I began to feel my age for the first time. The injustice of it: in twenty years I'll be buried, and she'll still be fatally beautiful. I am not a gracious husband who wants to see her loved and cared for when I'm gone. I want every man in Paris to perish with me. But I see that I digress in my madness; I was explaining that I worked as I hadn't in 20 years; what a queer thing love is. Sometimes I spent the entire day on Helen; more often I would wake early and work a few hours on the music, then do masonry until my aging carcass gave out, and back to Helen. My banging and clanging coincided with the reconstruction of the Opera House, fortunately. 'Upstairs' was progressing nicely, and I fancied that I could complete Helen in time for the gala reopening if I drove myself sufficiently.

The man who might have accomplished that was likely 20 years younger, and definitely unmarried. If given the opportunity to confront my divine Maker, once He explains my face, I intend to ask why women were created if men are genuinely expected to be productive at anything.

"You're not going back to work this evening, are you, Erik? I thought we might take a walk."

"You want the house finished, don't you, darling? I must work on the opera when I can…"

"You fell asleep on me last night."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize."

"Hm. Well, you did. Am I getting fat?"

"You are not getting fat."

"Am I getting skinny?"

"Christine, you are perfect. Your husband is an old man, he gets tired when he works hard."

"You're not old."

"Forgive me, dear, but I am. Frightfully so."

"You are not, and I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Oh.

"I want to talk about the fact that we're not even married a year, and you touch the piano more than you do me."

I put away the score and spent the evening with Christine. That was three hours frittered away, but I admit the additional sleep was helpful. Next day, I went up to find a sparkly new bauble to buy me some grace. That was two hours. So, a total of five unproductive hours in twenty four, because I was doing what she wanted me to do in the first place.

In the midst of this domestic bliss, Christine rushed in, announcing breathlessly that the new bedroom furniture was completed and we had to go get it now now now!

"So, Erik, you must clear all your stuff out of that room right away, and, Erik?" She was biting her finger childishly, which means, You are not going to like what I have to say, but if you scold me I shall definitely cry, you ogre.

I raised my eyebrow and waited.

"Could you please smooth the walls out so they're not so lumpy? I want to hang paper on the bedroom walls." She bounced with delight. "Oh, it's going to be so beautiful!"

I was quite speechless for a moment. "Christine…could it have escaped your notice that we live in a cave? I cannot smooth the rock walls of a cave."

"Yes you can," she squeezed my arm. "Can't you just put some of that…mud on it, and smooth it out, and it will dry and—"

I sat down, hard. I was dirty, smelly, hot, exhausted and dangerously low on morphine. I no longer recognized myself or my life. How have you come to this? I shook my head. Opened my eyes. Ah, yes. There is how. She looked so…disappointed. How can I disappoint her?

"Darling, those lumps add architectural interest…I could paint for you. Would you like the seashore? A garden?"

"A garden? Could you paint me a Persian garden?"

"I could." More squeals and bounces. Crisis averted; as if painting a mural on cave walls is the simplest thing I would ever undertake.

I don't know how I successfully waded through the morass of painting the mural and fetching the furniture instantly. The wifely priorities were established according to some arcane formula, and I complied, to the best of my limited capabilities.

Christine was absurdly happy while all this was going on; blissfully unconcerned whether I expired from paint fumes or simple exhaustion. She was also maddeningly affectionate. It was during this time that I perfected the Surely You Jest, Woman! Stare. I came to believe that there is an inverse relationship between feminine arousal and male fatigue.

So: my 'stuff' was duly removed, relegated to a little-used corridor until renovations were complete. The wall was painted and pronounced lovely and perfect. I ventured into the light for the furniture. It was lovely, elegant. Massive. Mahogany.

Christine has no sense of spatial relationships whatsoever. I hesitate to say 'women', because the only other woman who had seen the furniture and knew where it had to go was that ninny Meg. So, possibly, there exists another female who would have been able to forsee that I would be driven to unparalleled blasphemies by this endeavor, but she was not my wife.

The daroga was duly conscripted. Between the sweating, straining, and blaspheming, he grinned at me inanely. When it was finally accomplished, I turned to the grinning wretch and demanded "What?" He assured me that I was a changed man, and an exemplary husband. I told him to go to the devil, and offered to hasten the meeting.

We drank, he grinned and I scowled while Christine raced off to fetch the ninny. In my ignorance, I thought we were finished. All the backbreaking wood was in the room. Ah, but now the ladies would make complex decisions as to the precise placement of the backbreaking wood.

