Chapter 16

Erik was too afraid to find Christine himself, so he had broken his promise and appeared to Meg again, despite her protestations (protestations that had ended in several pairs of pointe-shoes being hurled at his head). Somehow, he had managed to deflect her ire long enough persuade her to ask Christine if she would meet him one more time.

She'd agreed, but Christine's reply had been ambivalent.

And thus he found himself waiting outside her practice-room one morning, unsure if she would ever come.

After what seemed a thousand years, he saw her coming down the hall, looking like an angel in a blue gown embroidered with white flowers.

When they were shut inside the room, he frantically scanned her face, searching for some clue as to what she had decided. It was difficult to say.

He felt rather as if the two of them were standing on top of a building and she might push him off at any moment. Whether he lived or died might easily depend on what she had to say in these next few minutes.

It was like a duel, except that he had no desire to defeat her. Curious, that she held his life in her hands and he didn't in the slightest want to get it back from her. She could have crushed his heart, torn apart all his hopes, and he would still have adored her. He gazed at her, trying to memorize her face - he feared very strongly this was the last time he would ever see it. It wasn't necessary, however. He had had it memorized for years.

"Erik," she said awkwardly at last. He stared at her stupidly. He loved her so desperately, and he was so unworthy of her. "Christine. You... you are well, I hope?" He cursed himself for the vapidity of the remark. It was an insult to the raging, wild, all-consuming passion he felt for her. It was an insult to her. The remark seemed to annoy her. Despair flooded through him. But she did not turn to go.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose," she said at last, one hand toying uneasily with a small white bow on the front of her gown. "And you?" He swallowed. "That remains to be seen, I confess." There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Have you perhaps had a chance to peruse the variations I wrote you?" he asked, desperate to keep her talking, to hold her here for as long as he could.

Her eyes brightened. "Yes. I must thank you. They were the most beautiful gift I have ever received." Erik's heart sank. Her praise was welcome, of course, but he hadn't just meant them to be beautiful. "Thank you..." he said, and he waited with baited breath for her to go on, praying she had understood.

"But... it wasn't easy music," she said. "Writing it must have been..." She trailed off.

"Yes," he said at last. "It was... difficult, I confess." More than that - he had nearly lost his mind, venturing so deep into himself. It was an expedition he hoped he never had to make again. Christine nodded. "Music can... convey many things," she ventured, wringing her hands.

"Yes."

"Seditious ideas... like the diabolus im musica chord."

"Yes, just so."

"Or other things... It can convey regret... forgiveness..." He nodded, his heart pounding with relief. His wild gamble had paid off. She had understood the apology in the music. His instincts had been right.

"Christine, the way I spoke to you was abominable," he said at last.

She shrugged and smiled awkwardly, not wanting to second this but unable to deny it. "It was unworthy of you," she said at last.

"No, Christine - it was unworthy of you."

"Am I to understand you didn't mean the things you said?" she asked slowly. "That my affection is not… disgusting to you?" He saw hope on her face, but he saw trepidation too.

"Of course it is not," he said fervently. "Indeed I fail to see how you could be disgusting to anyone. I never intended to convey… I would have to be a fool. Your affections would be an honor for anyone."

"Then what did you mean by...?"

"My reasons were... Not that there is any justification, of course..."

"No," she said. "But I should like to understand, all the same."

"Ah." He shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Well..."

"Yes?"

"Well, for one, I did not want you to be under the impression that... I thought I couldn't get anything better."

"Erik… I would never have thought such a thing. You could do better, though, you know."

"That is impossible," he said. She shook her head. "You sell yourself short."

"I do not mean to say merely that I could not do better. I mean to say that no one could." He swallowed. "I fail to see how you could ever be repulsive to anyone."

Tears filled her eyes. "First, you must know I continue to love you just as... ardently as ever. You may always be assured of that."

"Christine! No emperor ever received so fair a gift!"

"Wait," she pleaded. "Don't." The words were wrenched from her. Her whole being fought against it. She wanted to be weak, to yield to her feelings, but she knew if she did she would regret it.

"What?" he said, looking at in horror.

"I do love you-" she said.

"-Christine...!"

"But I acted in haste before," she said. "I see that now. I was frightened after your... illness; I was not thinking clearly."

"Christine-" He frantically seized one of her hands, astonishing himself with his boldness.

Christine didn't pull away, but nor did she return the gesture. "What happens now?" she asked, looking sadly down at her hand in his. Yes, her expression seemed to say, This is how it ought to be, but it is impossible.

"I would spend the rest of my life living for your happiness," he said. "I should never be so cruel again, never, I swear it. I would be as gentle as a lamb."

