Christine dans Deux

An Alternate Multiverse - A Phantom of the Opera Story

Nyasia A. Maire

© 2006

DISCLAIMER: See Chapter One
Chapter Two – Christine, I love you!

October 8, 2006

Be forewarned! It is entirely possible that I may be losing my mind.

With that said, since I am currently waiting and time passes so slowly when one just sits and waits, I decided that now is probably the best time for me to sit down and put pen to paper. Well, actually, quill to parchment. As of this moment, I am uncertain how this story will play out, but perhaps writing about the events of the last 24 hours will help. And, if I am in actuality losing my mind, the men with the white coats may find this journal an interesting account of the day I began my descent into madness.

Yesterday, while my life was not perfect, I had reconciled myself to what I considered to be the facts of life. My life. I was the widow of a wonderful man whom I had married at the cautious age of 39, had borne him a daughter at 41, had lost him at 45 and now at 48 had reconciled to being alone. Raising our daughter and working were my only concerns. My interests limited strictly to business. I felt no need for a man to complicate my life. I was content to lie to myself and say I already had the love of my life. Who was I to ask for more? What made me so special that I had a right to complain? The world is full of sad, lonely people. I was one among many. That was yesterday when my life contained one linear path of reality.

That was yesterday.

Today, life is a bit more complicated. However, before I plunge headlong into the middle of my story, I will restrain myself. Show those men in the white coats that I can still hold a cognizant thought in my mind. So, I return to the incident that set me on the path of my strange and wondrous affair. I decided to watch a movie with Trystin, my daughter.

Trystin is a precocious seven year old. Her favorites are "B" horror movies, musicals and anything with Johnny Depp. I, on the other hand, love film noire, romances and musicals. After considering several other selections and not being able to agree on any of them, we decided to watch The Phantom of the Opera. It's one of our favorites. Both of us love the music and although we both knew it to be impossible (well, at least it seemed that way yesterday) we always wish Christine would choose the Phantom instead of Raoul. Trystin once told me that if she were Christine, she would pick the Phantom. When I asked her why, she told me that the Phantom was very handsome and he was more exciting than Raoul. Then, she paused for a moment and continued by saying that he's smarter than Raoul too. So, The Phantom of the Opera seemed an excellent choice for the two of us to watch.

We settled in and spent a very enjoyable Friday night watching the movie and having fun discussing the psychological motivations of the characters. (Honestly, the questions she asks would make a college professor proud! I told you she is precocious!)

After settling her into her bed, I decided to watch the movie again as I love the characters. I have often imagined what it would be like to be the object of the Phantom's obsession and wondered what it would be like to have a man so thoroughly and completely in love with me. Trystin is right; Christine is a fool.

I retreated to my favorite room, the den, and settled in for a short diversion from reality. As I watched the movie, life continued as normal until I heard a voice call out that did not come from the television. The voice called, "Christine."

Startled, I fumbled for the remote control. I pressed the pause button, freezing the movie and listened … nothing. Silence. Just as it should be. I looked at the screen and realized I must have been dozing and in the place between sleep and wakefulness, had heard dialogue from the movie. The scene frozen before my eyes was Meg finding Christine in the Chapel just after her first performance. The Phantom called Christine's name after Meg had called to her. I reassured myself that I must have heard the echoing voice as I drifted half-asleep. The Phantom couldn't possibly be calling to me. (Oh! I apologize. I believe I neglected to tell you, my name is Christine. Christine Maire.)

So, I once again pressed the pause button and the movie resumed. I lay down on the couch and snuggled with my favorite blanket and two pillows. Time (and the movie) once again proceeded ever forward as always in a straight line until, a scene near the end of the movie when the Phantom sang, "Christine, I love you."

Those words surrounded me. They filled my mind with desperate, alien emotions: obsession, lust, rage and sorrow. The words echoed through the room. My eyes flew open and when I made a grab for the remote, I missed and then froze.

