for heartbreak as well as miracles...
It had started snowing again, and he reluctantly began to gather his props and magician's cloaks, of which he had several. Adjusting the mask that covered half his face, he glanced, frowning, up at the sky. He would probably have to come back in a couple of days, if he was lucky. Sighing in resignation, he began to unfasten the pegs holding the tent of wonders in place on the ground.
As he straightened before continuing on to the next peg, he saw them trudging toward him, heads down, through the layer of snow already on the ground. They were as yet unaware of his presence. The man carried a worn violin under one arm. The other rested on the little girl's shoulders, as he made a feeble attempt to shield her from the brutal New York cold.
The magician stood still, staring at them. This troubled him immediately, as he had long ago ceased to be interested in people.
They came to his magic tent, tourist and native alike, here in the middle of Central Park. They watched him perform his wonders, in silence, until he produced something that, to all apperances, was a prodigious miracle. Then they would clap wildly. Sometimes they even cheered. The really young ones would gape, awestruck. At the end of the show, they threw their money into his violin case. The magician never counted it, although it was usually enough to pay his bills and rent. A few people invariably asked about his violin. Shrugging, he would briefly answer that he had none. If pressed, he always replied that he carried his music within his soul.
Father and daughter were quite close to him now. The girl looked up, and screamed in delight when she caught sight of the tent.
"Dad, look! There he is -- the magician! Remember the flower lady telling us about him?"
She couldn't have been more than twelve, all eagerness and innocent joy. The magician had never seen such glorious curls before. Father and daughter stopped before his half-dismantled tent, as snowflakes swirled around the three of them.
The father greeted him affably, not mentioning the mask. The magician could feel the child's curious eyes upon his face as he returned the father's greeting.
"I was born this way," he told her, simply, as he looked down at her. "The mask covers the...strange...half of my face..." He tried to look away from those innocent eyes, but couldn't. She grinned like a typical twelve-year-old, telling him that the mask looked nice. He grinned right back as he looked down at her impish face.
"You must forgive my daughter. She is very inquisitive."
The magician looked up at her father, still grinning. He was quite unaccustomed to smiling. "It's quite all right," he said shyly, meaning it.
"Are you gonna be here tomorrow?" she asked, as she stared and stared at the magician with her clear blue eyes. So piercing, those eyes, the magician thought, as she unabashedly met his own. He could detect no sign of revulsion in her piercing gaze.
Inexplicably, he suddenly pulled himself up, tearing his eyes away. He seemed to draw the cloak he wore over himself. "I don't know yet," he answered, too curtly, turning his back on them, continuing with his task. "It all depends on the weather."
"Well, we'll come looking for you! Won't we, Dad?" The girl's smile was lost on the magician, as he had his back to her, but he felt it, nevertheless. It warmed him through, in spite of the bitter cold.
"Sure, honey. Come on, let's go. It's snowing harder now, and the man is busy."
The magician felt compelled to turn around, then.
"I'll be here tomorrow," he said, not knowing why he had said it.
He pointed down at the man's violin. "Do you play?" he whispered, with childlike wonder.
The little girl's father smiled, slowly. "Yes, of course. We'll come by and play for you, if you like. My daughter sings, you know. I accompany her."
The magician felt his mouth curving into a smile once again. "Tomorrow, then."
Father and daughter turned to leave, but then the girl whipped around without warning. "What's your name?" The magician was briefly startled. "Erik." He stood looking at her, as she nodded gleefully.
"Nice meeting you! I'm Christine, and this is my dad, Gustave. But you can call him Gus. We live in America, now." Erik was later to learn that they were Swedish immigrants. They had been living in New York for several years now.
"How old are you?" she had the impudence to ask, without warning.
Erik was having a very hard time keeping a straight face. "I just turned thirty, young lady!"
Her father tugged on her sleeve, smiling. "Come on, sweetie, time to go! You've got homework, remember?"
"Aw, DAD!" Then she turned back to Erik. "Man! You sure are old!"
Erik burst into hearty laughter.
"Christine!" Her father grabbed her arm and pulled, forcibly.
"I'm sorry," he said to Erik. "She's a handful."
"Yes, never a dull moment, I see", Erik replied, surprising himself with his humor.
He watched them walk away until they disappeared in the thickening flurries of snow.
After that, they came by regularly, to see his show, as well as to play and sing for him, and any passersby who cared to listen.
The first time he heard her sing, his heart skipped a beat. He had to pretend to be busy with one of his props.
