September 16th 1892: Erik
I had rejected her. I had rejected her. She had invited me to her room, and I had gone away. Even now, after pacing the length of the guestroom countless times, I couldn't believe what I had done. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible. I couldn't have seriously rejected her. I wouldn't do such a thing… or would I?
Maybe all this was a bizzarre nightmare. I had fallen asleep in the music room after I had sung, and Jacqueline hadn't dared wake me up. No, it couldn't be like that, as much as I wished it were. I could feel my feet aching from walking without pause, and the porcelain of my mask was rubbing against my skin uncomfortably, reminding me that it was time to take it off for a while. Usually I didn't feel such mundane things in my dreams. So I had to be awake.
It would have been too good to be true anyway. Most of my life had been like a nightmare, and I had never been able to wake up. So why should it be different now? I came to a halt at the bedside table and reached up to my head, opening the ribbons that held my mask in place. I removed it carefully, giving a sigh of relief as the cool air caressed the right side of my face lovingly. This was just what I had needed. At least the physical pain I had felt was better now.
My relief didn't last longer than a few moments. Then I felt the urgent wish to put on the mask again. My home was the only place where I didn't feel uneasy without it. This house just wasn't my home, no matter how much I'd have liked it to be different. What if someone came in and saw me?
´Nonsense,´ I scolded myself. ´Even if someone was still awake and wanted to enter this room without knocking first, they wouldn't be able to do so. The door is locked.´
And why was the door locked? I groaned, noticing I had come back to my initial problem. I had not only rejected Christine, I had also locked the door to keep her from following me. I had watched her try it, watched the door handle move and heard her mutter something, although this one time I hadn't been able to understand what she had said.
Perhaps I should have let her in. It was her house, after all. I was just a guest. Besides, maybe she'd have told me something that would have made me change my mind, like… Like what? That she loved me and wanted to spend the rest of her life with me? That she wanted to elope with me and live in a quiet opera, just the two of us? I shook my head dismissively. Not even in my wildest dreams I imagined such absurdities. At least I didn't admit it.
It had been right not to open the door, not only because of her. I also had to protect me from myself. I knew that my mind could be a treacherous being every now and then, making me act without considering the consequences. And it had not only been like that in the moment when the door handle had been pushed down. The temptation was still there, sitting in my head and whispering.
´Go to her. It's not too late. She's still waiting for you, just next door. She'd be pleased to see you, pleased to feel you…´
I rushed to the window and pulled it open, as if I hoped the voice would fly out into the night. It didn't do that, yet at least it was quiet. The air was crisp and refreshing, like plunging one's head into a bowl of cold water, which was something I had done quite a few times when I had had the feeling that my mind were on fire. Immediately I could see things from a more objective point of view. Of course Christine would be pleased to see me, but that was not what it was all about. I had meant what I had said about deserving better.
But what if she… didn't love me anymore? I hardly dared finish the thought. It was the worst consequence I could imagine. Maybe she did love me after all, but my seemingly cold behaviour had chased her away. I leaned my upper body out of the window. There were still a few pieces of wood on the windowsill. Yet I wasn't here to criticise anyone's cleaning qualities. I merely glanced down at the blackness below me, till I felt dizzy. If Christine truly didn't love me anymore, I could as well throw myself out of the window at once. What was the point in living without her love?
I stared down, the wind making my eyes water… or was I crying? Crying about a lost love? Or a love I had never had? It didn't matter. Just a few inches more, then my feet would be lifted off the floor, and I'd fall down… down… My hands gripped the windowsill tightly, and I was about to stretch out my arms, lifting my body into the air… when an image of Philippe suddenly flashed up in my head. He was crouching on the ground, his tiny hand stroking my lifeless form tenderly. Now he reached up and…
No! I jumped backwards, nearly tripping over my own feet as I tried to get away from the window as quickly as possible. My boy mustn't see me like that, dead and… and without my mask. I couldn't tell which one of the two would be worse. Anyway, such a sight would ruin his life. Philippe needed me, as his teacher and as his friend. I had taken over that responsibility, and now I couldn't just run away from it.
I had to pull myself together. A child was more important than what was happening between Christine and me – or rather, what was not happening. If I tried hard enough, I'd surely manage to appear as if everything were normal. As long as I was living with other people, I had to be happy. And when I was alone… well, that was nobody else's business. All that mattered was that my lonely nights didn't have consequences for the days. So killing myself was out of the question.
But now I was alone, so I could let myself go and be as miserable as I pleased. And I was very miserable. Still I closed the window first. It would have been too dangerous to leave it open. What if someone heard me cry? It was a fact that I'd cry soon. I could already feel the telltale lump in my throat. Yet according to my new resolution, crying was allowed, as long as no one noticed it. I'd be the happiest miserable person in Paris.
Would I also have to hide my feelings from Christine? That question was more difficult to answer. The part of me that was still very protective when it came to her told me not to do anything that could make her upset. But then, how was she supposed to know that she had hurt me if I pretended to be happy?
Perhaps a letter would be a good idea. I could explain my resolution not to show emotions in front of the children – for of course Philippe was not the only one who had to be protected – and ask her to do the same. Like this, we could avoid ugly scenes and spend the days we had together as carefreely as possible. We'd be the two happiest miserable persons in Paris.
Fortunately the guestroom was equipped very well for people who wanted to write letters. Writing utensils were lying on the table next to the window. There even was a little lamp. Still it took a long time till my message was finished.
Dearest Christine,
I hereby apologise for having walked away from you. I should have explained my reasons to you more clearly, and I sincerely hope you are not angry at me. Yet no matter what kinds of emotions you may have towards me, I ask you not to display them when someone else is around. You see, I'm afraid the children could be influenced negatively by us. We should be good examples for them. I'm sure you'll understand my worries.
ErikI inwardly congratulated myself for my ability to write a sensible-sounding letter while feeling anything but sensible. I didn't want to hide my emotions. I wanted to show them for anyone to see. Yet my worries were stronger. I'd never forgive myself if the children didn't like me anymore because they thought I was making their mother sad.
I sat at the table long after I was finished, looking out into the darkness. Even with all those troubles, I had not forgotten the attacks. Maybe I wasn't good for much, but I could at least protect the family from intruders. And the tears I was shedding were only caused my the wind. What other reason should there be?