Welcome back! I've got a terrible cold and almost didn't get this chapter up on time. Now that it's ready to go, I can hide under my duvet with a good book and a mug of tea.
Chapter Three
I went to the airport with Raoul the next morning, checking and double-checking that he had everything he needed for his trip to Germany. Boarding pass, passport, reading material, toiletries, copies of his CV, credit cards, extra clothes. Focusing on real, tangible needs kept my mind busy.
Raoul, I think, appreciated the care and attention. When his flight was called, he pulled me in for a tight hug and, his whiskered cheeks rubbing against the smooth skin of my cheeks.
We kissed and he ran his fingertips up my jawline, over my ears, and into my hair. He would be back before I knew it, he assured me. One last kiss on my forehead, his breath warm and minty.
And then he was off. I stood at the terminal doors and watched Raoul check his suitcase and walk through to the security line. His black wool coat hugged his masculine frame and his blue scarf loose beneath shaggy blonde hair. Ignoring the flutter of nerves in my belly, I swallowed my urge to run over and give him one last hug. He was perfect.
Without Raoul at home, the rest of the week edged along slowly. I stayed later at the office, letting the extra work absorb some of my evening hours. Just last week, I'd relished having a night alone. A whole week was less of a treat. I'd become accustomed to the sound of Raoul's pen scratching on paper, the smell of peppermint tea steeping in a pot, and the sight of stray stubble in the corners of the bathroom counter. I'd never truly lived alone; before moving in with Raoul, I'd kept my rent costs down by living with a succession of roommates. And before that, I'd lived with my father in a small house in the suburbs.
Raoul had been in touch through the week, sending excited emails and calling me over Skype. He was having a wonderful week in Berlin, learning from fellow academics and exchanging ideas with respected professors in his field. Each email included dozens of "interesting" links to scholarly articles and research abstracts. I scanned the titles of each piece, but didn't delve any further. It was enough that Raoul was excited and enjoying his foray abroad.
I spent Saturday morning elbowing my way through markets and malls, picking up last-minute Christmas gifts and wrapping supplies. It seemed that everyone else in the city had the same plans and the subways, streets, and stores were packed with people laden with bags and boxes. Since we were saving for a wedding, Raoul and I had decided to spend modestly this year and buy only small gifts for close family members.
Finding small, meaningful gifts for Raoul's older sister and her wealthy husband was a challenge and I poked through several shops in Kensington Market before choosing a handmade cheese board and knife set. By the time I reached home, satisfied with my purchases, it was almost suppertime. Glancing nervously at the clock on the wall, I set down my bags and opened the fridge to reheat yesterday's take-out. Erik had said that he would arrive at seven, which left me an hour to eat and get dressed. More than enough time, I reasoned.
My supper of korma and rice was spicy and satisfying. Raoul detested Indian food and, any anytime he was out for the evening, I ordered take-out from the family restaurant two blocks away from our building. The delivery was quick and the spice in the curry left my cheeks warm.
After eating, I washed and put away the dishes, taking my time. If Erik arrived early, he could very well wait outside. Only after I'd given my kitchen a wipe down and tidy, did I walk down the hall to the bedroom to get dressed. Having spent two years working for the opera house, I'd amassed a small collection of dresses suitable for an opening night performance. Knowing that I needed to look more professional than seductive, I ignored the red and low-cut gowns and opted for an snug blue and lilac gown that covered my body from neck to ankle. Attractive, but modest.
When I was a child, my hair had been my enemy. My mother had been mixed Japanese-American. Though she'd died shortly after I was born, I'd inherited her thick, dark hair. My father, a Swede, had passed on his blue-grey eyes and messy curls. Their mixed genes had left me with coffee-hued hair that fell past my shoulders in thick waves and tangled easily. Like my mother, I was petite: five-foot-two and slight of build. As I grew into an adult, I learned how to tame my hair with leave-in conditioner. In time, vocal lessons perfected my posture and taught me how to stand tall and straight. Into my mid-twenties now, I'd left behind the small, skinny girl and become a confident woman who could hold a stage or address a crowd.