Week after week, month after month, year after year, they came to see him. He did not know when he began to think of them as family. Still, Gustave never did invite him over for dinner, or on outings with him and his daughter, which Erik would have thought odd, except for the fact that he himself never interacted with them outside the park boundaries. He did not want to press his luck. He did not want anything to keep her away from him, this delightful child who had so unexpectedly brought sunshine and laughter into his dreary, rather monotonous existence.
A rather warm spring came along one year. The trees were still blooming gloriously. Soon the heat would begin to get unbearable. Erik was prepared for all seasons, however. He stored lighter clothing in his simple, one-room apartment above a grocery store in Brooklyn.
He was singing softly now, as he prepared his props, pulled his tent out of the worn backpack. People were beginning to gather, in anticipation of the magic spectacle. Straightening, he looked around. Father and daughter were late. He was surprised, since this had never happened before. After waiting at least another half hour, he went on with his show, but his heart wasn't in it.
They never did show up.
The next day, she came alone, her gangly teenage legs carrying her slowly. Her head was down, and Erik understood that something terrible had happened.
"It's my father," she said, so forlornly he thought his heart would break. Her tears prevented her from saying anything else for a few minutes.
"I have to go," she sobbed. Before he could stop her, she turned and fled from him swiftly, as if he were the specter of Death at her heels...
Two weeks passed, during which he awoke every morning to a wrenching agony, and forcibly dragged himself to the park. Somehow he would find the energy to perform, even as his heart was torn to shreds within him, even as his mind refused to dwell on the possibility of never seeing his sweet little Christine again, of losing Gus's tentative friendship.
It seemed as though an entire year had gone by when she came to see him again, alone once more. He knew immediately, then, without asking her. Wordlessly, he gathered her into his arms, and she cried uncontrollably for several long minutes, clinging to him.
"I have to go..." she whispered, as before, and he felt a rush of fear that this time, he would never see her again.
"Let me go with you," he begged. "I'd like to pay my respects."
She waited patiently for him while he packed up his things.
Three days later, he was back in the park, setting up for his show. Looking up, he smiled as he saw her walking toward him. She was right on time.
"I will sing for you," she said softly, looking at him with her clear blue eyes. He noticed, for the very first time, the ripening of her woman's curves.
When she had finished her song, she gave him the news, not meeting his eyes. She was being sent to a foster home, as she had no other living relatives in the city. Swallowing with some difficulty, he gently explained that he could not bear it if such a thing were to take place.
She went home with him that day.
In the days that followed, he made all the arrangements necessary to become her legal guardian. He frantically began searching for a steady job. Without one, the State of New York would never entrust her to him.
The day the papers came through was the most jubilant he had ever experienced. Life took on new meaning for him.
Time passed, and he also became her voice teacher. He had never thought that he would sing again, let alone teach someone else the art of controlling the voice, so that it gave forth pure, sublime sound.
On her seventeenth birthday, he took her to Coney Island, at her insistence. He could handle the small crowds at Central Park, but was terrified of the huge ones here. She told him there was absolutely nothing to fear, as long as he was with her. They laughed on all the rides, ate hot dogs smeared with mustard and relish. On their way home, they stopped at a bakery, where he bought her a birthday cake.
They returned to their new apartment, which he had begun to rent since starting his new job as a voice coach at her high school. Before she blew out the candles, he told her that she must make a wish. Giggling, she agreed.
His heart stood still as she puffed on the candles. Eyes glittering strangely, he made a wish of his own.
Two weeks later, she asked his permission to go on a date. Frowning, he denied her request. She fled, crying, into her room.
The next day, struck with remorse, he relented. Jumping with excitement, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and ran out the door, on her way to school. He slowly brought his hand up to his face. She had kissed him with a daughter's affectionate kiss. He closed his eyes in pain.
The next night, she brought her young man home to meet Erik. His name was Raoul. Although his parents were French, he had been born in New York, but was fluent in his parents' native tongue. He was Harvard-bound, she told Erik happily.
Many dates followed, which caused Erik no end of heartache. At times, the hour grew late, and she had still not returned home. He would always wait up for her, nevertheless.
The inevitable came to pass: she got pregnant.
Erik comforted her in his arms when she tearfully told him the news. She added that she had yet to let Raoul know, but that she was sure she was having a baby. To Erik's surprise, she had already seen a doctor, without his knowledge. This last piece of news hurt him unbearably. She had never kept any secrets from him before. He slowly put her away from him.
