Chapitre Onze: Ce qui Se Trouvait Dessous
Christine screamed and stumbled backwards, eyes wide in terror and unable to look away. Nothing—nothing could have prepared her for the horror that met her eyes. She had been expecting something heavenly—the face of an Angel, shining in immaculate perfection in the divine light of the gods. Oh, the fantasy her treacherous mind had created! How could she have believed that the flesh behind Erik's mask was anything heavenly and divine?
There were no words to describe the monstrosity that lay underneath the tantalizing, innocuous mask. The first thought that entered her horror-stricken mind upon seeing his sickening, ghastly visage was that she was gazing upon the face of a male version of Hel, the queen of Niflheim—her right half a woman, the left half a grisly, eternally-rotting corpse. But even Hel must be a less ghastly sight to see. Then all she could think of was to escape, to get as far away from this monster as possible.
"Christine!" the creature screamed in anguish, jumping up and clamping a hand to his gruesome face. His eyes were burning, and he seemed like a devil to the terrified girl. But through his anger, Christine could see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes; a look of never-ending grief, and sorrow…. Whimpering with terror, she turned her head away.
"Why, Christine, why?" he cried, tears streaming down his terrible face. "Now that you know my hideousness—my monstrosity—you will never consent to stay with me long enough to see that under this visage is a human soul!" He turned and stumbled away from her, his breathing ragged and wracked with sobs.
Christine closed her eyes, crying and shaking uncontrollably. There was no way she could spend another moment in its presence—it was monstrous! Hideous! It was all the more agonizing that this creature—this thing—had been the Angel. How could she have been so foolish? He wasn't even human—he was a monster, a fiend, a creature the gods should have banished to Niflheim upon his birth, as they had banished Hel, for being such a terrifying, disgusting monstrosity.
She sobbed into the floor, so afraid, so disgusted, and crying so hard that she had to gasp to force air into her lungs. Her body was starting to go numb from the freezing stone, but she didn't have the strength to lift herself up. She felt so sick, so soiled from the horror she had seen—could still see, seared on to her eyelids, as if someone had taken a branding iron to them—that she had to fight the urge to vomit. The bile in her throat burned, and she clapped a hand over her mouth and tried fruitlessly to will herself to be calm.
Erik had seated himself at his organ, his back to her, and began to play, trying to forget the horror of the moment. She did not want to hear him play ever again, and thrust her fingers into her ears; but the organ's notes were so low, so powerful, that she couldn't block them out.
The music that reached Christine's ears was intoxicating, and she pushed her fingers farther into her ears, but to no avail. It expressed every emotion, every suffering of which mankind is capable. From the low, sad tones of the bass clef, to the anger and helplessness expressed by notes in the middle of the treble clef.
But it was not an Angel playing. It was a monster.
She looked down at his mask, lying useless on the floor, and picked it up with a trembling hand. It was hard and cold, yet beautiful, as if treacherously promising beauty behind its innocent façade. For what seemed like an eternity, she just sat there, mind awhirl and unthinking. Even though she couldn't see his face now, she could still see it in her mind. He was still so hideous, so disgusting, that she wanted nothing more than to turn and run. But, she realized with a shiver, it would be all too easy for him to kill her and dispose of her body in a dark corner of his cellars. She couldn't afford to anger him further.
She thought and thought, hoping she could find a way to escape the monster's clutches. But she couldn't run, she wouldn't get far in the boat, and from all the way down here, no one would be able to hear her screaming for help. In the end, she had only one idea—a single, horrifying idea. She would have to play the part of the interested ballet rat.
"Erik," she began, almost choking on the name. He wasn't human. He didn't deserve a name.
He didn't turn, but he did stop playing.
"I—I am afraid, but I understand," she said hesitantly. "It's not your fault. I…I can accept you, and—forget about your face!" The words, such terrible, grotesque lies, burned on her tongue, but she could do nothing else. If she spoke the truth, there was no telling what he would do.
He slowly turned, and in the flickering candlelight she saw the tears coursing down his face. She was unable to fight back a shudder at the glistening contours and crags that the tears accentuated.
"You see?" he said sadly, almost bitterly, upon seeing her disgust. "There is no way you could ever do as you say."
After a moment, he sighed and closed his eyes, turning back to the organ and resting his elbows on its oak surface to rub his temples. "You can leave. The doorway is behind that tapestry. Say the word—and I'll barricade the trick mirror and never trouble you again."
Christine almost laughed aloud. He wouldn't let her go. He was lying—he was a monster. Monsters weren't honest. He was probably waiting for her to say yes—lull her into a false sense of security—and then wham—he'd knock her out and cook her for dinner, like the trolls in the Ironwood Forest. She couldn't take that chance. She had to pretend she wanted to stay.
"No, Erik, I don't want to leave." She approached him, smiling the coquettish smile she had observed on the faces of her fellow ballet girls, batting her eyelashes and keeping her gaze locked into his eyes. The beauty of his eyes did not reach her now—all she could see was the horror of that face. But she could see the pain and despair in his eyes, and she feared that if she did not pretend to accept him now, her life would be in terrible danger. She couldn't bring herself to touch him, so she merely said, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for her shudder, "If I ever again shiver when I look at you, it is because I am thinking of…the splendor of your genius!"
Erik's twisted face froze in a horrific expression of shock. It made him all the uglier, and she felt very much like fainting. For a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, he could not bring himself to speak. Christine strove to meet his astounded gaze, though it was an impossible task. It was much worse to be forced to stare into such a hellish face than to catch a brief, terrible glimpse, as she had moments before. She could see every twist, every horrendous crag and deformity.
Just when her knees were about to buckle, Erik fell to Christine's feet and kissed the hem of her dress. Her rigid posture sagged, and she found herself only moments from unconsciousness. She could barely hear Erik as he knelt at her feet, speaking words of immeasurable joy and love, before her world faded into blackness.