"You should have known better, Erik. One doesn't just plop scenery willy-nilly," my Persian friend chided. I invited him to perform an obscene act that I recalled from my sideshow days.

"A little that way." Blink blink.

"A little the other way…a little more…there." Blink blink.

"I think it needs to go back the other way again…"—that would be the ninny, with whom I refused to speak.

"Christine…that is precisely where it was before—"

"Ssshhhh!"—that would be the daroga.

When he departed, he slipped me a packet of the most heavenly morphine I have ever enjoyed. I kissed him and blessed him, and promised to remember him in my prayers.

And that is the saga of the bedroom furniture. I refuse to dwell on it any further.

I was not permitted to sleep in the bed that had murdered me that night, or for several nights thereafter. It was to be properly 'christened'—her word, not mine—and we were going to make a big celebration of it. I had to recover first.

Oh.

During the next few days, I noticed that there was a distressing amount of blinking going on. Blinking always signals trouble of some kind. If one is fortunate, it may be a minor inconvenience; such as, I would like to go shopping again. I know I have just been, but I have thought of something absolutely necessary. If one is unfortunate, it may be a catastrophe of biblical proportions; such as, The furniture is upstairs and we must go get it now now now! It goes without saying that as I was still not walking properly, I was concerned about this, especially since there was a great deal of stewing associated with this blinking. The normal pattern was: blink blink, followed immediately by "Erik…" and out it came.

Supper one night found me beyond 'concerned', and well into 'irritated' by this mysterious blinking. I assumed my mildest tone of voice.

"Darling, is something troubling you?"

"No." Much too quickly.

I inclined my head and tried to smile indulgently. How does a gargoyle smile indulgently?

"No?"

Blink blink.

"Meg says she's never been tied up." Blink blink blink blink, blush, wriggle.

I knew that ninny was a slut; her poor, long-suffering mother.

"Ahem, Christine…dear, I beg you, put my mind at ease and swear to me that you've not been discussing—"

"I didn't! I mean, it was an accident. We were looking at the bed, in the shop, and Meg pointed out another one she liked as well, and I said, But where would you put the restraints on that one? And she didn't know what I was talking about."

"Oh."

Blessed silence prevailed for a moment.

"Christine, I am not convinced that Meg is the sort of…young woman that I would describe as fitting company for my wife."

She accused. "You told me it had to be like that. The first time, you said it had to be--"

I weaseled. "Now, Christine, I never said it had to be like that for everyone. I merely meant to say that it had to be like that for me—us."

"Because you say I look delightful…but I can look delightful…not…all tied up!"

"Of course you can, but--"

"I don't want to do that anymore!" She cried and began to run off. I caught her arm, panicked at the thought of her leaving me and my bizarre practices forever.

"Alright," I breathed reluctantly. She wept with relief as my stomach churned.

I resorted to my preferred defense: I avoided Christine for as long as possible. I considered sitting her down for a serious scientific discussion, explaining the delicate male physiology. I considered a serious scientific discussion explaining the…specialized requirements of certain discriminating gentlemen, and the relationship between these requirements and the delicate male physiology. I could not: I could not breathe it, I could not think it. I could think of only one thing: what if I didn't…or couldn't…

One day, I was composing when Christine brought some cheese, fruit and wine over for tea.

"Thank you, dear."

It was useless to insist that I was not hungry when I was working. She would not be denied when she resolved to press food on me.

"Erik," she was performing some wifely adjustments to my shirt, "I thought we might have our christening celebration this evening," she rubbed my shoulders, working tight, tired muscles, "…if you like."

My bones dissolved under her busy little fingers. I would have agreed to anything, and I did.

"Yes, alright. Mmm. Sleepy," I admitted.

"Why don't you have a nap?" she whispered, kissing my ear.

I tried to rouse myself. "No, too much to do."

"Erik works so hard," she crooned. "It won't hurt him to rest for one day." She drew me to my feet and to the new bed.

"But the christening," I protested weakly. She had my shoes and shirt off quickly.

"Ssshhh, it's alright. Get on your stomach and I'll rub your back a bit more."

When I awoke, Christine was snuggling on my chest. She looked up and smiled, stroked my cheek.

"You needed that rest, you slept for hours." She kissed my chest.

"Mmm."

"Would you like supper?"

"No, thank you."

"Nothing?"

