Desolation Dreamed Of
Of Perjury and Polyphony
Raoul was mysteriously absent from her for the subsequent weeks of Aida's run.
Perhaps it was because Erik had begun rehearsing for Faust, and her presence in his home became more and more of a necessity. In fact, there were days when she barely reached her dressing room in time to adequately prepare for Aida, resulting in some very discontented attendants. After Christine's ardent and sincere apologies, thankfully, their impatience faded and all was forgiven.
Or perhaps it was because he was avoiding her. She couldn't be particularly sure if Raoul was making a point to stay out of contact with her; all she knew was that she, more often than not, was trying to stay out of his path. And apparently it was working.
These were perfectly adequate explanations, but in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but wonder if Erik had anything to do with their sudden lack of interaction. She certainly wouldn't accuse her teacher of committing any felonious acts, but he was the Phantom of the Opera, after all. But before she could ever become too contemplative about the matter, she would force her mind in a different direction of thought, unwilling to delve into the subject. She was fortunate that she now had tasks the occupy her time throughout the day, for it wasn't long ago when she was beading for hours on end, stuck inside her own head.
How much easier things were when one's mind didn't have a chance to wander for weeks without respite.
But Faust was not a break by any means. She had never rehearsed for such long periods of time, nor had she been under such meticulous scrutiny. Nothing was good enough for Erik, and when she did improve, he increased his expectations ten-fold.
"You cannot settle!" he would insist. "The opera goers will expect you to be even better, and you mustn't disappoint."
This was the mantra she was deluged with daily. The words changed day by day, but the meaning never did. And what made it hardest was that she had been left in the dark when it came to the story arc. Meanwhile , Erik chose to skip around the opera to his delight, leaving her quite confused from piece to piece. For all she knew, the story consisted of a deal with the devil, a few pieces of jewelry, a cavatina, and a spinning wheel, in some indefinite order.
She had hoped that her knowledge of Marlowe's take on the tale would suffice, for she was all too familiar with that. Her father used to tell her the story of the magic wielding Dr. Faustus, whose Icarian fall taught her piety in her young years. But it became abundantly clear that this account was quite different; in fact, save for the title character and the ever-evil Méphistophélès, the stories were barely echoes of each other.
And so she remained unwillingly in the dark, rehearsing technique alone for several weeks. And she diligently curbed her frustration, always recalling the amount of work they put into Aida and the tremendous outcome. Patience and diligence… That was all it took.
On this particular day, she was rehearsing Marguerite's legendary aria, The Jewel Song. They touched on it every day, incessantly tweaking and molding it into a masterpiece—it had to bring down the house, as Erik would say, just as O Patria Mia did.
"It must sound as if you are a bird, fluttering just above a branch!" he exclaimed over her voice.
"Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir, est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?"
Her hand clutched the taut muscles beneath her breasts as she willed her ribs to slowly expand. She could feel her eyebrows knit together as her vibrato fluttered on the top note, but the minute slip she felt did not escape his attention.
"Here, here! It must come from here!" His hand covered hers and pushed in, causing a sudden collapse. Breath rushed out of her mouth and she stopped swiftly with a deep frown.
"If you insist on allowing your support to cave in, then that will be your outcome. Again."
And so she began once more, willing her trachea down as her mouth opened for a deep breath.
"Please, a worthwhile breath or none at all. Soft-palate up, space between the molars."
Christine followed his directions and launched into the song for a third time. She could hear the improved sound she was creating, but when he didn't stop her again until the piece was finished, she grew confused. She hadn't been that good. And as expected, when she let go of her last note he still didn't speak. In fact, it was hard to tell whether he was even in the room or not.
"What was wrong?" Christine prodded after several seconds, letting out a sigh of discouragement as her ears searched for his movement.
"Technically, very little. But for goodness sake, Christine, it's a joyous aria! If I only saw your expression and heard none of your singing, I would be quite convinced that you were preparing to kill someone."
"I apologize…" The frown on her face deepened and she heard him sigh in response.
"What is it that is troubling you? I know that you have the technique solid when you concentrate, but you appear disconnected at best."
"I just…" she began, her mouth screwing up in thought. "I can't understand how she could possibly be so joyous in this aria and then sing a terribly despondent aria as a spinster, all in the same opera. I can't follow this story line with how you're teaching me; and how can I possibly sing with passion if I haven't a clue why I'm singing!" she exclaimed, but blushed quickly at her outburst and added a quiet, "…Monsieur" to the end of her sentence.
The silence was utterly deafening. She could even hear the sound of his lips parting ever so slightly, tying her stomach in nervous knots.
"Erik?" she asked, wringing her hands in front of her.
"We will rehearse in order from now on, then," were his stony word. Something in his tone had changed, but she couldn't place what was different. "We'll begin once more with Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir and move forward from there."
