Christine dans Deux

An Alternate Multiverse - A Phantom of the Opera Story

Nyasia A. Maire

© 2006

DISCLAIMER: See Chapter One
Chapter Nineteen – Erik Speaks

My beloved sleeps.

I am Erik Luis Anton Vuillard de Mornay. First born son of Jean-Paul Batiste du Comte de Mornay. I was born within the walls of the Château de Montmuran, which lies in Bretagne (more commonly known as Brittany) on November 13, 1834. Unfortunately, the circumstances of my conception landed me on the wrong side of the sheets at my birth … in words more gently formed my birth was not the product of a union blessed by the church. Yes, I am a bastard. Even more unfortunate, my mother, Genevieve, was a scullery maid. And the most unfortunate fact of my birth, I was delivered of my mother with a malformed face. Perhaps the first two counts against me would have been overlooked as my father sired no other male heirs. But the last count against me, my face, no one would overlook that. Or should I say, no one could look at it or love it. So, rather than admit that his seed had produced me, he washed his hands of me. My mother soon followed his suit and rid herself of me.

Ahh … old habits die hard! I should not presume to know why my mother did what she did. And I withdraw my judgment of her by saying I will never know for certain the reason my mother delivered me into the care of the gypsy clan that raised me. Perhaps, she was a gypsy or maybe they were the only ones who would take me. My mother could have drown me or any number of horrid acts all ending with my premature death, but she did not. For that small amount of pity I thank her.

My infancy and the better part of my childhood were spent with the gypsies. I cannot say that I lived with them. I traveled with them. An exhibit for any and all to see, providing they had the price of admission to their traveling carnival. Placed in a cage and put on display as "The Devil's Child." My face earned my keep and then some. Most of the clan kept clear of me as I could see them make the sign against the evil eye whenever they saw me. My first memories are of the women, so they must have cared for me as an infant, but when I grew older each member of the clan had to take turn feeding me and hauling my cage. It was a task no one wanted. A gypsy from another clan joined with us one day. He was a huge man with a florid face and a dirty mass of frizzy hair and beard. As the outsider, the clan decided my care was to be his responsibility. When he was told the news, he simply shrugged. I soon learned the reason why he seemed not to care about becoming my keeper. My newly appointed keeper was a sadist and a pedophile. He enjoyed beating me before the crowds, but most of all he loved taking away my one bit of happiness. I owned a toy monkey. It held in each hand a little cymbal. It was home-made, but it was mine. I would sit and play with that little monkey and I would tell myself that my mother had made it for me. I would tell myself that the gypsies had stolen me from her and that someday she would find me. She would see the toy she had made for her son and know I was her Erik. She would rescue me from the gypsies, take me home to live with her and we would live happily ever after.

Yes, that was what I would pretend. And, then one day, I was in fact rescued. Not by my mother, but by a woman-child who had come to the carnival. She had come not knowing I was held prisoner. She had come simply as a diversion with others from the ballet dormitories. And yet, when she saw my plight, she resolved to take action. She felt pity for me, yes, but I believe (and she later confirmed my belief) she also felt anger at the injustice of my treatment. So, she remained after the others had gone. She hid in the shadows and waited. When evening came, she stood as silent witness to my evening meal that usually consisted of yet another beating. And when my tormentor at last left me, she went to the bars of my cage and spoke kind words to me. I know not how, but she opened the door to my cage and she entered. She walked to me and sat next to me on the dirty straw. She spoke to me in her quiet way and the words were kind. Her words are the first kind words I ever remember anyone speaking to me. She gently untied my bound hands and feet. She helped me to rise to my feet and when I stumbled, she steadied me. She led me away from the only life I had ever known and gave me a new life. She gave me a life. I had good food, a bed and clean clothes. She gave me books and taught me to read and write. She taught me proper grammar and manners. All that I am I owe to her. And, sometimes, she would lead me up to one of the lower basements and I would hear music. And I would listen and I knew music as the most beautiful thing that could ever exist. Music bathed my wretched soul. It cleansed the wounds I had suffered and then wrapped them with its heavenly rapture. It was music that brought me to the path of healing. Sweet and sorrowful music that carried me one night to sit before the woman I love, to the other half of my soul.