"Mmm, I wouldn't say nothing…" I reached to pull her into my arms, but couldn't. My arms—

Christine moved to the edge of the bed.

"Now you're awake, I'll snug these up a bit." She gave a tug—my wrist! I stared dumbly as she moved quickly to my ankle…and then the other ankle…and the final wrist. I don't know why I couldn't react. No, I know why: I trusted her.

"Christine, don't…" I tugged vainly. "I don't like this," I warned.

She lifted her skirts above her knees and sat astride my hips.

"I hope I tied them correctly. Are you comfortable?" she asked, perfectly sweetly, mocking me.

"Christine, untie me this minute," I commanded. My pulse raced. I strained against the lassos, already scraping the flesh raw. "It's not funny, Christine! Now!"

"Give it a fair trial, Erik," she giggled.

"NO! DON'T LAUGH AT ME!" I roar.

I cannot see; black and red. Black and red, black and red. Choking; I'm caged again. My heart flutters in my chest, my heart is trapped, too. I cannot catch my breath. Drowning? Smothering? I cannot see them, but they are all around. I hear their screams, their shrieks. They point and poke, throw things. They pinch and kick. They're laughing, my struggling amuses them. Lie still, lie still and they won't laugh anymore. But I have to get away.

"GET AWAY! DON'T TOUCH ME!"

I bolted from my coffin, a madman's screams echoing through the cavern. Cold: shirtless and barefoot, I began to shiver. As my head cleared, I realized the screams had been my own. My head pounded, my body ached, my throat was parched and sore. As I tried to move, my wrists and ankles, stiff, swollen, shot needles of pain up my limbs. I started to remember; pushing it away, I limped home.

I did not see Christine as I moved from room to room. Perhaps she's gone, I thought. Good. But still, some part of me sought her. I wonder what would have happened had I gone directly to her room. Instead I took the rooms in order, as I came to them.

I forced my reluctant body into that bedroom, our bedroom. Her bed, my torture rack: rope; rumpled, bloodstained linens. I could not repossess my trembling limbs. I heaved the chest of drawers to the floor; upset Christine's dressing table easily. Drawers splitting and cracking, shards of glass slicing my feet.

"Erik…" her tiny voice thru the maelstrom. Haunted, frightened in the doorway; pleading eyes. Go to her: comfort her.

"No," I shook my head, "go away, Christine. I'm not your husband."

"Erik, don't—" a tremulous gasp; even in agony, her voice is divine.

"Go away. I cannot be your husband."

I pushed past her. Whatever she said, I could not hear; I was beyond her reach. I did not see when she left.

I burned the bedroom. Wood, cloth, rope; bubbling paint, one of my priceless rugs, all of it. When it was done, I kicked the charred remains to the perimeter and dragged my coffin back in among the rubble.

I returned to music, but not to Helen. I would score Dante's Inferno: who else could bring the voice of hell to the world? Though she was dead to me, I could not burn Helen. I secured the score and all my notes with a ribbon and placed the bundle on the dressing table in Christine's room. It was the only proof that once, I'd defied Heaven and been happy. That, and the thin gold band that Christine had insisted I wear. Now, it pained me to wear it; I tried daily to remove it, but I couldn't.

My wrists and ankles refused to heal completely. With each movement, they would split and bleed. Had it occurred to me, I might have doused them in wine to keep infection under control, but it didn't matter. I was not even interested enough to work up any self-loathing.

Dante frustrated me at every turn. The music would not come, no matter what I did. We were titans locked in mortal combat. Rage was my meat and bread.

I don't know how much time passed; weeks, I'm sure. One day as I pummeled the piano in frustration, I sensed another presence. Adele Giry regarded me calmly. I covered my face, turning away. I had not bothered with the mask for so long.

"Don't trouble yourself," she offered, averting her eyes in deference to my shame, but I had just laid my hands on a mask. I moved into the library; not that I thought she would not follow. I threw myself on the sofa, filthy, unkempt, and defiant.

Adele was unimpressed.

"Before you tell me to go away, tell me what I should do with this girl." She settled opposite me in a wing chair.

"She is no longer a concern of mine."

"Oh, no?" Adele surveyed my appearance pointedly. Something flickered when she spied my wrists, but her placid expression returned so quickly that I might have imagined it. "Then be a man and have the decency to free her."

"She is free," I shrugged. "Anyway, how shall I be a man?" I spat.

Now Adele shrugged.

"I see someone working very hard to convince himself he is not a man. Of course, a man cannot run and hide as a beast can."

