Letter Eight - The Boy with the Red Scarf
DISCLAIMER: Apparently, College Me got WAY TOO EXCITED about there being a town in New York with a two-worded name that starts with the letter P. What better place to be the modern day, American equivalent of Perros-Guirec than a town called Port Jervis? I was like "Well if it has PORT in the name, then it MUST be near the ocean." That was my reasoning, I guess. UNTIL, that is, I was re-researching this bad boy to get an idea of what the beach was like for this chapter, and it turns out Port Jervis is like, super duper far from the ocean, surrounded by land, and it's beaches are like...on the banks of a large river or some tiny lakes. THAT is not what I was going for, and I am VERY SURPRISED that I let this kind of slovenly research pass. The little BOY RUNS INTO THE SEA, IT HAS TO BE THE SEA. WHAT MAP WERE YOU LOOKING AT, 21 YEAR OLD ME?
ANYWAY, I am taking the creative liberty of acting like Port Jervis is, in fact, by the sea. I assure you, no one is more disappointed in this development than me.
The air smells like sunscreen and saltwater and sand, and the girl breathes it in deeply as she pedals down the beach. The last vestiges of sophomore year fall away as the wind combs its fingers through her hair and the freedom that comes with summer vacation finally settles into her bones.
She loves coming here, loves the beach cottage they rent with Mamma and Dr. Valerius, loves camping with her father, loves the sea and the music and the sun. They arrived yesterday, and she has taken the first opportunity to bike down to the beach. Papa was tuning his violin when she left, but she knows he is likely napping by now. The man loves to nap. Tonight, after dinner, they would plan where they would sing over the summer. Mamma jokingly calls it the "Daae Summer Tour."
The girl smiles and leans left to follow the curve of the beach sidewalk. She bikes at a brisk pace, the sky overcast and the beach nearly empty. The wind is stronger closer to the water, and the scarf she wear blows, gauzy and red, about her face. She brushes the cloth aside, then brushes it aside again. Then again. She steers the bike one handed in an attempt to keep the scarf in check, but her tread slows and the bike begins to wobble. She releases the scarf to steady the bike and with almost purposeful grace, the scarf jumps to cover her face completely. Blind to all but red, she grabs the handles with both hands as the bike careens onto the sand. She squeezes the breaks, and the bike grinds to a halt.
She wrestles the scarf away from her face and unwinds the cloth from around her neck. Her fingers holding the cloth loosen, for just a moment, and the breeze snatches it from her hand. Her mouth is a small "o" of surprise, transfixed momentarily as the cloth, like a bird or a dragon or some creature of myth, drifts elegant and crimson across the open sky.
The scarf dips toward the ocean and the crashing waves, and the moment is broken. She leaps off of her bike and kicks the stand, but before she can take a step down the beach two small items land in the sand before her feet.
"Watch those for me!" The blur of a teenage boy shouts as he barrels past her and down the beach. She bends down and picks up a wallet and a Motorola Razr flip phone. She stands just in time to see the boy dive into the sea. His arms cut through the water in smooth, strong strokes as he paddles toward the slice of sinking scarlet. She find her way to the water's edge, the cool surf dancing over her sandaled feet, the boy's phone and wallet in either hand.
He almost stumbles as he stands, the waves breaking around his knees, but he is smiling as he sloshes towards her.
"Hi," he holds the sopping scarf out towards her, "you dropped this."
She looks at this boy, she looks at her scarf. She thinks of all the things she can say. Flirty things. Witty things.
"You're wearing a suit," she says instead, and it is true. Water pools in the creases of his elbows and cascades out of his pockets. The sand squelches beneath his dress shoes as he joins her on the shore. He stands before her, fully clothed and dripping wet. She takes the scarf from his hand.
"I'm Raoul. Raoul de Chagny."
"Wow. That's a fancy name," she says without thinking, and then promptly starts thinking again, specifically about how stupid that had sounded. "Uh, I mean, I'm Christine Daae! Hi! Thank you! Here's your phone!"
She shoves the phone and wallet towards the dripping boy, and he laughs as he takes them.
"I'm gonna...change into some dry clothes, but would you like to meet at the pier later?" His open, smiling face turns grave with mock severity. "To follow up with the scarf. You know, make sure it's fully recovered."
"That would be nice," she responds. "For the scarf, of course."
"Well then, it's a date, Christine Daae." He says smiling. "It was very nice to meet you."
Days, thick and golden as honey, slipped by in a slow dream. The girl spends her time singing and swimming and sunning herself in the sand. Her nights are spent in the company of her father and and the Valeriuses, her days with the boy who saved her scarf.
