The Perfect Solution
An Alternate Universe – Phantom of the Opera Story
Nyasia A. Maire
© 2007
DISCLAIMER: I do not hold the rights nor did I create any characters found in The Phantom of the Opera or Phantom, nor have I received monetary compensation for writing this story.
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
thus much let me avow –
You are not wrong, who deem
that my days have been a dream;
yet if hope has flown away
in a night, or in a day,
in a vision, or in none,
is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
of a surf-tormented shore,
and I hold within my hand
grains of the golden sand –
How few! Yet how they creep
through my fingers to the deep,
while I weep – while I weep!
O, God! Can I not grasp
them with a tighter clasp?
O, God! Can I not save
one from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
but a dream within a dream?
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
Chapter Eighteen – My Days Have Been a Dream
Erik hesitated a moment before succumbing to his desire to know. He hesitantly whispered and felt an awkward surprise at the raspy sound of his voice.
"What is it that you think now, my dear? Who is the man in the mask?"
"I think he is you, Erik. He has always been you."
♥ ♫ ♥ ♫ ♥
The man paced before his friend.
"He looks like a caged panther! I have never seen him act like this. What could have precipitated this?"
Raoul was worried. Not only did he have problems in his own love life, but also, it now seemed Erik did as well and Raoul was worried more for Erik than himself. Raoul knew what he must do, but as Erik had yet to speak, Raoul had no idea what the problem was. All Raoul could do was wait until Erik decided to talk. Raoul placed a hand to his temple and massaged it.
"I'm getting a hell of a headache."
"Erik, can I offer you a drink? A whiskey, perhaps?"
The man stopped his pacing for a moment and stared at the younger man, then sighed.
"No, Raoul, no whiskey. Perhaps … do you have ice and blood oranges?"
"Of course, we have ice. The blood oranges, now, those I will have to check with the kitchen, but most likely we do as Phillipe has a penchant for them. Why?"
"Well, I would like to mix myself an Amour Sanglent. I know you have Hine Rare V.S.O.P. Cognac, cherry brandy and vanilla liqueur as I can see them on the bar. If you have the blood oranges, please request the kitchen to juice them. Would you like me to make you one?"
Relieved by Erik's sudden mood change, the young man decided to encourage the older man's diversion.
"Erik's moods shift so rapidly I have never been able to keep up with them."
"Why, yes. A tall drink sounds very good to me right now. I will check with the kitchen. How much juice do you need?"
"Oh, enough to fill two shot glasses."
"All right. I will return in a moment."
Erik returned to his pacing while waiting for Raoul to return.
"We dream of one another."
The phrase repeatedly played itself in his mind. He knew if he could just get past those words, he would be able to think clearly. However, his mind remained stuck.
"We dream of one another."
Erik started as Raoul's voice interrupted the silent mantra sounding within his head.
"We are in luck! Here are the items you requested. Ice and blood orange juice! Now, let me see the Master at work, Erik!" Raoul smirked.
Erik returned the look with one of his own and turned to walk behind the well-stocked bar. Reaching up, he brought down two tall, slender glasses. He placed a scoop of the crushed ice into each glass and then quickly placing the different bottles of alcohol he required in front of him, he grabbed a shot glass. Erik then began measuring and mixing the drinks.
"If you were not such an excellent architect, Erik, you would have made the perfect bartender."
Erik cocked his eyebrow at Raoul curiously.
"Well, the thought does occur to me that anyone wishing to confide their tales of woe to you would instantly feel better."
The older man's eyebrow arched higher and his eyes darkened slightly as he anticipated his friend's next words.
"After all, how could anyone try to tell you how horrible their life is? After seeing your mug, they would come away knowing their plight paled in comparison to yours."
The room became deathly silent and Raoul cursed himself for taking his teasing one step too far this time. He raised his eyes to meet his friend's flabbergasted gaze. Erik blinked. He then threw his head back and roared with laughter.
"Raoul! You know that if anyone else said that to me, I would wish to strangle them."
He shook his head and dabbed at his eyes as his laughter had caused tears to run down his cheeks.
"You are a …."
"Amazing?"
"Well, no. I was going to call you an ass before you so rudely interrupted me. Here!"
Raoul huffed as Erik chortled. He gave the drink a stir and then placed it on the bar. He held up his own glass to Raoul.
"To the women we love. Let us hope they will not be the death of us."
Now, it was Raoul's turn to arch an eyebrow at Erik. He lifted his glass, nodded his head and took a sip of the drink. Erik placed the glass to his lips, took a perfunctory taste and frowned. He muttered something Raoul could not quite hear.
"What did you say? I am sorry, I did not hear you."
"I said that it still tastes like alcohol. A rose by any other name¹, I suppose."
"Come now, Erik. This is actually quite good. Where did you learn to make this?"
"I read it in a book."
Raoul laughed and shook his head.
"Only you, Erik. Why am I not surprised?"
The older man did not respond, but simply resumed his pacing and Raoul returned to sit in the armchair by the unlit fireplace.
"Erik? When are you going to tell me what is wrong? Did you ask Christine to marry you today? Please do not tell me she said, no."
The dark man halted and stared at the drink in his hand before replying quietly.
"I did ask her and, in fact, she said, yes."
Raoul jumped up from his chair, almost spilling his drink. He rushed over to Erik and clapped him on the back.
