Christine dans Deux

An Alternate Multiverse - A Phantom of the Opera Story

Nyasia A. Maire

© 2006

DISCLAIMER: See Chapter One
Chapter Fifty-Six – The Sad Passing of the Opera Ghost

I am so confused. The feeling hit me as I made my small joke to M. Gondinet. I turn my eyes away from the direction of the pain. His pain. I try to reassure myself by looking at my dearest husband, but even though my eyes tell me he is standing not ten feet away from me I know he is there as well. I must go. I must have the courage to show him he is not alone. I have to go now or it will be too late. Why did I not think of this before? Stupid! My legs lift me from the chair and my mouth forms a smile, which I allow to enter my eyes. Make your excuses, stupid woman! Hurry and go! Excellent. I am standing and they are huddled around Léo's desk taking no notice of me. Not even Erik. I smile sadly. Second place to music. That's all right. Music will save us all.

One foot in front of the other. Keep walking. Now down the stairs. Another hall. There's the doorway. Okay. Untie your horse. Anyone looking? No? No. Good. I bend, pull the fabric of my skirt tight between my legs, swiftly and with a small pang of regret I plunge my finger through the fabric, then rip my skirt so I will be able to ride astride Erik's horse. No time for side-saddle. Check for gawkers. No one. I leap onto the horse and follow his despair. Two minutes, I stand at the Rue Scribe entrance. Locked. No problem. A hat pin later, the door swings open and I begin my descent into the darkness. Strange, I don't seem to need any light. His despair, his pain, his need overwhelm me. My Erik needs me! He is dying! Keep to the right, yes, there it is. A trapdoor. Oh my trapdoor lover! Turn left, bend down, count three bricks up, push. A click and the wall slides open to reveal the Phantom's lair.

It is dark here, but not quiet. I hear a violin playing. Now it's sweet sound work in combination with the raw emotions emanating from the man lead me directly to him. Candle light from a single candelabra illuminates his bed chamber. I walk slowly up the stairs and look into the room, the bed, where the man who became my husband and I made love for the first time. He sits on that bed now with eyes closed, playing his violin and waiting to die. He cannot die, but he cannot remain. Two cannot exist here. Not at the same time, not at the place. He must be welcomed. I must help this Erik find healing. He must be welcomed into the family.

My heart knows the song he plays. I sing:

"

Shamed into solitude,
shunned by the multitude,
I learned to listen.
In my dark my heart heard music.

I longed to teach the world,
Rise up and reach the world.
No one would listen.
I alone could hear the music.

Then at last,
a voice in the gloom,
seemed to cry,
I hear you!
I hear your fears,
your torment and your tears.

He saw my loneliness.
Shared in my emptiness.
No one would listen.
No one but him,
heard as the outcast hears."

The violin ceases its sweet sound and I feel his feverish gaze as it burns through my body and into my soul, but I continue to sing the final refrain a capella.

"No one would listen.
No one but him,
heard as the outcast hears."

As the echoes created by my giving voice to his song fade, he finds his voice and speaks. I hear a broken man. I hear the tortured longing in his voice and it breaks my heart.

"Christine?"

Both of us distressed by this encounter, we seek one another. He lifts his haunted face and his eyes lock onto mine. I smile lovingly at him. My dearest husband sits before me waiting, but not knowing why or for what he waits. He waits for me.

"Yes, Erik. I am here now."

He calmly places the violin next to him on the bed and sings to me.

"Christine, I love you!"

I walk to the bed and the gaunt man sits there staring at me. His eyes begin to shine with wonder and hope. On my left hand I wear his ring and as I walk toward the man sitting on the edge of his bed, I unconsciously begin to twirl the ring with my right hand. He lowers his eyes, sees I wear a wedding ring his hopeful gaze begins to crumble. However, unlike the girl Christine I do not stop when I reach arm's length from him, but continue to his side and sit next to him on the bed. As I sit, I hear the long raspy intake of his breath. He sits holding his breath, awaiting the rejection he is certain will come.

I turn to him. My beautiful man weeps.

"No!" I cannot bear the heartbreak he feels. His loneliness. He is my angel. I raise my hand and caress the ruined side of his face. He gasps and begins to breathe once more. Our eyes meet.

The world spins. Our hands instinctively latch onto one another for support.

I see the life my husband would have lived if we had not met through the eyes of this man. Eleven years of solitude. He see the life my husband has shared with me because we did meet. Tears stream down both of our faces. Still holding onto each other's arms, we lean forward until our foreheads touch. We rest this way, leaning forehead to forehead, our body's barely rocking side-to-side. We wait as our thoughts become still, calm. We wait for the world to make sense.

"You are my wife?" He whispers.

"Yes."

"We are happy."

It is not a question, so I do not answer it. It is not necessary. He knows.

"Where am I now?"

"My husband," my words send a shiver through his body, "is discussing a libretto with the playwright, librettist and composer. He is at the Paris Conservatoire."

He nods.

"Do we have children?"

"Not yet. We just married two days ago, but I was married before and widowed. I have a daughter from the union. She loves you very much. Almost as much as her mother loves you."

He is now actively trembling.

"Why am I dying?"

"You are not dying, mon plus chèr."

The trembling is now shaking.

"Then, what is this that I am feeling?"

"You cannot both exist. There can be only one Erik. My husband and I share a soul. We have joined the broken halves. The two of us tied, one to the other. We will never let go. It grounds my husband. It gives him a strength you do not have. What you feel, mon plus chèr is just the opposite of death. It is life. When you surrender to the force you feel, you will become one with my husband. There will be one Erik. You will live in he and he will live in you."

"You will be my wife?"

"Yes, mon mari aimé."

The shaking becomes quaking.

"How is it that he, we, uh, I walk in the light?"

"You have no reason to hide."

"But my face!"

"Your face?"

"Woman, are you blind?"

"No."

"I am a monster. Women faint and men scream."

"You are no monster, mon amour."

I stand and offer him my hand. We walk hand in hand to a covered mirror. He quickly averts his eyes as I pull the tapestry from it and turn him to face the mirror.

"This is my Erik. The man I love. Mon amour. The man I married. This is what I see when I look at you. This is how you have always appeared to me. This is the man that has always existed only the world has been too blind to see him. This is you, mon ange."

Hesitantly, he raises his eyes to his reflection and ….