The Mask and Mirror
Chapter 15
She walked very slowly, her footsteps causing the faintest hint of an echo to resound against the stone walls. There were no windows so far beneath the earth, but somehow she knew it was night by the overwhelming nocturnal silence and hushed stillness. Not even the faintest ripple disturbed the mirror-like surface of the lake, smooth and cold as the facet of a jewel. She turned away from its chill beauty that stood between her and the world above and half in longing, half horror, moved onward like one in a trance. The sight of the organ shrouded in shadow, the dimly burning candles, the ornate velvets made her think she was in Church.
In the presence of an angel.
It was another one of her illusions that had died. So much of the naïve ingénue had been stripped away that the young girl who had arrived at the Opera House, her heart wrung with pain of loss, seemed part of another life.
But aren't some things worth the pain?
His voice came back to her, and she saw again the expression on his upturned face. The agony and the hope.
Not like this.
She found at last what she sought – the once magnificently tasselled edges of the drapery bore marks of fire, the fabric was torn in places – but behind, there was the bust she had caught a fleeting glimpse of. The gold-wrought angel was of a design similar to those that once encircled the Opera stage, but had presumably been rejected as a flawed piece. The face, though elaborately carved, was distinctive in its lack of symmetry; one eye was larger than the other, the mouth was uneven and there was a dullness over the face as a whole, as though the metal used had been merely dross. Yet its very imperfection touched her deeply. The metal was cold and smooth to her tentative fingers. This was something real.
Christine dropped to her knees, and raising her head, looked at the angel before her.
Can God exist in this terrible place?
The immobile face seemed weighted with immeasurable sadness; she almost believed it could have wept tears of gold. Her lips moved in soundless prayer.
Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name,
Thy Kingdom come,
thy will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven
Give us this day our daily bread
and forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us –
Christine's hands, clasped in a pious childlike gesture, tightened perceptibly, white knuckles visible beneath the skin.
What am I?
Am I the sinner or the sinned against?
Again, she heard Erik's voice in her head, speaking with cold accusation. At least I am honest in what I want, and don't play with the hopes of others. Are you able to say the same?
She tried to tell herself he had not meant it. He had only been saying it to hurt her. But she couldn't lie to herself. Everyone surrounding her had been so violent in their condemnation of Erik that her own actions had been passed by unquestioned. No one had challenged her, until today. Had she really been selfish? Had she knowingly chained Erik to her by never rejecting him completely? Was this the reason for her own misery and the misery of those around her?
Erik apparently thought so.
It's me, she thought in dismay. This all happened because of me. Christine looked down and realised she had been clenching her hands, so tightly that her fingers had become numbed. She unfurled them in an attempt to restore warmth and life. Whatever choice she made, it seemed to be the wrong one. She had never felt so lost, or in need of guidance as she did now. Once again, she tried to picture herself in church, using her imagination to endow the bare walls with statues of saints and the Stations of the Cross. But the images would not come. All she saw was the wreckage and destruction, a testament to the knowledge that something awful had happened here.
She could remember only one time in her life when she had tried to reach out to God and failed. The aftermath of her father's death. It all came back to her so clearly; the long cold nights spent crouching on her floor with no more tears left to cry, faced with the bleak and terrifying emptiness of life that went on. Madame Giry was stern and frightened her. There was no comfort for a scared little girl who had lost her world, and no one would tell her why. Christine felt a sense of faintness overcome her as past and present blurred. Am I a terrible person? Is that why God won't come? I wait, every night I wait, but there is nothing beyond. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. That's what they said at the funeral.
That was what they said when they lowered her father into the earth.
That was what she had resigned herself to believe.
That was until the night an angel had appeared, and restored her faltering faith.
Christine stood up shakily, mouth pressed in a thin white line. She would not think about that now. The old betrayal still hurt. Was there anyone she could trust? The answer came to her at once, and she was overcome by a sudden longing for Raoul so intense it seemed a living thing inside her chest.