"Well done, old man! Congratulations! So … what is the problem? Why are you wearing out a path on my Persian carpet?"
Erik ran his hand through his hair and continued his relentless pacing.
"She seems determined to think of reasons why we should not wed and they only cause me to love her more."
The younger man returned to his seat and considered the little his friend had told him. Suddenly, he sat up straight.
"Erik? Have you told Christine that you love her? I mean, have you said the words, I love you, to her? I mean, you are so reserved around women and I thought, well, I thought you might not know how important those actual words are to a woman."
The man stopped dead in his tracks and opened his mouth as if he intended to tell his friend he was a fool, but no sound issued from his mouth. Slowly, he closed his mouth and carefully thought over Raoul's words.
"Well, I know that I told her that I never believed I would find love, but …. No, I do not believe I have told her. God, I am such an idiot ! No wonder she doubts me. How could I be so dim?"
Raoul laughed.
"Well, Erik, it is not as if you have a great deal of experience in matters relating to love. In all the time, I have known you; you have never shown any interest in any woman. Christine is your first love. Gaffs are allowable. You simply must tell her. I believe she will forgive you. When will you see her again?"
"When I brought Christine home, I asked Madame when I could call upon Christine again and she said that Christine would be free to dine with me tomorrow evening. I asked Christine if she would allow me to take her to dinner and then dancing. She agreed. I shall call for her at seven o'clock tomorrow evening."
"Then, I suggest that you tell her as soon as you deem it appropriate when you two are in the carriage on your way to the restaurant. Do not wait until you are at the restaurant. There will be too many people and too much noise."
Erik rolled his eyes at Raoul and the young man lifted an eyebrow.
"What?"
Giving Raoul a mock bow, Erik replied.
"But, of course, my dearest father. Thank you for your sage advice."
The young man shook his head and scoffed.
"Erik, you are your own worst enemy."
The man agreed.
"Raoul do you not know that I am always with myself and that I am my greatest tormentor²?
The younger man shook his head again and grinned.
"Indeed! That you are, my friend. That you are."
The older man suddenly became thoughtful and a little sad.
"Raoul, I may have found someone who torments themselves even more than I do."
The younger man met his friend's sad visage.
"You are speaking of Christine, are you not?"
He nodded.
"Indeed I am. Christine may torment herself more than I do. She compared the two of us to peas in a pod. I fear she is more correct than she will ever know. I wish I could take away all of her hurts. I would love to see her unaffected smile. I envy you, Raoul. You knew her before …. Well, before. Oh, I almost neglected to tell you something quite extraordinary. I heard Christine sing today."
"Christine sang for you?"
"No, I wish she had, but I do not believe she was even aware of what she was doing. It happened while she told me about her father's death."
The older man shuddered visibly, took a long drink and then continued.
"She spoke of it so calmly and she told it to me mostly in the third person, which was quite eerie. However, also quite understandable as it places distance between her and the painful memories. Are you aware of the circumstances of her father's passing?"
Raoul paled and shook his head.
"She never spoke of it, nor did I believe it to be my place to ask Madame or Meg about it. From the look upon your face, I do not know if I wish to hear what happened."
Erik studied his friend's face and then nodded.
"Very well, I will keep the story for another time. Suffice it to say I am amazed that she is sane, although I am certain there are some that would dispute my claim. I will say that when you told me she had the voice of an angel, I never believed you. I must now beg your pardon for her voice is an exquisite instrument. It may even rival those of the angels. Speaking of angels … who or what is the Angel of Music?"
Raoul smiled tenderly.
"Oh, the angel. She said something about the Angel of Music to you. Why do you ask? Did you sing for her, Erik?"
The older man gave the younger one a frown and shook his head.
"No, I most certainly did not. You know what happens when I sing around women. My mother told me that I cannot for my voice causes an unholy desire …. I would rather not speak of this, please?"
"Now, Erik, your mother, God rest her soul, was a wonderful woman, but she had some rather peculiar ideas when it came to your voice. However, seeing, as I am not a woman, I suppose I cannot be the judge of how your voice makes women feel. I will respect your wishes on this subject and not speak of it. At least, not right now. So, back to the matter at hand. The Angel of Music was a part of Gustave's tales of the dark North. Madame told Meg once, in a moment of unguarded sorrow, that Christine's father promised her that after he had gone to heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to her. He told her the Angel would watch over her, guard her and guide her. Madame thought that the reason for Christine's melancholy lay in the fact that no angel came to her and she felt unworthy of one. While I do not believe Christine thinks you are an angel, she might think you are the incarnate man sent to her by the angel. Of course, this is all speculation on my part and I could be completely wrong."
Raoul shifted in his chair uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation.
"It seems that I must bear quite a responsibility on my shoulders. I only wish I were not so tired."
"You still have the nightmares, my friend?"
"Yes. I did not sleep much last night. Perhaps, it was just nerves."
"Erik, I wish that you would confide in me about these dreams. If you speak them aloud that may take away their power to torment you so."
"Thank you, Raoul. I am not ready. I do not know if I ever will be ready, but if I ever am, I shall definitely take you up on your offer."
"Believe me, Erik, you are more than welcome."
Erik sat in the armchair across from Raoul and the two men stared at the drinks in their hands. Each one lost in their own thoughts.
¹ "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
² "I am always with myself and it is I who am my tormentor." Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)