For the second day in a row, I was unconcerned about work. I was planning to go…eventually.
"Erik, I must see to my guests," Christine protested unconvincingly.
"Wait, I missed a spot."
"What?"
"I've located a spot I don't remember kissing; this must be remedied immediately." Once I'd seen to the neglected spot, I continued on my travels.
"Wait, you've kissed there before. I remember."
"You mean to say I should stop?"
"Yes; but not yet," she smiled.
When I got home, there were no buffaloes in the parlor, and Christine and Those Women joined us for dinner. It felt as though things would return to some semblance of normalcy. Gaston stopped by and regaled Reza and me with astounding tales of an Austrian doctor named Freud. The more I learn of the world, the less stomach I have for people calling me mad.
I headed upstairs fairly early, and was delighted to find Christine getting ready for bed. I took her hairbrush; I love to brush her hair.
"This is a pleasant surprise," I purred. I went for her neck, but collided with her hands, preparing to tie her hair up.
"Leave it down?" I suggested. She gave an odd little sigh which I noted; it was not until later that I realized its import. Neither did I notice that she was a bit quiet. I suspect I was focused on my agenda, but normally I am not so incautious. No, it took me until proceedings were somewhat underway, and I was not making the progress I had hoped for, that I realized that Christine was not particularly interested.
"Christine, is there any chance of your participation here?" I did not mean it to sound so snippy. Really.
"I'm sorry," she replied, somewhat unconvincingly. A bit more one-sided fumbling convinced me that it was definitely not on. When I ceased my efforts, she gave what can only be described as a sigh of relief; definitely not a fillip to my masculine pride.
I was certainly disappointed, but not worried that the honeymoon was over. I attributed it to the mysterious waxing and waning of feminine mood. I gave her a married-twenty-years type of kiss and settled down, convincing myself that a full night's sleep would do me good.
"Sleep well, Angel."
"Good night, Erik; sleep well."
I believe I actually dozed off.
"Erik?"
I jumped. "Hm? Christine? What is it?"
"I love you." She insinuated herself into my arms as if she'd awakened from a nightmare.
"Mmm, and I love you, Angel." I kissed her forehead and was just settling when she flipped away from me and onto her back.
"Christine—"
"Erik, a gentleman came to call today."
Uh-huh; here we go.
"Josette's brother. She's still not been found, Erik," she fretted. We passed a long moment; she turned her head and gazed at me expectantly.
"Christine, what is it you want from me?"
"He says he is certain she disappeared the night that..." she reached for me, changed her mind, wrung her hands. "The night you went back to work, remember? You said you had a few things to finish up."
I didn't have to feign anger. I was infuriated that she should question me as if I was a common thug.
"Alright, Christine. I killed her. Are you satisfied?"
"ERIK!" she shrieked, covering her ears.
"She came to see me. She wanted me to take her right there at work. I told her no; we arranged to meet later. When she came, I tormented her sexually and strangled her."
Christine burst into huge gasping sobs. "Stop! What's wrong with you? How can you make up such ghoulish things?" She leapt up to run off, but I grabbed her shoulders and shook her.
"How can you doubt me?" I hissed. "Everything I do is for you! I don't draw a breath without considering how it affects you!"
"Stop it! You're frightening me!" Her eyes were wild. How can she be afraid of me?
"Christine! When have I ever done anything to hurt you? When?"
"I don't know you when you're like this," she cried softly. "You're not my Erik."
I got up and threw my clothes on as Christine sat holding herself, rocking and crying. I turned to look at her one more time. Instead of breaking my heart, the grief on her face only made me angrier.
"And you're not my Christine. You're an ungrateful little brat!" The entire house shook when I slammed the door behind me.
I went under the ruined opera house and reclaimed my home from the rats. It was musty, disgusting; but it was fine for somewhere to sleep until I could get above and purchase some new things. Amazing what the slightest bit of human habitation will do to a place.
I was determined I was not going back; no. I intended to stoke the boilers of my fury as long as I could. Better to be enraged than to miss her. She would have to come to me, and beg, and apologize for ever doubting me. Any other woman would be over the moon to learn that she inspired such slavish devotion in a man as Christine inspires in me. I've never balked or hesitated; never given a thought for my immortal soul—not that I would. I don't expect gratitude; I don't keep a tally of all I've done for her; it was done for love. But she wants to apply her trite, conventional Catholic morality to it!