Christine stood up and made her way like a sleepwalker towards the table. Before she could even think about what she was doing, she had taken hold of a pen and a blank piece of paper, and sat down very abruptly on the cold floor. There was only one thought going round and round inside her head. Talk to Raoul. Even now, after all these months, her first instinct was to go to her to her childhood friend and love. She tried to visualise the loving familiarity of his face, little of the boy left except if it was in the open warmth and trust that was unchanged from their childhood. Hardship had not warped it, grief had not marred it. He was the one constant in her life, and just knowing he would always be unfailingly, unchangingly Raoul brought her both comfort and indescribable pain.
The night they argued. She had never thought to see such an expression in his eyes – such haunted despair.
It's impossible to come out of any such experience entirely unscathed, he had said.
No. I will never change, she told herself fiercely. Whatever happens, I will not let myself become anything other than what I am. I will always be the same. And how I feel about you will always be the same.
She lay shivering against the cold flagstones. The blank sheet of paper in front of her blurred before her eyes, and in a daze her shaking fingers took hold of the pen. Suddenly, frantically, urgently, she began to write. Painfully buried thoughts rose in her mind and poured onto the paper in unsteady confusion. She wrote until her wrist ached and her head was throbbing with sharp, piercing pains. Damp curls fell over her face, blinding her, preventing her from reading her own confessions.
By the time she had finished and the pen had clattered from her cramped fingers, she felt sickened and drained. Time passed only in the beating of her heart. When the cold finally became too much to bear, Christine eased herself upright and a single glance informed her the paper was filled; her usually neat slanting hand small and cramped.
Oh Raoul, she thought wildly. What am I doing here?
In a mechanical action borne of habit, Christine folded the piece of paper and began to cast her eyes around for an envelope before realising the futility of such an act. What was she hoping to do with it? Give it to Erik to deliver? Did she think he would just obligingly send it to Raoul for her?
Then again, it was the least he could do considering what she had given up to help him.
She sifted through the contents on the desk, recalling that the last time she had done this she had inadvertently unearthed a stack of Erik's letters. And look where that got you, she reminded herself grimly. Erik's residence hadn't exactly been tidy at the best of times, more of a sprawling antiquated disorder, but in light of the recent damage, trying to find something as innocuous as a stack of envelopes was well nigh impossible. Not to mention a seal… Christine recalled the letters sent by Opera Ghost, chillingly sealed with a blood coloured death's head, and felt her skin crawl. Still, the fire couldn't have destroyed everything –
"A little early for a spring clean, don't you think?"
Christine was certain her heart leapt out of her body in shock. With a muffled gasp, she spun round and found Erik stood behind her, dressed only in a pair of trousers and a loose shirt – had she ever seen him sleep? – and didn't fail to notice the rope he was trying his best to conceal. He followed the direction of her gaze, and, seeing the game was up, displayed the noose in front of her with an almost gleeful flourish. "Occupational hazard of being a Ghost, I'm afraid." He gave a macabre smile. "I tend to have problems with… uninvited guests."
Her heart still hammering in her chest, Christine didn't quite find herself up to the task of reprimanding him for his 'kill first, ask questions later' policy. Not to mention, she had never seen a man other than Raoul in such a state of undress before. She tried to look everywhere that wasn't his half open shirt. "Erik, it's – it's the middle of night."
A faint smile quirked the corner of his mouth as he regarded her curiously. "I could say the same to you. What were you doing?"
She knew that, ironic as it was, the one thing Erik couldn't take from her was a lie. And she didn't intend to deceive him, even when a comforting lie would have been easier than the truth. Her grip tightened on the paper in her hand. I hope I know what I'm doing. "I… wanted to ask you to do something for me."
"What?"
She hesitated, but only for a moment. "I want you to deliver a letter."
The forgotten rope slid unheeded to the floor, where it lay coiled, snake-like. Otherwise, only a slight tensing of the shoulders betrayed Erik's reaction. His voice was careful and guarded. "A letter? And who would you be writing to?"
Christine just looked at him.
"To him." He looked away, his normally expressive eyes flat and dark. But there was a pulse beating rapidly in his throat that was visible where the shirt collars fell away from his neck. "Of course him."