His words had mounted with an energy that she had never heard from him before. "Méphistophélès has left you a box of jewels, which you fawn over in your aria. Unaware that the devil is involved, you assume they are from Faust, and when he comes to woo you, you allow him to kiss you." She heard him swallow and her breath hitched. "The act ends with the seduction of Marguerite."
Christine's lips parted quickly, but Erik had already placed his hand on her stomach again. With this signal, she promptly began, trying to ignore the abrupt dryness of her throat. And how the notes soared—what heights they reached! And yet every note, every portamento held both ease and grace that astounded her.
You are a bird, fluttering just above a branch…
Before she knew it, the aria was over. Holding her breath, she waited for the appropriate praise or critique, but was met with something quite different; without missing a beat Erik began to sing what she assumed was the role of Faust. Of course he had sung for her before, but it was generally for teaching purposes. He was not teaching now, though—he too seemed rapt in the words, lost in the story, commanding yet without control.
It scared her and thrilled her all at once.
"Quoi! Je t'implore en vain! Attends! Lassie ta main so'oublier dans la mienne. Laisse-moi, laisse-moi conempler ton visage, lasse-moi contempler ton visage! Sou la pâle clarté dont l'astre de la nuit, Comme dans un nuage, Caresse, caresse ta beauté!"
What! I implore you in vain! Wait! Let your hand forget itself in mine. Let me, let me contemplate your face, let me contemplate your face! Under the pale clarity of a star of night , as in a cloud, let me caress your beauty!
Christine stood breathless, entranced by his song, not even flinching as an arm slipped around her waist and a hand brushed her cheek. Her heart raced in her chest as she felt his breath on her—never before had she felt it!—and her own breathing accelerated. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she felt his body pressed against hers as no man's had been before. Surely this couldn't be right…
When his words had ceased, though, she was at a loss. Clearly it was her line, but he had never taught her anything past the Jewel Song. She struggled for words for a few moments until she finally murmured, "I don't know the words…"
Perhaps Christine had tipped her head upwards, or perhaps he had leaned down; in the end, it wasn't important who had initialized it, for their lips touched lightly, as if each were afraid to break the other. She brought a hand up instinctively and didn't recoil when she felt the porcelain mask beneath her fingers.
And then it was over. She might as well have been on fire for how quickly Erik released her. Heavy steps moved away from her—louder than usual, without caution—and their heavy breaths filled the room.
"You're clearly not ready for this." He had never sounded so human to her ears and she started in shock.
"I'm sorry?" she barely whispered, unable to trust in her own voice.
"I thought you were ready for this, but you're clearly not. And besides—it's about time you went back up to the Opera."
Stunned, she didn't speak for a moment and took a futile step forward. "It's barely noon. I usually don't go up for another five or six hours—…" she argued, but he didn't hear.
"We won't have any more lessons for some time. I thought you were ready…" He trailed off and she knew that there was no questioning him. She let her head drop faintly, lost for words.
And as he rushed past her to lead her up the passageway, Christine feigned deafness as well, pretending obediently not to hear him softly say, "I'm not ready…"
I couldn't say what made me go back seek her out again. It was blatantly clear that she didn't want to see me, but there was an odd feeling that I couldn't shake that pushed me to find her. It was several weeks into the run of Aida, and whether or not I would admit it to anyone, I had seen every performance. What could be more captivating than to watch her become completely enveloped in the music?
The performance wouldn't begin for several more hours and I wasn't sure she would even be in the building. Or if she was in the building, if I could even find her… Several locations seemed probable—her dressing room, the stage, her room, perhaps even The House. But that abandoned dressing room that held my encounters with the phantom… That was the first place I checked.
It would probably seem laughable if someone had been watching, but I stood at the door to that ill-fated room for several minutes. It was probably empty, but my mind kept juggling with what I would do if it wasn't… But right as I convinced myself that there likely wasn't anyone in the room, I heard the sound of muffled sobbing on the other side of the door.
Perhaps I should have knocked, but my heart had already seized with worry and I threw the door open. And there she was, sitting in the middle of the otherwise empty room with her head in her hands. And she was crying her eyes out.
I thought that she would stop hurriedly at the sound of someone else entering the room, but she seemed not to hear me. Even as I stepped towards her, her demeanor didn't shift. I could have conceivably broken down in tears myself, for I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on how heart-wrenching it is to see someone you love weeping.
When I finally reached her, I bent down on one knee and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder. Even then she didn't look up or make any indication that she knew I was there. Blinking worriedly, I placed my spare hand on her other shoulder.
"Christine…" I whispered hoping to capture her attention.
"He's left me," were the words I gathered amongst her gasping sobs.
"Who left you?" I pressed, though the answer was painfully clear to me.
"He told me…" she wept, shaking her head violently. "He told me I'm not…That I'm not ready. That's all he said!"
"Not ready?" I echoed slowly, my heart flooding with grief.
