August 9th 1892: Erik
In the fifty-eight years of my existence I had gone through a lot of rough times. In my mind I had occasionally compared them to a high mountain. Yet no matter how often I had stumbled backwards, I had never given up. I had survived, and it had made me grow stronger. So how was it possible that after all this I got nervous just because I´d be visited by a little boy and his mother?
I was standing at the Rue Scribe entrance of the opera, safely hidden behind the door, and my fingers were drumming a rhythm of their own on the doorframe. Christine and I hadn´t discussed whether I´d welcome the boy at a certain spot. I didn´t even know where they´d arrive. Still I had decided against waiting at the main entrance. Surely she remembered that there was a lot of coming and going there at this time of day and sneak into the building here, where the chance of being seen was smaller.
Checking my pocket watch I noticed it was only a quarter to nine. I was early. Yet everything was prepared at home; nothing had kept me there. The prospect of fifteen more minutes of pondering hadn´t been too appealing. Ever since I had overheard the conversation of Christine and her children I had done little else anyway. ´Yes, I like him as well.´ I couldn´t count how often I had recalled those words. They had kept me warm at night and brought me through the day. How could a single sentence be that comforting?
She liked me. I had tried to interpret the statement over and over, but it was difficult. Even though I had found out many facts about Christine over the years, I knew little about what was going on in her head. This was nothing the servants or the choice of dress could have told me. Had she become like so many ladies of that part of society who ´liked´ everyone? Somehow I couldn´t imagine this had happened. She had never been a superficial girl.
Yet maybe she had only said it because of the children. It was a pity that I didn´t know what had gone on afterwards. What had her daughter been about to ask? If only I hadn´t tried to come closer and stepped on those twigs! Then I could have stayed. Perhaps I had missed the essential explanation. Or perhaps I was just attaching a much too great importance to her statement.
Sighing I realised that although I no longer was in my house, I still struggled with the same questions. They´d probably never leave me in peace, unless… unless I´d ask Christine myself. But doing that would have meant admitting I had been eavesdropping. The most important reason, however, was that I quite enjoyed this state of uncertainty, no matter how nerve-racking it was. As long as she didn´t say the contrary, I could interpret her sentence the way I pleased.
My pondering had an abrupt end when someone pushed at the door I was leaning against. I stumbled forwards, and only my quick reflexes kept me from crashing to the floor in a very undignified way. I spun around to glare at the culprit, yet the sarcastic remarks dried in my throat as Christine and her son came in. The bright sunshine blinded me for a moment. The contrast couldn´t have been more striking: Those two emerged from the light, whereas I shrank away from it.
"Erik?", Christine exclaimed. "What are you… Oh, did I push the door into your back? I´m sorry. I just thought it was… a little heavier today…" She gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Never mind.", I muttered, trying to hide my true feelings behind a layer of grumpiness. She looked so beautiful. Her dress had the colour of the sky, and the frills on her sleeves resembled small white clouds. How I wished I could have told her all that and so much more! How I wished I could have placed my heart at her feet! Maybe this was just the right moment. I opened my mouth. "Close the door.", I commanded. "You know I don´t like the light."
She complied hastily, motioning her son to step forward. "Good morning, Uncle Erik!", he said. His cheerfulness decreased slightly as he added: "Or do I have to call you ´Monsieur´, now that you´re my teacher?". Smiling I shook my head. "I don´t think that´ll be necessary. Good morning, Philippe." Ever since he had first used the term ´Uncle Erik´ to address me, I had liked it. It sounded friendly, as if I really was a part of his family.
I was positively surprised when the boy seized my hand and shook it unflinchingly. Either he hadn´t noticed the cold seeping through the gloves or he didn´t care about it. Encouraged by his excellent behaviour I moved closer to greet Christine in a decent way. Her hand was warm in mine as I bent down to kiss it, and a thin film of perspiration enveloped it. Given the hot weather this wasn´t astonishing and wouldn´t have held me back. I longed for the feeling of my lips on her skin.
Yet moments before they actually made contact she pulled her hand back quickly and pretended to look for something in her handbag. "Do you have a clean handkerchief, Philippe?", she asked. "You should always have one, just in case you might need." With some difficulty I suppressed a groan of frustration. Not for a second I believed that she was interested in handkerchiefs. No, her one intention had been to withdraw from me. It seemed that under normal circumstances she didn´t even allow me to kiss her hand. I gave her an angry glare, but it was lost for she was just looking at her son, who dutifully pulled a snow-white handkerchief out of his pocket. I could see that it was embroidered with his monogram. The de Chagny family had an exquisite taste.
"We should go down to my home now. It´s already past nine.", I said. Cursing myself for the slightly hopeful note that had sneaked into my voice I asked: "Would you like to come with us and have a cup of tea?". I only had to look into her face to know she´d refuse. Her verbal reply was barely necessary. "Thank you for the offer. But I don´t have enough time for staying. I have an appointment at the hairdresser´s. Raoul… he´ll come back today." So that was what had made her eyes sparkle like diamonds all the time. And I had been so foolish to assume she had been looking forward to meeting me.
I shrugged. "Come on, Philippe!", I called. "We have to get started." I had already turned around when she said: "Perhaps we can drink tea another time.". Did she sound hopeful now? No, surely I was imagining things. "Perhaps…", I mumbled, not deigning to look at her. Maybe it was best to take a leaf out of Christine´s book and pretend nothing had happened.
"You can pick up the boy at four o´clock.", I went on matter-of-factly. "Unless you´re too busy celebrating your reunion with the Vico- Comte, that is." It was hard to remain indifferent while the pictures of such a reunion were dancing in front of my mind´s eye, happy pictures of them embracing each other, kissing, stroking, caressing… I swallowed hard, fighting the sudden urge to shout and cry at the same time.
"Of course I´ll pick him up.", Christine said softly. "But do you have… food in your home? You know, Philippe is a little picky. Maybe I should have brought something…" "A few of the boy´s favourite meals are already prepared for him.", I assured her. "And none of them contains the slightest bit of cheese." I could practically hear him give a sigh of relief. Even as a baby he hadn´t liked cheese. "How… thoughtful of you.", she muttered. "Goodbye then…"
Now I did turn around to watch the child embrace his mother. A single tear rolled down her perfect cheek as he whispered: "Goodbye, Maman! I´m sure I´ll like it here.". He didn´t sound sad at all. After he had bid her farewell he returned to me and grabbed my hand again. I decided that I could get used to the feeling. We barely noticed that Christine closed the door behind her and left.