This chapter is set at the end of the scene where Erik tells Christine that she is ready to sing on the stage. It begins after she caresses his shoulder while they stand together in front of the mirror. In other words, just before Philippe arrives at the Opera House to spoil everything! I hope you enjoy it.
Christine stepped back, realising she had made her teacher uncomfortable with the unexpected gesture. Perhaps he wasn't used to such contact?
"Forgive me, maestro, I really should be going..." she began nervously, looking into those soft brown eyes that she had become so familiar with in the last few weeks.
"It's quite all right. Please, stay a while and talk with me some more," he replied gently. He indicated the window seat and she sat, never taking her eyes off him. She had grown to enjoy their little chats after each lesson and was glad that her gesture of affection had not made things awkward between them.
But what a surprise his words had been! She had never taken singing lessons before her mysterious tutor came along and now he thought she was ready for the stage? If she had ever doubted her father's guidance before, surely here was proof of it. Both of their dreams were coming true at last, thanks to this…maestro before her. But who was he? Why was he doing all this for her? After all these weeks she still knew nothing about him.
But she knew she could not continue to sit here in silence and so she cleared her throat before speaking again.
"Thank you so much, for all that you've done for me. I can't believe how my voice has improved. I can even manage the upper register now."
"I knew you could, with a little coaching. Your voice has so much power and beauty and soon all of Paris will hear it."
"I can't believe you've never taken any students before. You are a wonderful teacher, so patient and dedicated," she replied, a little shyly.
Those eyes! She had to avert her own gaze to avoid them. They seemed to be boring into her mind, trying to find what thoughts lay within.
"You enjoy our lessons?"
"Of course! You sound surprised."
He ran his fingers over the closed piano lid. "Th-thank you… That means a lot to me. I- I enjoy them too, very much. "
For a moment the elegant, majestic person in front of her seemed almost… well, shy.
"And I'm so grateful to you for taking me on," she continued eagerly, "As I've said before, I could never afford lessons and your offer was like a dream come true. I still think I should be paying you for your time but Carlotta doesn't pay me very much and, well, I feel a little guilty about it…"
She managed to stop herself before she rambled too much but her maestro did not seem fazed by it. Indeed he was smiling at her, that enigmatic smile that she was so fond of and made her heart beat a little faster, which was a new and disconcerting experience for her.
"Not at all, my dear, I require no money from you, just the pleasure of teaching you and hearing that wonderful voice. And if Carlotta spent less money on cosmetics and various trinkets for her hair she might be able to pay you a better wage!"
Christine chuckled at this, a little guilty about laughing at her employer, but well, that woman deserved to be laughed at, as did her over-indulgent husband.
"She is very fond of her appearance. She makes me brush her hair every day, to get rid of all the knots, while she complains about everything under the sun. And all her wigs have to be styled as well, just the way she likes them, even if she hasn't worn them in weeks."
She could see those eyes rolling in derision from behind the mask.
"What kind of things does she complain about?"
"Oh, the weather in Paris, how you can't get good maids nowadays, the terrible service in some department store or other, her predecessor here in the Opera-"
He sat up. "Her predecessor? Forgive the interruption, but are you referring to Gerard Carriere?"
"You knew him?"
"Of course. What does she say about him?" His tone was a little stern and Christine was not sure whether to continue or not. But she could not back out of the topic, not when she had raised it herself.
"Well, she says that it was about time he was replaced, that he was too old for the job, and that people should just stay in the class that God appointed for them, that way life would be much easier. She says so many ridiculous things-"
Her eyes were drawn to her maestro's gloved hand resting on the piano lid, which was slowly curling into a tight fist.
"But I'm sure M. Carriere was very nice…" she continued hastily, "Anyway, let's not talk about Carlotta. Tell me something about yourself. There's so much I don't know about you."
He sighed, uncurling his fist and returning to his more relaxed posture. "About me? You wish to know about me?"
She nodded.
"To be honest, there's really not much to tell. All you need to know is that I am a devoted admirer and that I wish to help you become a successful singer, which will be happening sooner than either of us imagined."
"But I was just wondering… do you have a family? A wife perhaps? Children?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She had always thought of him as too mysterious and other-worldly to have a wife and family but well, she still wondered about it.
His Adam's apple bobbed up and down and his eyes darted nervously around the room.
