Behind Closed Doors
It was early on Monday morning when Christine left the de Chagny home. She had written a brief note to Raoul saying that she wanted to sort a few things out at the opera house.
I need to be alone for a while. I'll be home in time for dinner so we can see Romeo and Juliet tonight. Please don't worry, Raoul. I just have to think things through.
She picked up her bag and began the walk to the opera house, turning into the sunlit park. There were a few people walking dogs and a woman jogging with headphones in her ears. Christine didn't stop, but walked slowly and allowing the sunshine to soak into her. The sweet warmth of it began to banish the haunting coldness of the previous night, although she doubted that this was entirely possible.
Christine climbed the steps to the Opera Populaire and took out her key. She unlocked the door and typed in the security code. She was the first person in today, unsurprisingly as it was so early. After putting her bag and jacket in her office, she took the envelope that she had received the previous day and walked to the practise rooms. She had debated this decision a great many times in her mind before finally coming to the conclusion that no harm ever came from playing a piece of music. And besides, he would not have left the music if he did not want her to play it.
However, this in itself aroused many questions. Why had he left it? Their last piece of correspondence had hardly been one that implied further amity. True, the Phantom had taken quite an interest in her musical ability, but this sudden presentation of music was certainly not in character.
Christine sat at the piano and placed the music upon the stand. She began to play, uncertainly at first, but then with more confidence. And then she hardly needed to play at all, because her hands took over and she was lost.
If she had tried to describe the music to someone later, the correct adjective would have been – eerie. Not in the sense it is often used, so casually and carelessly. The true meaning – unnatural, strange, peculiar, but not necessarily in the negative way that these words usually employed. As the music overwhelmed her, she found that she couldn't breathe. She couldn't think, or feel. Her senses were cut off completely. All she knew was that there was an intense sound ringing in her mind, and all around her. It was sweet and painful and so, so beautiful. But it wasn't the piano, for her hands were no longer moving on the keys.
It was a voice.
It was her voice.
As suddenly as she realised this, the sound faded. A pale hand lifted to touch her throat as Christine tried to understand exactly what had happened. But she couldn't understand. She couldn't remember when she had stopped playing and started singing. She had never known that she was capable of producing such a sound!
Had it even been music? She couldn't remember singing any notes, and there were no words on the paper. All she could recall was sound. Sound that surpassed notes and harmonies. Sounds produced only by angels and only when they were signing the praises of the Highest.
The familiar fear was back now, but it was entwined with something else. It was wonder. Christine lowered her hand and placed it calmly in her lap. Strange, how she could be so calm when only a few days earlier this would have produced such horror. She stood, taking the music and returning to her office, almost dazed from the incident. She sat at her desk and took a piece of writing paper.
Who wrote it?
He examined the note that had been left in His box as He watched the rehearsals. I t consisted of that one line. No signature (as if He really needed one) and no other comments on recent events.
But He wasn't surprised. Oh, no. Whilst He hadn't expected her to be so brazen as to write Him a letter, He had expected something. If what He had overheard was true, and she was as musically inclined as suggested, He knew that He could make an ally of Christine de Chagny. Leaving the music for her to find had almost been a test. And she had certainly passed.
Women were fickle creatures. It was true that He did not know them particularly well but He was certainly aware of what would intrigue them. He was used to dealing with men. They were simple. But women were so changeable – He had needed a way to connect with de Chagny. Whilst the threats had worked well enough, He now wanted to make her more amiable. She knew her place and would stay in it. But there was no need to keep her there by force if he could control her with music.
He had been struggling to decide how to test the depths of her so-claimed love of music. Giving her one of His own pieces of had not been something that He had done easily. But it had worked. She had tasted her forbidden fruit and would now crave more. The note in His hand was more than enough to prove that. This music was an addiction, more so than any substance He had in His possession.
The next step was to take His time replying. A couple of days, maybe. Let her grow impatient and then deliver at the last moment, with another piece of music as temptingly sublime as the last. Next time He would be waiting for her, would be there to judge her for himself. It was only a matter of time before Christine de Chagny was completely within His power and then it would be time to start doing things His way.
For the next few days, Christine avoided going to work early, choosing instead to lie awake beside Raoul as he slept peacefully. Spending so much time alone was a sensible explanation for the strange feelings she had been experiencing lately. However, far from feeling lonely, the sensation was that she was never alone. It was far more disturbing than the awareness of complete isolation.
Today though, she rose and went to shower. Standing naked below the pattering stream of hot water, she closed her eyes and let the water clean her mind as well as her body. She was in a good mood. It was already Thursday and everything had been going well. Philippe and Sorelli were on better terms than ever, work was going perfectly and Raoul was as wonderful as he ever was.
She dressed in a white skirt and blouse, with a black blazer over the top. Raoul was stirring as she went back into the bedroom. He smiled sleepily at her from the bed.
"I thought I'd broken you out of this habit."
"I know. I've got a lot to do today. I'll have to stay late tonight as well."
"Do you have to?" He said, sliding up in the bed to sit. She perched on the edge of the bed beside him.
