Chapitre Vingt-Trois: Le Anniversaire Triste
The days seemed to fly by so quickly that Christine felt she couldn't grasp a single moment between her fingers; each night she fell asleep wondering what had happened to the past twenty-four hours. Before she knew it, several days had gone by since the celebration of the Madeleine—and as beautiful and glorious as the fireworks had been, the moment had been so ephemeral that she could barely remember it now.
What she did remember was the warmth of Erik's arm around her and how wonderful it felt to have someone so strong, so devoted, sitting next to her. She enjoyed the time she spent with him; he was a mentor, a protector, a servant, and a friend. The longer she knew him, gaining pieces of his vast knowledge, being influenced by his calming nature, the more she appreciated his presence. She knew she wasn't outrageously smart (as much as she hated to admit it, even to herself), and she became flustered so easily over every little decision that she hated to have to make any by herself; but Erik's presence—his strength, his love, his support—always calmed her, and his unconditional love made her less afraid of saying or doing stupid things, because she knew that he would never ridicule her. In a moment of introspection she realized that, though she worshipped Raoul, she couldn't relax or be herself around him for fear of embarrassing herself.
She couldn't love Erik in return—he didn't have much money or even a house, and they wouldn't even be able to go out to dinner without attracting horrible stares—and she felt a little guilty about it, but he was still the greatest friend anyone could ask for.
By the time she came to realize all this about Erik, she had been avoiding the Garnier chapel for almost two weeks. She felt so guilty over her selfish abandonment of her father's dream that she had thrown herself into the rehearsals, working from dawn until dusk to memorize lines and choreography; but though the exhausting work kept her from thinking about her father for the majority of the day, it did nothing to assuage her guilt or solve her problem. She loved music, certainly, but she had the chance of a lifetime before her—and to throw away the title of vicomtess for a dream that wasn't even her own…. It seemed like foolishness to her now—though the disrespect of the thought made her cringe whenever she thought about it.
Still, with the anniversary of her father's death drawing near, she couldn't keep neglecting him. So she took Erik with her to the chapel, uncertain of just why she thought it would help. But he always managed to come up with a brilliant and logical solution whenever she came to him with a problem—like how much time to spend practicing or what dress to wear—and he didn't treat her problems as trifling, like most other people did. And if worst came to worst, he could argue her case for her; surely her father would listen to Erik—he was a marvelous and very persuasive speaker.
As she lit the numerous candles surrounding the altar, she managed to occupy herself in rearranging them so she didn't have to look into her father's eyes, though the daguerreotype stared at her with an inscrutable expression. "I'm sorry to take you away from your composing," she said to Erik, trying to fill the accusing silence.
"You don't need to be sorry, Christine—I'm very happy to help you."
She smiled at him and hesitantly turned her eyes back to her father's memorial. She opened her mouth to speak, but the speech she had prepared fled her mind as she looked at her father's face.
She panicked and whirled away from the portrait. Oh gods, what was she going to do? How could she explain to her father what her decision was if she didn't even know herself?
To cover up her panic, she hurriedly spoke to Erik—it didn't matter what she said as long as it kept her from facing her father. "I don't think I've ever told you just how much I appreciate all the trouble you go to, teaching me and all," she said, her nervousness making her speak very quickly. "Thank you."
"…You're welcome," he said warmly. Though he hid it well, she knew he was puzzled over the whole odd scene. While she was waiting for the first line of her speech to come to mind, she could explain the situation to him—he had no idea about her inner turmoil.
"You know all about my father's promise and the Angel of Music and everything," she prattled, wiping her sweaty palms on her dress, "but I've never told you just how unhappy it's made me."
Erik's expressions were subtle, and though there was no palpable change in his features, she could see the happiness drain from his face. "Christine, I'm so sorry I—"
"No no, it's not you—you're much, much more wonderful than any angel ever could be—you're so smart and nice and strong and—well anyway, that wasn't what I was saying," she said, talking even faster as a faint blush threatened her cheeks. "It's just that my whole life I've been trying to live up to my father's dream but I don't want to waste my life on something I don't want."
His expression was still inscrutable, but she saw that her words troubled him. "You don't want to be a diva?"
"Well I do—I want to prove to everyone that I'm not worthless—and the music is so beautiful—and I want the fame and the pretty costumes and the applause—and everything—but it's just—" She twisted her hair between her fingers, biting her lip and cursing herself for not knowing how to say any of it.
