Chapter 4: The Persian and the Ingénue

Christine felt his arms, so cold but growing hotter still with the heat of her skin. His embrace tender but gripping as it held her in place. She made a sound of need as he held her there, his skin now reddening with a shy virgin's blush. The ingénue kept her eyes shut, too modest to look at the man above her as he took her higher and higher towards the sky before she crashed with him to the ground. He gently tugged her face up to his own and indulged himself shamelessly in kisses, his lips warmed with her own, his strong fingers tussling her hair and mussing it terribly…not that she really cared much.

"Oh Christine…" he whispered, "I love you."

His voice was cultured and smooth those nimble, skeletal, hands so papery like but rough with the blistering of his work. She noticed how warm, how honeyed his voice was soft and gentle just as though he were merely waking from a pleasant sleep than the throes of lovemaking. Christine felt him open his eyes against her neck, felt their lashes flutter, wisp against her most sensitive spot causing her to giggle and him to laugh in response. Christine shifted in the bedclothes waiting for him to speak.

"Open your eyes Christine…" He whispered.

She did as he asked and those silver eyes gazed back at her with such an ardent devotion that tears welled in her eyes. He kissed her lips then shivering under them and then yanked himself away from her, suddenly looking wild and feverish as he pulled at the thick black hair. His raindrop eyes wild with a sudden agony so intense that it made her want to agree to anything he asked just to make him feel better. His eyes turned into hard steel when he looked at her, it was frightening and cold, but quickly melted into tears and swimming in torture and he fell at her feet like he used to.

"Why did you leave me Christine?" His voice echoed in a tone of unrelenting agony, "Don't you love me?"

"Yes…" she said.

"Then let me have you…" He whispered and turned out the light.

His silver eyes were filled with tears and the pain in them was palpable. Christine reached for him but he turned away and then he oddly started to bleed, his face dissolved into blue eyes and golden hair. Not Erik… Raoul…she ran to him and tried to cover the wound. His warm face was twisted with heartbroken pain. The wound opened further until it became a great, gaping chasm in his chest. A horrible blood-pumping thing right where his heart was supposed to be and then with tears in his eyes he reached inside it, where there came a horrible squishing sound. He then gasping out his last breath laid the two halves of his broken heart at her feet…

She screamed, picking up his heart as though she could put it back in and make him whole again. But then it shattered to fragments in her hands as though it were made of broken glass. Christine bent to pick up the pieces but they blew away in a chilling gust of eerie unfamiliar wind. His voice filled her ears, aching, tortured, and pitiable beyond reason. It was gut-wrenching to hear, no words, just a scream as though his soul. Christine sat bolt upright on the couch her body streaming with a cold sweat as she looked around the room. The ingénue blinked back the fog of sleep as she swore she heard the sound of movements in the empty room. Her eyes saw nothing but a blackness that was as thick and engulfing as it was dark.

She tried to forget the horrible image of Raoul tearing his shattered heart from his chest and the horrible wailing as it whispered the unspoken question of why she left him on the wind. Fortunately she was soon asleep again but then came to mind that olden-time expression of 'be careful what you wish for.' Another dream of a forbidden night with her tutor swept over her, he had her on the swan bed in her room. His nimble hands framed her body as they moved down, touching her holding her in place. His voice crying out as she rocked in those hands, him nursing her desire, feeding it until they both exploded.

The dream was so vivid that caused her to open her eyes suddenly alert and thinking of him. Her eyes flew to the open mirror and she crossed the threshold to the slimy, greenish-black pathway to that led down to her one-time angel and more recently her nightmarish addiction.

She could still hear an echo of her dreams of sinful passion most unbecoming of a pure young woman, who still has a virgin's innocence. Even now she thought she could just hear him saying he loved her, could still feel the coldness of his fierce embrace. Tears welled in her eyes and she wiped at them ferociously wanting to be a woman for once in her life. Raoul had often teased her about her innocence when really it was her naiveté about who she wanted in life…who she was, no is. Her father would be shocked if he saw her now. He would look at her and say, 'who are you and what have you done with my little girl?'

He would reach up and cup her face, "When my darling, did you become a woman?"

She would have looked at him and said, "When I met my angel of music…."

Her father would wipe his eyes in teary-eyed shock, "But my child, surely the angel does not steal one's innocence."

Oh how he was wrong for she was no young girl who shied away from passion, an innocent wilted blossom just budding. He would be ashamed of her for the way she felt because he had always told her that sex was only an obligatory thing of marriage. That marriage was based on innocent love and that was why it was meant to last forever. A true marriage was based on innocent love, a mutual affection that would last through the ages, the kind of love where it was based on protection and tenderness. Someone like Raoul de Chagny, he had always wanted her to marry Raoul because of his 'prince charming looks and boyish charm'.