So, now I sit and make record of these words of my past. I feel disconnected from the sad, angry child and I welcome it. I am a whole man now and not because my face is restored, but because my soul has been.

I have found that most people say one thing and do another. They speak words gentle to the ear yet insidious. They speak only the words they believe others expect of them and wish to hear. They speak these words yet have no intention of honoring them. I have never been able to use words in this way. I suppose whoever you are that is reading this is wondering so, why do I speak these words now? I utter them to you because of the oath I now take. I swear by music. I swear by love. I swear by the goodness of these things that the woman, now lying asleep in the next room, and her child, who is lying awake and frightened next to her, I swear to protect them for they are dearer to me than anything I can think of. More dear to me than even my own life. I swear I will allow no harm to come to them. And I swear to do all that I can to make right whatever has recently gone so wrong.

I do not swear lightly this oath. Nor, do I have full confidence in my ability to waylay the fates. And yet, the fates brought us together and the fates have bestowed upon us the chance to live happily ever after. So, towards this goal I have been laboring while my beloved sleeps. First, I unmercifully interrogated Madame until I had wrung from her every detail of her meeting with my Christine. She told me Christine had arrived alone at her door. She had thought this strange as she had been expecting the three of us. As Christine stood before her she said it was as if a crimson shadow hung over her. Madame told me of Christine's dream (which Christine had asked her not to do.) And of her rough plan to save Christine Daae. Madame told me of my beloved's words about events she believed were about to unfold in Paris. And I remembered her mentioning something of that nature to me as well. The next remark Madame relayed to me caused me to stiffen and sit full upright in attention for I knew it pointed the way to the source of our troubles. Madame told me Christine had asked her the date. The answer she gave Christine was April 24, 1871. I thanked Madame and apologized if I had been unduly rough in my questioning. She smiled and assured me that no apologies were necessary. I gently sent her away to watch over my ladies.

Christine, she who is my dearest love, and I found one another … that is to say, I found myself seated on the floor of her den on October 7, 1870. To my mind (and hers) that was but four days ago! I know this to be fact for Christine herself made record of the date on the day following our meeting when she penned her missive while seated at my desk. The missive I retrieved from under the pillows of my bed. And have carried in a pouch around my neck ever since. So, Madame scurried away to the bedroom. I, on the other hand, went in earnest search for my dear heart's library. I knew I had to learn about the world in which my dear Christine lives. After spending the last several hours reading, I believe that I am beginning to understand.

Trystin provided me another piece of this puzzle. She told me her mother has suffered these "attacks" for most of her life. The first one came on her when she was a girl of twelve. The number twelve felt as if it carried some personal significance to me, so I made note of this bit of information.

When I returned later to inquire of Madame about the final moments of her meeting with Christine, she replied in a manner of strangeness I have never seen in her before. She told me Christine's eyes changed and then made the sign against the evil eye. I am still astonished. She who rescued me and never thought me to be a demon! When I pressed her for details, she refused to discuss Christine's eyes with me any further. I could plainly see she regretted telling me. Whatever she saw had terrified her. I apologized for my insistence and allowed her once again to make her escape.

Returning to the den, I pause in the doorway and gaze at the couch. The place I first laid eyes on my dear sweet Christine. In my mind's eye, I can see her there and feel my love anew. I savor the sweetness of it, but just for a moment. I must not be distracted too long no matter how strong the urge, so forcing myself back into the present, I return to the big rosewood desk that lies in the back of the room. It is here that I have spread out the volumes of history from which I have learned much and guessed more. I take my seat at the desk and as if she heard my silent summons, Trystin enters the room.

"Just the person I wish to see." I say to her.

"Really?" She replies. She comes around the desk and climbs onto my lap. I wrap my arms about her waist and give her a gentle hug.

"Yes, ma petite. You are. I need to ask you about your mother's attacks. You told me that she has been having them since she was 12 years old."

