Hi everybody! Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, adding to favorites or following this story! It means a lot to me that you are obviously enjoying it so far. I am almost done with chapter 6, so I decided I could give you another chapter right away.
And please remember that I do not own these character (well, for the exception of somebody you will meet in this chapter).
Also, I am using the Swedish spelling for the words "pappa" and "Gustaf", since Christine's father was Swedish, and I also use a Swedish spelling of Christine's name once or twice. In Swedish there are two different words for "aunt": faster (father's sister) and moster (=mother's sister).
If you have been waiting for Erik, he will make his first appearance in chapter 4, so please be patient.
Chapter 2 – Home
Two days later, Christine arrived at the little village on Sweden's west coast where she had spent the first four years of her life. She would visit her aunt, maybe stay with her for a while and then decide what else she wanted to do. She had left the small bag with her belongings at the train station and only carried her father's violin with her. To her great joy, her former dressing room at the Opéra Populaire had not been hit too hard by the fire, and thus this most precious heirloom could be salvaged. Christine had retrieved the violin just before her departure from Paris. In her opinion, the fact that the instrument had not been damaged by the fire, was a sign that her father's spirit was watching over her. His love would be with her, even if she was now leaving France and his grave behind.
Her father! Oh, how she missed him, especially now, that the other two men in her life had disappointed her so much. She shuddered once again at the memory of how keen both, Raoul as well as her teacher, had been on killing each other. Everything else they had done, their manipulations, their condescending treatment of her, paled in comparison to the hatred each of them obviously felt for the other. What made things even worse was the realization that she herself had been the reason for their developing antagonism.
„Oh pappa," she whispered, „I must be cursed or something, for I obviously brought out the worst in both of them. It was the right decision to leave them both behind and to start anew. Definitely for me, and probably for them as well."
Christine stood still for a moment and looked around. She could not believe that she had last walked that road over a decade ago. Nothing seemed to have changed in this remote corner of the world, everything was exactly as she remembered it. There was the big old fir tree under which she had liked to sit with her father, and over there, the little creek, where she had bathed on hot summer days. Only a little bit further and she would be able to see her aunt's house.
Home! She had not expected it to feel so good to see the little village again. After all, she had been living in a big city for more than ten years. The difference between life in Paris and life here could not be greater, and yet, she felt more alive now than she had in a very long time. This was where her roots were, from here she had gone out into the world, guided by her dear pappa, and here she was now returning, after her world had been shattered.
Christine hastened her pace. She suddenly could not wait to reach the home of her childhood, to finally see her aunt again. What a surprise her arrival would be for the old lady! Christine felt a bit nervous at the thought, that she had left Paris in such a hurry, that she had not been able to inform her father's sister of her imminent visit. But hadn't aunt Ingrid asked her in a recent letter if she would consider coming home and staying with her for a while? Surely the elderly lady would therefore welcome her niece?
Christine was now almost running. She needed to reach her aunt and to make sure whether or not she could stay with her for a while.
There! She could already see the house, its wooden walls painted red. A few minutes later, she arrived at her destination, and slightly panting from her run, she knocked.
Christine heard approaching footsteps, a key turning in the lock, and then the door opened and revealed the surprised face of aunt Ingrid. Even though they had not seen each other in over a decade, Christine would have recognized her everywhere, for Ingrid Johannsen's eyes were the same shape and color as her late brother's, Christine's dear pappa.
"Hur kan jag hjälper dig?" (=how can I help you?) asked the old lady, who obviously did not recognize Christine.
"Faster Ingrid," Christine sobbed, "det är jag, Kristina, Gustafs dotter." (aunt Ingrid, it is me, Kristina, Gustave's daughter).
"Kristina!" the old woman beamed. "Have you finally come home, child! I had already given up hope that I would ever see you again, come in! I hope you will be able to stay for a while?"
Christine nodded. "For as long as you let me stay," she told her aunt. "For I am not going back to Paris."
The old woman frowned. Over the almost six decades of her life she had developed a keen understanding of the human psyche. A young woman who left life in a big city for a tiny village in the midst of nowhere and suddenly showed up at her old aunt's doorstep without giving prior notice of her arrival, that was certainly strange – it seemed as if her niece was running away from something. She had no idea what had driven Christine away from Paris, but she sensed that the poor child was heavily affected by whatever had happened and she decided that she would try her best to help Christine deal with that problem, to help her heal.
