2. A Script and a Dialogue

lly.

Sorry about that, notebook (I should get down to calling you something else. What do you think of Isabella? Or George? No, wait. Not a male. If he ever reads this, he'll probably get jealous or something. Add a crazy guy who is jealous of a notebook to the horrible mess I'm in and he won't be the only mad person in this house or mansion or whatever the hell it is. Isabella, then). I didn't have time to complete what I was going to say. Erik knocked on the door and I only had enough time to stash this under a few sketches I'd been working on earlier before he came in.

As this is merely my second entry here, I haven't mentioned this before. Let me state for posterity that I positively despise it when he uses his voice to get me to tell him things. It's a cheap and dirty tactic. Considering everything else he's done, he could at least do me the courtesy of letting me decide what to tell him myself.

You're probably wondering what I'm talking about. I'll try to record the encounter to the best of my capacity. My mind is still a bit fuzzy.

Okay.

Bad idea.

I feel awkward trying to distance myself from this and put it in a somewhat appropriate perspective. I think I'll just jump into the dialogue as if this is a script for a play. Forgive me if it's bad. It probably will be. I once tried writing a play, years earlier. It was horrible. It went something like this (with all my reactions and comments added in, of course):

(Knock on the door; C starts nervously, then stuffs diary under pile of sketches.)

Christine (nervously): Yes?

Erik (a bit hesitant, I think; I can't be sure): Christine? May I enter?

C (checks to make sure that the diary is completely hidden, then replies): Okay, sure.

(E enters, paces a bit around room, his eyes all the while examining her, gauging her mood (she supposes); C remains seated at desk, fidgets with her pen and refusing to look at him. Silence for a few moments before E finally speaks)

E: I'm sorry I shouted at you earlier, my dear. I didn't mean to lose my temper. (Pauses. C doesn't reply as she does not want to provoke an outburst of the aforementioned temper by a caustic remark. E foolishly ploughs on.) I … I was just … worried about you and I didn't … no, I don't want you to be unhappy and ….

(C purses her lips as if to stop herself from saying, "I can't avoid being unhappy if I never see anyone except you and you're not much good company either, you know." E trails off, probably at the expression on her face. C still finds it annoying that he can read her moods so easily. He notices the sketches on her desk and gestures at them. Probably a desperate attempt to lift the tension. It doesn't help.)

E: Perhaps, if you like, I can give you some lessons on how to sketch in the afternoons. Once you know how to use perspective effectively, your drawings won't be quite as flat as these.

C (flustered, and not a little bit annoyed at this observation): I …. Yeah, sure. Uh, thanks. (She will later regret her lack of intelligent replies and feel completely embarrassed about them.) I … uh …. Did you want anything else, Erik?

E: Yes. In fact, I did. (Walking around to where C is seated and kneeling on the floor; she tries to turn away, but is unsuccessful) I wish you would be happy, my love. (Taking her hands; she tries to suppress a shudder and pull her hands out of his, but fails, yet again. He ignores her actions. As always, his seeming obliviousness to things staring at him in the face–mask–irks her. He continues. She would like to state that his hands are huge and cold. Not the most confidence- or resistance-inspiring things) If only you would tell me what was bothering you this morning, I could help. Tell me, Christine ….

And that is about where my memory becomes weak. What happened was that he used his voice–the hypnotic one–and coaxed me to tell him what had so upset me earlier. I did, of course. It's a rare occasion when I don't give in to his requests when he uses that voice. I don't really remember his reaction to anything I said. Things only became clear when he stood up, wiped some tears that I don't remember falling off my cheek, and said, "Don't worry, Christine. Your Erik will take care of everything."

Your Erik. Those words never fail to send a shiver down my spine and every other clichéd place in my body. It reminds me far too much of his obsession, as if being here wasn't proof enough of that. I wonder what he meant by what he said. I hope to God that he doesn't make me forget somehow.

Speaking of which, I'd planned to write down all my memories here because of what happened this morning, so I guess I should start. I have a few hours before dinner, and I think he thinks he's assuaged his conscience enough for the day. Hopefully, there won't be more interruptions.

On to my life, then.

My name, as evidenced from above, is Christine. Christine Forster, to be precise (to borrow from the Thompson twins from Tintin. I loved that series). I was born some twenty odd years ago in a big city, where I stayed for the most part of my life. I might be twenty-one now, but I'm not too sure. My birthday was approaching around the time he brought me here, and I think it's been over half a year (half!) since then. Not knowing … it … doesn't bother me as much as it would have this time last year. I guess I've learnt to value different things now.

About my life…. Music has always been an important part of my life. My first memory is of my father playing the violin, with my mother crooning softly over me. According to all accounts (which I don't believe), I started singing before I could talk. Of course when I questioned the physical possibility of that, all I received in reply were indulgent smiles and knowing smirks. Typical of my family, really.

Ah. My family. There were four of us in all: my mum, my dad, my mum's mum and me. The best years of my life were the ones spent with them. We all loved each other and it was hard not to feel safe and warm in each other's company. (I think I grew up to be quite a brat with all of them indulging me whenever I demanded anything.) I wish more than anything that it could have lasted. It didn't, though. When I was eleven, Papa died. I don't want to go into those details. It still hurts.