She blinked at him, confused. "Erik? Are you mad at me? Will you ask me to leave now?" She began to cry in earnest, as she said, over and over, that she was sorry.
His own eyes filled with tears as he gathered her once more into his arms, whispering that she must not even think such a thing, that he would never abandon her, no matter what she did. He held her tightly, as if he feared she would be the one to leave. As he held her thus, she slowly became aware of a subtle change in him, as well as in herself.
A current of electricity passed between them. She pulled slowly, thoughtfully, out of their embrace, to gaze into his deep, golden eyes. They stared at each other for what seemed long minutes.
"I love you," he breathed at last, his soul contained in the words.
She simply stared at him for a few moments, speechless. Then, with a little cry, she turned and fled. Erik sank into a chair, his head in his hands.
When she did not return that night, he thought he would die. He began calling her cell phone interminably, but the voice mail was always on.
He left only one message. "I will always be here for you, Christine."
Two days later she returned to him. He breathed out a great sigh of relief when he heard her key in the door. He could start eating again... Then he noticed her face, which was swollen with much crying, and a knife twisted in his gut. Raoul's family had rejected her, she told him, trembling, as she sat down heavily on the living room couch. She and Raoul had planned to elope, but before they could carry out their plans, his family had taken him away, out of New York. She had no idea where he was.
Erik suffered through her bouts of morning sickness, holding her hair back as she threw up in the bathroom. She had decided to keep the baby, for which Erik was glad, even though it would stress their finances. He could not contemplate the thought of taking an innocent human life, still in its mother's womb. Christine vehemently agreed. She dropped out of school, much to his dismay, getting a job as a waitress, not far from the apartment.
He spoke no more of his feelings for her.
She abandoned her dreams of the Met.
The little baby girl was born in the middle of a New York blizzard, in the apartment. There had been no time to rush Christine to the hospital. Erik was enchanted with her. She had her mother's clear blue eyes, and plenty of auburn curls on her smooth little head.
When she turned twenty,she enrolled in night classes in order to complete high schoo, while Erik stayed home with the child
Five years passed, during which Erik struggled with an opera that he was composing especially for Christine's voice. He had always been able to compose easily before, having several operas and symphonies, all unpublished, stashed away in a closet. He did not know why he was having such difficulty now. Christine did not fail to notice his frequent sighs, the way he averted his gaze from her at certain times, the way he tenderly held little Emily, his eyes moist...
One bright Saturday morning, as he and Christine were preparing to take Emily to Central Park, there was a knock on the door. Christine ran to open it.
Raoul stood there.
He had spent a lot of money in order to find her, he said.
Emily came up behind Christine, wanting to know who it was, and Raoul caught sight of his daughter for the first time. Erik went into the kitchen, and stared out the window at the clear winter day, his heart clenching.
As the days passed, Christine and Emily spent more and more time with Raoul. Erik always declined to accompany them, and Christine's heart ached.
Her voice lessons with Erik continued, as if nothing had changed. One night, they sang a duet from Othello. He played the jealous Moor, while she sang the part of Desdemona.
When Erik finished playing the last chord on his recently purchased second-hand piano, there was total silence for a few minutes. His hands were shaking, his chest heaving with emotion. He felt tears stinging his eyelids.
Christine suddenly burst into tears, and ran from the room. Erik sat at the piano for a very long time, struggling with his feelings, which demanded immediate release, and which he sternly denied to them.
Neither one of them referred to the incident the following day.
A couple of days later, Christine inexplicably asked Erik to accompany her to Central Park, alone. She had sent little Emily out with her father. Erik tried to conceal his trembling apprehension.
Once they were sitting at a bench, she turned to him, not quite meeting his eyes. Then it was that his worst fears came true. Raoul had become the youngest partner in a law firm owned by a friend of his father's. He was moving to Boston, and had proposed marriage to her.
Erik said nothing. Beneath his mask, the tears gathered, and he suddenly felt the blistering cold. He knew then that he would do it, that he would simply let himself die. Darkness gathered around him at that moment, closed in on him, creating an endless abyss into which he was plummeting, hoping for total extinction...
"Erik! Erik! Answer me!" She was pulling on his sleeve, looking earnestly at him in growing alarm. He nodded numbly, not daring to meet her eyes, because if he did, he would take her in his arms, and never let her go...He found he could not still his sudden, violent trembling.
"You can come with us. We can set you up in an apartment there. I'm sure a talented teacher like you could find another voice coaching job right away. We'll visit you, and you can come over to see us, too."