"It's all right, Christine—just tell me what you're feeling."
She tried to smile at him—his patience, his unconditional acceptance meant so much to her—but she couldn't make a smile come to her lips. "I don't know how to say it," she said woefully, seating herself on the altar steps and staring at the floor.
Erik came to sit next to her.
"Just talk to me," he pleaded, and she could hear concern in his low, beautiful voice, so soothing that she almost felt better.
He waited patiently for her to form the words, and for a long moment they sat in silence.
Finally, she spoke. "I don't want to spend my life following someone else's dream. But I don't want to disappoint Father and I really don't want to disappoint you, not after all the work you've put into my divahood!"
"Christine, don't waste your life because of that!"
She looked up at him. "You—you won't be angry if I don't want to be a diva?"
"Of course not—I'll help you with anything you want to do."
She was so touched that felt the slightest tickle of tears behind her eyes; but as she reached for the picture, still feeling the weight of her guilt and indecision, she said, "But Father…"
"Your father wouldn't want you to follow his dream if it condemned you to unhappiness," said Erik, his voice soft but adamant.
With his words she felt a great weight lifted from her aching shoulders, and when she glanced at the daguerreotype again, her father's eyes were warm and smiling.
She laid her hand on Erik's arm in gratitude, thinking to herself just how fortunate she was to have him around. She wasn't sure now if she wanted to be a diva or not; she loved to sing so much, and though she tried to get out of practice a lot, she really did enjoy Erik's instruction. The prospect of divahood seemed much lighter, more rewarding now that so much of the pressure was gone.
They sat again in silence. After a while she began to contemplate another terrible conflict—that of religion. But she kept it at a distance. So much had been resolved this afternoon; she could think about her uncertainty about the gods some other day.
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Before she knew it, it was November thirtieth—and with the anniversary of her father's death the following day, she still hadn't made any preparations to visit his grave. At first she shrugged it off, thinking it would be the same as every year; she would have to secure Madame Giry's permission to miss practice, and then she would catch a ride with someone headed out towards Perros, where her father was buried (it was sixty miles outside of Paris—an inconvenience that had never bothered her until now). However, unlike her previous trips, there were two very important differences this year: firstly, since she was now a diva of the opera house, she would have much more trouble getting out of practice than usual. Surely the managers wouldn't deny her something so important, especially since her presence was saving them from having to deal with Carlotta—but just the same, she hoped that Madame Giry would speak to the new managers on her behalf. When Christine ever tried to talk to Firmin and André, they just smiled and politely told her that if she would supply the talent, they would make the decisions. They'd have to take Madame Giry more seriously.
The second problem was significantly more pressing—would she ask Erik to go with her? She had never even considered allowing anyone to accompany her in her yearly mourning; it was just too personal. Even Raoul, her soon-to-be husband, wouldn't be able to understand the terrible grief that she felt. He would probably try to turn the event into a romantic excursion (to cheer her up, of course), which was terribly wonderful and dashing, but not what she wanted for this trip. Erik, on the other hand, would understand her need for solemnity and would not try to use the event to further his own standing in her eyes. It was a harsh realization, this striking difference between the two men, but she could not deny its truthfulness.
It had startled her to realize that Erik's companionship on this journey would strengthen her. She had come to depend on him for so much in her life—and she suddenly could not bear the thought of weeping over her father's grave without his shoulder to cry on. She wasn't sure what she thought of the fact that she was not the same mourning, solitary person she had been when she had first come to the opera house. The ubiquitous well of grief that had always been choked up within her chest was still there, but it was covered over, almost healed, and hurt very little now. Though, while making her plans, she felt a taste of that old sadness welling up behind her eyes; she pushed it away, amazed that she could possibly feel any sadness when so many wonderful things had happened to her. The nonexistent Angel hadn't appeared, of course, yet she still felt as if Erik's appearance in her life had been an act of divine intervention. It was an odd thought, but she could not shake it. And even though she had given up her father's dream, she still felt that her father would want her to be happy. And, for the first time since his death, she could feel happiness—just happiness, without the constant weight of all the sorrow and anguish—was possible again.