Fine; so I murdered that perverse madwoman. I also murdered Buquet, and I would have done Carlotta had she continued to stand in Christine's way; so what? He was a drunkard and a lecher; she, a noisemaker and general nuisance.
I have done a few murders in my day; well before Christine came along, and I find that people make too much of it. When you live on the fringe of humanity as I do, you gain the advantage of a unique perspective on this question of human life. People in the thick of daily life lack objectivity about it, but the fact is that most of my fellow humans barely merit the term. Who says animals are inferior? For example, the rats in my home coexist happily; they don't abuse or hate or kill willy-nilly. They don't mistreat some poor rat unfortunate enough to be born with a short tail or a misshapen ear; no. He smells like a rat, acts like a rat, and they accept him. They eat, sleep, make little rats, eventually die; all very peaceful. Oh, there is the odd argument over a particularly alluring girl rat, but they don't find it necessary to kill each other over her. They are all good, decent rats; you cannot say 'See that skinny brown fellow over there: that is a selfish, hateful, ungenerous, substandard rat.'
Humans cannot get along so well. Most don't deserve their lives anyway. If they're snuffed out it's a blessing, a boon to the rest of us; whether people are honest enough to admit it or not. I have killed no one who deserved to live.
My Persian friend found his way down to me after several days. I was still in a bit of a snit.
"Look at you, sitting cross-legged on the floor gnawing on chicken bones like a savage."
"How is Christine?" I passed him my bottle.
"Erik, I love you, but not your backwash; thanks," he declined candidly.
"Go on then, Daroga, you know where the cellar is. There's still plenty in there; help yourself."
He returned quickly with a Merlot.
"She is distressed, as you might expect."
"Hunh." I tossed the bones away for my rodent friends and wiped greasy fingers on my trousers. I always go through this slovenly phase when Christine and I are on the outs.
"Don't grunt at me, you heathen. When are you coming home?"
"I am home, you stupid old man. Look around you. Cave: troll. See?"
"And what about the lady?" he reminded me mildly.
"Take her."
"Would that it was so simple," he chuckled.
"I'm through with her. She throws my devotion back in my face; how can she question my motives? She utterly fails to appreciate me—I'm not saying I'm a saint, but I'm damn good to her, Reza!"
"I agree."
"If she wants to see me again, I expect an apology. I let her go with her little prince; I didn't go chasing after her! No: she came after me. 'Oh, I'm sorry I kicked your guts in four months ago, Erik; now I'm back and I want to play house. I'll move in with you and your friend, and I'll start stirring up trouble with the women of Paris, and I'll want to be on top when we do it; and I expect you to be accepting of all this. But, Erik dear, I still want to be able to dictate when it's alright for you to be different, and when I want you to be just like everyone else!' She told me I frighten her! ME! Frighten her—do you have any idea how that wounded me?"
I sighed. "Ah, Daroga, you don't need to be in the middle of this. Let's discuss something else."
"I'm already in the middle of it; I care for you both." Finally, he added, "Christine told me what this is about."
"Oh, and she sent you to get at the truth, did she?" I retorted.
"You know me better than that, even if Christine does not." His gaze was steady and dispassionate. He knew.
"Do you really not intend to come back?"
"Not if she can't appreciate me and accept me as I am!"
"She is having a difficult time of it right now, Erik."
"So am I; I don't want to hear about it. She'll go on, you know; she'll get over this and have a new lover the minute she decides she wants one. For me, there is no one else," I reminded him.
"I know how you feel about her. But I don't believe she considers you so easily replaceable, either."
"Well, she knows where I am."
"I'll tell her."
"I'll steal in one night and collect some clothes—"
"No," Reza interrupted. "Don't start talking to me about disposing of your things. I'm still holding out hope that you two arrive at a solution. I don't suppose you're interested in sending a conciliatory message back with me?"
"No."
"No meeting halfway, hm?"
"I don't see her coming halfway; do you?" I grumbled.
"Someone has to be first, Erik."
"What do you want from me, Daroga?"
"Nothing…shall I tell her you love her, at least?"
"She knows that."
"I could pick up some flowers—"
"Stop it, and get out."