He was there. Sitting on the floor of my den with his back in front of my television with the Persian monkey organ grinder music box in front of him. He was unmasked, distraught and his cheeks streaming with tears. Behind him, the movie continued to play. Time moved on even though the two of us were frozen. The sound of Christine and Raoul singing broke the spell, which had held us motionless.

He nimbly leapt to his feet while I, on the other hand, struggled to rise from the couch (my leaping days are far in the past.) His shocked eyes darted about the room in confusion and when his eyes fell on me, he quickly backed away until he stopped abruptly, butted up against the television and could go no further. I, on the other hand, in my surprise had attempted to rise without the aid of my cane and had fallen to my knees instead of gaining my feet. My right knee throbbed with brilliant colors of pain exploding before my eyes as a result of my less than graceful landing. He looked down on me. I peered up at him. I thought he was so handsome, even more so in three dimensions. The only thing I could do was kneel there, stare at him with my mouth slightly agape while trying to hide the fact that my body desired him. Yes, in that instant I felt a fiery tingle in my chest, which swiftly spread everywhere, even down "there." (I will admit this to you now as considering the situation in which I currently find myself, I can no longer be embarrassed by such trivial matters.) I saw some unreadable emotions play across his face and in the depths of his eyes. Oh! Those eyes! Words can do no justice describing his sea-foam green eyes! I wanted him to look directly into my eyes, but after his initial look, he avoided my gaze. Perhaps, it was the thought of whether or not I would scream. Perhaps not. I never thought to ask him until now and now it seems so unimportant.

I feel I should interject some small pieces of my past here. I guess people who know me would say I've had more than my share of trials and tragedies. At 10, I lost most of my hearing to a stupid prank played on me by my brother. At 12, I began experiencing unexplained bouts of severe vertigo. At 21, I was almost beaten to death by a drunk I had once called husband. At 26, a drunk driver killed my grandpa, my mother and Adrianna, my first child. At 27, I had a stroke and had to learn how to speak all over again. And then, of course, as I've already said, at 45 my husband died. Finally, at 46 I slipped and fell. A stupid little accident that affects me for the remainder of my life. It was all my fault! It never would have happened if I'd had my mind in the present instead of the future. Well, I fell and the result? A partially paralyzed leg that has brought a completely new definition of the word, pain. Yes, the interior nerve is dead, but not the exterior nerves. Therein lies the paradox. I feel nothing and I feel everything. I touch my thigh and can sense my skin, but when I press down there is simply numbness. Like someone shot me up with Novacain. I don't take the drugs they prescribe for me. The drugs just make me feel ill. I've always tried to accept whatever life throws at me. I tell myself that everything happens for a reason. Fighting against things I cannot change seems pointless to me. A waste of time. And I know there are others far worse off than I am. Tilting at windmills is not my forte. What is … is. So, I live with the pain. In a perverse way, I think it's better to feel something (even pain) rather than feel nothing.

So, Gentle Reader, bearing that in mind, I looked up at the man standing before me and smiled. Then, I believe I said, "Excuse me, but where did you come from? "

Maybe it was the smile or maybe the quiet, calm simplicity with which I asked my question. I don't know, but it seemed to reassure him. He offered me his hand and I accepted it. He helped me to my feet. We stood there looking indirectly at one another for what seemed an eternity. He would not or could not look me in the eyes. And still, he remained silent. So I once again asked him where he came from. This time I briefly caught his eyes and smiled at him as I asked my question.

Later, he told me it was my smile and the calm that helped him complete his crossing of worlds. He did not return my smile, but seemed to notice the tears on his face and wiped them away with the back of his hand.

In a rough, low, hauntingly musical voice and accented English he said, "Madame, but a moment ago I was in my home. As for where I am now, I truly have no idea how I came here or even where here is."

"Fair enough. Well, I would like to introduce myself to you, sir. I am Christine."

At the sound of my name, he winced, but said nothing.

So, I continued. "You are in my home now. I live in the United States, in the State of California, near the city of Los Angeles." I rambled on, as is my habit when I'm nervous. "Some people call it the City of Lost Angels. I have given you my name. May I have your name, sir?"