"Yes," she said softly. "Erik – I have to."
"You have to? Ah, I understand now. You say you'll come with me to placate me, while all the while waiting to be saved." He looked around with an elaborate pretence of concern and turned back to her mockingly. "Well, it's been a while and I don't see your white knight coming to the rescue."
Christine ignored the callous remark, and the pang of despair it struck deep in her chest.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked bluntly.
The question had caught him off guard; she saw that at once, in the little jerk of his chin, and the sharp glance he threw her. Then his half-face smoothed out, and he said coolly, "I think it best for the moment that you don't know."
Her eyes met his, bright, accusing. "You're afraid I'll run away."
"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."
Despair was being corroded with the sting of bitterness. "So you don't trust me."
"You did try to leave before," he pointed out.
She released a breath of frustration. "That was before I –" Christine swallowed and continued in a slightly calmer vein. "I've already explained that to you. I'm not going to try and justify my actions again."
She knew she was asking a lot of him. But then, he was asking a lot of her. His narrowed gaze was fixed on the piece of paper in her hand, and a bitter part-smile was playing around his mouth.
"So what did you write?" By now, she recognised the anger the seemingly offhand tone sought to disguise. "An elaborate account of your maltreatment? A description of how best to navigate the Parisian tunnels to find you? Or did you perhaps tell him –"
"Tell him what? I don't even know where we're going, or for how long. You've been very good at keeping me in the dark, Erik! I am taking a lot on faith. Do you want me to prove it?" In a gesture of uncommon aggression, she thrust the letter towards him, almost slamming it against his chest. "There," she said, her voice shaking. "Read it. If you don't believe me, read it in front of me. Go on."
Erik stared at the folded piece of paper hovering a hair's breadth from him. Overwhelming curiosity was almost enough to make him snatch it up and examine it at once, but the sight of Christine stopped him. Her eyes were fixed on him, darkened with anger, and she was white to the lips. With a sinking feeling, he knew that if he took the letter from her now, it would prove beyond a doubt that he didn't trust her. And, after all, he hardly had the right to accuse her of being untrustworthy, considering his past actions.
"Alright," he said. "Alright – I believe you. You don't need to get angry to make your point."
She relaxed visibly, and he could almost see the frustration and anger draining from her. Christine had never been able to hold on to her anger. It was a part of what made her so compassionate. "So you'll send it?" she said, and although she was speaking calmly, he could still sense the eagerness beneath the surface. What could he say? Could he refuse in any way without her thinking him completely despicable?
"Yes. I'll send it," he said, a little stiffly.
For a moment, he wondered if Christine was going to throw her arms around him (and surely he could say he'd earned that small reward?) but she didn't. Instead, she drew closer to him and took his large hands, holding them between her slender white ones. A hard shudder passed through him at her cold and earnest grip. He looked down at her, suddenly acutely conscious of the way her dark curls clung to her neckline, the beat of the pulse in her throat and the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin shift she wore.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "It means a lot."
Erik nodded tightly, unable to speak through the emotions crowding his throat. Her felt her solemn brown eyes on him and saw her half parted lips, and recalled the one time in his life she had ever kissed him. The memory was seared onto his mind like a brand; the insistent pressure of her body drenched in water and arching against his, the trembling feel of her lips and the shaky half whispers into his mouth…
Erik realised with a start how tightly he was gripping her hands and released her quickly.
"Give me the letter," he said gruffly. "I'll deliver it now, before I…" His voice trailed off.
She handed the paper over without a word, raising her eyebrows in slight question.
Erik strode away, high colour flaming his cheeks. He wondered what he had been on the verge of saying. Before I what? Change my mind? Do the unthinkable and kiss her? The very thought set his nerve-endings on fire. He snatched up an envelope for something to occupy his shaking hands with, not daring to follow that train of thought to its conclusion. Empty dreams, he told himself sternly. Never going to happen. But still, she had touched him of her own volition. And that at least was something.
He had once been everything to her. Alive to every thought and prayer and hope and dream. It had been so much more than just coaching her voice. He was not only a teacher, but a confidant and friend. She had shared everything with him.