"He told me that I'm not ready… And he left me," she repeated, finally looking up to me. Those tear-filled milky eyes didn't afford me any relief.
"Christine…" I breathed once more, wrapping an arm around her in a tight embrace. She pressed her face into my chest as her sobs swelled.
"And he said I mustn't go back. I'm not ready…"
"Did he," I began, but stopped suddenly, swallowing. The words, so easily formed in my head, could barely escape my lips. "Did he…Disgrace you in any way?" I choked out, my throat tightening.
"He hates me!" she shrieked, either not hearing me or refusing to reply. "I haven't a clue what I could've done wrong, but…"
"Sh…" I interrupted her, stroking her hair softly. I couldn't press her for an answer—not now, at least. "I'm going to bring you back to your room where you can rest. Did you hear me, Christine?"
Christine nodded weakly and I helped her into a standing position before we moved out of the room. It was a godsend that we didn't meet anyone in the hallways, for I knew that neither of us needed a scandal to circulate throughout Paris.
After she was secure in her own bed, I found myself marching on an irrevocable path back to the only person who could help me—t he only person who could stop this tyrant from committing these shameless acts. I knocked on the door without caution, and when I saw those same beady eyes peek from beyond the door, I didn't repress my anger.
"Madame Giry, you are withholding something from me. And to me, withholding information is just as dishonorable as a blatant lie."
She didn't reply, but I watched as her eyes widened just as she opened the door for me to enter. I stormed in, all forms of courtesy I formally kept with her completely gone.
"Monsieur de Chagny, I don't—…" she began, tactful as ever, but I cut her off.
"Don't. What is it you aren't telling me about this man?" I spat, turning sharply to her as she closed the door behind her.
"I've told you what I know," she continued smoothly.
"The man you described would not cause such harm to an innocent girl—…" This time, she stopped me, concern written in her features.
"Caused harm?"
I paused, my fury giving way to regret for a moment. "She won't tell me what precisely has happened, but I believe he has taken advantage of her in the worst way. And only a true monster would ever behave so abominably." My breath caught in my throat, but I watched Giry closely nonetheless. I could see her expression changing as this new information hit her.
"I have heard the rumors, Madame Giry. What is true? What is he?" I challenged.
And just like that, her unease disappeared and her façade had once again taken over. Yes, she had been trained very well.
"He is precisely what I told you. He is a man of many masks. He is a magician and an archit—…"
"Don't spout forth that nonsense to me! Do you not understand that I have the power to turn you out of the Opera Garnier?" I hadn't been so worked up in some time—I so seldom yelled, but somehow I couldn't contain myself any longer.
"Raoul, he holds infinite power. You may think you have the upper hand, but if I revealed—…" She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening.
"So there is something to reveal," I said slowly, taking a few steps towards her.
"I didn't mean—!" she insisted, shaking her head adamantly.
"Nadir Khan. Have you heard of him?" I said abruptly, watching as she shook her head once more. "He knows this man's whereabouts. He has a deep past with him—deeper than you, even—and at my word, he will not hesitate to pursue him. At which point his 'infinite power' will be rather irrelevant."
Now this was not a complete truth, but I was firm nevertheless. Yes, I had met with Nadir Khan; Yes, Nadir admitted to knowing his whereabouts and of his past with the phantom; and yes, Nadir had connections with the Préfecture de Police which was an additional benefit. But while the de Chagny family had significant influence throughout Paris, Nadir had by no means agreed to pursue this man on a whim. But I knew this was my only chance of defeating this ne'erdowell.
I really couldn't have been more pleased with the result. Her expression softened immediately, though she looked away from me to hide it.
"Raoul, I wish I could help…But to reveal his secrets would be a death sentence to both of us," she murmured dimly
"And if we don't act, we hand a death sentence to Christine and anyone else who crosses his path."
I moved to her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Please, Madame Giry, I cannot help her without you." Her head raised and her eyes met mine. "He's killing her, Madame. Perhaps not all at once, but slowly, she's being engulfed in his malevolence. I can see it in her behavior, and I'm afraid of what could happen should she return to him. I'm not sure…" I paused, my hand dropping from her shoulder. "I'm not sure she would ever return."
Her eyes, sparkling with welling tears, watched me for several seconds. Finally, she silently motioned for me to sit down. My heart, already racing, felt like it was bound to beat out of my chest as I sat down across from her.
And just as I had expected, those fateful words left her mouth with a stillness that stopped my heart.
"He is a murderer, Monsieur."
There you go! Some big changes in this chapter, that will lead into some even bigger changes in upcoming chapters. I feel that I should say that while some events may seem abrupt, it's simply because I don't believe in filler chapters. ;) I hope you all enjoyed it—thank you again for all the reviews, and I hope to get some feedback from you all! Thanks for reading!
Until next time,
Christine