The door buzzed. Erik. Ignoring it for a moment, I put the finishing touches on my makeup. Powder over my cheekbones, a final swipe of mascara, and a touch of berry-tinted balm on my lips. As a vocal student and, then, as a member of an opera chorus, I'd grown used to applying heavy stage makeup to contour my face and make my features stand out from a distance. Outside of performances, I preferred a lighter hand that better flattered my almond-shaped eyes and pale skin.
Satisfied that I was presentable, I buzzed Erik into the building. Idly, I wondered how he'd found my address and whether he knew which unit I lived in. I supposed that, like me, he had resources to find that kind of information. One of my questions was answered with a soft knock on my apartment door.
I opened the door part way to let Erik know that I'd be out as soon as I'd put on my coat. Before letting me speak, he'd placed a gloved hand on the handle and pushed the door open to let himself in. I stepped back to accommodate his tall frame. Erik was at least six-foot-three, perhaps taller. His head came close to grazing the top of the door frame on his way in.
"You look lovely," he said. His words were soft, his voice deep and velvety.
My theatre companion was dressed in an expensive black dinner jacket, with matching black pants and a starched linen dress shirt. His polished leather shoes looked as if they'd never been worn. Again, he was wearing a white mask over the left side of his face. Tonight's mask looked to be made of leather or a stiff, synthetic fabric.
"Thank you," I said, keeping my tone crisp. "I'm almost ready to leave."
I slid open the hall closet and pulled a white wool coat from its hanger. Erik took the garment from his hands and moved to stand behind me and help me get dressed. I paused, the independent woman in me wanting to snatch my coat from him and put it on myself. It would do no good to offend him now and then have to sit in a theatre box with him for two hours, I reasoned. Setting my jaw into a gentle smile, I accepted his assistance and slid my arms through the sleeves.
"White is very becoming on you," he said, running his fingers gently down my arms to smooth out the fabric. "Now come – I have a car waiting outside and I assume that you have questions for me. You've had an eventful week, no?"
"So it was you!" I exclaimed.
"I don't know which 'it' you're referring to, my dear," Erik replied, the slightest of smiles appearing on his lips. With the mask covering the left side of his face, the smile made him look roguish, like a movie villain about to twirl his moustache.
"The flowers at my office. The anonymous donation to the fine arts faculty. The destruction of a very old piano."
"I neither accept nor deny your accusations," he said. "But if you're referring to the grand piano in the university's performance hall, then I must say that the instrument was in an unacceptable state of repair. And that the culprit did the university a service by ridding the fine arts faculty of such an embarrassing musical instrument."
It was a confession in all but letter.
"But why?" I asked, my heels clicking on the linoleum floor of my building's hallways as I followed Erik to the front door.
"Perhaps a method of persuasion. Perhaps to garner someone's attention."
Persuasion? Attention? If he was flirting with me, I didn't understand why. I was pretty, yes, but there were thousands of women in the city. Beautiful women, talented women, younger women. Single women. Erik and I had only met once. Beyond a possible physical attraction, he didn't know me at all.
Physical attraction. That thought caused my stomach to wince. If I was honest with myself, I was attracted to Erik. He was a powerful man, mysterious, and dominant. In silence, I followed Erik out of the building and into the backseat of a waiting car. With each step, I tried to convince myself that attraction to a man like Erik was normal, that it wasn't a betrayal of Raoul or of the promises I'd made to him when I'd agreed to our engagement. I was helpless to resist the magnetic force of his personality.
Once in the car, I sat as far from Erik as the seats would allow. If he noticed my attempt at physical distance, he gave no indication. He seemed comfortable with our silence – too comfortable – so I tried a different conversational angle. "I found you in the university's alumni database. You're a science and business graduate – why the interest in the fine arts faculty?"
"I like to support my friends," he said. "Antoinette Giry and her daughter Meg are trusted acquaintances of mine. And I've always held an interest in the arts, particularly music. Until recently, I was a supporter of the city opera house."
"Until recently?" I echoed. "What changed?"