And now?
Her innermost thoughts were sealed away in an envelope for another to read.
Erik passed the oars through the water with swift, rapid strokes, his mind unable to drag itself away from the letter buried within the folds of his cloak. Questions were teeming through him, as many and varied as the ripples his motions were causing across the lake. Had she written about him at all? And if so, what would she have said? Condemned him as the author of all her misery?
It was forbidden fruit. Or madness, perhaps. To throw away any sense of honour or decency just when she was beginning to trust him; to lose all this – for what?
To know. To know – one way or the other.
When Erik had been fourteen years old, a gypsy had once asked him if he wished to know the day he would die. He had said yes. Then the gypsy laughed and said that no one could know that, because to know death was to know the limitations of what your own lifetime could hold.
No one deserves to have the shadow of a single day hanging over their existence. Not even you, scarface.
But if it's coming anyway – better to know, isn't it? Then you can be resigned for it. Better than the uncertainty, the waiting.
He felt the same way now. And if Christine already hated him, there seemed to be no point in dragging out his own torture. It took a self-will far stronger than his to resist such an opportunity. Besides, what Christine didn't know wouldn't hurt her. He shook away the image of her entreating face, her hands soft and firm against his own. It means a lot. He could stop. Stop all this right now, and escape with his integrity intact. Temptation resisted. But pulling away from her earlier seemed to have drained him of the remains of his willpower; either that, or he really was as awful a person as everyone seemed to think he was.
Pulling the oars into the boat and resting them across one of the seats, Erik pulled out the letter, running a finger across the envelope, fleeting sense of morality battling with what could be perhaps the only opportunity to discover what Christine really thought of him. Curiosity inevitably won. He had known what he was going to do, had probably known it the moment he agreed to take the letter from her. To pretend anything else was sheer hypocrisy. Breaking the seal (resealing the envelope would not be a problem once in the city) he pulled the sheet of paper out and unfolded it, excitement unfurling in the pit of his stomach. Burning with curiosity, he began to read.
I hardly know what to say. My hand keeps trembling and I'm unsure how to begin. Why can't I write? Why can't I write? I have so many things I want to tell you but I can't find the words. But this may be the last chance – no. I will not think it. I must be brave.
I am – Raoul, I am with Erik! Perhaps you guessed it already, but he has found me again. Does this surprise you? Or did you too sense that our lives were not fully our own with his shadow ever between us? Please don't fear for me, he hasn't harmed me in any way. I am quite well. I have everything here I need; he has seen I want for nothing, and – oh Raoul! I cannot lie to you. I am not well. If only I could tell you how I really felt. Everything here is dark and confusing and violent, and I don't know what to think of anything. One moment I am half faint from terror, the next, my heart is so wrung with pity I feel I must surely bleed to death from it. I believe it is the thought of you alone that keeps me sane. Oh Raoul, I am so cold and lonely and afraid! He's taking me somewhere – he has not told me where, and I fear to ask. Yet a part of me feels obligation bound. The torment in his face is more effective than any persuasion or threats on his part. I've seen hell, Raoul, and it's in his eyes. It's as though a part of me can't rest until it's done.
I tried to pray tonight, but the words wouldn't come. I think God has abandoned this place.
Do you remember when we used to lie on the sands at twilight and wait for the ship to come and take the souls of lost children? The ship has come at last – but I never thought I would step onto it alone. If you try to follow me he will kill you, do you understand that? And I think I should die if I lost you.
I love you, dearest – if only you knew how much. It has and always will be you.I only ask that you find it in your heart to forgive me and relieve the conscience of your poor, suffering, helpless one. I will come back to you and I pray to God it will be soon, but I fear something terrible is going to happen. I can't sleep. I close my eyes and all I see is him. He's haunting me.
