Chapter Four: Sweet Deception

Christine ran her fingers along the edges of what had once been a beautiful mahogany dresser in her old dressing room. The wood, once a rich russet brown, was now a sickly charcoal gray splattered with large puddles of wax beneath the slightly misshapen silver candelabras The mirrors around the vanity appeared as though they had been smashed, cracked and shattered from the intensity of the flames, though the full-length mirror remained intact. The massive bouquets of fresh-cut flowers that had previously adorned the room had been reduced to heaps of ashes, making the crystal vases look more like funeral urns. Here and there, a few flowers had managed to survive the ordeal, though in reality they no longer resembled what they had once been, their stems brittle and brown, their petals blackened and shriveled.

But wait! There was one that looked as though it had just been picked, as if the fire had not touched it at all. Curious, Christine picked it up. It was a red rose with a black ribbon tied around it. He had been expecting her! Glancing around the room, she spotted another rose, this time at the foot of the mirror. Walking over, she carefully picked it up and slid the glass to the side, peering inside timidly. Spider webs were draped from the ceiling and walls like silver satin, their eight-legged seamstress sitting patiently in the dark recesses, awaiting their next victim. Overhead, the faint squeaking of a bat could be heard, its high-pitched cry echoing off the dank cellar walls. At the far end of the corridor, where daylight dissolved into darkness, two large, beady-eyed rats scurried off, disappearing around the corner, and she instantly wished for Élise. How much brighter it had seemed when he had been leading her down those halls! How much safer she had felt when holding his hand! But now there was no Angel to guide her, no candles to light the way.

Taking a step inside, she hesitantly tiptoed down the alley until she came to the edge of the light from her room. She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder. Surely she would break her neck if she tried to descend those stairs in the dark! And even if she managed not to injure herself on the way down, it seemed likely she would get lost. But then, as if on cue, she heard music drifting up from the darkness of the dungeons. It was faint, but if she followed it, she thought she might be able find her way. Taking one last glance over her shoulder, she put her hand to the wall and began slowly feeling her way down the passage, stopping every few feet to listen for the direction of the music. Gradually, it became louder, and she stumbled a bit as she came to the stairs, which she recognized as the place where she had ridden Caesar, the black stallion. Finally, she began to see a faint light at the end of the tunnel where she found a boat waiting for her, another rose lashed to the pole with his signature black ribbon. The music was loud now, the thunderous crescendo of a pipe organ rolling in over the water like storm clouds over the sea. Carefully stepping into the boat, she took the pole in her hands and attempted to shove off, but having never actually poled the boat herself, she had a bit of difficulty trying to simultaneously maintain her balance and "steer" the boat in the right direction. After going in circles for few minutes and nearly falling into the water, however, she finally managed to get going, though her technique was not nearly as graceful as Erik's. Going in a straight line was harder than it looked! At long last she reached the gateway to his underground lair, which thankfully, had been left open, and making her way to the water's edge, docked the boat.

So absorbed was Erik in his music that it appeared he had not noticed Christine's arrival but continued to play uninterrupted. She studied him now, in the soft light of the candles' glow, his toned upper body covered only by a thin, lacy undershirt, his dark wig slicked back neatly. She frowned. Why would he feel the need to wear a wig in the comfort of his own home? It was not as though he had many visitors. Did he truly find himself so repulsive? Of course, he had suspected that she would be coming, so perhaps he had worn it for her convenience, but she had already seen him without it before…Did he not realize that his appearance did not bother her? It troubled her that he still felt the need to hide his defect from her.

Slowly, she approached him from behind, watching his slender fingers dance across the keys. His head was tilted back slightly, revealing the gleam of white porcelain covering the right half of his face. His eyes were closed, as if he were in some sort of trance. He did not need to see the keys to know which notes to play; he did not need a music sheet to guide him. He could feel the music in his heart. It was in his soul, in his blood, the melody flowing effortlessly from his fingertips. Oh, how he had missed the music during his days in hiding! It was a release for him, a flood of emotions too deep and heartfelt to be expressed any other way. It was anger; it was loss; it was joy; it was pain – all woven together with chords of love. It was all the things he had wanted to say to her but could not. To any other, it might have been merely another opera melody – a magnificent one, no doubt, composed by a musical genius, but still, just another piece of music. But Christine could sense the message in his music, could understand its meaning as clearly as though the words had been written on paper. By the time the song was coming to a close, she realized that he had been aware of her presence the entire time and had continued to play to convey what words could not. He sat still now, hands folded in his lap, head bowed, awaiting her reaction. Tentatively, she stepped forward, placing a hand on his left shoulder and bringing it slowly to his face. This time she made no attempt to remove the mask but simply allowed her hand to stay there, feeling the warmth of his breath against her skin as he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. And he suddenly found himself wondering what it feel like for her to stroke the other side of his face, to run her fingers over its scarred, misshapen surface and through his hair – his real hair – the way she now was stroking his left cheek. But that could never happen, so he put the thought out of his mind and tried to ignore the cool band of gold that interrupted the warmth of her fingers, satisfied simply to feel her skin touching his own.