"Come in, my dear," Ingrid said. "This is your home as much as mine, as Gustav's daughter you inherited his half of the house, and once I'll die, the other half will go to you as well, since I have no children."
Ingrid put a comforting arm around Christine's shoulders and lead the young woman into the tiny living room.
"I will make us some coffee and – would you believe it? I baked some kanelbullar this morning, as if I had known I would get an unexpected guest. You will probably be hungry..."
She looked at the violin case in Christine's hand.
"Gustaf's?" she asked.
Christine nodded, tears welling in her eyes. She was not entirely sure why she was suddenly crying - was it because here she felt more connected with her father than she had in a long time, was it because her aunt's friendly welcome had touched her so deeply, was it because of a feeling of nostalgia and the memories of her early childhood or for whatever other reason – Christine could not stop those tears. She broke down sobbing.
Aunt Ingrid immediately wrapped her arms around her, and pulled her close.
"There, there," she tried to calm her niece. "Whatever has hurt you out there in the world lies behind you. You are home now, here are your roots, here you will find peace again, maybe not today or tomorrow, but with time."
After a while Christine calmed down under the soothing words of her aunt, and once she had a steaming cup of coffee and one of those delicious cinnamon buns that she remembered so well from her childhood in front of her, she almost felt at peace. She was able to tell her aunt about her trip, how she had left her bag at the station because she had wanted to make sure first she could stay before she brought it, but had not wanted to part with her father's violin.
She talked a lot, but not about what had driven her away from Paris, not about the two men that had hurt her so much, not about the scandal she had been involved in and the fire that had so heavily damaged the Opéra Populaire. She could not talk about all that – not yet. It was too soon, her emotional wounds still too fresh.
And aunt Ingrid understood. As much as she wanted to know what had caused Christine's sudden return home, she did not ask. She listened to Christine's description of her journey, prepared Christine's old room for her and asked a neighbor who had some business at the station to fetch Christine's bag for her. Ingrid sensed that "the child" was not yet ready to talk about her problems, and she decided she would give Christine the time she needed to get to terms with her experiences and to not bother her with questions.
Xxx
The first few days at her old home passed quickly for Christine. Her aunt's motherly affection for her and the older woman's tactful silence helped her to relax and to deal to a certain extent with her painful memories.
Life with her aunt, in that tiny old house, was very different from life in Paris, but it was a good life. Aunt Ingrid had a cow, several hens and a cute dog, that had taken a liking to Christine. There was a little garden as well that would require some work once winter would be over, and then, there was the sea and the coast only a few minutes' walk from their house. The majesty of nature filled Christine with awe and slowly she regained her emotional equilibrium.
Christine's presence also worked wonders for her aunt. After her husband, a fisherman, had died when his boat sank in a stormy night, Ingrid Johannsen had been very lonely. She had no children of her own, her only close relative, her brother Gustaf, had left Sweden with his child long ago, there really had not been anybody who needed her and she had often felt useless. But not so now. Now that "the child" had come home so unexpectedly, and obviously terribly shaken, now there was somebody who needed her. Her motherly instincts that she had not even known she had, were awoken by the melancholy at the bottom of her niece's eyes.
Day by day the two women grew closer, and after almost two weeks Christine finally began to talk about what had driven her away from Paris. As her aunt already knew from the infrequent letters the two women had exchanged, Christine had been taking singing lessons. Christine was glad now that she had never mentioned in her letters that she had at first believed her teacher to be the Angel of Music her father had promised to send her. She had feared her aunt might not understand, maybe think her mad. And she was not going to reveal too much about this man now. After all, why should she mention his disfigured face, his home underneath the Opéra Populaire or the fact that he was a killer. She would only mention those things that had affected her – his manipulations, his condescension and his hatred for Raoul. Those were bad enough.
Christine began her story by reminding her aunt that she had told her in a recent letter about how her childhood friend Raoul had become a patron of the Opéra.
"Of course I was happy to see him again," Christine explained, "and I felt flattered by his attention, and there were all our childhood memories... But there was my voice teacher as well, he was older, I had no idea, he had fallen in love with me as well..."
"And you?" aunt Ingrid asked. "Did you have feelings for either one of them?"
Christine bit her lips. What could she say? That she had been in love with an angel, but begun to fear the man he truly was? That she had run from one man to the other and in doing so probably made their rivalry and mutual hatred worse?