At last, he seemed to be hearing me as I noticed that he looked surprised, but he responded in an even voice. "My name is Erik, Madame. No one has asked for my name in a very long time. My home is in Paris, France. Yet, somehow, looking about this room, I do not believe that geography is the only thing that separates our homes. I do not recognize many of the things in this room. Nor, have I ever seen you before. Yet, this I do know." He gestured towards the music box.

We stood there once more like two awkward teenagers. Finally, my leg decided it was time for me to either sit or fall, so I chose the former rather than the latter. I sat back down on the couch and invited my unexpected guest to sit with me. Perhaps it was my invitation, perhaps not, but he suddenly seemed to become aware that his face was unmasked and he placed his hand to cover his disfigurement.

Uncertain of the proper thing to say (God knows I open mouth and insert foot on a regular basis. I like to make fun of myself by saying that I am socially retarded.) Even after desperately racking my brain, I still did not know what to say, so I just said the first thing that came to mind.

"Really, sir, do you need not hold your hand to your face, I assure you, please be at ease. Your concern for my sensibilities is appreciated, but completely unnecessary. Truly. I believe this poem applies to you:

All that is gold does not glitter.
Not all those who wander are lost.
The old that is strong does not wither.
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken.
A light from the shadows shall spring.
Renewed shall be blade that was broken.
The crownless again shall be king.

J.R.R. Tolkien

I'm not certain why, but well, you know or maybe you don't. I'm sorry I'm babbling again. You have me very flustered. I mean that only in the most complimentary way, of course, sir.

Now, where was I? Oh yes! As my guest, you must respect my wishes. For is that not the way? Well, it is my wish for you to be comfortable. In order for you to be comfortable you must sit with me and not cover your face with your hand. Please, sit with me. We must discuss how you came to be sitting on the floor of my den. Please! You a guest in my home. Be comforted. You are welcomed. Sit and let us discover if you are real or just a flight of fancy cooked up by my loneliness."

I pat the couch next to me indicating where I would like him to sit.

"Madame, perhaps we must determine whose loneliness created who." He replied with a slight cock of his head and very small upward curl of his lips.

"Fair enough." I say, again waving my hand at the couch for him to sit and give him a wry grin in return.

He was … is … amazing. He stands a couple of inches over six feet, well built, not heavy or thin, his hands are wide and strong, his fingers are those of an artist or pianist … long and thick, his gently waving hair is the color of dark honey and long and thick, but it is his face about which I must write now. His eyes seem mercurial to me, one moment blue-green, the next gray and the next black; a broad forehead; a beautifully straight masculine nose with a tip that dips down; his lips are dark red, full and sensuous; and his chin is strong with a small cleft chiseled in the center. Adonis … David … in my eyes they are nothing when compared to Erik.

I attempted to write about his face before. The only reason for this discussion is you, Gentle Reader. I hear you clamoring, what does he look like? The paragraph, which precedes this one, describes how I see Erik. I have difficulty seeing the deformity with which he was born.

He was born with a disfigured face. Well, I suppose. In truth, it is difficult for me to see. I feel the beauty of his spirit and the flesh blurs. I have known handsome, physically perfect men that I saw as grotesque gargoyles for their lacking of purity of their spirits. With Erik, the light of his mind and the fire of his soul blind me to all else. Besides is youth everlasting? No. Is a kind and gentle heart everlasting? Yes.

So, after one more moment's hesitation, he takes a seat on the couch at the end farthest from me. I pull my legs up onto the couch, tuck them under me and turn towards him.

"So, now what?"