"You don't speak to me that way, woman!" I hissed. My face was inches from hers; I loomed above her.

"Christine cannot pretend it did not happen. It was a real wedding, in a church, with a priest," Adele replied, unflinching. "You must seek an annulment."

My guts churned. My heart felt caught in a vise. I would not cry…I would not. I tore at my wrist surreptitiously; the pain drove the tears away. I fell back onto the sofa.

"How?" I sighed.

Adele raised an eyebrow, considering.

"There are no children, it should be a fairly simple matter. It takes time, though. Speak with the priest."

A fairly simple matter. My final, tenuous link with humanity, severed like a diseased limb. I nodded.

"You will see the priest, then?" Adele asked softly, after a pause.

"Yes," I replied numbly, "tell her I will do whatever she wants."

"I did not say it is what she wants," Adele replied sharply. "Christine did not ask me to come. She would be horrified if she knew I was here." Adele looked exasperated.

"She looks as bad as you," she blurted out, disgusted. "She will not speak of you at all. No one can help her. No. I came here. Someone must do something!" I had never seen Adele in such a state, I didn't know what to think.

"What does she want?" I ventured.

"What does she want!" Adele stamped her foot. She raised her eyes to heaven, hands open in a silent plea.

"Idiot!" In a swish of taffeta, she breezed from the room. I rushed after her and just caught her sleeve. She turned maternal eyes on me.

"At least Christine has an excuse when she acts like a child: she is a child. But you, Erik," she patted my cheek, then pinched it. "It is time you grew up." Then she walked away.

"Adele! What shall I do?"

She neither spoke nor turned, just waved her hand back at me. Bye-bye, Erik. Women!

"Adele!" I shouted down the corridor. "What the hell does that mean?"

The daroga's smile evaporated when he beheld my gaunt face. My eyes warned him to let it be.

"Morphine."

"I am glad to see you too, old friend," he replied. "Please, sit. Will you eat?"

"No. Thank you."

He turned to prepare us drinks. The Persian will force his hospitality upon you.

"You lovely bride is well, I trust?"

"Fine, yes. The morphine?"

"Yes, Erik, don't fret. Tch tch tch, what has become of your manners?"

I reached to accept the sherry from him, and he spied my wrist. He caught my arm and glared at the still-angry wound. I stared him down when his eyes asked for an explanation. Sighing, the daroga moved wordlessly to his opium chest. "One? Two?" he asked blandly.

"Two," I replied with relief.

He dropped the paper packets into my palm.

"I remain your friend, Erik," he reminded me.

I softened. "I couldn't tell you if I wanted to…which I don't," I hastened to add. "But even if I did, I couldn't," I grumbled, blushing.

"Now you sound like a married man again," he laughed, patting my shoulder.

"But I'm not," I wailed, feeling the floodgates burst. We must have made quite a sight, the little dark man comforting the sobbing giant.

When I collapsed on the sofa, drained, my head was pounding. I placed the cool glass against my forehead. The daroga popped some ice into his handkerchief. "Here."

"Oh, God," I groaned. My hand trembled as I fumbled with a morphine packet.

"Wait, wait." He shook some powder onto my tongue. As the waves of relaxation flowed over me, I popped an eye open.

"Will you tuck me in as well?"

"Certainly, but I suspect you can do better for yourself."

I snorted. "You think so!"

"All couples quarrel, you know. 'The course of true love…'"

"Please," I grimaced. "I'm too old for this…"

"You can come here, then. We'll be old curmudgeons together. You're much better at it than I, anyway," he replied brightly.

"I'm not a normal man, daroga," I admitted, shrugging. "Maybe I'm too damaged inside."

"I think she knows you are not a normal man, my friend. Why do you refuse to recognize all of your wonderful qualities?"

"My wonderful qualities don't hurt people," I reminded him.

"What do you want to do?" my friend asked, after several minutes.

"Madame Giry says I should see a priest for an annulment."

"Mm. What does Christine say?"

"I don't know," I confessed.

"And Erik?"

"I don't know."

"I think you do. Maybe it is best that you separate," he sighed breezily.

I stared at him aghast.

"But, ah, you no longer make such decisions alone, Erik, my friend. It is a tough old habit to break."

I nodded; he nodded.

"Wait," he rushed from the room and returned with a pot of ointment and wound dressing. He pressed this into my hands without comment.

"Daroga, I'm afraid."

"I know."