"Their creative team has been lacking direction and their performances have suffered for it," he said, his voice rising. "We used to have one of the world's best opera companies and now the city behaves as if it is embarrassed to have such an establishment within its boundaries. The arts have always been under-supported, but after the market crashed, public support has been fixed solely on industries that produce the greatest profits."
"But you're a businessman," I interjected, trying to gain a foothold into his thought process.
"I may be a businessman, but I have an appreciation for the integrity of the arts. A theatre's mission is to inspire and to entertain, to cultivate curiosity and to reflect the world back at us. Art does not exist to create profits for investors. I could say the same of your university. The top fundraisers in the development department earn more in a year than most tenured faculty members do. Where are the priorities?"
I'd asked myself the same questions at both the opera house and the university. I'd even answered those questions to donors and patrons. I knew that Erik was right, but the spokesperson in me was chafing at his bold assertions. The arts world had changed – especially in the last five years. Increasingly, creative houses were asked to prove their relevance, which was becoming synonymous with profitability.
"I admire what you do, truly," Erik continued. "But an arts faculty should not have to grovel to supporters in order to subsist."
"If support is what the arts need, then why did you withdraw yours from the opera house?" I asked.
"Touché, my dear. I've chosen to support the opera house in more direct ways."
The car halted, preventing me from inquiring what exactly Erik meant by his comment. Perhaps he moonlighted as a member of the chorus? The image of Erik St. Clair in grease paint and a candy-coloured costume flashed through my mind and I held back a laugh.
The driver of the car announced that we were outside the theatre. In old-world fashion, Erik stepped out of the car first and walked around to open my door, all in the time it took me to undo my seatbelt and finger-comb my hair. I told myself that I was accepting his gallant gestures out of politeness to a university supporter. Still, I couldn't deny the tingle of excitement that ran through my spine when he grasped my hand as I stepped out of the car.
"And here we are," Erik said. He kept his gloved hand clasped around mine as we walked through the crowd, past the usher and ticket line and took me into a side elevator to the private boxes. In my brief look at the crowd, I spotted several regular theatregoers – city councillors, prominent CEOs, philanthropists – many of whom had been at last weekend's arts gala.
Erik's box was centered over the audience and offered an excellent view of the stage. On our way in, he showed a glossy black pass to the attendant who, in turn, handed Erik a wine list.
Erik gestured to the seat on the right and I sat, careful not to wrinkle my dress. Two programs lay flat on a table between the chairs. I selected one and scanned the cast list for familiar names. Predictably, Guidicelli and Piangi were in the leading soprano and tenor roles. I was surprised to see that some of my friends from the chorus had moved up into supporting roles.
At Erik's request, the box attendant returned with a respectably-aged bottle of merlot, a bottle opener, and two crystal glasses. My companion uncorked the wine and poured two glasses, offering one to me.
"A toast," I suggested. "To the arts."
"And to new ventures," Erik added. He took a slow sip from his glass, careful not to bump the rim against his mask.
I took a careful sip. The wine was dark and spicy, strong for my tastes, but very good. Best to limit myself to one glass.
Below us, the orchestra began to play and the stage curtain opened, revealing a platform populated with actors and set pieces. I knew the plot of Don Quichotte, but had never seen it performed on stage. I watched, fascinated, as Carla Guidicelli and Leon Piangi dominated the stage, their voices filling the cavernous space of the opera house.
"She began her career in Spain, you know," I whispered to Erik during the intermission. "She took leading roles in Paris, Rome, and Prague before coming here. She's fantastically talented."
"She certainly thinks so," Erik snorted. "You would be a better choice than her for this role."
"Pardon?" I said, wanting clarification. He knew that I had been a chorus member, yes, and perhaps he'd caught a glimpse of me performing. But he'd never heard me sing on my own.
"You're fantastically talented, Christine," he replied. "I've heard you in recitals and in opera rehearsals. It pains me to see you in such an administrative role."
"You've seen me perform?" I asked, incredulous.
"Of course. Several times," he answered. "The box we're sitting in tonight is a private box that I reserve each season. You were a chorus member for two years. Before that, I occasionally attended the university's music recitals to find new talent. And that's where I found you, my dear."
