Author's notes: Sorry for the long update, I was on holiday. No time to reply to reviews in this one (sorry, I'm in a hurry), but I hope the chapter makes it up to it. The ending is a bit of a cliffhanger, though not entirely. I'll leave it up to you to wonder if he's really there. ;-)
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Chapter XVIII
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The midday sun shone upon seemingly every inch of the estate. Even within, finding a room that wouldn't be near blindingly bright was a hard, perhaps even impossible task. The climate was one of the things Christine found annoyed her the most. It was useful at times, though – she didn't have to think about things such as the web of lies and events she had fallen into, nor the political intrigues surrounding her at all times. Trivial things got her mind off such matters.
Lunch, another ordinary part of the day, was perfectly useful for emptying her head. With all the etiquette she had to uphold, there was little to think about, with the exception of the fine foreign food. From time to time, her eyes traveled to Reza, who had no knowledge of it, just as she didn't register the glances Nadir spared her at times.
Her elusive answers, the tendency to avoid the question and the plea to stop the interrogation in the end weren't infuriating, merely slightly confusing. Each indicated another thing and these results cancelled each other out. Humorlessly, Nadir thought that if she would ever find the career of a diva too demanding, she would make an excellent lawyer – her speech was filled with empty phrases that gave no answers… like Erik's.
"How long have you been chief of police here, Nadir?" Christine suddenly asked politely. It seemed to be a natural topic to be discussed during lunchtime at a foreign host's house. Their job, their family, their views on life, politics…
"The function has been given to be a few years ago. I never asked to be made daroga of Mazenderan and I am obliged to confess that there were times when I thought I should rest far easier in my bed as a lowly secretary."
"How so?"
"It gets old. And, as you might have guessed, my job isn't particularly safe. But until someone will die and free a post more suitable to my regrettably squeamish nature, daroga of Mazenderan I remain."
Christine wrinkled her nose a bit. "That sounds terribly harsh."
"That is how this country works, regrettably." Nadir smirked very faintly. "You sound like Erik now."
Afterwards, the girl immediately fell silent, focusing more on her food than conversation. Reza had taken an interest in interrogating Christine (with the help of Nadir's translations) about her background, mostly about the country she came from. The concept of snow seemed to fascinate the boy, and it took almost a full five minute period for her to sufficiently explain what it was like when tiny bits of white substance fall from the sky and form a wonderful whiteness all around them.
He also found out about Christine's parentage and got somewhat of a lecture about how he should be fond of having at least one parent still alive. Even though there was little she could deny a child, Christine still took care not to mention her Italian relatives by name or any events surrounding them. It was kind of like shooting blindly – she didn't know how much she could reveal.
Then it came to her career as a singer, her studies at the conservatoire and possible future possibilities. The subject of music seemed to interest Reza greatly. After lunch had been eaten, the boy dragged – or would have dragged, had he been able to stand – Christine into his room to show her a very strange little invention.
It seemed to be an ingenious music box mixed with a realistic little figure of a gypsy playing the violin. Once Reza clapped loudly, it bowed, took up the instrument and began playing a brisk melody. The tune was distantly familiar to Christine, but she was certain that she had never heard it before. After the figure finished its song, it bowed again and remained motionless.
"You have to clap in order to make it play again." Reza noted, smiling when Christine clapped softly. She thought the figure deserved it and wondered what it would play now. "Louder!" Reza commanded. "Louder!"
After several attempts at forcibly loud clapping, the figure bowed with condescension, replaced the fiddle beneath its chin and began to play a different tune.
The next one was different than the first and somehow, it while it seemed clear that it was a mechanism, the violinist almost seemed to have a will of his own when it came to music and a repertoire of new songs at hand whenever one of them ended. There were variations of similar tunes, a skilled ear would notice, but never openly audible. Each song was different. Intriguing, ingenious and amusing, there could hardly be a better gift for a child than such a wonderful toy, especially when its ability to please or cheer up relied on sound rather than sight. Christine smiled.
"But why do you have to clap so hard to make it play?" she inquired after a few more songs. Surely a clockwork mechanism – she figured it would be something like that – was sensitive enough to pick up even a more gentle sound.
"You must clap with enthusiasm to satisfy an artist's insatiable vanity," said Reza severely.
Christine laughed slightly, but didn't object to that statement. Too true it was. She had met enough artists that had an ego bigger than their talent and most had a rather nasty end of their career.
"That is what Erik told me." the boy added as an afterthought, causing Christine to stop laughing. She still smiled however, when she looked at the boy. Was it self-criticism, perhaps? Coming from Erik, it wasn't surprising, but admitting vanity… quite an achievement.
"And he made this for you?" Christine inquired, already knowing the answer. When Reza nodded, she added. "How very thoughtful."
"Do you know him?" The question was almost too eager, with a sense of hunger in it. Clearly, whatever concerned the boy's idol concerned him as well. Christine wasn't sophisticated enough to see it could be an attempt to wheedle information out of her through a third person, but had enough sense not to confess anything even to a child.