"Christine…" His voice was barely a whisper. Slowly, he turned to face her and rose from the stool, taking her hand in his as he had done the day before, but this time there was no glove to dull the touch. "Forgive me, Christine."

She smiled softly. "I already have."

Time passed quickly after Christine's arrival, the two of them slipping into conversation as casually as though nothing had ever happened, as though he was still her invisible tutor and she, his willing student. They spoke of everything and nothing, reminiscing the past with smiles and tears.

They spoke of the fire, of what had happened after her departure and how he had escaped, of how she and Raoul had been getting along. There was no mention of what had passed between them. The kiss that they had shared was a topic neither one of them was quite ready to breach. It was a subject too personal that would likely rekindle feelings and evoke words better left unsaid, and so they kept an unwritten contract to keep those memories locked away safely within their hearts. There was no sense in ruining the evening together.

They spoke of her early days at the Opera house and how their friendship had begun. Christine remembered her eighth birthday – her first birthday without her father. She had been feeling rather sad when she walked into the ballet dorms to find a small silver music box lying on her bed. She'd had to catch her breath when she opened it, for there inside was a tiny silver angel holding a violin, playing the same Scandinavian lullaby her father used to play for her each night. She had treasured that music box dearly and had always kept it close, but one day when they were cleaning out the dorms, it disappeared. Christine had searched everywhere for it, but try as she might, she could not find it. It seemed to have simply vanished. She never had stopped searching for that music box.

Another time, when she had been sick with a fever, she'd awoken to a beautiful bouquet of flowers on her nightstand. No one knew who had left them or how they had gotten there. That night she'd claimed to have fallen asleep to the sound of angels singing. Perhaps she actually had heard them, for she had been sick for over a week and was nearly at death's door. But there was one Angel who had most certainly sung to her that night, keeping watch over her from the safety of the shadows.

He had enjoyed those days, to be sure. How he had loved to use his magic tricks to amaze and delight her, to see the look of wonder in her bright, young eyes! Of course, she had believed that the gifts were from a heavenly messenger, the spirit of her father, but they had made her smile, and that was enough to make him happy. Even then, he had loved her, though at the time it had been purely in a fatherly sense. Even then, they had shared a special connection. They shared a deep loneliness and longing, a need for someone to understand. Two hearts entwined in music, it seemed as though they had been destined to find one another. Perhaps their meeting had not been an accident. Perhaps, Christine thought to herself, her father had sent her the Angel of Music…in a roundabout way.

The only topic they did not discuss was the future. Here, in the safety of the opera house, in soft glow of the candles, it seemed far away, though in truth it was lurking just around the corner. They knew what would happen. She would marry Raoul, become the new Countess de Changy [1], and live a life of luxury. He would remain in the dungeons of the disintegrating opera house, once again alone but safe from the world and its cruelty. Likely they would never see one another again…But no one dared to speak such thoughts out loud. For the moment, they simply wanted to enjoy one another's company.

As their conversation began to die down, Christine found herself yawning. Realizing that she had lost track of time, she panicked. "Oh! It's getting late! I should go…Madame Giry will start to worry…" Reluctantly, she stood to leave. "I'm sorry I have to leave so soon…It was good to see you again…" She blinked back the tears that were beginning to blur her vision. "…one last time."

He reached for her shoulder as she turned to leave. "Christine, wait. I…That is, before you leave…if you wouldn't mind, I…"

Christine tilted her head inquisitively. "You what, Erik?"

He shook his head. "Forgive me, Christine. I am not good with words outside of song, nor do I have any experience in addressing a young woman of your beauty." He saw her blush at the compliment and took that as a sign to continue. "I know you must go soon, but…would you consider joining me for dinner before you leave?"

He saw a look of concern pass over her face, as if she was debating how to turn him down gently, and he instantly regretted the invitation. He lowered his eyes, bracing himself for the reply.

Christine bit her lip. This might be her last chance to spend time with him. "Well…as long as it's only for a few minutes…I suppose I could stay a bit longer."

Christine sat at a simple wooden table overlooking a part of the underground lake she had never seen before. She had been amazed when Erik had pulled a hidden lever and the wall behind the swan bed suddenly slid away, revealing a simple kitchen and a storage room filled with sketches, books, old music sheets, and a safe in which he kept his monthly salary. The table was small, to say the least. Not much bigger than a card table and certainly not anywhere near as large as the grand dinner table that adorned the de Changy dining room. It was barely big enough to seat two people, though she assumed that wasn't usually much of problem since he generally dined alone. Despite the table's small size, he had done his best to make it attractive, setting a small porcelain vase in the center, a single red rose peering over the lip. She had yet to figure out where he kept getting so many flowers, particularly since it was the middle of winter. Then again, he was a highly skilled magician. Erik sat opposite her, nervously awaiting her reaction as she again lifted the fork to her lips, chewing thoughtfully.