"Would you?" she said.

"Yes, Christine, yes! Oh, don't cry," he pleaded, getting up hurriedly when he saw tears gathering in her eyes. "You must know what pain it gives me to see you cry."

"Indeed? It did not give you pain before," she said. "You welcomed it. You rejoiced in it."

Her words hit him like a blow. "Christine, no," he moaned. "Christine..." He could not stop saying her name. It seemed to be the only word he could remember. The whole language began and ended with Christine. All else was meaningless. "How could you think that?"

"You said the precise things that could have wounded me most," she said. "How could you do it if you truly cared for me?" There was a long silence while he gathered his thoughts. "Had I known it was in my power to give you pain, I should never have said those things," he began at last. "Never, Christine."

"How could you think otherwise?" she cried.

"I thought you did not care about my opinion at all," he said.

"But-"

"-When I came to my senses and realized I had wounded you, Christine, I could have killed myself." His voice faltered for a moment. When he had regained control of it, he went on, "Now that I do know you... love me, truly know it and believe it …"

"...But I don't understand! I told you I loved you! I told you that you had my heart. I lay my soul open to you. Wasn't that enough for you?"

"I couldn't believe it," he said.

She stared at him. "Do you imagine me capable of lying about such a thing?"

"No, certainly not," he said. "I see that now. I understand now. But at the time, it seemed impossible that I could have won your affection, Christine. Surely you understand that."

"What?" she said. "No, I do not understand it."

"Look at me!" he cried. "I wish I could, but I daresay you would not let me."

"Yes, you are right," he said, "but you know what you would see. You know the horrible truth."

"Horrible?" she said. "You speak of it as though it is some dark secret-"

"-It is. Nothing I do can ever redeem it. We are separated so widely... you belong to the light, to the world of all that is good, to the angels."

"You also belong to the world of the good."

"No," he said. "You are so high above me."

"No!" She took a step backward. "You are talking nonsense. God help me, I don't know what to think anymore. I need guidance." She turned toward the door.

"Guidance?" he said. "Whose guidance?"

"No one's. That is, no one on this earth. God's. And my father's. If he can hear me. I shall ask him, at any rate."

"Don't go. Don't go. Christine. What if you don't come back?"

"Would I leave you without a word?" "No... I don't know... I don't know what to think anymore... Christine… Christine…"

"I shall come back," she said. "I am only going to the chapelle. It isn't far."

"I shall come with you, Christine," he said eagerly. "Have no fear; I shall take care to keep out of sight. I shall be careful that you are not seen with me."

She held up a hand, and he found that somehow the gesture froze him where he stood. "I shall only be a few minutes," she said, calmly but firmly.

He watched helplessly as she slipped out of the room, then he sat down on the piano bench and waited. An hour went by. Erik couldn't bear to leave the room, however. He seemed glued to the bench. He went through Beethoven's Piano Sonata 14, Chopin's Prelude Op. 28 No. 15, and every other miserable piece he knew, the tinny piano making them sound even more pathetic. Eventually he was certain Christine wasn't coming back. She would never return. She would marry someone else. And years from now, some poor soul would open the door and find a miserable, dejected skeleton sitting there, still waiting.

She came back while he was still alive, however.

When the door opened, he leapt up so fast he almost knocked over the piano bench. "Christine?"

"Erik..." She closed the door behind her. "I have had time to think..."

You certainly have, he couldn't stop himself from thinking. "Yes? Well?" he said anxiously.

"Well… Do you love me?" she asked simply.

What? He stared at her in bewilderment. Replies came flooding into his brain. Do I love Christine Daae? Is the earth round? Yes, I love you! But he found he couldn't say them. What was happening? What devilry was this?

"You heard the music I wrote you," he said at last, cautiously, uncertainly. "Surely that means more... It is more profound. It conveys ideas far more revolutionary than some mere human word like 'love' ever could."

Suddenly he understood something. He had never been allowed to express his affection in words to anyone. People had let him have music because they preferred it. Because they found it inoffensive. He could slip seditious ideas like love into it and no-one ever guessed. They could all go on with their lives blissfully pretending it meant nothing.

With Christine, that was not possible. The game he had unwittingly been playing - declaring his love for her without her ever guessing it - had not worked. She was too astute. She did not want him to lie. She did not want him to hide. With her, he had for the first time encountered someone as clever as he was, someone he could not outwit. It was a damnable predicament. "Why are you testing me thus?" he said.

"Then you do not love me."

"No, that is not true! I would do anything for you, Christine. I would..."

