Desolation Dreamed Of
Of Ardor and Arabesque
The following weeks continued in the same vein—Christine would rehearse in the mornings, though Carlotta remained oddly silent between pieces, much to Christine's relief. She heard rumors that the managers had coerced her into accepting the small role as a featured ensemble member for her own safety. Regardless, Christine would take a short break, and then retreat to the dressing room where Erik would work with her individually, crafting and perfecting each note to his pleasure.
Their behavior was static. It was as if they lived in a vacuum, where nothing had changed or moved on since their rehearsals for Aida. Thankfully, he somehow managed to quell the tension that she assumed would poison their lessons, and they continued on in peaceful unreality. While this seemed rather unusual to Christine, she accepted it without question.
Her interactions with Raoul were equally curious. He met with her often at the opera to make polite banter, and would take her out to eat every so often in hopes of convincing her to take back the ring. She blocked out his voice in conversation, though, and only made civil nods every so often to convince him that he held her attention. Her mind, instead, was filled with Erik's music, swelling and diminishing even in her sleep; and when his music wasn't there, it was his voice as she replayed their conversations and recalled his touch.
It was becoming clear to Christine that even Raoul could never stand a chance when it was Erik who inundated her mind at all hours of the day.
The wasted weeks the opera spent on Faust were debilitating to Don Juan Triumphant, for time was of the essence; after only a few short weeks of rehearsals, opening night was upon them for better or for worse. All of Paris was on a razor's edge, for they had all heard whispers of the cancellation of Faust and the new opera that would replace it. Some didn't believe and some did, but the city was both terrified and morbidly fascinated as they anxiously awaited opening night.
Christine was oddly calm when opening night finally came. She expected to be wild with nervousness, queasy at the thought of what Erik had planned—for she had no doubt that he still had a trick up his sleeve. But while her attendants dressed her methodically, she felt an eerie and stoic calmness throughout her mind and body.
Her costume was far from the likes of Aida. There was no statuesque elegance in her coquettish garb and no modesty in the lace skirt that barely hit her calves. And yet, somehow she was fully prepared to present herself to the public in clothing a prostitute would question wearing. As long as the music was to his expectations, nothing else could possibly bother her.
Once her hair had been intricately pinned—for there was to be no ornate headdress or synthetic wig to mask her curls—her dresser exited her room with a soft wish of luck. And just as she expected, she heard the familiar sound of the lock turning as she felt Erik's presence fill the room.
"Christine," he said softly, and she stood in deference. "You look…" he began, but he trailed off as he searched for words.
She couldn't help but smile softly at this as she clasped her hands in front of her. "Like an innocent strumpet," she finished for him, laughing a bit to herself.
"Isn't that contradictory?" She thought she caught a hint of amusement in his voice, and her smile widened in response.
"I believe that's the point."
They stood in silence for several moments as Christine anticipated what he would say to her before this hopefully auspicious night.
"Do you feel prepared?" he finally voiced, and Christine mused on the peculiarity of small talk with Erik, particularly during this calm before the storm.
"I feel as if I could rehearse for another year and never know enough about the nuance of that music." The words were complimentary, but it was merely a statement that they both knew was undeniable, and his lack of response was enough of an agreement for her.
It wasn't long before they were sharing forbearing silence once again. She hadn't the faintest clue whether he didn't know what to say or if he was waiting for her, but after a few more beats passed, she spoke calmly.
"What have you planned for tonight?" Christine knew that she should be uneasy making such an inquiry, but her tranquility didn't falter.
"I'm sorry?" he questioned, and she heard him shift slightly.
"You have some spectacular feat prepared, and while I know you want to surprise everyone, I'd like to know what it is."
It wasn't often that she could hear him breathing, but she listened as he let out a slow breath and move towards her. For the first time that day, her pulse picked up while the deafening silence surrounded her.
"You don't have to come back here tonight."
It was her turn to stand awestruck, and she felt her throat grow dry abruptly. "I—I don't understand," she faltered, all too aware of the bewildered expression on her face.