"You have a razr." She takes a sip of her milkshake as the sun dances with the shadows cast by the umbrella above their table, and nudges the thin flip phone with her finger.
"Yup." He steals a fry from her plate.
"Hey!" she bats at his hand. "I just sort of pegged you as a cutting-edge-tech sort of guy."
"Oh, I had and iPhone! I just...broke it."
"YOU BROKE AN iPHONE? Those JUST came out. I don't even have an iPod touch!"
"I mean, it was an accident! It was in my pocket and I got dared to jump into the pool –"
"Fully clothed?" She laughs.
"Yup. My brother Phillipe turned my old phone back on until I could 'learn to be more responsible.'"
Her laugh scares a few seagulls away, and his laugh scares away the rest. They keep laughing. Laughing and smiling, their eyes brighter than the sun on the water. Bike rides and her father's violin. Searching for sea creatures that don't exist. Hands almost touching, but not quite.
The summer ends and her freckles fade, and the two of them keep in contact. He tells her about applying for college, she tells him about her favorite classes. They don't speak often, but they speak enough. The days grow cool and then warm again. School ends, and she returns with her father and Dr. and Mrs. Valerius to the beach cottage.
"Raoul!" She calls from her place on the pier. He runs to her and catches her in a hug, the momentum lifting her off her feet. He sets her down, and she is breathless. His hair is a little longer, his shoulders a little broader, but his smile is the same.
The sunlit afternoon goes pink with twilight as they stroll across the sand, and they start where they had stopped. Exploring caves and finding shells. Each day another small adventure.
"Ok, your turn," the girl says, pushing the boy towards a small house with a well kept yard. He pauses for a moment before knocking, and she nudges him again. "Really go for it this time, ok?"
"Good afternoon madam," the boy says to the old woman as she opens the door. He sounds like a character from a Dickens novel. "We are but poor youths in desperate need of a good story...mightn't you have one to spare?"
"Oh, well how nice." The old women beckons them in with a smile. "Let me put the kettle on and see what I can think up…"
The boy winks at the girl and adds a tally to a list. She is winning, but he is catching up.
The boy joins the girl and her father as they play and sing in the town square. As they play and sing on a high, windy hill overlooking the water. As they play and sing by a bonfire on the sand. The girl's eyes are closed, the firelight turning her face to gold. Her voice is sweet and pure as it carries over the waves. The boy looks at nothing but her. The girl does not see, but her father does. He smiles as he ends the song, and offers to tell them the story of the Angel of Music.
The fire burns down to embers, and the girl's father walks ahead of them. The boy's hand brushes the girl's once, then again. Then again. She is not surprised when she feels his fingers slip between hers. She gives his hand a gentle squeeze. Tomorrow, she is going home.
They speak more frequently, at first. He tells her about college. She tells him about powderpuff football and her application to Juilliard. Sometimes they speak of deeper things. How he misses his parents, and wishes Phillippe could just be his brother again. How she can't remember her mother's eyes. How his sisters are sweet but overprotective. Too soon they both grow busy. The messages and calls slow. She does not tell him when Dr. Valerius passes. She does not want to bring that winter into their continued summer. The days grow cool and then warm again. School ends, and she returns with her father and Mamma Valerius to the beach cottage.
He is not there at his usual time. Weeks go by and she does not hear from him. She tells herself that this is ok. That she doesn't mind. Everything she tells herself she believes, mostly. Then she does hear from him, and all that ignored disappointment lifts. She lifts too, light as air. The summer is almost gone now, but she no longer cares.
"Christine!" He waves from their meeting spot on the pier. She runs towards him, and he scoops her into a hug, spinning her in a complete circle before gently setting her on her feet. His arms loosen, but he does not let go.
"Hi," she says softly, heat rushing to her cheeks.
"Hi," he whispers back.
They seem to realize at the same moment they are still standing remarkably close to one another, and the boy releases her. She steps back and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. They stroll down their favorite path, and he tells her of his summer internship, his plans for study abroad, and his sister's pregnancy. She tells him that she was accepted into Juilliard, of how hard the winter in Manhattan was, and how it was even harder to say goodbye to Dr. Valerius. They spend what few days they have together, and as summer creeps towards autumn he asks if she'd like to join him for dinner.
"A proper date. We go to a restaurant, I'll wear a tie, the whole nine yards." His face is eager, but his voice is nervous. She smiles.
"I'd like that."