"Yep. That's what she told me. She's gone to what seems like a million doctors and had even more tests. No one has ever been able to tell her what is wrong with her. It makes me sad and scared when she has an attack, especially since Dad died. Ever since Dad died, she doesn't rest when she has an attack. She just keeps going no matter how ill she feels. She's been having a lot of attacks lately. I think it's 'cause she doesn't get enough sleep. I know it's because of me that she doesn't rest. I wish she would, but she just keeps going and it makes the attack last longer. She never complains. I asked her once why she doesn't and she said it wouldn't make them any easier, so what would be the point of complaining?"

"Your mother pushes herself because she loves you. The attacks are not your fault, Trystin." I tell her this for two reasons: one, it is the truth and two, to alleviate her guilt.

"I just wish … I wish she never has to have another one … ever!"

"That is exactly what I am trying to do. I think the thing that is causing your mother's attacks is not a sickness of her body or of her mind. I think … I do not know if you will understand this. I am barely beginning to understand it myself. Hmmm … You and your mother live here, yes?"

She nods agreement.

"And I live beneath the opera house in Paris, yes?"

Another nod.

"That is true, but I have been reading your mother's books. Her history books. While I am not the most well-read of men, I am aware of the daily events taking place in my world. I do read newspapers. I feel most fortunate to say that the world I lay claim to as mine is a happy one and my country is at peace. Our ruler, Napoleon III seems to care for the middle and lower classes. He has spent the last 12 years rebuilding Paris. He raised the money by taxing the rich. If I had been able to live above ground, I most likely would have found life very agreeable."

"This is very much at odds with your mother's books. Her books state that France was involved in a hopeless war with Prussia. Napoleon III, while still promoting living conditions for the middle and lower classes, was a failure in his military ventures. His reign ended with his capture at the Battle of Sedan on September 2, 1870. Shortly thereafter, the siege of Paris began on September 19, 1870 and ended on January 28, 1871. From things I have read, it must have been a frightening time in which to live. People starving within the city limits of Paris. I cannot even imagine so horrific a thing!

The most important difference between my world and yours concerns the opera house itself. In my world, construction of the opera house finished in 1829. The opera house of your world opened its door for its premier production in 1875.

So, Trystin, we know time separates my world from yours, but there is something else which separates my world from yours … history. The events of my world and yours are not the same."

"Oh! Oh! My mom told me about something like this … she said all things are probable, but not all things are possible. She told how some people say that there are … hmmm … probabilities. She told me to imagine my life is a long piece of string. Each moment I live, I move forward along the string, always moving straight ahead, in one direction. Then I have to imagine that all around my string are lots of other strings. None of them ever touch. She said people live their lives along those other strings just as we do on ours. She said as many different things as I can imagine can happen on those other strings. Like on this string, mom and I watched the movie. On another string, Mom and I don't."

"Hmmm … alternate probabilities. That is a part of it. Yes, that feels right. But, still it is only a part of the problem. I believe while I exist in alternate probabilities, every single "me" possesses its own soul. All alternates have their own souls. If … no, I cannot doubt the evidence of my own experience … you, Trystin, do not share a soul with anyone other than yourself. Nor does Madame. Perhaps, your mother and I being halves of the same soul and existing in different probabilities have caused your mother's problems."

I pause. The number 12 comes into my mind. Why is this significant?

"Of course," I say aloud. I laugh and hug Trystin again.

"Remember the number 12?"

She nods.

"When first I met your mother, how old was she?"

"That's easy. She's 48. She'll be 49 on November 4th."

"Trystin, I am 36 and will be 37 on November 13th. What is the age difference? What is the difference between 48 and 36?"

"That's easy!" She pauses and as her mouth opens to answer, "Oh, wow! It's twelve!"

"Your mother's attacks began as soon as I was born."

I lifted Trystin from my lap and stood up. I closed the books scattered about the desk and stacked them into a pile. I lift them into my arms.

"Want to help me put these away?"

"Of course! I'm good at putting things in ABC order."

I cannot help but smile at her answer.

"Lead the way, ma petite ange."

We file the books away and I can see that Trystin is thinking about something.

"What is it? What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, I was just thinking that the movie is like a probability. Raoul is the good guy and you kill people. And then in your world, Raoul is bad and you are good. And in my world none of you are real people. All of you are just pretend people in a movie."