Her new happiness made it more imperative than ever that she visit her father's grave, to thank him for the wonderful thing he had done for her and to beg his forgiveness for allowing his dream to be fulfilled for so short a time. Even if Erik's entrance into her life had not been helped along by her father's spirit, she wanted him to know that she was happy.
And, since it was Erik that had filled the position of the "Angel of Music" and was therefore responsible for her happiness, she had decided that he should come with her. It had taken her four days of thinking to come to this decision, but she was certain it was the right choice. Erik certainly made her life much better than it would've been otherwise. Every so often she wondered how she was going to reconcile her happiness with Erik and her future as the Vicomtess de Chagny, but she brushed them aside; it gave her a headache to think about such big decisions.
And besides, there were more pressing things to contend with—such as her mode of transportation to Perros. She couldn't just hitch a ride if Erik was coming too; his mask would attract far too much attention. No, they needed a private coach. But she wouldn't even been able to afford a cheap one. She might be a diva, but she still hadn't received any sort of diva-like wages yet. She didn't want to have to ask Erik for help—he spent practically every waking moment working for her betterment as it was—but she couldn't think of what else to do. He had a salary, come to think of it—one from the managers. If they'd finally given in and paid him, that is. The last she'd heard they were still publicly denying that the Phantom even existed.
But because she had no time to think of an alternative, she finally decided she had no choice but to ask Erik if he'd pay for a coach. She couldn't figure out why she felt so bad about asking him—he would be thrilled to help her, she was certain.
She'd opted to ask him about it at the beginning of one of her lessons. It served a two-fold purpose, really: not only was he usually in an especially good mood when she was singing, but, if she handled it right, she could get out of her lesson altogether. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate Erik's guidance, and she loved to sing—it was the practicing part that she didn't care for. All that work of deciphering notes and trying to keep the rhythm correct exhausted her, and she absolutely despised the metronome that Erik insisted she use.
Christine smiled at Erik as he entered the room from behind the trick mirror, pretending to straighten her pile of sheet music while she tried to figure out the best way to bring the subject up. He looked nice today. He was dressed more casually than usual, with a simple white linen shirt and a pair of plain black pants, instead of his usual cravat and reserved overcoat. No matter what he was wearing, she realized, he looked strong and dashing, in a somber, formal sort of way.
"Hello, Christine," he greeted her cordially. "Did Monsieur Reyer get you another copy of 'Zeffiretti lusinghieri?'"
"Um, yes—yes, he did." Erik thought she'd lost her original copy. In actuality she'd thrown it in the trash, and the stupid maid whose job it was to empty it had noticed the music and had given it to Reyer instead, who had given it back to Christine with a stern chastisement about losing her music. She hated having to sing the horrible song—she couldn't even pronounce the title, let alone the rest of all that Italian garbage.
"That's fortunate," Erik informed her with a small smile. "Try to keep track of this copy, will you, Christine? It would be rather detrimental to your career, I think, if you had to ask the conductor for a third copy of an aria."
"Yes, I'll try," she agreed hurriedly, already sick of hearing about the stupid song. If it had been Carlotta singing Ilia's part, she could've had "Zef-eer-eh-tee loo-sing-hee-eh-ree" taken out of the opera with a single stomp of her Spanish foot. But no matter how hard Christine tried, she couldn't convince either Monsieur Reyer or Erik that the opera was better without it. She suddenly realized she had to hurry and bring up the trip to Perros before he made her sing that horrible song. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of my father's death," she blurted out before he could speak.
Erik nodded somberly. "Do you need help convincing the managers to give you the day off?"
"No, but—well, actually, I wasn't going to bother you about it, but since you're offering, that would be wonderful, thank you—but what I wanted to say was that I want you to come with me to Perros."
The room fell into silence as Erik studied her thoughtfully, a troubled look on his face. Oh gods, what if he wouldn't go? She hadn't even considered that possibility. As the silence dragged on, she began to truly worry. No, he had to go! It would be so terrible if she had to go alone!
Finally, Erik spoke: "Certainly, Christine, if that's what you want. I would be happy to accompany you."
Christine jumped up, beaming with joy and relief, and hugged him impulsively. "Thank you, oh gods, thank you! This is wonderful! You have no idea how worried I was that you'd say no! Oh, this is—" Then she remembered that she still had no transportation to Perros. "Oh, I forgot—I've always just managed to get a ride from someone going out that way, and it's always been fine, because I was alone, but with you coming too I think that—um—a private coach would—would be better, you see, but I, um—I can't exactly—"
"Afford one?" he finished amicably. "Don't worry, Christine; a friend of mine has a very nice cabriolet I'm sure he'll lend us."