She wanted to shake her head, but reminded herself that the boy was blind and wouldn't see the gesture. "I don't think so. But I knew the Angel of Music, long ago. He was the one who tutored me and helped me with my vocal training."
"Angel of Music? Is that some kind of Christian figure?"
"Not exactly." Christine's smile widened a bit, but it gained a melancholic quality. Her father's stories had always been somewhat of an obsession of hers, since she had been hearing them since she was a child. Stories of the Far North, of angels, fairies, children who saw them… and, her favorite story.
"The Angel of Music is a character my father created. Papa told me all sorts of stories when I was about your age and the story of the Angel had always been my favorite."
Now Reza was confused. "You knew a character from your father's stories?"
"No, no. I met someone who became an angel for me, my guide and guardian." Hopefully, that didn't give too much away. "He was my friend and tutor, and helped me very much with a great many things. It was I who began associating him with the Angel. Truthfully, he had no idea of the story before I told him."
"And what was the Angel's story?"
"The story was about the Angel of Music and a girl he had visited, who was called Little Lotte. I had been nicknamed that when I was little."
Christine grimaced a bit. Over the years, the nickname began to sound childish to her. She was far from little now and the name Lotte somehow didn't seem to suit her. She would have been much happier to be called differently, but after her reunion with Raoul, who remembered the story all too well, there seemed to be no escaping the little girl who heard angels sing during the night.
"Could you tell me the story?"
"Most of it is sung." She tried to be evasive, but knew it was in vain.
"But you are a singer!" Reza said, not willing to be denied. "If you remember the songs, please sing some to me… if only just a little. Please?"
Unable to resist, Christine chose to agree. "After all, you have shown me your music man." She added, in an attempt to convince herself that there was nothing wrong with these little tales and that there was no way anyone could link them with the present.
Little Lotte let her mind wander
Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes?
Or of riddles or frocks?
Or of chocolates?
No, what I love best, Lotte said
is when I'm asleep in my bed
and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head
the Angel of Music sings songs in my head
She took a deep breath. There was no Angel of Music. And if there was, he had never visited her. Cutting herself off from melancholy was crucial. Even if it would be utter denial, she simply wasn't willing to admit that she felt anything for him. Revenge was an odd thing, coming in many forms. She didn't feel the need for it, but assumed that he would view it as vengeance for his treatment of her after their reunion.
For a moment, she managed to convince herself that it didn't matter.
Nadir didn't bother interrupting the song with translations – he would tell Reza what she had been singing about later. Now, he was entirely focused on the singing. Before, in the gardens, her voice sounded broken, defeated, sad… nothing like the joyful, kind voice now. It was as if she was caught in a very beautiful memory, almost as if she saw this angel of hers in front of her.
The metaphors weren't enough to deceive him, however. There was only one person he knew that could be considered an angel by the quality of his voice. Putting two and two together wasn't hard, when Christine mentioned tutoring and vocal training. Even in her story, however, she never went closer to the subject on what connection they had to each other, when they met, why they parted…
The simple relationship of a teacher and student wasn't enough to explain the hostility, the avoiding and a whole lot of strange behavior.
Father once spoke of an angel
I used to dream he'd appear
Now as I sing, I can sense him
And I know he's here
Here, in this room
He calls me softly
Somewhere inside
Hiding
Somehow I know
he's always with me
he, the unseen
genius
The tune changed, a frown passing through her young face. The first word of the song seemed to have been quickly amended, after she briefly recovered from the dreamlike trance she was in. Hasty as it was, Reza didn't notice it, but it couldn't escape the attention of someone listening closely.
Surely you must have been dreaming
Stories like this can't come true
My dear, you're talking in riddles
And it's not like you
Again, the dreamy gleam returned to Christine's eyes, but she remained firmly focused on the fact that whatever she was about to sing, she had to let it pass through her mind first before opening her mouth to speak the phrase. Now Nadir understood the angel connection – Erik had called the portrait that, Christine had called her tutor that… it made sense.
The connection was voice.
Their voices, each perfect, were underlined by the same talent, innocence and pain. Both shone with beauty that came from within, though in appearance, they were counterparts. But not as ugliness and beauty – as sensuality and innocence. If the Christians were to be believed and God created duality, where each creature has a creature that belongs with it, he saw an almost too perfect match. Seraphic vocals rang through the air as Little Lotte, now grown, hailed her Angel after all the years of separation.
Angel of Music
Guide and guardian
Grant to me your glory…
Angel of Music
Hide no longer
Secret and strange Angel…
And, deep down inside his mind, Nadir could very easily imagine the sound of another voice replying – so realistically that for a moment, he wondered if he really heard it. A more familiar voice, but filled with something he could never imagine in it.
I am your Angel…
Come to me, Angel of Music…
I am your Angel of Music…
Come to me, Angel of Music…