I swallowed uneasily. It sounded as if Erik had been following my career not just for the last week, but for the last several years. From the university to the opera house and then back to the university. If that was true, what was his motivation? And why had he waited until now to speak to me? The questions danced on my tongue, demanding to be asked. Yet I held back. Erik was watching me, his tall frame casting my body and mind into shadow. Businessman, architect, musician, scientist – but who was he really? I felt the cold tickle of ice down my spine. My tongue turned to lead in my mouth. I was afraid.
Erik's topaz eyes softened from behind his mask and he reached into my lap to cover my left hand with his right. His palm was cool and the pads of his fingers were rough. With his thumb, he stroked the skin on the back of my hand, rubbing little circles. An intimate, familiar touch.
"I had no idea," I said, pulling my hand away. Raoul! "I – I'd never met you, never seen you in the audience."
"I do my best not to be seen. I'm most effective when people can see my work, but not my person. Like a player pulling the strings of a marionette."
The simile was an apt one. And Erik, who had interests in a diverse mix of fields, held a great number of strings in this city. It was a wonder that he'd been able to stay out of the public eye. Yet, the comparison to a puppet offended me. I swallowed thickly.
"I won't be your marionette, Erik. I'm here with you as a representative of the university. My colleagues and I are very curious to find out if you know anything about an anonymous gift that was made last weekend."
"Your colleagues are interested?" Erik repeated. "I highly doubt that you've told your colleagues anything concerning your suspicions. But, if you must know, I did make a gift to the fine arts faculty. I'm a sentimental man and the arts are always a worthy cause."
His blunt admission took me by surprise – it had been too easy. My smartphone was stashed inside my handbag and my fingers were itching to email my director with this piece of news.
"You will, of course, keep this confidential," Erik continued. "I'm not interested in being hounded by teams of fundraisers looking to attract my interest. I'm perfectly willing to share my good fortune without persuasion from your colleagues."
"But – don't you want to be acknowledged?" I asked. No one gave money altruistically; more often than not, philanthropy was just good PR. "For that kind of gift, we could name the theatre after you. Or we could dedicate a scholarship in your name, or –"
"I'm not interested. The best thanks you can give me is not to waste the money. And not to let it sit in some university endowment fund for decades. Now, if you please, can we move on to more pleasant subjects?"
"I, what? If you like," I answered, deferring to him.
"Why did you stop performing, Christine?"
I swallowed, preparing a well-rehearsed answer: "Music is a demanding and unstable profession. I spent years in school, followed by two years here, in the opera house, and I wasn't getting anywhere. An ordinary job and an ordinary paycheck wasn't a bad trade."
"You have such talent! If you'd stayed in the opera company, you would have been given lead roles by now."
"No, I wouldn't have. The managers never noticed me and I was never crass enough to try to curry their favour."
"You would have been given a lead role; I would have insisted upon it."
"I appreciate your kind words, truly I do, but I've chosen a different line of work and I'm quite successful at it."
"There's no art in raising money. And you are an artist."
I was becoming exasperated now and I could feel my cheeks reddening. How dare he tell me what I should or shouldn't do with my career? I was a respected professional, with strong connections to the world of music that I loved. While fundraising didn't inspire the same flights of passion as singing did, I enjoyed the challenge of securing support for others.
"I think we should end this meeting."
Erik's set his wine glass down and levelled his gaze to mine. His molars were clenched together and his lips were pursed in a solid line. His mask, cotton white, concealed half of his expression.
"I'd like you to stay," he said. The words were gentle, a firm whisper. "I've waited too long to meet you and I don't wish to waste this evening. I'm – I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. Trust that I respect your decisions, though I respect your talent more."
An apology. From Erik St. Clair. I suspected that that was a rare thing.
"All right then. Let's – let's just enjoy the rest of the performance," I suggested.
For the rest of the intermission, Erik kept to neutral topics of conversation – planned improvements to the university campus, city politics, books we'd both enjoyed. In the next few minutes, I found that Erik had a fondness for modern British literature, had completed his studies by distance, and felt disdain for most career politicians. After a week of quiet solitude, I found the easy banter and the rich wine relaxing. When the theatre lights dimmed to signal the beginning of the next act, I was surprised to feel disappointed.
