"And what do you think? She said, 'I'm a mother now, I don't want to go back to the opera!'"
I was telling Reza about Christine's absurd declaration.
"As I recall, your original design for Christine having a child was that she would stay home."
"No: it was that she would stop the women's rights nonsense. I never intended that she would stop singing; it never even occurred to me."
"It's only normal for a woman to want to stay with her child, Erik. It doesn't seem right for you to expect her to return to work. After all, it's not as if you need the money."
"Did she put you up to this, Reza? Tell me!" I demanded.
"Erik! Calm down! Of course not; she didn't put me up to anything."
"Are you sure? That's just what she said, that she didn't have to work because she doesn't need money."
"Well, my friend, for what it's worth, I don't think you're being realistic. You wanted her to be a good little…wife…Now she wants to be just that, and you won't allow it."
"What do you know?" I snarled.
"Why is it so important to you that she returns to the opera?" he asked, like a damn fool.
"Should a voice like Christine's go to waste? Go unheard? Be used for nothing but lullabies and bedtime stories?"
"What's wrong with that, if it makes her happy? I thought you loved her."
"Of course I love her! What the devil do you mean by that?"
"It seems to me that if you want her to be happy, you won't press her into doing what she no longer wishes to do, and you'll let her be a mother."
"It seems to me that if she wants me to be happy, she'll sing for me!" I countered. I threw my hands up. "It's useless talking to you. You don't know anything about women."
"I'm sorry, Casanova. I forgot who I was speaking with," he smirked.
"Very funny. You don't understand what it's like for a man to give his whole life to a woman and have her throw it back in his face!"
"What are we talking about now, Erik? I thought we were talking about Christine singing at the opera!"
"We are! Didn't I give her my music, teach her, guide her, nurture her voice? What was that if it wasn't love?"
"It was a lonely bachelor in the basement, that's what," he chuckled.
"That's uncalled for. You're precious close to insulting the mother of my son; a beautiful and brilliant child, I might remind you!" I was hot.
"I mean no disrespect to Christine or Masson. You know I love them dearly! Good heavens, what's become of your sense of humor?"
"I have a headache. It's hard to find humor in the world when you're suffering as I am," I complained, collapsing on the sofa.
"Truly, you are a tortured genius, Erik."
"Stop patronizing me. You have no idea."
"Well then, if you'll excuse me, I'll change the subject. Darius and Anci will be married the end of the month. I'd like to send them off on a nice wedding trip; do you think we can muddle through, or shall I see about temporary help?"
"Muddle through without Darius? For how long?"
"I don't know; four weeks or so, I should think?" he shrugged.
"Horrors; our own cooking and marketing and laundering? We all but starve when he takes one whole day off."
"Right," Reza agreed. "I'll see about an ad in L'Epoque."
Suddenly, I had a flash of inspiration.
"Reza! Maybe I should take Christine off on a trip."
"What's that?"
"You know, a proper romantic holiday. I know she likes the sea shore," I mused.
"Erik, that is a lovely idea! I'm proud of you!"
"Indeed. Perhaps she'd come home rejuvenated and ready to go back to work."
Reza sighed. "Did I say I was proud of you? You're hopeless."
Masson stormed in, Christine close behind. He was wearing my cape and was brandishing a sword which looked rather like a spoon to a casual observer.
"HAAAA!"
"Masson, you'll have to duel with Uncle Reza. Mama has to go sing now," Christine sighed softly. She looked subdued and resigned, and would not look at me. I cannot bear it when Christine will not look at me. It affects me out of all proportion, and I feel…ugly.
"Come along, D'Artagnan, let's see if I can find a sword with which to defend myself!" Reza laughed. Beaming, Masson ran off; Christine's moist eyes followed him down the hallway. I took her hand and led her upstairs.
I sat at the piano and turned to Christine. "Come, Angel, you look as if you're awaiting the guillotine. It's not as bad as all that." I went to her and took her into my arms. I kissed her forehead and Christine clutched at my arms.
"Erik, please don't make me do this. I'm afraid what will happen to us if you force me," she whispered.
"What will happen to us if you refuse me? Christine, don't you remember what it was like? How much you loved it; how much you wanted it?"
"But so much has happened since then! I'm not that little girl anymore; can't you realize that?"
I turned from her and her words. I could scarcely breathe for the weight on my chest. "No, don't say that. You're still my little girl!"
How can I explain it to Christine if she doesn't understand? How can she not understand? What is there for us if we don't have music? Who shall I be if she's no longer my little girl? Why would she need me if she doesn't want to sing anymore?
I felt Christine's arms slip around my waist, her cheek against my back.
"What is it, Erik?" she whispered. "What's worrying my dear love?"
I broke free of her embrace. "SING, DAMN YOU!" I bellowed. Christine squealed, cringing and ducking at the blast of ferocity I had unleashed upon her. "Or shall I find someone else to give my music to, you ungrateful baggage!"
"Oh, God, Erik…" she moaned. She leapt to her feet and dashed from the room.