"Really?" exclaimed Christine, delighted beyond words. "That's wonderful! This is perfect! Thank you! Thank you!" She clapped her hands together, overjoyed, and bounced out of the room, heading straight for the managers' office to tell them she wouldn't be able to attend practice.
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Erik watched Christine skip away, considering the situation bemusedly. He certainly hadn't expected her to ask him to accompany her. If he were to mourn the passing of a loved one, he would most certainly want to be alone. But Christine probably wanted someone to support her—a position he was delighted to fill. Much as he hated to admit it, he had been a trifle worried that she'd ask that vicomte to lend her one of his fancy carriages, and that the damned fop would turn it into some sort of picnic. Still, it made him very happy that she would prefer his own company to that of the dashing and wealthy vicomte.
Well then, he would be sure to take special care to make sure that nothing went wrong. Turning slowly, still immersed in thought, he made his way back through the trick mirror and down the stairs. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to contact Nadir in time to secure his cabriolet for tomorrow.
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"Well, of course, you can use my coach," said Nadir Khan, with an shrug of indifference. "I can't figure out why you want it, but you're welcome to it." He shook his head in confusion, causing the ornamentation of his Persian turban to flash and sparkle in the firelight of the parlor. The foreign decorations that graced the silk of his turban meant nothing to the people of Paris, of course, but Erik knew the exact meaning of every thread and every colored bead; in essence, they proclaimed the wearer of the turban to be a retired official of the Persian government and testified as to his expertise, bravery, and loyalty to the ruling sultana.
Erik shrugged and replied, "Yes, well, it's not exactly me I want it for." He felt a little guilty that he rarely contacted Nadir for anything other than borrowing his carriage. The man was a good friend. But Erik had always felt safer if he kept everyone—including Nadir and Antoinette, who had only ever been kind to him—at a distance. Though after having so much contact with Christine for the past few months, he felt more at ease in the Persian's presence.
"Huh." Nadir helped himself to another Danish from the tray on the table. "You don't have to wear that, you know."
Erik fingered his mask. "I feel more comfortable with it on."
"If you say so. Are you going to tell me why you want to borrow it? Figuring that it's mine, I think I have a right to know what you're doing with it."
Erik studied the street below, through the crystal-clear windows of Nadir' luxurious flat, thinking about his answer. Though Nadir' apartment was only a dozen blocks away from Christine's, it could have been a world away. The floors were richly carpeted and the paint on the walls was bright and bold, so unlike like the faded, peeling paint that Christine hated. One could actually see out Nadir' large, perfect windows without laboring to do so. The Persian government took very good care of him.
He sighed inwardly; he wasn't certain he wanted to tell Nadir what he would be using the coach for—he had no desire to hear another lecture like the one from Antoinette. But Nadir was right, it was his property. "I assume Antoinette has told you about Christine Daaé?" he began, hoping he wasn't making a mistake.
Nadir nodded, his mouth full of Danish, and gestured with his free hand that he only knew a little.
"She needs it to visit her father's grave in Perros."
"I see," said the Persian, raising a dark eyebrow. "And you're going along?"
Erik nodded.
Nadir grinned widely and grabbed another pastry. "Aha, so it's a date, then!"
"No," was the terse reply.
"Don't get mad," the Persian chuckled. "I'm thrilled for you!"
"I never said that I—"
"You didn't have to," Nadir informed him cheerily.
Erik shook his head. "Believe what you will." With a sigh, he stood and bid Nadir goodbye. He hoped that everything would run as smoothly as the Persian seemed to think it would.
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As Erik sat in the driver's seat of the coach in an alley behind the opera house, awaiting Christine's arrival, he let his mind dwell unpleasantly on the Vicomte de Chagny. Just because the fop hadn't been invited to Perros didn't mean he wouldn't come. It wasn't exactly a secret that Christine was taking the day off; the managers had, predictably, thrown a fit when they learned that their leading soprano was skipping out on the first run-through of the entire third act. Even Antoinette hadn't been able to convince them to let her go. That is, not until a letter from the dreaded Phantom had mysteriously appeared in Firmin's coat pocket. The two men had then argued for a good hour and a half over whether or not to give in to the Phantom's demands; fortunately for them, they had come to the correct conclusion that whatever the Phantom said was law. Even more serendipitous was their decision to postpone the run-through until the next day. Christine had concluded that this meant they felt they "couldn't bear the thought of a rehearsal without their fabulous new diva." This was partially true, he supposed, but he suspected the managers simply didn't want to have to deal with their old diva as a stand-in. Well, so much the better for Christine.