"N-no, I do not have a wife or children," he replied after a few moments, his voice almost a whisper.
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"No."
"What about your parents?"
"My parents?" He fumbled with a button on his shirt.
"Yes, your mother and father. Are they still alive?"
He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. "I had a mother once. She died when I was an infant."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, maestro." She hesitated for a little while. "My mother died when I was small too." They both sat there, while Christine tried to read the expression in her tutor's eyes, wondering what he was thinking. "But my father was wonderful, as I've told you before. He used to tell me about her."
She watched run his fingers through his hair, wondering if she should continue. But he made no move to change the subject or tell her how she should be going to bed and resting her voice, as he usually did.
"What about your father? Is he dead too?"
He swallowed again. "So I've been told."
She did not know how to respond to this cryptic comment and both of them sat in silence for a while.
"You are happy here?" he asked her eventually.
"Oh, I love working at the Opera House. It's such a fascinating place."
"Even though you have to put up with Carlotta?"
She smiled, leaning back against the window with a sigh. "It's worth it, just to be here. I love watching the dancers rehearse and all the colourful costumes. I never dreamed I would be working here, never mind singing."
"Do the other girls in the costume department treat you well?"
"Oh, they're nice enough, most of the time. It's strange; they all know the Comte de Chagny. Did you know that the Comte told them the same thing he told me; that they should go to the Paris Opera House and take singing lessons?"
"I had an idea."
"I can't believe he has all those admirers. It's not the Philippe I remember." She bit her lip, keeping her gaze on the floor while trying to avoid those eyes.
"Did you know him before?" There was a note of surprise in his voice.
She smiled wistfully. "I was a maid in his home when I was a child. My father and I lived on the estate in a little cottage as he was the gardener there. Philippe and I used to play together all the time and Papa and I once brought him to a country fair. We danced together and listened to Papa play his violin."
"I see," he replied softly.
"He is so grown up now and so handsome too. I was looking forward to seeing him again here but it doesn't look like he's visited in weeks."
"No, he has not."
"How long have you known him? Do you know when he will be coming to the Opera next?"
But his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere; indeed he was steadfastly avoiding her gaze and he seemed to be struggling as to what to do with his gloved hands. One minute they were interlaced neatly, the next he was drumming them nervously on the smooth piano lid.
Guilt pricked at her conscience as he turned on the piano stool and leafed through his music manuscript with trembling fingers until he came to the page he was looking for.
"I'm sorry maestro, I've been very inquisitive this evening. I'm sorry if I upset you. That is something I would never want to do."
"I know that, Christine. Please, would you sing for me again? It's just a simple little tune, something I wrote myself. There are no high notes, I promise. I just thought you would like to finish off your lesson with it."
"Of course. I would love to sing one of your songs."
The music took them away from the Opera House, into a world of their own. But it was over too soon, and before long their lesson was at an end and it was time to bid each other goodnight.
"Maestro, there's something else I have to ask you, please forgive me."
"Christine, please don't apologise. It's very understandable that you would be curious about me but I'm just not used to answering questions about myself." He sighed. "What is it you wish to ask?"
"You don't have to tell me where you live but I was just wondering… do you have far to travel when you leave here?"
Those eyes were upon her again, so alluring and expressive.
"In a manner of speaking…. Why do you ask?"
"I'm just concerned about you walking home alone in the dark."
He smiled. "Don't worry; I am very accustomed to walking home alone in the dark. But thank you for your concern."
She smiled at him, wondering what to do next. A handshake seemed too formal but she did not want to touch him affectionately again, in case it ruined the progress they had made this evening. In the end, she settled for a simple, inadequate platitude.
"Take care, maestro. And goodnight."
"Goodnight, Christine. And don't worry about your audition; you just leave everything to me."
She left him then to return to her dark cluttered storeroom, with their conversation going around in her head. It sounded like he lived alone too, but why was he so mysterious about it? Did his father abandon him? If so, who had brought him up? What was his name? And why was he not working here officially when he was clearly a talented musician and teacher? She would have to respect his privacy in future though; he was clearly far more comfortable talking only about music.
In the darkness, tucked under her thin blanket, she thanked God once more for sending him to her and for all his advice and guidance. And yet another question niggled at her, one that had kept her awake many a night and which she had never yet plucked up the courage to ask him about.
What lay behind that mask?