My question seemed to surprise him as if he thought I already knew what to do. He seemed to consider for a moment and while he was thinking he actually looked at me for the first time. He seemed to absorb every fact about me. I could see him making a mental inventory: hair – long, straight, dark auburn; eyes – green-hazel with a circle of golden brown around the pupils; skin – the color of light golden brown sugar; nose – an upturned little button; high cheek bones; slightly sunken cheeks; full bottom lip; thin upper lip; mouth that was smiling its normal crooked smile at him; long neck; lean strong arms; a short, but well-proportioned body and finally, my best feature – my legs. My mother used to say I have Betty Grable legs and she still would say that if she were alive. I would normally feel completely unnerved having someone checking me out so blatantly, but with Erik it was different. His gaze did not judge, he was simply absorbing information. His study of me interrupted by a burst of volume from the television as the movie credits ended and the DVD returned to the Main Menu. He turned his attention to the television, considered the images playing there and then turned to me.

"How is it that you have these moving photographs of me? And of …" his voice trails off.

My mind raced. Is this truly Erik, the Phantom of the Opera? It certainly looked like him. He seemed to have slid from the screen and landed on the floor of my den. One thing at a time.

"How can I explain this when I don't understand it myself? No. I apologize. I can explain your question. What I do not have is an explanation as to how you came to be here. But I can explain about those. That box is a television. It is a machine used for information and for entertainment. Instead of reading a newspaper, we can use this to watch and listen to people read it to us. Or, instead of reading a story in a book or going to a theater to see a play, we can watch something we call a movie. Now, the reason there are pictures of you there is that I was watching a movie and you were a character in the movie. And then, suddenly, you weren't a character anymore. You were here in my home. I cannot explain how this happened. As far as I am aware, this has never happened before. From my point of view you existed only because an actor was performing a fictional part. And that part was the result of a novel written in the early part of the Twentieth Century. Would you care to see the movie? If I don't turn off the player, the movie begins automatically after a short interval. See? There it goes …"

I bite my lip in confusion. "I think you are a fictional character that has somehow crossed over into my world. However, I do not know what to believe other than you are decidedly here."

The opening credits rolled. The movie began. We sat on the couch in silence. He sat intensely watching the television and I sat watching him watching the television. He stirred several times during the movie, but said nothing. He watched the entire film and as the end credits ran, turned suddenly to me.

"Do you believe this?"

"Well, no. Until you appeared, I would have said that it's only a movie. But, now I don't know what to think."

"No. Do you believe I am a murderer?" His eyes stared into mine with an intensity that I felt through my entire being and made my heart flutter.

"No, I don't believe you are or I wouldn't be sitting here with you." I answered him without hesitation and as usual, my heart spoke for me.

His eyes dropped from mine and he looked at his hands silently. "How can you believe otherwise after seeing this?" He gestured toward the television.

"I don't know. My heart tells me you aren't a murderer. That you couldn't be a murderer. It is not your nature."

He seemed shocked by my answer. His mouth worked for a moment trying to form the words his mind wanted to say, but he had lost the ability to form them. He turned away from me and leaned forward with his elbows resting on his thighs. He dropped his head into his hands. I moved next to him and placed my hand on his shoulder. In that one light touch, I sensed more passion lay within this man than anyone I had ever known. I felt his passion was … for me!

His body trembled and then tensed at my touch. Suddenly, he propelled himself from the couch and leaped across the room stopping at the door. Unfortunately for me, I had shifted my weight and his sudden flight left me leaning on thin air. I followed Erik off the couch (just not as gracefully) as I toppled face first to the floor. Luckily, it is a short fall from the couch to the carpeted floor, so my landing (while undignified) left me unscathed. I rolled over onto my side and pushed myself to a sitting position, shook my head, blinked, looked around the room and then, I began to laugh.

"What! What on earth? What's wrong?" He was at my side in less than the blink of an eye. I gasped at his quickness.

He swiftly knelt down, offered me his arm and helped me back onto the couch.

"Why are you laughing? What is it that you find so amusing?"

His eyes seemed shrunken to two blackened pits, which burned deep into my soul.

"Well, I am, of course! My mother always said Grace is not my middle name! I try to comfort you and end up flat on my face. I was just imagining how silly I must have looked."

He looked perplexed, but something in his face softened and I felt him drop his guard just a little.

"You are the strangest woman … nothing about you is what I expect. Why aren't you afraid of me? My face alone is usually reason enough, but you don't fear me even after seeing this … movie! Why?"