"Well, my theory is that if I get as much as humanly possible done today we can take the entire weekend off. So it'll be worth it in the long run." She explained. Raoul nodded and put his hands behind his head, leaning against the headboard.
"I suppose so. Since Phil's in London for the weekend, we can take advantage of the house being empty as well. Give the servants Saturday night off, order in some disgustingly unhealthy food and just enjoy ourselves." He grinned. Christine smiled and kissed him.
"Exactly. I'll see you tonight. And remember you've got that meeting at twelve, don't go back to sleep."
"Yes mum." He teased as she left.
Christine's footsteps echoed around the empty opera house as she walked to her office. But she paused as she turned the corner because the door to her office was already open. She quickly retreated behind a pillar and watched, waiting for a figure to emerge. She heard footsteps and then someone came out of her office.
Mrs Giry pulled the door to and Christine stepped out.
"Good morning, Mrs Giry." She said sharply. The ballet mistress looked around.
"Good morning. Excuse me being in your office, I found a letter addressed to you in the practise room. It wasn't opened, so I left it on your desk." She calmly. Christine nodded.
"It's fine. Thank you."
"Excuse me." The older woman walked past, as composed as always. Christine went to the door of her office, not noticing how Mrs Giry glanced rather anxiously over her shoulder before hurrying away.
The envelope was the same as the last, with the thickly folded music inside. Christine pulled out and searched for a note. Once again, there was nothing, not even a name. She sighed and sat down to read the music. Humming it under her breath, she was but a few lines in before she forced herself to stop, not wanting to become completely lost in it as she had last time. After work, she decided, she would go to the music room and play it then.
She pushed it back into the envelope and then paused. There was no writing on the envelope, no name. Christine frowned. Mrs Giry had said that it had been addressed to her…
Christine glanced towards the door and then hurriedly put the envelope out of sight, pulling a piece of work towards her. But she was unable to banish the thought that the Ghost had ordered her to give him his salary by way of Antoinette Giry. This left her two lines of thought; either Mrs Giry was the Ghost and was using this as an opportunity to make some money, or she was in league with whatever character was calling itself the ghost. From what she knew of Antoinette as a person, both of these seemed highly unlikely. But there had to be some explanation.
Why wasn't she playing? He peered down from His hiding space as the manageress sat at the piano and read and reread the music. Her hands were on the keys but she made no move to actually play the music. A couple of times she had even taken her hands away, as though the instrument had burned her.
His attention went to her as she let out an annoyed sigh. She stood from the piano and took the music in her hands, strolling the room and staring down at the paper. Slowly she began to hum under her breath. He leaned forward to listen more closely, His brow in a frown beneath the mask. She stood perfectly still in the middle of the room, singing the notes clearly. Occasionally she got a note wrong, or hesitated over a bar, but… how beautiful that voice was!
And how dead.
The clarity was so sweet, the pitch so perfect but there was no life behind the song. This music had been written with such passion but this woman lacked the mere ability to tap into that passion. She reached the end of the first page and then stopped, looking over what she had just sung. She traced the music softly with a finger and then shook her head. He knew that she was planning to leave, but could not allow her to, not now that He had heard such a voice.
"Sing for me…" He murmured. She looked up with a sharp gasp, for the voice had sounded so close to her that it might have been within her head. She didn't run though. She stayed in her position in the middle of the room, clutching the paper tightly. After a moment she surprised Him utterly.
"Who are you?"
"Who do you want me to be?" He asked, rather amused. She frowned.
"That's not an answer." She said rather angrily. "Who are you? Are you the Phantom?"
"How does one define themselves? If we are asking such unanswerable questions, who are you?"
"You know who I am. I'm the manageress here."
"Ah, a manageress. A woman. A wife. Christine de Chagny. Mrs de Chagny. The woman who sings when she thinks that no one is listening. Which of these would you take as your title?" He mocked.
She stepped back, unsure of herself.
"I… I'm all of them." She murmured, before shaking her head to clear her mind. "Stop it! Tell me who you are!"
"Do you like my music, Christine de Chagny?" Christine looked down at the paper in her hands. It was slightly damp from her hands sweating and her nails had torn slight holes in it.
"You… wrote this?"
"I did. Sing it again, Christine de Chagny." The voice was strangely soothing, coaxing… dangerously tempting. Christine knew she shouldn't, mustn't, because if she did, it would mean not being able to go back. Eve could not put the apple back on the tree.
And yet that ghostly sound was pouring from her lips once more. Unbidden, it flooded the room, as sweet and thick as fresh honey. It was drowning her, but she was so alive. So free and so absolutely limitless.
She stopped abruptly and put a hand to her forehead.
"No… this is… what is this?" She felt faint, but there was a buzzing sensation in her head and chest that was impossibly vibrant. "Tell me who you are. Did you kill Joseph Buqet? Why are you here?" These last words were a cry of anger and fear as Christine threw the music from her being, as though it were poisoning her through the slightest touch.
