Dear Journal,
Just as yesterday I was questioning my own sanity, today I find myself questioning everybody else's.
Mamma Valerius poured some tea and watched Christine out of the corner of her eye as the girl bustled about the kitchen making breakfast. Mamma probably could have insisted on making breakfast herself as she did most mornings, but Christine would have argued and the whole morning would have been ruined. Besides, Christine seemed to enjoy doing these little things to help take care of her surrogate mother and, lately, she seemed more at ease when she was keeping busy. Mamma smiled. She is such a good girl.
The tea and the breakfast arrived at the table at the same time. As they sat down to eat, Mamma noticed Christine looking intently into her tea and avoiding eye contact.
"Is there something wrong with your tea, dear, or is there something troubling you?"
"Mamma," she started, "Do you remember the stories my father used to tell about the Angel of Music?"
I spoke about my strange encounter to Mamma Valerius. She responded as if it were perfectly natural for one to go about speaking with angels.
"Oh! Of course I do dear!" the woman exclaimed delightedly. She clapped her hands together, thinking fondly of her time in Perros-Guirec, listening to story time with the father and daughter.
Christine looked up briefly and smiled sadly, but she did not reflect the same enthusiasm to the memory as the older woman across from her. She seemed distracted.
"I met someone the other day. Well, I sort of met someone… I heard someone anyway. In my dressing room… it was the voice of a man claiming to be the Angel of Music that father promised to send me."
Mamma's eyes went wide.
"The Angel came to you?" she asked with wonder.
"I didn't say that," Christine sighed, "I said I heard a man who claimed to be the Angel."
"Well of course it's the Angel, child! Who else would it be?"
How should I have responded to that? She seemed surprised that I would even question the experience.
"I don't know… a prankster? A lunatic? For all I know it could have been the Devil Himself… I'm just not convinced it was the Angel of Music."
"Nonsense, child. You are much to simple a girl for the devil to have a hold on you!"
Thanks, Mamma. Thank you for that.
Christine knew that Mamma was trying to be reasonable. She had no idea that the old woman actually believed the stories. She just assumed she had pretended to go along with the fantasy so not to spoil Christine's childish hopes. However, now she was beginning to realize that Mamma truly did believe in angels… she believed in them with all her heart… so much that the concept that this would all be a falsehood was inconceivable to her.
I am very worried about Mamma. She is not well. I am a little overwhelmed with everything and I'm not exactly sure what to do.
Mamma Valerius paused for a moment, her finger to her mouth in a thoughtful expression.
Then, as if remembering something of great importance, she said, "You know who you should talk to about this? Christine. She has heard all about the Angel of Music. You should tell her about your experience and see what she has to say."
"Mamma?"
To make matters worse, she insists on having her lady friends over for tea twice a week. They used to take turns visiting each others homes, but, since Mamma has been too unwell to go out, they seem perfectly content to make camp in our sitting room. Usually, I don't mind. But, today, I seemed to be the hot-topic of conversation.
Christine curtsied and smiled politely as the women filed into the parlor. She mused about how each woman seemed to be wearing more feathers than the last. "Bird" must be the style this year. She smirked slightly when she considered that the group strongly resembled a brood of old hens.
After collecting the ladies' hats and cloaks, she set about serving the afternoon tea. The women all cooed and fussed over her--asking about her career, her singing, any new suitors--they adored Christine. She often thought that Mamma's social group was akin to having a dozen grandmothers.
I would have preferred they stayed away from the "Angel of Music" topic. You'd think that Mamma would have forgotten about that--goodness, she's forgotten my name three times today! But, alas, I would not be so lucky.
"You know," Mamma said matter-of-factly, "Christine here has a new tutor."
"Ooh," "Ah," "Wonderful!" they clucked
"Yes, she has been visited by the Angel of Music, and he has decided to instruct her."
"Mamma…" Christine began, blushing furiously. She was worried Mamma was going to embarrass herself if she continued this talk of angels.
However, she was surprised when none of the ladies seemed to bat an eye at Mamma's offhand declaration of heavenly revelation. They all continued along the new direction of conversation, chatting happily about how exciting it was that an angel would visit their Christine.
Even if I could accept Mamma's reaction to my news, I still never expected all of the other women to take it so casually.
Oh, Lucie, I love your new hat! Marie, how is your cousin in England? I heard Martine has been under-the-weather lately. Christine was just visited by a Messenger of God who has decided to give her singing lessons. Would you like sugar in your tea?
It was a little like that.
So, as I was saying, I am beginning to question the mental stability of just about everyone I know. Lets take an inventory:
--1 voyeuristic stalker-turned-tutor who claims to be the Angel of Music
--1 dear old lady who believes it
--8 more old ladies who agree
--Countless singers and dancers at the opera who are far too absorbed in the mischief of an Opera Ghost to even worry about me and my angel-problems.
--Oh, and 1 well-meaning priest who thinks I should have more faith.
Christine twisted her fingers in her necklace. The necklace that held the two items she held most dear--her mother's crucifix and her father's wedding ring. She had gone to confession that afternoon, hoping to get some advice from the priest. She had spent the last hour telling him about everything that had happened with the strange voice. Now she glanced around nervously and shifted in her seat as she awaited his response.
"My child, you need to put your faith in God in this matter, as in all matters."
What in hell is that supposed to mean? She took a deep breath and looked at him quizzically, "Are you saying that you think this is an angel too?" she asked incredulously.
"What I am saying, child, is that God works in mysterious ways."
Oh, well that clears it all up then, doesn't it? Stop being so evasive and give me some advice!
"Father," she started, trying to keep a respectful tone of voice, "what is it that I should do?"
"Pray, my child. Seek God's guidance and trust your heart."
"Thank you, Father, I'll do that." Yes, thanks for nothing. Am I the only one who doesn't find any of this strange?
And, for some reason, everyone seems to think it is me who is being foolish.
Has the whole world gone mad? I hope not, but I would not be surprised.
As Christine sat at her desk in her room, brows knitted together in an expression of deep though, journaling about her day, two cat-like eyes watched her from the darkness.
When he had first ventured away from his comfortable cellar and into the outdoors, he had berated himself for his weakness. Have a little control, man. You will see her again soon enough. Can't you wait until Monday? Knowing this mental debate would be fruitless, he shrugged and snatched up his cloak.
He knew the way to her house; the memory--as with everything concerning her--was emblazoned on his very soul. He smiled fondly as he watched her bite her lower lip and scribble something else into the little book. She is adorable. Everything she does is lovely.
As she bent over pages, a strand of soft, blond hair fell into her face. He reached out toward the window, touching the glass, and wishing he could brush it back for her… he would sweep it behind her ear… gently caressing that smooth skin… hand lingering at her jaw… so close…
Enough! He told himself. No good will come from this. Go home. You must be patient. You will see her again. She will be yours soon enough. His eyes flashed at the thought. My Christine…
The truly disturbing part about this recent awareness is that it severely limits who I can turn to about this… if there is anyone.
Yours truly,
Christine