The second half of Don Quichotte was nothing short of spectacular. The orchestra and the singers filled the theatre with rich, full music and the dancers kept the audience's attention fixed on the stage. Piangi, a portly gentleman with graying hair, was convincing in his role as a 'knight errant' trying to revive chivalry and win the affections of the hapless Dulcinea. The story, one of the most famous in Western literature, came to life on the stage and was enriched by music and dance.
When the curtain fell across the stage, I stood in my seat to applaud. Erik remained sitting, wine glass in hand, and watched me with an eyebrow raised.
"An adequate performance, I think," he said, raising his glass to Mr. Reyer, the orchestra conductor.
"Adequate?" I repeated. "You're a difficult man to impress."
He chose not to reply to my tease and, instead, set down his glass and gripped my hand.
"It will take the audience several minutes to gather their belongings and indulge in chatter before they leave the building. If you're agreeable, I'd like to show you a part of the opera house that most patrons never see."
"I worked here for two years – I've been inside every room."
"I never said that I was showing you a room."
"Where, exactly?" I asked, picking up my handbag.
"Just trust me," he answered, tightening his grip on my fingers.
Trust him? I knew so little about Erik. And he'd been silently watching my career for years. In the week I'd known him, he'd been mysterious, elusive, and reckless. I still wasn't sure if this evening was a business meeting or a date. I didn't, couldn't trust him. But, if we were in the opera house, then we were on familiar turf. I was safe here, I reasoned.
We left the box and wound through the hall closer to the stage. Pausing at a door, Erik pulled a key from his pocket and undid the lock. Beyond the door was the top of the stage, the scaffolding and the pulleys for the set pieces. I'd seen this part of the opera house on my first tour of the place, but hadn't returned since. After a performance, the technicians would be descending to join the musicians and cast members backstage.
The passage ahead was dimly lit and I followed slowly, taking care not to trip or misstep in my heels. Looking around, I saw lighting equipment, tools, and rags in piles against the walls. Steel cables thick as my thumb ran in parallel lines from pulleys beside the stage. The cables and tools cast crisscrossing shadows against the walls. I could almost believe the ballet girls' stories about a ghost lurking in these halls.
Erik pushed ahead, bringing us to stand before a second locked door. Again, he had a key and I wondered how he'd procured a master key to the opera house. I didn't think that any of the patrons carried keys and Erik had said that he now supported the opera house in "direct" ways.
"Do you work for the opera house?" I asked.
"In a capacity, yes."
"Explain please," I demanded, pulling my hand out of his grip and crossing my arms. I was getting tired of Erik's vague answers.
He paused halfway through the doorway and looked back at me. In the semidarkness, his golden eyes appeared to glow and his mask disappeared into the pale skin of his face. He watched me and, in the eerie darkness, I wondered if he was sizing me up as cat does a toy mouse. A draft blew down through the door and I shivered as the cold air blew through the thin silk of my dress.
"I provide… artistic direction and give the managers advice on which shows to run, how the sets should be designed, and which performers to select for the cast and orchestra. Over the years, I've developed a special relationship with the theatre. Which brings certain privileges," he said, holding up the master key and gesturing for me to follow him through the door.
A tight spiral staircase awaited us. The dusty steps twisted inside a hollow brick column. My stomach clenched when I noted the stairs went up at least another two floors and that the steps didn't have any backs to them. Panic fluttered through my belly and I paused at the bottom.
"I'll be right behind you," Erik said, brushing my waist with his hand to remind me of his presence.
Gripping the metal railing, I ascended the stairs, one slow step at a time. Cautious of my choice in footwear, I tested each step, balancing my weight on my toes first. Fortunately, the steps were solid, not grated, and there was nothing for my heels to catch on. It took a full four or five minutes to climb the two storeys. If Erik was impatient, he didn't show it. He kept pace with me, keeping a form on the railing two steps behind me.
At the top of the stairs, I waited on a landing while Erik unlocked the last door.
On the other side: white, snowy winter.