He laughed and the laughter was so terrible that Christine put her hands over her ears, barely noticing the tears that were streaming from her eyes. She fell to her knees, shaking her head and murmuring under her breath that it wasn't real.
And then it was all gone. The spell was broken and it took Christine a moment to realise what had shattered the horrific atmosphere. It was the piercing sound of her mobile phone ringing in her pocket. She fumbled for it and answered quickly.
"Yes?"
"Christine? Are you alright?" Said the concerned voice of Philippe. Christine sniffed hard.
"Yes, I'm… I'm alright. I'm just… sorry, did you need something?"
"I was wondering if you could bring home those finance files we were discussing yesterday. Are you sure you're alright? You sound as if you've got a cold or something."
"I'm fine, Phil. It's just hay fever." She had never suffered from hay fever in her life, but he didn't know that. "It's not a problem. I'll be home in an hour or so."
"Alright. I'll see you at dinner. Take care." He said, sounding concerned. Christine said goodbye and ended the call. She put the phone back into her pocket and looked over at the music. With a quick glance around, she picked it up and began to run to her office. Once inside, she stuffed the pieces of paper into the shredder, watching as they were sliced into thin strips. With that done, she took handfuls of the paper and went to the women's toilets. She threw the paper into the lavatories and flushed again and again until there was nothing left of the music. With this task done, she turned to the mirror and splashed cold water onto her face until the red puffiness had receded.
Once she had collected her jacket and bag, she set off home, unaware of the dark figure who was watching from the roof of the Opera Populaire.
There was little said at dinner. Christine picked at her food whilst Raoul and Philippe discussed business from time to time. Eventually she put her fork down and excused herself to go to bed. Raoul looked at her in concern.
"Do you feel ill?"
"Just worn out." She smiled reassuringly. "I'll be fine by morning."
But despite her assuring attitude, the two brothers looked at each other anxiously. Philippe had already related the distressed phone call to his younger sibling and Raoul was now seriously considering calling a doctor.
"It won't do any good, Raoul. As you said, if this is distress over her father, a doctor won't be of any use. Put the stress of work on top of that and you can understand how she's feeling."
"I have to do something, Phil. I can't just let her carry on like this."
"See how she is after the weekend. If she's still feeling bad by then, why don't you take her away? Go to the villa or come to America. Maybe things will work themselves out." Phil said in a comforting tone.
Christine stood outside the door, listening to their conversation. Go away? It would be wonderful to do such a thing, but even in America she would be unable to forget what had happened here. But something had to change. She couldn't go on like this for much longer. But what would running away really do? These problems would still be here for her when she came back.
He would still be waiting.
She was being very dull today. He had almost hoped that she would return to the music room, but it seemed that that was not on her agenda. Instead she sat in her office, leaving the door open in order to prevent any misbehaviour on His part. There was music playing on her computer, Fauré's Le Papillion et la Fleur. She was typing quickly, her eyes flickering over the screen, but it was painfully obvious that she wasn't paying attention. She paused in her work to rub the back of her neck. She had been bent over the keyboard for some time and it was clearly taking its toll.
She leant back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head. Letting out a slow sigh, she reached for her coffee cup and drained the last of the lukewarm liquid. He shook His head slowly as she continued to type. Did she truly think that this was over?
How very mistaken she was.
Christine's day passed calmly enough. Even Richard and Moncharmin seemed to be restraining themselves from rushing to her every fifteen minutes. As a result, Christine was able to finish a satisfying amount of work and even allowed herself to drop in on rehearsals to watch as the ballerinas graced the stage.
Despite her reasonable mood, she still felt tense. All day long she had known that she was being watched. Even now, she felt those golden eyes piercing into her, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. She glanced up at Box 5. It was empty, as she had expected it to be; but she did not look away.
"Mrs de Chagny?" Christine looked away quickly to meet Mrs Giry's eyes. The older woman frowned slightly. "Is everything alright?"
"Yes, fine." Christine answered, almost too quickly. Giry did not look convinced. She too looked up at Box 5. Christine shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Did you want something, Mrs Giry?"
"You seemed distracted. I wondered if you were feeling unwell."
"I'm fine, thank you. The rehearsals are going well?"
"Perfectly." Mrs Giry continued to look at her for a moment before adding, "I'd like you to know that if there is… anything wrong, you can come to me."
Christine looked at her sharply but she was already walking away. For a wild moment, Christine wanted to chase after her and demand that she tell all that she knew. But that may not achieve anything more than making everyone present believe that she was mentally unstable. A theory that Christine herself was not too certain on at the present moment of time. There was only one place to go for answers. There was only one (was person the correct phrase?) who could explain. Christine knew that without answers she would be forced to live like this forever, if this strange limbo between dreaming and waking could even be called living.
Christine wanted to wake up now.
A/N: Sorry for the wait. My beta and I have both been incredibly busy! Now, I know I promised actual meetings between Erik and Christine. And in a sense there was. But it didn't entirely pan out that way in the writing process. But I promise there will be much more action very soon! Please review, they're always greatly appreciated! And the usual love kudos to TheAngelCried in her uber-greatness!
Love
Katie