He picks her up at seven, and her father answers the door. The older man makes a big show, saying the traditional, fatherly things, but both the boy and the girl can tell that he is pleased. Mamma Valerius takes a picture of the two of them. The boy does indeed wear a tie, she wears a dark blue dress of floating stuff and holds the white rose he brought her. They walk to the restaurant, because the town is small and the air is warm. When the meal is done, they split dessert. The restaurant patio leads down to the sand, so they remove their shoes and walk towards the dark water.
"Ooh! There! A goblin, waiting for the full moon so he can start the dance!" She points to a distant spot on the beach. "Do you see it?"
"As usual, no." There is an undercurrent of teasing in his tone.
"Well, maybe you aren't looking hard enough."
"You aren't wearing your glasses, and that makes it a lot easier to see things that aren't there." He nudges her arm playfully. The breeze off the water picks up, and she shivers. He starts to remove his jacket.
"Oh! I brought this just in case!" She says, pulling the gauzy, red scarf from her purse and wrapping it around her neck.
"It's made a full recovery, I see," he says, pulling the jacket over her shoulders. She steps closer, and his hands pause. Moving slowly, he raises his hands to cradle her face, his thumb running lightly across the smooth skin of her cheeks. He steps closer.
The waves themselves seem to go silent in the magnitude that is the two of them, standing so close, breathing in as the other breathes out.
"Christine," Raoul says, and her name is a wish and a thousand promises at once. They move towards one another, breathing in as the other breathes out. She can feel the warmth of him. Lips almost touching, but not quite.
His phone rings.
They pull away.
"I'm sorry," he says. "It's Philippe. He promised he wouldn't call unless it was urgent."
He walks a few steps away, and his sudden absence chills her. She can hear his murmured conversation. He sounds surprised, but pleased. He hangs up and puts the phone in his pocket.
"No Razr?" She says, hoping the joke covers the disappointment.
"Uh, oh. Yeah. I've been quite responsible lately," he takes her hand and pulls her back up the beach. "That was Phillippe, my sister Mary just went into labor."
"Oh my gosh, congratulations!" She responds. They walk quickly towards the beach cottage, and he does not release her hand.
"I'm really sorry to cut this short, but I-"
"I completely understand! You need to be there."
They make it to her door sooner then she would have liked. She hands the boy his jacket, and he fiddles with his keys.
"Listen, Christine." he starts, his words stilted, "I really like you. I like you a lot actually, and I have for a long time. I wish tonight could have gone a bit differently-"
"It's ok."
"But it's not! If I could stay here longer I would, but...Mary. Plus, I'm doing study abroad this year, and I'm leaving in a few days. It wouldn't be fair to you, what with the time difference and how hard it would be to keep in touch, so I won't ask, but -"
The phone rings again. He pauses before pulling her briskly towards him, planting a kiss on the top of her head and wrapping his arms tight around her. He lets her go and grabs her hands, kissing both of them in turn.
"You are so special to me, Christine Daae. I won't ask you to wait for me, but when I get back from this semester, we'll both be in New York . . . maybe we can try to do tonight over again, yeah?" He walks backwards a few steps towards his car, before pulling his phone from his pocket. "Philippe? Yeah, I'm on my way now."
She raises her hand to wave weakly at the receding tail lights, before turning to go inside.
They speak infrequently, but they do try. A few emails sent back and forth, each trying to fill the other in. The girl starts her lessons at Juilliard, the boy travels the world, and the newness of both situations gently sets aside the memories of old friends. The messages grow longer as the time between emails lengthens and stretches until one or the other of them drops off without realizing it. It is at this time that the girl's father begins to cough. The seasons come and go, a year passes, then another. Then another. The beach cottage remains empty.
The girl's father weakens, then becomes frail. The days grow warm and then cool again. In grey October she returns with Mamma Valerius to the beach cottage. A For Sale sign is pegged deep into the sand. They stand at the top of the high hill that overlooks the sea where the girl's father used to play, and watch the ashes dance towards the water on the cool sea breeze.
o...o0o...o
The small alarm chimed, signaling the end of lunch. Christine lifted the hand she had resting over her eyes and squinted at the phone. She sat up and swung her legs to the ground. The fountain had been calm and cool, the quiet bubbling pleasant.
But, alas, as all good things must come to an end, so too must lunch. She took her time gathering her things, tucked her book into her purse, slowly wrapped her headphones and zipped them into the a small purse pocket. She gathered her discarded food wrappers. Too soon these simple tasks were finished, and with a sigh, she picked up her bag and walked toward the gleaming opera house.
Christine pulled open the heavy, glass door and started across the lobby. She was in the middle of deciding exactly which corner of the stage would be the least conspicuous place to spend rehearsal when a voice from the box office caught her attention.