Daddy had often warned her that intensity would die whereas love would never fade if given for the right reasons. But daddy did not understand passion having married an innocent woman like her mama. Mama was so sweet and gentle, so calm and the type of happy homemaker that one might read about in the old-fashion novels by Jane Austin, a sweet and soft-spoken woman who never disobeyed her husband. Her father was happy with it, not because he had a superiority complex, but because he was a starry-eyed romantic fool. He enjoyed her disposition because he liked to imagine his wife as a beautiful damsel in distress. Her mama liked it the same way, often saying that she wished she had been born back in medieval times.

When asked why she laughed, "Because then my husband could carry me off into the glowing sunset of the evening as the stars wield overhead."

Her father had laughed and kissed her mother's cheek whispering, "Ah, but you always say I am your knight in shining armor as it were. "

She in turn, kissed him quickly on the lips, "you are my love, and I only meant that were we alive in that era you might've carried me off to the sunset."

"Ah, but my dear, if we were in that era our own love would be as epic as ever whether I be a pauper or a knight." Her father said.

"Oh?" Charlotte asked, raising her eyebrow in that whatever-are-you-talking-about way.

"The unfathomable love of the poor violinist fallen for the town's most beautiful lady." He grinned, "Oh the pretty verses I would write and oh woest me the torture of my forbidden infatuation."

Her father had dropped to one knee, as though he meant to make his wife an offer to renew her vows. Charlotte played along and pressed her hand, palm out to her forehead dramatically and swooned like a schoolgirl. He swept her off her feet again and then dropped to his knees, still cradling her. There was mischief in his blue eyes, almost boyish glee at the swollenness of her wife's well-kissed lips. Her mother reached up to brush the blonde sideburns with tender fingers, staring affectionately into his eyes.

"Gustave, ma Cherie, you are truly a starry-eyed romantic fool!" she said.

Christine burst out laughing not out of humor but out of the infectious joy of the moment. The teenager let her father kiss her cheek before sending her off to play in the field and ride her pony. A smile on her face, the sound of her father's laughter in her ears and the promise of warmth when she returned as he drank his coffee by the fire and gestured for her to climb on his knee despite her age. She would climb up on his lap and he would sing to her as her mother worked at the second-hand piano, playing the tune with light, graceful fingers. Her father singing to her as he finished his coffee and brushing her forehead with his lips, even on that horrible night when her mama had died he had sung her to sleep.

She wanted that innocent time with daddy and mama again and no thoughts of a broken man awaiting her. No thoughts of anything but romance and gentle songs, peppermint by the fire and that time when Little Lotte was just a made-up character with an angel as her best friend. She did not want to be a woman…but most of all she did not want to love the man she did. Christine wanted Raoul, dear sweet Raoul with his innocence of who his beautiful delicate mother was. She wanted to be in love with him and hate her fake angel. God knows she wanted to hate him, God knows he deserved to be hated but the thought of hating him made her sick to her stomach.

But it was not to be, because as Erik had told her the night she had left him, true love was unpredictable. None of us can choose when, who and where we will love. The thought of loving him made her ill, not because the idea disgusted her because she had accepted it. It was the pain she felt every time she thought of him and those tears in his eyes… was true love supposed to make one sick? Christine had always thought that it would make one fly down the street and want to run into his arms like mama said. But perhaps that was just the romantic in her talking; it was something her parents had oft indulged in her.

As romantic as she was at heart, and even as her father had been she knew that he would not approve of Erik at all. Daddy Daaë would think him not only gruesome to look at but a sinful leach, trying to corrupt his innocent daughter. He would be shocked to find her in the throes of love and an almost sexual passion so fierce that it almost made her a woman in the physical sense. Christine blushed as the memory of that candlelit night and honeyed voice took her away, how his hands were embracing her and holding her in his so-called sweet intoxication. The smoothness of his silk mask as it crinkled under her touch, so cool, so soft… and so unnatural compared to his stubble-roughened cheek.

It was a scene her father would rage at, that was certain. Her father would then turn her into Rapunzel and lock her away from all men. She would then grow up in isolation, pining for the man she loved till she grew too lonely to bear it. Christine pictured herself reaching into the cabinet and withdrawing a wicked looking blade. She would turn into Juliet, killing herself and leaving daddy to weep and clean the mess.

There was her over-active imagination again and she shook her head, her thought drifting back to Erik. She recalled his music, his love; it had turned her into a woman and had frightened her. But had thrilled her, fed her curiosity and lulled her into the most sinful trance. She always prided herself on her virtue, her purity. But when Erik was around she seemed to forget her pride and everything, in a total hypnosis and throw herself into his arms in reckless abandon.

The thing that stuck out in her mind and mercifully but most of his entire wrath when she had first seen that gruesome sight. The crying, the groping of his hand as he held up a candle to that exposed skull and rotted-out flesh just so that it glowed in an almost sinister way. But then, that sweet, booming tenor a wrenching plea for a forgiveness, which he knew was beyond her giving. She saw the gondola and ore. Stepping in she lifted the heavy piece of wood and began to row towards the dark cave, humming softly.

