NDBRs: There were a few changes throughout. I added some GL references.

Chapter 12

Erik stared at the folder in Christine's grasp and started to shake his head.

"No, and never ask of it again. This was not written to go with the words of Don Da Ponte. I am no Mozart and this is no Don Giovanni."

"Why cannot I decide?"

"Because I intend to take it to my coffin. Understood?"

Christine cocked her head to the side. "Must you be so dreadfully morbid?"

"Luckily for you I am merciful. This is music that would make you lose your fresh coloring. You would return to Paris and no one would recognize you."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind," he said, clearly exasperated. "I have made my decision, Christine. I shall take it to my grave and never wake again," he said quite stubbornly. Christine thought he was being overly dramatic.

"Then perhaps you should work at it as little as possible."

"I work on it for fifteen nights and days, never resting, never breathing. Then sometimes I don't work on it for years. It's nothing worthy of consideration. Frankly, it's a disaster."

She pressed the folder to her chest and walked toward him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She appreciated his artistic modesty but didn't want him to shy away from her.

Christine knew he was tremendously talented, and as she glanced around his apartments and saw the multitude of musical works, scattered watercolors and sketches, she thought it was a tremendous shame for someone with such knowledge and love of the arts to let it simply exist unknown. Ironic, she thought, that there was genius hiding below the opera house. Most certainly the managers would have been beside themselves to have exclusive access to a talented composer.

Before her ideas got ahead of her, Christine reminded herself that she hadn't heard anything from him just yet, but she had no doubt that she would.

-o-

"One song."

"No," Erik replied firmly.

"Please?"

"No."

"Please, Monsieur Erik."

"Christine—"

She frowned, her lip protruding in a heartbreaking pout. Erik shook his head again.

"Half a song," she tried.

Erik exhaled. "Half a song? That's ridiculous."

She smiled. "Then the whole song."

Speaking with her felt like ramming his head into the wall again and again and expecting a different result.

"They're still rough drafts," he exhaled. "It's hardly a decent use of time."

"Oh, come now. There must be something finished."

"My answer is no, you foolish, persistant child. Do not ask again. It makes me awfully upset when you disobey."

"What would you rather do?" Christine asked, her voice dripping with innocence. "Within reason, of course."

Erik exhaled and muttered to himself. He turned away and stormed down the stairs, wondering if she were doing nothing more than tormenting him. She wasn't spiteful, he reminded himself, but he wasn't at all comfortable with her presence. Accustomed to either stealing or threatening others for what he wanted, Erik found he could do neither.

It was slowly leading to his demise.

"Erik—"

"One song," he growled.

Christine skittered after him and placed the folder gently on the organ bench, no doubt choosing to ignore his palpable frustration. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

"May I sit beside you? Or should I sit elsewhere? Or should I stand?"

A chuckle escaped his lips, which seemed to surprise Erik more than Christine. He extended his hand to Christine.

"Sit with me," he said.

"Of course," Christine smiled. She plopped down next to him and straightened her skirt, seemingly unaware of what her presence did to him. "What is Don Juan Triumphant about?"

Erik browsed through several sheets of paper before he grunted. "It's changed over the years."

"How long have you been working on it? Truly?"

"Forever," he muttered.

"You exaggerate."

"You don't believe me?"

Christine shook her head. "I am not the magician. Tell me honestly."

He stared at her a moment, knowing full well what she meant. "Truly forever--or for as long as I care to remember." He grunted again. "Some days it truly feels that way."

Christine grinned and Erik's shoulders relax as he rummaged through the folder and selected several sheets. He couldn't remember how old he had been when the songs began circulating through his head day and night. Thirteen or fourteen, he guessed, as he recalled his inspiration being his sexual awareness.

The title and story had changed frequently in his youth. He honed his skills, drawing from Verdi and Bizet and Mozart. In secret he attended performances and learned first-hand what worked and what didn't, keeping all he had seen and heard in mind as he ventured to his lakeside apartment, took up pen and paper, and refused to sleep until he was certain that he was looking at a masterpiece.

After careful consideration most of those masterpieces were committed to flame. Alone and angry, he cursed himself and his useless occupation.

By the time he turned twenty he was cynical and certain that he would die writing this damned opera. In fifty, sixty, one hundred years after he died someone would find it and laugh at the absurdity of a young, heart-sick man.

"But you enjoy writing it, don't you?" Christine asked.

It was all he had. Erik nodded blankly. "It's practice."

The opera mocked him, evolving slowly into its own entity, exuding sensuality, which he very much desired, and mystery, which he encompassed, but also triumph—and that was the great irony of all. Triumph was the lock missing a key. It was the barrier that separated him from staving his mystery and experiencing sensuality and affection.

He placed the music into two piles, one of which he handed to Christine.

"Learn this," he said, staring into her eyes. "I'll play it for you once. The second time you will sing for me."

His assertion caught her by surprise, which he immediately saw in her eyes. Erik felt a sense of satisfaction in catching her unaware.

"Stand," he commanded.

Christine did as she was told and began rifling through the paperwork. Her eyes bulged, her face flushing as she skimmed through the music.

With great urgency, she grabbed his wrist. "This is a duet," she said. "Oh, Monsieur, you must sing with me."

He started to protest, but Christine shook her head.

"It would be incomplete without us singing together."

And just like that the tables were turned once again.