"Trystin, that's it!"

I pick her up and swing her about me.

"What? What is?"

That's why I can be either here or in my world and not have any problems. I don't really exist here, so my being here does not affect anyone. However, the reason your mother has her attacks is that she exists here and her ancestors exist in my world, so that means her existence in my world depends on whether or not Christine Daae's child is born. She exists in both worlds and truly belongs to neither. Trystin, Madame said something to me about your mother. She said that when the attack came something happened to your mother's eyes. Do you know anything about this?"

"Oh!" She shivers. "Mom's eyes. Yes. Anyone who has seen her when she has an attack says something about it. She knows her eyes are disturbing to people and tries to hide them. She doesn't know why, but I do. I've seen them."

She turns away from me, but I catch the look of indescribable sadness on her young face before she does.

"If it troubles you so, you need not speak of it, ma petite."

"No, I need to. I've needed to talk about it for a long time, but I never had anyone that I could talk to about it. I couldn't talk to my dad about it 'cause I was little and didn't know the words to talk about it. I can't talk to my mom 'cause she doesn't know what I see. I tried to talk to my grandpa about it. I know he saw my mom's eyes once when she went to his office, but he wouldn't talk to me. I think her eyes frightened him. Anyway, he wouldn't talk about it either. I know you haven't seen them, but I think you'll understand."

She walks away from me and back to the den where she sits on the couch. Her mother's cane leans against the arm of the couch. She picks it up and hugs it tight.

"When I look into her eyes I see her eyes." She takes a deep breathe and continues. "But there is more and less. I can see three layers of eyes. I see her normal eyes; eyes that are blank and white; and the worst, are the eyes of black nothingness. If you looked into just that blackness, I think you would never be able to stop looking." Her voice trails off and she looks at me bleakly.

"Is my mom going to die?"

"No!"

I stop as I hear the anger and fear in my voice. I remind myself that she is a seven year old and has already lost one parent. I calm myself before I continue.

"No, Trystin. We are not going to let that happen. Are we?"

"No. We deserve to be happy, but I'm afraid."

She places the cane back, stands and runs to me throwing her arms about my waist. I feel clumsy as I attempt to comfort her, but oddly enough I feel strength returning to me as we hold one another. I look down at her and gently stroke her cheek. She lifts her face and our eyes meet.

"Trystin, it is all right to be afraid, but she is not going to die. Let's go and sit with her for awhile. I need to rest and think about what we can do. We know what is happening. We just need to decide what to do about it. The problem is half solved. We are much better off than when we first tumbled back into your world. Let's go, little angel."

She looks deeply into my eyes for a moment searching my face. I realizes after a moment that she is looking for a lie. Seeing none, she smiles and nods.

"Okay. You can lie down next to mom and I'm going to play a game on my computer."

"There are so many things about your world that I would love to explore, but sadly I have no time. Go play, little angel. I will fetch you should your mother awaken. Now, I will rest and consider what needs to be done."

She scampers down the hall and glides through the doorway into her bedroom.

In truth, I am tired and I do need rest, but I have learned so much in the last few hours that my mind is awash with it. I know I will not be able to sleep until I sort it out. Perhaps, the key is the family de Wolfe. My Christine is a distant relative of the family de Wolfe. And Christine Daae is somehow connected to them as well. The key is to discover the connection. Once we learn the connection, knowing what to do will become clear.

"I need to think …"

Shaking my head, I enter the bedroom. Madame sits in a plain wooden rocking chair in the corner of the room. She sits with her head rolled to the side leaning on her shoulder. She sleeps. I bend and unbuckle my boots. Pulling them from my feet, I quietly place them on the floor next to the bed. I remove my coat and vest and hang them on the hook on the back of the bedroom door. Slowly and carefully I join my ma chére cœur on the bed. She groans at the slight movement of the bed then settles back to sleep. I gaze at her still form and frown. Her skin still has a ghastly greenish cast and I can see a slight shine of perspiration on her forehead, but when I test her forehead with the back of my hand, her head is cool.