It devastated all of us, especially Mama. She really loved him. With Papa gone, she just … faded, I guess you could call it. Nana took on the role of bringing me up after that. I love her more than anything for that. It took years for Mama to recover. By the time she did, though, the damage had already been done. With all my teenage angst and moods, I was not mature enough to realize I should have treasured each moment with her. I'd moved on with my life and couldn't understand why she was still stuck where she was. We still loved music, the two of us, but I craved the night music, not the light one she held in her heart.

Night music, you ask? I know now that was all Erik. But I don't want to talk about him yet. I want to remember little details of my old life.

I fell in love with classical music when I was around seven. Papa and I had gone on one of our 'bonding trips', as Mama called them, to this music function. It was just a string quartet: two violins, a viola, and a cello, but they introduced me to the world of Debussy, Haydn, Mozart, and Mendelssohn (the program is still preserved in a box back home). With that, I was hooked. My Sunday newspaper had a supplement called Musically Inclined that had a program guide for all musical events in the city for the upcoming week. The four of us would scour it for musical events regularly, and then try to clear our schedules so that we could all go together.

By the time I was eleven, we had collected a grand total of ninety-seven programs. We had even planned to fly to another city where a famous symphony orchestra was playing so that the hundredth one would be the best yet. That never happened. Papa …. Six weeks before that concert, we had to cancel our plans because Papa ….

I can't say it, or write it again.

After that happened, it hurt Mama too much to listen to music, so we stopped going to concerts. I didn't want to stop, though, because I was scared I'd forget Papa. I signed up for a singing class in school a few months later instead and discovered the world of librettos and vocal scores and sheet music and all the accompanying hoopla. Singing helped me move on and cope with a world that had seemed to collapse around me.

But I don't want to dwell on the bad moments. I know that will give you a very rosy picture of my not-so-rosy childhood, Isabella (I think it's a positive sign of madness that I've named a notebook. Excellent. The sooner I lose my sanity, the better. That might help me to cope better here.), but I've spent far too much time hiding those memories to bring them all up again.

There is one bad thing I remember clearly, though …. I wouldn't mention it if it weren't important to the development of this … narrative, I guess you could call it. It's not one of the things I want to forget.

I think I was thirteen or fourteen. I can't be sure anymore. There was a special course on advanced singing that I had signed up for through my singing class. It wasn't exactly going to teach us how to sing operas, but it planned to "broaden the young student's horizons by exposing them to new material and to yada, yada, yada." The usual stuff.

The classes were largely boring, and after all these months under his tutelage, I've come to realize that they were little more than fiascos. However, at the end of one of the classes, something good happened.

The professor, a certain Ms. Violet, asked me and a boy named Gary Something (I've forgotten his last name now) to stay back after class. There was going to be a Christmas Gala organized by a large music company and they wanted to showcase talent from local schools during the event.

I still remember her exact words: "Christine, Gary, I want you to sing a duet there. If you want to do it, get me parental permission by the end of the week and we'll begin practices." Both of us were thrilled and promised to get the required assent as soon as we could.

Everything seemed to move in a blur after that. I came home in a dazed sort of excitement. It hadn't really sunk in yet, and my senses seemed more alert than normal. I still associate the sight and smell of roasted jacket potatoes, with just a hint of butter-and-spices to flavor it, with the memories that day brings back. Mama was wearing a blue dress (her favorite) and seemed to have borrowed my body spray because I could smell it on her as I came in. She was watching TV. Nana had gone out to do some shopping, but she had left her bundle of knitting on the couch.

I moved cautiously. Mama tended to have 'moods', where she'd fluctuate between happiness and anger without warning.

"Ma?" I called softly.

She inclined her head in my direction and replied somewhat vacantly, "Yes, dear. What is it?"

"I have good news!"

Turning off the TV, she turned to face me fully. "You do? Come, sit here and tell me all about it." She plumped up the cushions and scooted over on the couch for me. "What is it about? Did you get your report card today?"

"Reports aren't due until Jan, Ma." She never managed to remember school dates.

"Then what is it?"

"Well, actually…," I began nervously. Mama was still unpredictable when it came to the subject of music. "… You know I have this music class, right?"

She nodded.

I was desperate to get her permission and the words just tumbled out of my mouth, one after the other, without a single pause. "There's going to be this Christmas Gala and it's organized by this huge music company and Ms. Violet–the professor, that is–well, she wants us–me and Gary–to sing there and it's a really big chance for me and I need your permission before I can go for it so will you sign the letter?"

I was so caught up in trying to say it with the right amount of restraint that I didn't catch the hints I should have seen from the beginning. At any rate, my hopes were crushed almost immediately with her reply.

"No."

"What? Why?" I almost yelled.

"I don't have to explain my reasons to you, young lady. Now go up to your room and finish your homework."

With that, she turned back to the TV and completely ignored all my rants about the unfairness and arbitrariness of it all. In the end, when I'd exhausted myself shouting at her, I stomped up to my room in a sullen fit and refused to emerge until much past my bedtime, when I sneaked down to eat some leftovers.

I don't remember what exactly I did or thought up there in my room, but I do know that I decided to do whatever I had to so that I could sing at that function.

It's odd, you know. I was able to write about Ma far easier than I was able to about him. I mean, I didn't have to resort to a silly discourse to show you what happened. That's an interesting thought to ponder on ….

And on that note, Isabella, I must leave you. It's nearing dinnertime now and I must find a good place to hide you so that he won't ever know you exist. I'll continue with the rest of this episode later. The important bit hasn't come yet.

Adios!