"Well?" He had yet to take any food from his own plate, though Christine's was nearly empty.

Christine smiled. "Erik, this is amazing! You can sing, you write music, you're a magician and a bit of an architect, and now I find out you can cook, too? Is there anything you can't do?"

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Yes, he thought ruefully, I can't win your heart.

Christine frowned, choosing her words carefully. "You know, you really should consider sharing some of your gifts with the world. You have so much to offer…"

He sighed. "That is something I have long yearned to be able to do."

"Then why not do it?"

His demeanor darkened. "You know why not, Christine. Because of this!" He pointed to his mask, a look of utter loathing and self-disgust on his face. Beneath the table he clenched his fist, doing his best to fight back the wave of anger and bitterness that threatened to overcome him.

"Perhaps if they got the chance to know you, to see your work firsthand, they could learn to overlook – "

"No. They will never understand."

"You don't know that."

"I know that they have never given me a chance before. Why should they start now?"

"Erik, God has given you such wonderful, amazing talent. It seems a shame for the world not to even know that it exists."

He could feel the anger rising. Standing so quickly that he nearly overturned the chair, he gripped the corners of the table with enough force to turn his knuckles white. Looming over her, he sneered. "The only thing that God has ever given me is this horrid face! I do not know if I even believe that such a God exists, but if he does, he most certainly is not the loving God of your father's fairy tales, and he does not answer any prayers!" He paused, closing his eyes and drawing a shaky breath. "Do you know what I pray, Christine?"

She shook her head slowly, staring up into his eyes. She longed to reach out to him, to breach the gulf of pain that separated them.

"Every night since I was a boy I have prayed for someone – just one person – to love me for who I am." Beneath the mask, he could already feel the tears starting to spill over, and he was thankful that she could not see. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "Not to pity me, Christine. To love me." He took another ragged breath. "I promised that if He would answer that single prayer, I would believe." A hot, wet track slid down his unmarred cheek. "He never has."

His grip on the table slackened, and he turned away, ashamed for her to see him in his weakness as the silent tears continued to fall, his shoulders shaking with emotion. When he felt a gentle hand alight on his arm, he shrugged it off. He did not want her comfort. Had he not just said that he desired love and not pity? Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that compassion was a form of love, but it would never be enough. He wanted her to desire to be near him because she enjoyed his presence, not because she thought he needed her. But the truth was that he did need her, and the truth was that she would never be his.

"Erik…I..."

"Go," he whispered brokenly. "Just go, please." The mask was growing increasingly uncomfortable, pressing against the wet skin of his cheek. He would have to remove it soon.

Christine hesitated.

"Do you take pleasure in seeing me in pain, Christine?" he choked. "Are you no better than they? Please, just leave me be and give me the freedom to weep in peace."

Still she seemed unsure . Still she did not understand.

"The mask, Christine," he spat bitterly. "I must remove the mask."

"Then take it off. It does not bother me."

The man looked miserable. "I do not wish for you to see me like that again."

"Erik, how do you expect the world to accept you for who you are when you are not even willing to show them? I want to know that part of you, Erik – the real you – but I cannot until you trust me enough to reveal it. I hope that someday you will…In the mean time, I will respect your privacy, but I will not leave you to suffer alone. Here." She drew a lacy handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and pressed it gently into his hand, then turned her back to him, respectfully averting her gaze so that he could remove the mask. It took all of her willpower to keep from turning around and pulling him into a loving – No, comforting! Just comforting! – embrace, but she remained true to her word and waited until he gave her permission to move.

"You may turn 'round now, Christine."

When she did so, she was surprised to see that he, too, had turned and was facing her, his right hand holding the handkerchief to his face as a makeshift mask. Slowly, she stepped forward with her arms open, closing the space between them and gingerly locking her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. She waited for the reaction, for him to push away, but it never came. Instead, she felt the warmth of his left arm closing in around her, pulling her closer. They did not speak a word, but their hearts spoke volumes. Erik closed his eyes and imagined for a moment that she was holding him for a different reason, that her arms belonged around him instead of another man. He knew it would hurt later. He knew better than to give in to her compassion, to fall prey to sweet deception. But for a moment, he could be happy. For a moment, he could be loved…even if he knew it was all a lie.

[1] Yes, I know as the wife of a vicomte (French viscount), she would technically be a viscountess, but the word is not often, if ever, used as a title. On Christine's grave at the end of the movie, I believe it said "Countess de Changy," assuming that Raoul became the new Count when his father (or his brother if you want to go with the book version) died. I used the phrase here because "Viscountess de Changy" just sounds really awkward. :P