August 7th 1892: Erik
I left my house about half an hour after Christine and her son had gone. It was one of those nights in which I couldn´t stand the quiet of my home, only interrupted by the sound of the clock. Sometimes I enjoyed playing the organ for hours in such nights, till the noise had drowned everything else and I felt slightly better, despite my bleeding fingertips. If I had used this method more often, both my hands and my hearing would have been damaged before long. But at least it was healthier than drinking.
Yet today no amount of music could distract me from her scent in every room she had entered. Even now, as I was walking aimlessly through the corridors, the pictures in my head didn´t leave me in peace. Christine sitting in my armchair, Christine standing next to her boy, Christine kneeling on the floor, Christine sobbing in my arms… Countless times I had thought about the moment when she´d eventually return to me, and depending on my mood and the degree of my despair different versions had developed. On good days I let her come back to me crying about the mistakes she had made in leaving me. On bad days she returned crying because her husband had died a gruesome death and she was in need of consolation.
The truth had been nothing like I had imagined. The only similarity was the Christine had indeed cried and I had comforted her. But the rest? She hadn´t even really returned! It had been more like a brief visit to an unpleasant uncle, whom she had to meet because she owed him something, only to leave again as quickly as possible.
For about one minute we had talked about love. Yet it had only been my love for her. Not with a single word she had mentioned how she felt about seeing me again. I hadn´t dared ask whether she still loved me. ´Still?´, a little voice in my head repeated in a mocking voice. ´She has never loved you. Her heart has always belonged to the Vicomte. You can count yourself lucky if she only pities and doesn´t hate you.´
This was definitely something I didn´t want to hear. I continued my way upwards, quickening my pace. Perhaps I could escape from that voice. I didn´t need anyone to tell me things I already knew. Yet not for the first time I had to realise it was boring to wander around in the opera by night, when it was almost as quiet here as in my home. By day all the people rushing through the corridors, the rehearsals and the constant noise were very useful for distracting me.
My feet came to a halt in front of a door, and I noticed that they had carried me to the dressing room of the new leading soprano. Four years after Christine had left the opera I had finally got rid of La Carlotta. A few more or less subtle threats had done the job very nicely. But then, after her beloved´s death she hadn´t been too attached to the position anymore. I had heard she worked at the opera of Milan now. Maybe the Italians preferred screaming to actual singing.
Almost wistfully my fingers glided over the smooth wood of the door. I had hoped so much that my former student would come back to replace Carlotta. The time had been chosen carefully: Her daughter had already been old enough to be left in the care of a maid for a couple of hours every day, and Jacqueline had been employed a few weeks previously. Yet no matter how often the announcement had been published in the newspaper, she had never shown the slightest bit of interest. I had kept the position vacant for maybe half a years. Then, at the beginning of 1887, my hopes had been destroyed for Christine had been with child again.
After that time many divas had ´graced´ the stage with their presence, but none of the ladies had stayed for long. They had all blamed the Opera Ghost for their failure, yet actually I was only responsible for a few accidents every now and then. Most of them had simply not been ready for the life as a prima donna. Donatella Marchesi was no exception; still she was already here for four mouths. I felt a strong dislike for the woman. Her stupid smile and constant giggling, combined with an unnecessary amount of tossing her black hair and showing her cleavage, made Carlotta appear like a sensible person all of a sudden. According to a rumour among the ballet rats the managers made attempts to get Signora Giudicelli back. I could understand them.
At least none of the singers had lived in Christine´s old dressing room. I would have never allowed it. For some strange reason no one could comprehend the room had locked itself after her departure, and it would stay this way until she´d return. The room I was currently standing in front of was an old one that had been redecorated for those purposes. My fingers were itching to sneak inside and let the diva´s left shoes vanish or pour black paint into her face cream. But somehow I wasn´t in the right mood. Besides, I had to think of a few things I hadn´t already tried.
Suddenly I knew where I had to go. Quickly I made my way further upwards. My steps grew so fast that I was panting slightly when I finally reached my destination: the roof. The moment I opened the door and walked out I felt like a new person. I let cool night air stream into my lungs. How refreshing it was! I moved with the absolute self-assurance of a sleepwalker. Not an inch of the opera was unfamiliar to me, not even up here.
It was a pleasant place in summer, when it was warm enough to sit outside at night. Passing Apollo´s Lyre I recalled how many hours I had spent pondering at this spot while the conversation I had overheard more than ten years ago was repeated in my head over and over again. The anger and despair I had felt was still as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Sometimes I had even wondered why I hadn´t simply grabbed the Vicomte at the day and pushed him down the roof. It would have been an easy solution, wouldn´t it? Yet Christine would have despised me for it.
Christine… all my thoughts came back to her in the end. Had I done anything in the last decade without her picture on my mind, her voice in my head and my love for her in my heart? The honest answer was ´no´. But I knew this had to change, now that I´d see her again on a regular basis. The bird´s song and the kiss had been a dangerous example of what I was capable of in her presence. Such an incident could never happen again, even though I longed for it to happen.
Involuntarily one of my hands wandered upwards and my index finger traced my lips. Even through the leather I could feel that they had become softer, warmer. None of the people down there in the streets could understand how much a single kiss changed a person. Those careless fools, kissing each other countless times without having the slightest idea of what it meant!
´Idiot!´, I scolded myself. ´Why are you standing here like a statue, musing about kissing? There are more important things.´ Yes, I had to pull myself together and stop thinking about it quite that much. Hastily I left behind the part of the roof I usually sat on and went to the opposite side, where I finally settled down.
After some moments of staring at the dark sky Philippe came to my mind, making me smile. Despite the resemblance to his father he was a nice little boy, and the thought of what I´d be able to teach him cheered me up at once. He´d be a good pupil, I was sure of it. His eagerness to learn, to understand had been clearly visible even today, when he had been tired.
In my mind I was already writing lists of the order in which to bring up certain topics. I soon realised it wouldn´t be easy. The most important aspect was not to forget that he was a normal child, not a recluse like myself. So many things I had learned from books much too difficult for my age. Besides, my own teaching experience was limited to the singing. Of course that would be part of our studies as well. There were a lot of wonderful songs for boys, and I was truly looking forward to hearing a different voice from my own in my house. Maybe there would even be laughter, sweet and innocent…
Hours passed while I was planning, growing increasingly cheerful. It had been a great idea to teach the boy, that much was certain. And as long as I avoided any thought of his mother I´d be fine. When dawn began to give the sky a new colour I knew it was time to return to my world. Soon the first stage hands would arrive, and I didn´t feel like meeting anyone. Yawning I came to my feet and walked to the door leading downwards.
Even though I took every possible shortcut, the way back to the cellars seemed to be very long. I was ridiculously relieved as I came to my home and could sink into the soft coolness of my coffin. It was only then, at the border to falling asleep, that I noticed what a treacherous object my hand was. A second time it was touching my lips, and if I focused hard enough, I could still feel her mouth.