I could see that he desperately needed to hear the truth.

I calmly shrugged my shoulders and told him the truth.

"I just know. My heart knows. I feel you in my heart and it knows. And, my little voice tells me you are a good man. I've learned to listen to that little voice. It has never been wrong. I trust it. It never lies. Usually it speaks to me no louder than a whisper, but when it spoke to me of you, the voice spoke loud and clear. You are not a danger to me or to my daughter who lies asleep in her room. I might risk myself, but I would never risk her. You, sir, are a good man. Regardless of what the plot of that movie says. That character may have been you in the world of that movie, but here in this world you are not that. I see no reason to believe evil of you nor have you provided any evidence otherwise. Just accept it, sir. This is what I believe."

I gave a little shrug.

I looked once more into his eyes and saw that they had become the lovely blue-green color once more. I smiled at him as he knelt before me. I looked down at his marvelous hands. I just had to touch them, so I reached out and took them into mine. I held them before me, first looking at the backs of both hands and then I turned them both palms up. I will never know why I did what I did next, but I did it. I raised his palms to my lips and kissed first one and then the other.

My lips savored the sensual feel of his skin as they planted their kisses. His palms were wonderfully soft and warm. Suddenly, I was aware that something has changed. The voice told me that I was in trouble. Yet it was not my life that was in danger, but my heart. After the death of my husband, I had thought no man would ever be able to make me feel again. Nor had I wanted to feel again.

I lowered his hands from my lips and looked at the man kneeling before me. I knew what I wanted and briefly wondered if my present course was wise. Probably not. The heart wants what the heart wants. With another slight shrug, I just do it. I leaned forward and kissed him. Not just a dry spinster peck, I kiss Erik with a kiss on his mouth the passion of which surprises even me. As I kissed him, my hand caressed his face. I break off the kiss as I realize my other hand was sinking to his lap to caress him there.

As I withdrew my mouth from his, I backed away with my eyes still closed. My mind in an immediate state of panic. Thinking to myself, am I nuts? Probably. He was kissing the love of his life not three hours ago and here I am kissing a man from 1871 whom I don't know at all. (Liar! The voice within says.) Shut up! I tell the voice, no, it's too soon. He can't. He wouldn't want me. A cripple. Christine Daae had just rejected him. She's so young. And not to mention, beautiful. He must love her still. I can mean nothing to him. What am I doing? I've probably offended his sensibilities. He's thinking that I'm crazy, but too polite to say anything. And what about me? Haven't I been hurt enough? No. I need to come on to some poor guy I just met and make him have to … reject me. (But you desire him, the voice says.) Yes, I do. I reply, now, shut up!

I opened my eyes and find he has not moved. His face was close enough to mine that I could feel his breath hot and quick upon my cheek. His eyes searched mine. I felt the color rising in my cheeks. I haven't blushed in years and here this man I have just met made me blush. Again, not mentioning my feeling almost faint with need. How was this possible?

"I must be dreaming." I whispered.

"Then, please do not awaken." He replied his voice was hoarse with emotion. "I wish to forever remain in this dream with you."