That at least is an improvement. When we first arrived here she was on fire and her cheeks were a dark crimson red with fever as well as having the over-all olive green hue to her skin.

"I need to think. All right! Think!" I determine to think about all I have learned, but slip off to sleep instead.

I awaken in a dark room.

"Now where am I?" I mutter.

I hear a muffled moan in response to my movement on the bed.

"Christine? Ma chére cœur?" I whisper.

"Hmm? Erik? Where am I? Where's T?" She begins to sit and I hear a sharp intake of breath, a soft moan and then a long slow exhale.

"Erik? Is that you?" I can barely hear her voice and remembering Trystin's warning about light and sound being painful to her mother, I match her whisper.

"Yes, ma chére cœur. It is I. As to where we are, I am not certain as I just awoke. Where we were when I fell asleep was in your bedroom. Trystin was going to play a game and I believe Madame was sleeping in the rocking chair in the corner. I am going to get up. I will attempt not to jostle you too much. And I will make certain everyone is where they are supposed to be."

"Okay." Her voice is weak, tired and emotionless.

"She sounds like a ghost." The thought crosses my mind and I immediately banish it. "She's worn from the sickness. That is all. Nothing more than that." I lie unconvincingly to myself. The whisper of fear which has been lurking in the dark corners of my mind begins speak more clearly as it steps from the shadows.

I move so very carefully off the bed. My care earns me only one small gasp from my beloved. As soon as I stand I know we are still in Christine's bedroom as I see the amber light of her clock. It reads 3:19 a.m.

"We are in your bedroom. Your clock reads 3:19 a.m. I will check on Trystin and Madame. I will return shortly."

"Thank you."

Looking into Trystin's room, I cannot tell if she is in her bed. I walk to her bed and see that she is indeed sleeping. She has kicked the comforter off and is curled into a ball. I raise her blankets over her and kiss her forehead.

"Sleep well, little angel."

I find Madame asleep on the den couch, so I return to Christine's room.

"Christine?"

"Yes, Erik."

Her voice is stronger, but strained and strange.

"Trystin is fine. She is asleep in her bed. And Madame is asleep on the couch in your den."

"Oh. Okay."

Her voice is distant, detached. Hers are the words spoken to a polite stranger, not one's lover. She is polite, yet cold.

"Ma chére cœur, where are you? I need you! Trystin needs you! We love you! Don't leave us. We need you to try. Please? Christine, tell me where you are!"

The distance in her voice is unnerving me. My hands reach before me and find the rocker in the darkness. I sit and wait for her answer.

"It's dark here. I've been searching for a way out, for a door, but I can't find it. Each time I see light and think it's a way out, I find it's a mirror reflecting light from somewhere else. Why is it so dark? I can barely hear you. I cannot find you, Erik. My dearest, why do you hide from me? I cannot feel the touch of your mind. I have lost my way, Erik. I cannot long protect her. Then, she too will lose her way and become as I am. Lost in time. I know it is my mind that is lost and you are near to me. I trust your love for me and know you would never desert me. If you can hear me, Erik, will you hold me, please? I am so cold."

"Of course, ma chére cœur." I gently take her in my arms. Her body is limp and cold. "Christine!"

"I am here still. Although, I fear death will soon find me and take me. She, too, will be taken. My poor Erik will be alone once more! Such a shame. To find one another and lose each other so soon. I was wrong. There are no happy endings." Her voice goes silent.

I release her from my embrace and turn on the bedside lamp. She lies just as I dropped her. Her eyes open wide and blankly staring.

"No, Christine!" I place my head to her chest and listen. I breathe again. Her heart is beating. She lives.

"Christine?"

She remains motionless with eyes wide open. I carefully close her eyes. It would be cruel to allow Trystin to see her that way. It is a blade in my heart as well.

"Christine, I love you."

Kneeling at the bedside, I reach for her mind. There is cold dark stone in that corner of our soul and it is thick with foggy shadows.

I return to the rocker to sit and ponder her words. Lost in time? Whom is she protecting? The answer is simple and frightening … Trystin, of course.

"God!" The anguished cry escapes my lips.