Feeling very stiff, Erik shifted his weight on the hard seat. Nadir' cabriolet was a small, black, French affair, with two seats, one of which was for the driver. Such a coach was considered quite small by the ostentatious denizens of Paris, but it was perfect for Erik's purposes. Still, he wished the seats had been cushioned; if he was uncomfortable, then Christine would be utterly miserable. That is, if she ever showed up. She had kept him waiting for more than twenty minutes; perhaps he should go see what was holding her up. On the other hand, he didn't want to pressure her—he hadn't forgotten the vicomte's highhanded order of "two minutes." It was appallingly arrogant of the self-absorbed vicomte to dictate unachievable, imperious orders as if he were the president of France—an impression that Erik had no desire to cultivate for himself in Christine's eyes. He would wait a while longer.
There was nothing in the shaded, hidden alleyway to divert his attention, and his eyes fell on the worn violin case resting nearby on the seat. It was significantly larger than a violin case needed to be, necessary to conceal the Punjab lasso hidden next to the instrument. Given the nature of their trip, he hadn't dared bring his rapier, but he had no intention of being weaponless if the vicomte decided to show his face at Perros. He hadn't actually planned on bringing his violin—he hadn't planned on doing anything much on this trip, really, except protecting Christine from riff-raff and offering her what comfort he could. But that morning the poor girl had suffered a momentary break-down and had tearfully told him all about her father's illustrious career as a violinist. Erik hadn't been certain what to do, unused to seeing such abject despondency in the girl, and had thoughtlessly said the first thing that came to mind—that, if she wanted, he would play something for her.
Christine had immediately stopped crying and had looked up at him from where she was sprawled on the floor, smiling with a sort of wretched hopefulness, saying, "You'd do that? Really? Oh, you're so wonderful!" and proceeding to tell him the name of her father's favorite piece and just how happy she would be if he would play it for her father at his grave.
So there had been nothing for him to do but to rush back down to his music room and hunt for his violin, which had been gathering dust in its case on an obscure shelf. Christine's entrance into his life had greatly reduced his pursuance of music, and for a moment he had feared that he'd forgotten how to play the instrument altogether. What was worse, he had never played "The Resurrection of Lazarus" on the violin before; he had the sheet music for it, but it had been written for the organ. It had taken quite some time to find it in the vast library of music he owned, but fortunately he had managed it.
He'd had exactly two hours before they left for Perros to transpose the notes to fit a violin and to practice the unfamiliar piece, but he was confident that he could play it tolerably well. If only he would have anticipated that Christine would keep him waiting for a half an hour, he could have used the time to run through it a few more times.
This thought reminded Erik that Christine had still not appeared. Perhaps something had happened—maybe the detestable vicomte had held her up. Though the vicomte would certainly not try anything untoward with so many people around, Erik's blood boiled at the thought of the slimy little worm getting near her. Standing abruptly, he jumped out of the coach and began walking towards the door.
Just before his hand could touch the knob, the door opened to reveal a faintly smiling Christine. Even with her drab mourning gown and tearstained face, she was still radiantly beautiful, reminiscent of Desdemona in the fourth act of Otello, when she had prayed, crying, to the Virgin Mary. Just the sight of her was enough to send a wave of heat through his heart.
"Oh!" she said, surprised to find him on the other side of the doorway. "Do you need to go back in and get something?" He shook his head. "Okay. Shall we go?"
Erik nodded slowly, wondering if it would be advisable with her temperamental condition to ask whether or not she had run into the vicomte. She probably didn't, he decided, studying her expression as she walked past him towards the cabriolet. Asking would only serve to upset her. It was doubtful that the vicomte would dare to intrude on Christine's mourning, but then, the stupid man didn't have much by way of tact. He sighed inwardly and proceeded to help Christine into the coach, thinking grimly that he would have to keep very much alert on this trip.