September 14th 1892: Erik
"Where are you going?" Christine repeated with a little more urgency.
"Down… to my lair," I muttered.
Wasn't it strange that this petite woman could reduce me, a man a foot taller than her and more than twice her age, to a little boy, with nothing but raised eyebrows and a stern voice? Yet I had no time to think about this phenomenon, for the expression on her face showed that she didn't like my reply. Hastily I added:
"We just wanted to drink a cup of milk before the end of the performance. Then I'd have brought him back.".
That explanation obviously wasn't better than the first one, at least not for Christine.
"Do you expect me to believe that?" she asked. "You would never miss an entire act, just for a cup of milk. You love the opera far too much to do that."
"I love Philippe much more than the opera," I told her simply. "If I had to choose between them, I'd always pick him."
My reply seemed to take the wind out of her sails. She looked from her son, who had fallen asleep by now, to me. And then something extraordinary happened: Her face, which had had such an angry expression moments before, split into a smile. She took a few steps forwards till she stood directly in front of me. Her sweet scent mingled with the boy's. The mixture almost made me dizzy.
Christine lifted her hand, and for a split-second I thought she wanted to stroke me. Yet she merely brushed over Philippe's head. I saw the affection in her eyes, not knowing whether it was meant to be for him or me, but desperately hoping it was the latter.
"You really love him, don't you?" she whispered, her face inches away from mine. If she had been a little closer, I could have easily kissed her. Yet I didn't dare move a muscle.
"Yes, I do," I breathed, my voice shaking slightly. "Almost as much as I love – "
"Don't say it!" she called so suddenly that I jumped. The boy stirred and muttered something, but didn't wake up. Before I knew what was going on, Christine was standing a few feet away from me again, an expression of horror contorting her beautiful features.
"What did I do?" I asked, completely puzzled. Such reactions were usually reserved for people who saw my face without the mask.
She stared at me so wildly that I actually touched my face to check whether the mask was still there. It was. So why was Christine looking at me as if she had seen a ghost, when just moments before we had been that… close? Before I could repeat my question, she was already giving the answer.
"Don't say that you love me… please!" she told me in a choked whisper. Did I really see tears in her eyes, or was it merely a trick of the light?
"But I do," I muttered. "And you know it. What difference does it make whether I say it or not?"
"I just can't bear hearing it," she explained, now gazing at the floor. "It makes me sad…"
"Oh, and you think it makes me very happy to say it, even though I know it's pointless?" I asked, unable to keep the hint of sarcasm out of my voice. Among the chaos of emotions her reaction had caused there also was a little annoyance.
Still not looking at me Christine murmured: "Then why do you say it at all?".
"It's the truth," I replied matter-of-factly. "And the truth doesn't become any less true if we don't talk about it." I could feel myself growing more and more agitated as I continued: "Does the sky become less blue if no one mentions its colour? Does music become less beautiful if no one talks about it? No! Those are facts, just like my feelings for you. I love you, Christine. That won't change, whether we speak about it or not.".
I was rather satisfied with my little speech. Yet when I drew nearer to see whether it had had an effect on her, I noticed a big tear gliding down her rosy cheek. At once my contentment gave way to guilt.
"I didn't mean to be harsh," I muttered, glancing at the miserable Christine, who now looked like a girl rather than a woman again. It wasn't easy to do both things at the same time, but after a moment I managed to pat her on the shoulder with my right hand, while my left arm was still wrapped tightly around the sleeping boy. I felt very helpless. Dealing with a person who shouted was much easier than dealing with one who cried.
Patiently I waited till the last tears had rolled down her face. After a few minutes she murmured:
"Why do things have to be like this?".
"What do you mean?" I wanted to know. Again, I wasn't sure what she was referring to. Was she angry because I had come that close to her or else disappointed because I hadn't embraced her? It was difficult to guess what she wanted.