No, no, no! Painful rage roared through him. To his great dismay, he felt an overpowering urge to kill Emily's father, to strangle the life out of him. But he controlled himself, because he had to. For Christine's sake, for little Emily's sake. For the sake of the great, silent love he felt for them.
Behind the mask, two silent tears rolled down his cheeks. Christine caught sight of one of them, on the uncovered half of his face, and she felt as though she was stabbing this wonderful, patient man who had given her so much. She abruptly wondered if she were doing the right thing. But little Emily seemed so taken with Raoul...
"No, Christine," Erik now said, simply, as he stood.
Turning from her, he walked away, while she remained on the bench, tears coursing down her face. She stopped herself from running after him. It was for the best, she decided. In a few minutes, she would gather herself up, and call Raoul to come pick her up. She knew she loved the true father of her child, didn't she?
Erik firmly told himself that he would not attend the wedding, which would take place in New York.
Weeks passed as the two young lovers spent time preparing. Many times, they would leave little Emily with Erik, and go off shopping for the big day.
Surprisingly, Christine applied for a voice scholarship at Juilliard, against Raoul's wishes. Erik felt hope flare up briefly, but then she told him that Raoul's firm would be gracious enough to open a branch in New York.
She received the letter of acceptance on her twenty-third birthday, and bounced into Erik's apartment that very afternoon, bubbling with the news. He smiled proudly, and they did a little dance around his living room. Then she returned to Raoul's penthouse apartment, where she and Emily were staying while wedding preparations were finalized.
Raoul had invited Erik to accompany them to "Tavern On The Green", where they would celebrate Christine's acceptance into the program. He firmly declined the invitation, spending the night reworking one of the compositions he had brought out of the closet.
The day of the wedding dawned bright and clear, although snow had been predicted.
Erik, alone, gathered up his materials for the show. It had been years since he had come out here to the park to perform. As he walked toward the spot where he regularly set up, years ago, he suddenly recalled, through tear-blurred eyes, his long-ago first meeting with father and daughter. Reaching a gloved hand up, he briefly removed his mask, after assuring himself that there was no one nearby. He brushed the tears from his eyes. He really needed to perform his magic today. There would be wonder-struck young faces in the audience, and he wanted to bring them joy.
He had begun thinking of resigning his job at the high school, going back to his days as a magician at this park where life had briefly brought him happiness.
As he bent down to secure a tent peg, it softly began to snow. Again his eyes filled, again he pushed his mask away from his face and brushed the tears away. Straightening, he picked up another peg, preparing to drive it into the ground. He staunchly refused to go home. Surely some people would brave the snow. His show had its share of fame at the park, even though he had not done it for so long. He hoped it had not been forgotten.
He had the peg and mallet in his hands now, and turned, bending down.
"Erik."
He shook his head, pausing. Her voice was in his heart, he mused, sadly. At least this part of her would never desert him.
"Erik."
He dropped the peg and mallet, whirling around, to see her standing before him, smiling.
"What...Why are you here?" he stammered. His heart was pounding so furiously, he thought he would surely die now...
She stepped closer to him. Her clear, piercing blue eyes seared his soul.
"I love you," she said, softly.
He stood in deathlike stillness, not daring to believe, until she laced her arms around his neck, and pulled his face close, so close, to hers... Then her lips brushed his, and he saw the tears of joy in her eyes.
Slowly, her hands reached up, touched the edges of his mask. Every muscle in his body tensed unbearably. He allowed her to gently pry the mask away, as he closed his eyes, bracing for pain.
The mask fell to the ground, and he heard her gasp... Hot, scalding, the pain lanced through him. Then her mouth once more touched his, more firmly this time. He felt her tears agaisnt his face. His own tears mingled with hers as he gathered her lovingly into his arms, kissing her with his entire being.
Softly, silently, the snowflakes fell, around them, over them.
They continued to kiss. Their arms clasped, hungrily, desperately.
Suddenly, he broke their embrace, frowning down at her.
"What about Emily? She needs her father!"
Christine smiled at him, her eyes full of love.
"Her biological father will have visiting rights. You are the only real father she has ever known."
With a wild shout of joy, he pulled her up, swinging her round and round. When her feet touched the ground again, they resumed their frantic kissing, their bodies pressing urgently together.
Their souls merged.
In New York City.
In the middle of Central Park.
In softly falling snow, next to a magician's tent of wonders.