"My spectacular feat, as you put it…" he said softly, and she jumped faintly as she felt his leather-clad hand take hers with astonishing delicacy. "Is to give you a choice. You know that I am quite conscious of your relationship with," he began, faltering as he continued, "…Raoul, but you claimed there was good in me, and—…" Once again he stopped, and her breath caught at the uncharacteristic humanity fortifying his voice.
His grip on her hand tightened for a moment before he released her and cleared his throat. "No…I will not waste your time trying to justify myself or prove myself worthwhile. That time has passed."
"Erik—" she breathed, but he continued as if she hadn't spoken.
"I give you the duration of the opera to make your decision. I will honor your choice, whatever it may be," he maintained, but she stopped him.
"What choice? What do you mean when you suggest that I don't come back here?" she demanded, wanting nothing more than to feel his hand in hers once again.
She could hear the hesitation in his voice before he began to speak and it caused her own breath to shake in uncertainty. "If you so choose, I can take you away from here. Far away from Paris, where we can…" He stopped for a split second, but carried on with determination. "…remain together. For as long as you will have me."
"Are you asking me to—" she jumped in, but he didn't hear.
"If you choose otherwise, I will leave the Opera Garnier. I will leave you and your—… Monsieur de Chagny in peace, and I will never presume to bother you again." Christine could feel the pain it was causing him to say these words aloud, and she merely let out a trembling breath in response.
"You must decide by the closing of Don Juan. If you look up at Box Five, for I'm sure you know by instinct where it is in the theatre, I will know of your assent. If not… Then you will hear me no more. Do you understand?"
Christine's stomach knotted in anxiety, but she forced herself to nod.
"You must go—the curtain is rising in ten minutes. I wish you luck."
She could hear him moving away from her and she cleared her throat swiftly. "This may be the last time I hear you, then?" she blurted out, her breath catching in her throat.
"Perhaps," he said after a moment, and before she could say another word, she could feel that his presence had vanished from the room.
The opera's concept was no less than groundbreaking. Christine had, of course, never seen the set, but it had been described to her in detail from many sources. She began on stage before the curtain rose, suspended in a human-sized cage that resembled that of a canary's. It was lowered by a rope and she entered it with the help of several stage hands before it was suspended back into the air just in time for the curtain to open. People argued that it was highly unsafe for a girl without sight to be in this position, but when she questioned Erik, he simply said that she was not an invalid and would not be troubled by the height.
She would remain there for the entire first, second, and third act, providing descants above ensemble pieces and intermittent ornamentation to others' songs. The caged bird, singing to the world before her fall.
The rest of the stage was sectioned off in two subdivisions—the city and Don Juan's illustrious bedroom, shrouded by a scrim that cloaked the activity within until her scene, where it would be lit from behind in order to reveal the seduction. She was told of the vibrant colors of the bedroom—the violets and the deep rouges, that contrasted vastly with the drab grey of the city streets.
Her nerves mounted as she listened to the roar of the audience behind the curtain, and she forced herself into focusing on other things to quell her tension. She felt the cold metal beneath her bare feet, the frigid stage air on the nape of her neck that would vanish in a few moments when the lights blazed, and the sound of her own breath amongst the stale air.
When the orchestra began tuning with an intoxicating hum, her breath became shallow. She took her note off of the oboe as its A reverberated across the stage. And when the orchestra finally faded out, she took a silent breath and began, her fluttering notes suspended a capella for several seconds until a cello picked up the gentle counterpoint beneath her. And then the clarinet, and then French horn, before the entire pit was swelling with her.
It had begun.
She would not sing any actual words until after intermission, nor would she leave her metal prison. Erik once said that he hoped the audience would forget that she was even present until she sang a short and wordless descant, drawing the audience's attention back to her. There would be another bout of silence from her, another ornamentation, and another reawakening of the audience. It was a constant ebb and flow of hearing, forgetting, and remembering the lark that sat in the cage above the action.
Soon, Meg picked up an octave below Christine and began the first piece of the opera. She had landed the role of soubrette once again, and found herself portraying Don Juan's young helper, so to speak.
"I know what my heart is like since your love died: it is like a hollow ledge holding a little pool, left there by the tide, a little tepid pool, drying inward from the edge."