"Why does all this have to be that hard?" she asked, looking up at me. The sight of her swollen eyes nearly reduced me to tears as well. "Why can't I simply love Raoul and have nothing but feeling of friendship for you? Why is there such a muddle of emotions inside me?"
"Well… I don't know," I muttered automatically. My mind was too busy taking in what I had just heard to come up with a better reply. Could it really be possible that she did feel more than friendship for me?
It seemed that Christine hadn't heard my remark, for she went on without commenting on it.
"When I'm close to you, my whole body hurts, here…" She placed a hand on her stomach. "… and here…" Her hand wandered upwards to her chest, and I tried hard not to stare at her bosom. "…and here." She pointed at her head. "Ten minutes ago I sat in the box and was fine. Why am I hurting all of a sudden?"
I shrugged, feeling even more helpless than before. There was an explanation in my head, ready to be uttered, but I didn't like it at all.
"Maybe… you can't stand the sight of me," I suggested hesitantly. "I mean… you came here to look for Philippe, didn't you? So it's only logical that – "
Yet to my utter surprise she shook her head.
"I wanted to talk to you, Erik," she corrected me in a low voice. "And when I saw you leave Box Five, I assumed you'd return to your home."
I raised an eyebrow.
"And why were you so angry at me then?" I asked a little suspiciously.
"I was never angry," she replied. "It was just… all those strange feelings suddenly filled me, and I thought it best to hide them behind rudeness. Of course I knew you wouldn't just drag off the boy." She gave me a tentative smile, which I returned in the same way. I was glad and disappointed at the same time because we were no longer talking about her feelings. Perhaps it was best to give the topic a little rest.
"What did you want to talk about?" I wanted to know.
"Well, Raoul and I… we had a conversation in the interval… about the possibility that I could…"
She didn't seem to know how to go on, so I took over.
"…take singing lessons again," I finished her sentence. "But why do you come to me then? I thought you wanted to find another teacher for you."
Her eyes grew wide.
"How did you know that?" she whispered.
"Let's just say that the next time you have a confidential talk with your dear husband you should better draw the curtains," I answered. "One of my less famous abilities is lip-reading."
Involuntarily she brought her hand to her mouth.
"So you already know it," she stated. "Oh Erik, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you in person. That's why I'm here."
"Why don't you skip the first part and come right to the reason?" I suggested. "Why don't you want me as your teacher? Your voice could become as fantastic as it has once been. Of course it would take some months, maybe a year, and it wouldn't be easy, but another teacher wouldn't be able to do it more quickly either. So if that's the reason – "
"It's not that," she assured me. "The truth is much worse. In a way you were right: I can't stand the sight of you… but not in a bad sense!" she hastened to add, probably because of the hurt expression on my face. "On the contrary… it hurts me to see you because… it's as if all those feelings inside me were fighting. A part of me wants to embrace and comfort you as a friend, and another part wants to kiss you."
I swallowed hard, wondering why my mouth had grown all dry.
"And which one is stronger at the moment?" I asked in a hoarse whisper.
"The part in favour of kissing you," she breathed. When had she had the time to close the distance between us? Our bodies were touching ever so slightly.
"We mustn't do this, Christine," I muttered, trying to persuade myself as much as her.
"I know," she gave back. "But it would feel so good…"
There was no time for thinking after that statement. The next moment she had flung her arms around me, and I held her in a one-armed embrace. Philippe nearly got crushed between us, yet luckily he didn't wake up. We kissed with a fierce passion I hadn't known either of us possessed. It was the end of all discussions, the end of all pondering. I was reigned by my instinct. And my instinct told me very clearly what it wanted: Get as much of her as possible!
I had no idea how far we'd have gone, whether I'd have laid down the boy on the floor sometime, pushed Christine against the nearest wall and taken her. I'd never find out. We were interrupted by a shout.
"Gilbert! Come and look at this!" a female voice squealed.
We broke apart to see an elderly woman standing a few feet away, an unpleasant smirk on her face.
"My, my," she drawled. "Isn't this a happy little family?"