"Yes and no," she finally admitted. "I mean, both had been important to me at one point in my life. I cared for each of them in my own way, until... until they started to fight. Each of them wanted me, but instead of trying to woo me and let me decide, they fought each other. They used me in their fight, and each of them tried to kill the other one! Can you imagine? And the worst was that their rivalry escalated during a performance at the Opéra Populaire, causing not just a big scandal, but as a result there was a huge fire at the theater which was heavily damaged. And all because of me, because two men fought for my possession!"
Aunt Ingrid did not ask for details. Somehow she felt she did not really need to know how two men raving with jealousy had managed to start a fire during a performance, but she could understand that a young lady would be deeply shaken if two men she had at one point cared for, were resorting to such extremes in order to win her heart.
"Just imagine," Christine continued, "they both pretended to love me, and then each of them tried to kill the other one, even though both knew I cared about the other one as well! I thought I knew them and then that!"
Aunt Ingrid nodded.
"That must have been terrible for you," she agreed. "I can understand that you broke up with both of them. They do not deserve you at all. You are better off without them."
She frowned, remembering something.
"You did break up with them didn't you? You did send a letter shortly after your arrival here..."
Christine smiled. "I had promised Raoul I would let him know that I had arrived safely. I made him promise in return that he would not answer my letter and leave me alone from now on. Should he write despite his promise, I would return his letter unopened."
"That is a wise decision," aunt Ingrid agreed. "But what about the other gentleman, your teacher... what did you say his name was?"
Christine blushed. It suddenly occurred to her that she did not even know her teacher's name. True, things had escalated pretty fast after she had realized he was not an angel but a man, but she could – and probably should – have asked him for his name, when she returned the mask to him that she had ripped off his face when he had finally revealed himself to her as a man.
"I... he asked me to call him maestro," she stammered, "and he … I think he left Paris as well after … after the scandal and the fire..." At least she hoped he had been able to escape, because despite everything he had done, she did not want him to be caught, imprisoned... or maybe worse. After all, he had seen the error of his ways and let her go. She hoped that this had been the first step in the right direction for him, a new beginning.
"I am sure he won't bother me anymore," she told her aunt. "I am finally free of both of them!"
Aunt Ingrid was not so sure. She instinctively felt that Christine was withholding some important details, and the way how her niece suddenly seemed embarrassed, made her suspect that the one of her two suitors that had hurt Christine more deeply, had been her teacher. But if whatever he had done had hurt Christine more, surely he must have been the one she had cared for more?
"Well, then, I guess you are glad to be rid of those two men," aunt Ingrid said, "obviously neither one was Mister Right for you. Relax and enjoy your freedom, put those terrible events behind you and focus on the future. You are still so young, you are what? Eighteen? You are in no hurry yet to find a husband. I am sure one day you will meet a nice guy who will make you very happy."
Christine shook her head. "No, most definitely not," she said. "That chapter of my life is closed. For me there is no room for love anymore. Never again will I be able to trust a man, not after those two disappointed me so badly. They were both important to me, each of them in his own way, and then that! No, I need no man in my life, not anymore."
Aunt Ingrid put her arm around Christine's shoulder.
"Well, if you do not want a husband, you do not need to marry," she tried to comfort her niece. "And after your experiences I cannot blame your decision in that regard."
But deep down she was even more convinced than before that Christine's very strong objection to love and marriage meant that one of those two madmen that had claimed to love her still possessed part of her heart. She was not sure if Christine was even aware of that fact, at the moment the hurt and shock caused by the recent events seemed to be the dominant feelings in Christine's heart. Maybe Christine was also reluctant to admit to herself that she had indeed feelings for one of these men, for in addition to their attempts to kill each other, she had mentioned manipulations, condescension, an unwillingness to listen to her or consult her. And those concerned both men. It seemed highly likely to Ingrid that Christine would feel ashamed for loving such a person and would therefore deny her own feelings.
Deep in her heart, after Christine's sketchy report of what had happened in Paris, aunt Ingrid was convinced that Christine was better off without these two men. But she had also a feeling that one of them held Christine's heart, whether or not Christine dared admit it to herself, and in her opinion that one was her teacher.
There were several points that seemed to confirm this suspicion. From what Christine had told her, Christine had no idea where that man was or what he was doing now. Could it be that in the end he had walked out on her? Maybe because he had realized he had gone too far? And why would the child be so reluctant to sing? After all, she was Gustaf's daughter, and music had always been her life. The little girl Christine had once been, had been singing and humming all day. But now Christine was silent. She did not talk much, she rarely laughed and never – never sang. As if her teacher had taken her voice with him.