The first piece established the premise of the opera (as if any Parisian didn't know of Don Juan), and Meg was meant to describe his previous conquests, laughing at what the love struck women would say after he left to destitution.
"But they would give the life they live for a look from the man I kiss!"
Each line was accompanied by the character's sarcastic remarks as she scorned the stupidity of light women. Christine listened in pride as Meg sang, her voice morphing humorously with each woman she emulated. As she took in her song, Christine tried not to think of the choice she was bound to make, or consider that this could be the last time she ever heard Meg's voice. The thought made her stomach flipped as she focused on the words once more.
"On my breast you lean, and sob most pitifully for all the lovely things that are not and have been."
How odd… She recalled when Raoul had found Christine weeping in the dressing room, and this sole phrase could not have captured the moment more fully. Meg continued and pulled Christine out this thought before she could ponder it.
"Pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn."
Pity… Yes, that was a word she and Erik shared more often than others. A word they could not stand, a word that burned them to the core.
"Was it for this I uttered prayers, and sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, and now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?"
It struck her suddenly that she had never truly heard these lines. She had listened at rehearsal every day, but for the first time she was truly taking them in. And how astonishing that each bore some eerie resemblance to her own life. This line was no exception, for Erik had always mused on how she would loathe domestic life, forever playing the role of the trophy and being given a prescribed existence.
"We have gone too far; we do not know how to stop: impetus is all we have. And we share it with the pushed Inert."
The last line of the song—it was his way of describing the beginning of the end.
This opera was more than she had ever imagined: not only did his brilliance inhabit each note, but so did his argument. I give you the duration of the opera to make your decision—and the opera would be his proof!
She was so caught up in this thought that she nearly missed her suspension that would lead into the next piece. Taking a catch breath, she began to sing, unable to hide the astonishment in her voice; it seemed that once again, his genius was proven.
The opera was passing in a blur, but she was determined to hear every word and every phrase, searching for meaning anywhere she could find it. Christine became utterly enraptured in this endeavor, though, and she could have sworn that the opera had barely begun when the cage began to lower, signaling her first true entrance.
It petrified her to think that the opera would be over in only two more acts, but what a loaded two acts they were—the seduction would occur and just as in Faust, Don Juan would leave Aminta to her sorrow, disgraced and penniless. And while the opera goers would expect otherwise, Aminta would close the opera by singing of her ever-present love and devotion to Don Juan, despite his abandonment.
Christine exited the cage with leaden steps, her mind racing as she sang her first words: "Rebellious bird, warm body foreign and bright, has no one told you? –hopeless is your flight. Though Time refeather the wing, ankle slip the ring, the once-confined thing is never again free." She oriented herself towards the audience, for she was meant to see a bird fluttering in their direction.
It had never been so difficult to continue singing, for her mind was stuck on her opening line. The once-confined thing is never again free… Yes, she knew that if she were to choose Raoul, all of her freedom would be forfeit. She had felt that sting of confinement when she resided at his home, and such a thing would surely be the end of her. She couldn't dwell, though, else she stood the chance of missing a cue.
"No thing that ever flew, not the lark, not you, could die as others do."
She stood, purposeful naivety written on her face, as she waited for Piangi to enter and lure her to his home. When she heard the line, though, she nearly choked on her breath in abject shock.
"Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!"
That was not Piangi's voice, and she knew that if she had vision, she would see that it was not Piangi's figure. And yet, she heard no sounds of protest from the other cast members or the audience, who either didn't notice, didn't care, or were too frightened to act.
She felt him grow nearer to her, and she almost laughed at the cleverness of it all. Don Juan's costume had been described to her as well; it was a hooded cloak that shrouded his face from view for the sum of the act, providing the perfect place for Erik to hide. It became apparent that this opera—this scheme, to be frank—was not a hastily planned trap, but a premeditated and mercurial act of theatrical proportions.
"Suffer me to take your hand. Suffer me to cherish you till the dawn is in the sky. Whether I be false or true, death comes in a day or two."