"Thank you again, my family will be so pleased." The man speaking shook Madame Giry's hand. He was was tall, well dressed, and from what Christine could see of his face, handsome. "Have a great day."
As the man turned and strode across the lobby, Christine's feet stopped beneath her. She knew that face. It was him. He was older now, but it was him.
Red scarves and the sea and sunlight burst across her mind. She could almost hear her father's violin, the notes stolen by the breeze on the high hill. Warring emotions burst across her like missiles launched from opposing trenches. Excitement and embarrassment, joy and nostalgia and why was she about to cry? She had butterflies in her stomach, but she also felt like maybe she might throw those butterflies up. This was not pleasant, but she was so happy, and all of this happened in the few moments it took Raoul de Chagny to walk across the lobby.
She remembered that last night they had spoken. His almost question. The hope of more. He had tried to call her when he returned from studying in Europe, but her father had been sick. She hadn't wanted to leave Papa's side, and she didn't know how to say no. So when the call came, she didn't answer. She put off returning the call to the point where it wouldn't make sense to call back at all, and quietly tucked that little heartbreak away along with the red scarf.
It was a heartbreak of her own making. It wouldn't do to dwell on it, and anyway, there were more pressing concerns. She's kept track of him, a bit. If an article about his family popped up online, she'd read it. Or, if she was truly bored and/or tremendously lonely, she'd open up the newspaper Mamma Valerius had delivered and scan the society pages for his name.
She stared at him, stock still, until he reached the door. As he pushed the door open, his head turned towards her in a subconscious last look.
She fled before she could tell if he saw her.
Breathing heavily, she tried to compose herself as she walked up the aisle towards the stage. It was fine. It had been a long time. It's not as if he cared anymore anyway.
The day rest of the day was a blur. She sang mechanically. She danced like an automaton. Her mind was years and miles away on a sunny shore, in a distant haze of memories and nostalgia and foolish, foolish hopes.
She cornered Meg at the end of the day to ask if her mother knew anything about the De Chagny's. Meg told her the family was among the Metropolitan Opera's strongest supporters, and said that her mom had told her over lunch that one of the brothers had come in to arrange the tickets for the season. She drifted away from the dancer after saying goodbye, and found herself seated in front of her camera, filming the week's letter almost without deciding to. Before she could finish her thoughts, the sound of a violin that signaled the Voice's approach.
Surprised, her words dropped to silence. The Voice almost never came when she was filming. She checked the time and rushed to turn the camera off. How long had she let her mind wander to start filming so late?
She closed the screen on the camera and approached the mirror as the violin solo faded to completion. All was silent, but the silence was restless. She could feel the Voice's presence, but it did not speak.
She stared at the mirror, waiting. Her brow began to furrow, and she saw her confusion reflected back at her from the mirror . She opened her mouth to speak when a mournful sigh echoed around the perimeter of the room.
"Are you ready to begin, Christine?" The Voice sounded dull. Dim. Hollow, almost, or as if some of shine had been smudged and it needed a good polish.
"Of course, Maestro." She replied, her confusion lengthening into concern. Song and instruction began to fill the room, but the Voice, still magnificent, did not dazzle. It was beautiful, but it did not dance. There had been times when she could practically hear the voice pacing behind her. Once or twice, she had even heard it as a whisper in her ear.
But today, the Voice was stationary. It issued from the mirror and did not move about. She could not help but wonder if she had hurt the Voice somehow, but she could not think of what she might have done.
o...o0o...o
Once home from the opera, and after a brief goodnight to mamma, Christine set to dismantling her closet. She opened boxes and rifled through their contents. She pawed through drawers and shoved them closed, shirts and pants still sticking out haphazardly. She pulled out storage containers from under her bed that had not seen the light of day in years and emptied them. Finally, in a small hatbox in the very back corner of the tallest shelf, she found the red scarf.
She pulled the gauzy material from the box, it's careful folds falling until the length of material pooled in her lap. She continued through the box, pulling out movie stubs and photo booth snapshots. Seashells and small bottles of sand. A single, dried white rose, brown and brittle with age.
She held the scarf to her face and imagined she could still smell the sea. Still smell the salt and the sand and the air. She kept the scarf out, but returned the rest of the keepsakes to the hatbox. She went around her room, slowly putting things back where they belonged. Her eyes were distant.
That night, she dreamed of the sea, and in the waves were many bottles full of everything she'd ever wanted. She knew if she could just grab one, she would be happy again. So she reached and she reached, scrambling at the sand, but the waves receded and the bottles always bobbed away. Indigo and cloudy green and just out reach. So close she could almost touch them, but not quite.