Goodbye, Raoul! Goodbye, and think of
Your broken hearted,
Christine
He slowly lowered the piece of paper, feeling ill. Dry eyed and silent, he stared across the surface of the lake. The motion of the boat had faintly disturbed the water, waves pooling outward in ripples of oily green and black. Erik felt as though he were drowning in them. Occasional shafts of light slanted through cracks in the stonework, illuminating the subterranean cavern with iridescent gleams and stopping just short of penetrating the depths of cloying water. He wondered what it would be like to remain under there forever. Nothing but the dark weight of sunless depths pressing against his eyes, ears and throat in silence and oblivion.
There were worse things, Erik reflected, than not being able to feel.
Darkness was bleeding into his vision and he imagined himself falling forward, barely making a splash as the water closed over his head. Shivering, he pulled the edges of his cloak further around himself as he huddled deeper into the shadows of the boat, as though by doing so, he could hide himself from the world, from Christine, from his own foolish presumption. But his eyes were unwillingly drawn back to the letter, and each reading was like a laceration to the heart.
I love you.
It has and always will be you.
The words wavered before his eyes. The letter didn't say anything he hadn't already known – yet it changed everything. All those times he had spoken to her in sarcasm and despair, his every word conveying that same message that never needed to be said aloud, I know you'll never love me.
But you always hoped, whispered a voice at the back of his mind. You never stopped hoping. You've been waiting and hoping from the moment you saw her that cold winters night standing in the street.
Erik cast his mind back to the memory of Christine under a pale moon and a black sky strewn with stars. The whole of Paris was frozen. And her lonely figure still as a carven statue, the tears of ice on her face and her dark curls coming loose from her veil. The image struck him as vividly now as it had then. She could not have known how long he watched her in secret, his heart breaking. She had looked so alone.
But she wasn't alone, the voice insisted. She'll never be alone. Her life is full of love and from people far more worthy than you. Do you really think she needs you?
She would never know what it was like. How could she? Christine would always have those who would care for her, for such people inspired love instinctively. So what mattered his words of endless devotion compared to the countless others who must have said the same thing? His heart was choked with bitterness. He had said to Christine that the worst thing in the world was hating the person you loved most. Especially when you realised that that same person you lived and breathed and burned for could quite happily live without you.
It would be easy to blame her. One thing he had learned in his long life was that it was far easier to hate someone else than to hate yourself. To think that Christine could be so callously cruel! She must have known he would read such a letter. But the conviction died as quickly as it had come. Christine didn't think like that. She believed so steadfastly in the sanctity of a promise, even from someone like him, that she would no more consider his betrayal of her trust than she would have all those years ago, when she unquestioningly accepted the visitations of an angel. He had only his own immorality to blame.
Shrugging off the confines of his cloak that slid from his shoulders like black oil, Erik stood upright, the letter clenched tightly in his hand. The oars lay across the seat unmoving as the boat remained stationary, barely disturbed by the faintest eddying of dark water. He felt bound in place, his unwillingness like an unplucked rose rooted in centuries of earth. Christine. His rose without a thorn. Almost blinded by her sheer determination to believe in abstract concepts of redemption and hope and the goodness in everyone. She had no idea what she did, entrusting him with a letter pouring out her heart's devotion to someone who wasn't him. Yet there was no room in his heart to summon anger. He was calm with despair.
Over and over again, Erik pictured himself picking up the oars and rowing across the lake, passing through the Rue Scribe entrance and into the streets of Paris to post the letter…
… And each imagining brought him back here to the boat where each passing second delayed the inevitable –
Who said it was inevitable?
The thought seemed to come almost from outside himself, sharp as a needlepoint in its direct lucidity. With a steadiness of movement borne of cold resignation, Erik held his hand out, palm facing upwards, the piece of paper resting flat with shadows flickering across its surface. Looking closer, he could discern what might have been tear-tracks blurring the ink in places. The sight of it gripped his heart as he remained standing, lifting his head to stare over the edge of the boat. The surface of the lake was still and silent, black as obsidian.
For a fleeting instant, a faint prickling of his conscience caused him to hesitate.
She would hate you for this.
He crumpled the sheet in his hand bitterly.
It doesn't matter, he thought. Nothing matters anymore.
He opened out his hand and the paper slid through his fingers, fluttering slowly in its path of descent before settling gently on the water. Erik stood by and watched it float away.