She shook her head helplessly. "Here we come to the problem. I thought you loved me... If so, why do you not say it? If you love me, why would you take such pains to hide it?"

There was a long silence. The earth seemed to spin to a halt. The music in his head slowed and quieted until it was almost silent, just a tense, pulsating bass. "Christine, I have no right to love you," he said at last.

"Whatever do you mean?" she demanded. "We all have the right to love where we please, I daresay! 'Liberté - égalité' - isn't that what you French are always going on about?"

"But... you don't want my love," he said.

"Don't I? That is for me to say, I think! You don't know what I want!"

"You ought not to… you would be better off without me. I would gladly be your slave, for the rest of my life- I never want to be parted from you- I am only a poor dog ready to die for you-"

"-But I don't want a slave!" she cried. "Don't you see that? I want a lover, a friend, a helpmeet."

"I cannot be those things to you! Don't you see?"

"Why not?" she cried. "My love would..." He hesitated, struggling to put his thoughts into words. "It would sully you. It would degrade you."

"Because of the thefts?" she said in confusion. "But there were extenuating circumstances. You know I do not blame you for that- don't torment me, I pray-"

"-No... not that... Because..." He turned away for a moment, trying to compose himself. "Because of my... Because of... What I am!"

"What you are?"

"For God's sake, you know what I mean! Must I say it? This!" With a stiff, clumsy hand, he gestured to his mask.

Christine's eyes widened. Suddenly she understood. "Who has told you that? Erik, nothing you are capable of could ever sully or degrade anything in me. A spirit like yours… all you could do would be to honor and elevate the woman you loved! The kind of love you are thinking of is honorable in the utmost."

He slowly turned round.

"It is most noble thing a human being is capable of," Christine went on. "If you love someone in that way, and she loves you... it would be wrong to deny it. To suppress a sentiment like that... I fear what it might do to you. It would be a rebellion against the very best part of our nature."

Erik stood transfixed. Could it be that this feeling he had fought for so long was not shameful or foul? That he was not some depraved monster after all? If Christine was right - and she must be; Christine could never be wrong where matters of the heart were concerned - then there was goodness in him yet, and his love for her was, and always had been, a sign of that. It was noble and righteous, the best part of him. Something shifted inside him. The whole earth seemed to center around the two of them.

He looked Christine in the eye, drawing strength from her soft gaze. "Then… yes," he said at last. It was quiet, barely a whisper, but it would suffice. He was victorious. "Jag är kär i dig. Je vous aime. I love you. I have for years. You are the light of my life."

He wasn't sure what he had expected to happen - he had no map for any of this; such a story as theirs had never been lived before - but it was not what came next. With a gasp, Christine sat down hard on the piano bench, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob.

He froze, staring at her, as though she were a precious work of art he had let shatter on the floor. Good God, what have I done to her? "Christine... I am sorry..." I should have known. She was noble and generous, yes, but the love of a thing like him was too much for her. He had ruined everything. "Forgive me..."

Christine sprang up. He was sure she was going to run out of the room. But instead she threw one arm around his shoulders and cradled his cheek in her hand. Yes, she was touching his face, his horrible, wretched face, and she was not afraid-

He stared at her in bewilderment. This simply couldn't be. Was this some after-effect of the absinthe? What was she doing? It was splendid, it was delightful, but…

And then all other thought disappeared from his head, for her lips, soft and sweet, were on his. Her arms went about his neck and she held him with such force she was somehow lifted off the ground. He thought his heart might stop. No, he could not have imagined this. He didn't know enough to. He did not know what it was to be kissed, til now, and it was better than he could have imagined. This was assuredly real. At last he understood. There was, perhaps no other way she could have explained this to him. This gesture had no ambiguity; it could not be misinterpreted, even by him. Nor could it have somehow been a mistake on her part.

Life seemed to surge through him. The bitterness drained out of him.

It felt like seeing spring for the first time. She pulled away and looked at him eagerly, expectantly. For a moment he almost feared she would disappear, as though something so pure, so innocent, coming into contact with a being as foul and contaminated as him would destroy her. But no. She continued to stand before him as bright and glowing as ever. She had kissed him and she did not die.

"Well?" she said softly, a tender, vulnerable, hopeful smile playing about her lips. "Please… say something. Erik?"

He kissed her forehead, both her cheeks, her chin, and then buried his face in her shoulder, clutching her to him. This was all too much. His knees half gave way and he fell back against the piano, still holding her. They sank to the floor as one.

"How can I make you understand?" Christine said after a moment.

His voice was almost a whisper. "I believe I begin to."