Before I could stop myself, I leaned forward and kissed him again. This time he met my kiss with one of his own. Our lips parted as our kiss deepened. We tentatively began to explore the depths of one another mouths with our tongues. I catch his tongue with my mouth and gently suckle it. Erik makes an involuntary and incoherent cry of passion. His cry further incites me. Our kiss becomes a mad plunging of tongues. We moan. I rain kisses upon his entire face. His rough kisses nip along my neck. Our hands stroke one another in furious abandon. I have kissed passionately before, but all those other kisses paled in comparison to Erik's kiss. Our kisses become more frenetic. The exploration by our hands frenzied. Erik's hands push me back and our bodies begin their descent into the couch's pillows. As I sink into the pillows, Erik, who had been kneeling before me, slipped forward, his body coming to rest between my legs. His body an inferno of need. Mine a firestorm of desire. Our minds agitated beyond thought. Unable stop, Erik began driving his swollen excitement against the center of my being. My breathing is ragged with the passion of our kisses. I, not wishing to stop, am soon matching his force with thrusts of my own. We give ourselves over to the wild power flowing through both of our bodies. Self-restraint, self-control simply words we have forgotten. Words without meaning. There is nothing else in the universe, but the two of us. He fully clothed and I in my nightgown. We make love for the first time, well, sort of. And then it happens. The moment of frozen time. We enter it together. Our mouths part and our eyes open. Our eyes lock onto one another as it happens. Time resumes and the waves of release hit us again and again and again. At long last the spasms fade and we are left laying half on and half off the couch holding one another. Trembling with spent passion and amazement. I whimpered from the shock of bliss here-to-for unknown. The touch of our hands upon one another slow and become gentle caresses. Our lips meet in a quiet kiss.

It is then that the voice chooses to speak. It whispered a quiet revelation, which hit me like a bolt out of the blue. The shock of it coursed through my body like an errant bolt of lightning. Erik felt the shock run through my body and immediately mistook its meaning. He immediately flung himself as far away from me as he could. His hand returned to the right side of his face and he turned that side away from me. I could feel his self-revulsion and self-hatred.

"No!" I cried.

I, on the other hand, had been (up to that moment) ecstatic both from the afterglow of our passion and by the confirmation contained in the words of the voice. The voice had told me Erik was innocent and why. It was so simple.

I gently placed my hand on his shoulder. A shock of electricity flowed between the two of us. The shock, instead of throwing us apart, bound me more closely to him.

"Erik." I breathed his name in and my mouth exhaled it as a lover's moan of ecstasy.

I began quietly, although I wished to shout my news from the rooftops. Erik is very feline in his movements. He has the same innate sense of grace and balance as a cat. He can move so quickly it is difficult to follow him.

As I spoke his name, he wheeled about to face me. I looked directly into the eyes of this damaged man and hated the cruel fates that had brought about this self-loathing. His hand still covered half his face, but he had reined in his emotions and regained his self-control. His eyes were wary, but I saw a small flame flicker there. Within that flame there kindled hope.

I was ignorant of the cause of his hope, but I took comfort in the fact I had seen it. My experience of him gave me no insight as to the cause of his hope. Later he told me that it was my utterance of a single word and the way I had voiced it that brought him hope. The word was, Erik. This was the first time I had spoken his name aloud. He told me that my declaration of his name was the first time anyone (other than vague memories he had of his mother) had used his name gently and with love. I had called out to him and used his name. In my voice he had heard tones of loving concern for him. In my voice he heard no terror, no hatred and no lie. My next words held his future and he waited for me to pronounce it, so I did.

"You are no murderer, Erik. You are innocent. The movie lies. The character portrayed in the movie we just watched is not you. You are the foundation, but it is not you. The entire story told from the point of view of Raoul de Chagny. That movie is the Vicomte's version of the events at the opera house. The voice just told me. It was the voice that shocked me, not you, Erik. Never you. The voice told me the story of Monsieur le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny is a fabrication of his own twisted mind and contains not a word of truth! I told you my heart knew."

I felt doubly released. The man I desired was not a criminal and that same man had only moments before brought me to one of the most powerful climaxes of my life thus far.

He looked deeply into my eyes and saw my transcendent joy. A sense of wonder crossed his face.

"What is it?" I asked him.

He touched my hand, which still tightly gripped his shoulder.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"No, I don't. Have I done something that offends you? I apologize if I have. I always try to say what's on my mind and I'm no good at playing mind games. I always say what I feel and that sometimes gets me into trouble. What you see is what you get. Sometimes that can be a good thing … and at other times, not so good." I laughed. "This is most definitely a good time. I just knew I was right about you."

He placed his hand under my chin and lifted my face to look into my eyes. I felt electrified by his touch and the center of my being throbbed its response to him.

Our eyes met and then, I was falling and my world spun away into blackness.

A clap of deafening thunder.