His hand took a hold of hers, but her heart didn't catch. In fact, it all felt so comfortable and so very real, that she allowed him to blindly lead her to the opposite side of the stage without protest. She knew precisely what was still to come.
"He that lay awake all night for sweet love's unregenerate sake," she sang, and she felt her fingers tighten around his impulsively, desperate to feel him.
"Marshal not me among the enterprises of the night. I am the beginning of the day," he replied, and somehow she felt tears inexplicably prick her eyes.
"Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, till I become accustomed to the dark," she sang out as the stage lit behind them, revealing Don Juan's lair. He was no fool. He knew that these words would tear her heart apart and draw her to him all at the same time. "I know a man that's a braver man and twenty men as kind, and what are you that you should be the one man on my mind?"
She imagined Raoul's face in his box, for there was no question that he knew. Or if he didn't, she marked him brainless. But even when she tried, she could not bring herself to feel guilt or remorse. In fact, part of her felt an indomitable pride as Erik's arms circled her waist no longer as a teacher, but as a lover.
They were singing together truly without shame, and it was all too easy to forget the thousands of Parisians watching them.
"Immerse the dream. Drench the kiss. Dip the song in the stream." And then he took her lips as he never had before, and she felt the stage go black to signal the end of the act. They didn't release, though, and he didn't disappear as she expected him to. Quite the contrary—he held her tighter than ever and she embraced him with equal candor, not feeling the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She knew that the lights would come up any second, though, and she was meant to sing once again. It was Erik who released her finally, keeping her hands tight in hers.
"I hope to see you again," he whispered almost inaudibly underneath the deafening applause of the audience. She had no chance to reply, though, for he freed her hands and vanished from her only moments before the lights reignited.
Christine plodded through the ensemble pieces that followed, not bothering to wipe away her tears as she sang emotionlessly, unable to plunge back into the story of the opera. Rather, her mind was brimming with Erik and what her life would be if she chose him. It was difficult to see past the Opera Garnier, though, and she couldn't fathom how she would live anywhere other than Paris.
When her aria finally approached, she forced herself back into the life of Aminta, knowing that both Erik and Raoul were watching closely. She felt the rest of the cast in place behind her, as they would accompany the piece as it came to a close, creating a majestic finale to leave the spectators with.
"Just a rainy day or two and a bitter word. Why do I remember you as a singing bird?" she began, her mind suddenly blank as she felt the hot lights on her, creating orbs of dull light amidst her otherwise murky, grey vision. All at once, everything seemed so clear to her and her path had illuminated before her eyes. There was only one choice she could possibly make.
"I might be driven to sell your love for peace, or trade the memory of this night for food," she sang, feeling an unanticipated smile brighten her face. "It well may be, I do not think I would."
Who knew what they would be together, or how they would live, or where they would go, but her customarily overactive mind didn't bother with such questions. She only knew where her eyes must travel, up and to the left, as she sang out the final words of the opera.
"Love must be this if it be anything."
The stage was thrown into darkness unexpectedly, and she heard the surprised gasps of her fellow cast members who knew that this wasn't meant to occur. The audience knew no better, though, and they broke out in thunderous applause that Christine barely heard as she felt his hand around her waist. The ground beneath them gave way as a trapdoor opened and they fell into even deeper darkness. There was no fear in her, no remorse, and no misgivings to be found; her choice was made and her path was chosen, uncertainty be damned.
Love must be this if it be anything.
Since I made you wait, I gave you the longest chapter of the story! A lot happened here, but as you well know, I like plot, not filler. :) I hope you all enjoyed it, and while this is the last full chapter, there will be an epilogue that you don't want to miss coming up shortly after! I do have to credit the lyrics throughout the opera, though, so bear with me. Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote all of these (again, out of the time period), and in order of usage in this chapter, these are the poems the lines are from: Ebb, She is Overheard Singing, Menses, Sonnet, Grown-Up, Sonnet Not So Far as the Forest, To a Young Poet, Second Fig, Mariposa, Dawn, Sonnet, The Philosopher, Lethe, Souvernir, Sonnet, Sonnet. Thank you again to all my devoted reviewers—you are the reason I found the inspiration to come back to this story! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Until next time,
Christine