"You have come here
in pursuit of
your deepest urge,
in pursuit of
that wish,
which till now
has been silent,
silent . . .
I have brought you,
that our passions
may fuse and merge -
in your mind
you've already
succumbed to me
dropped all defenses
completely succumbed to me -
now you are here with me:
no second thoughts,
you've decided,
decided . . .

Past the point
of no return -
no backward glances:
our games of make believe
are at an end . . .
Past all thought
of "if" or "when" -
no use resisting:
abandon thought,
and let the dream
descend . . .
What raging fire
shall flood the soul?
What rich desire
unlocks its door?
What sweet seduction
lies before
us . . .?

Past the point
of no return,
the final threshold -
what warm,
unspoken secrets
will we learn?
Beyond the point
of no return . . .
Past the point
of no return
the final threshold -
the bridge
is crossed, so stand
and watch it burn . . .
We've passed the point
of no return…"

She made it to the bank and got out of the boat where there was no sign of life to be had and she was instantly worried. Christine reached in and pulled the little lever to let herself in, and then began exploring. The poor girl searched and searched until she fell to her knees and cried with frustration. Christine cried until she noticed splatters of blood on the stones and then remembered the horrible day the époque saying that Erik was dead. A scream rose in her throat as she noticed the gun-case which he hid in a so-called 'secret place,' was empty.

"No…" her voice rose in a sob of agony, "NO!" she screamed, as she realized what her true love had done in his despair.

She found on the ground a piece of shattered glass on the ground and raised it to her wrist. If Erik was dead then she would not live without him and pressed the shard to her wrist hard enough to slice the skin. It should have hurt but the only thing she felt was the grief over the man she loved… that and tired as her blood seeped out. Christine vaguely heard someone running toward her and lifting her into his arms. She blacked out and woke sometime later, her sight blurred and a warm, wet cloth being pressed to her head.

"Mmm…" she tried to speak but her tongue felt thick and coarse in her throat. Still she managed to force out, "Who… are…you…"

"Shush, I am Nadir Khan," said the man, and his voice was lovely, a soft accent from the Middle-East.

He was handsome with sympathetic jade eyes filled with concern as he taped her injury with gauze. He placed an ebony hand her shoulder and she turned to look into the jade eyes of the elusive Persian. He was looking at her with curious, searching eyes as though he were trying to see into her soul. She closed her eyes, wanting to pull away and sleep herself to death; she wanted this man to go away. Erik was dead and she did not want to live without him, she tried not to cry but it was no use and she burst into tears.

"Mademoiselle what's the matter?" he asked.

"Erik…" she cried.

"What do you want with him?" he asked.

"I love him," she cried.

He raised his eyebrows, "Oh, you could have fooled me, the way you left him for the Vicomte."

"I know, but I left Raoul and now…oh god I love him and I cannot find him—"

"Miss Daaë, Erik is not here." He said.

"I know!" she cried, "He's dead….I killed the man I love!"

She flung herself into his arms and he brought them around her, rubbing her back. "Shh...Do you really love him?"

"I wouldn't have left Raoul if I didn't…" she buried her face in his chest, wanting to be held.

"You left Raoul…"

"Yes, for him…" she sobbed.

"Why? After the whole fiasco, the way you loathed him…"

"I do not know, "

"Then I must tell you that Erik is not dead, he is quite alive in a woodland cottage not far from here." He kissed the top of her head.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"I am an old friend of his, his oldest friend and I assure you he is quite alive."

"Are you certain…"
"Yes, Erik is very much alive in a cottage on the outskirts of the city."

"He is?" she perked up, "But I hurt him so badly he probably does not want to see me."

"Are you daft woman? You are all he thinks about." He smiled at her, "all I hear is Christine this and that. It's quite annoying really…"

"Can you take me to him?" she asked, trying to stand, "owww…" she groaned.

"You broke your ankle falling down, come on." He groaned and lifted her into his arms.

He took her down to the forest where she saw a smoking chimney and heard a beautiful voice sobbing. She reached out from the Persian's arms and knocked on the door. "Erik?"

"Go away!" he shouted.

"Erik, it's me… Christine…"

"No, go away…Christine is happy with her young man and doesn't care about Erik…"

"Erik, come now, open the door, please…" she begged.

"No, Erik's going mad!" His shout, "Mad with love…"

Christine winced and said "Erik it really is me…"

The door creaked and he opened it, seeing that it was her he threw it open and pulled her into his arms. "Oh my god, what happened to you?"

"Erik, my ankle…"

He loosened his grip and took her to the bed, closing the door in the Persian's face. He left them alone with a shake of his head, and an ear-to-ear grin. He was so happy for his friend, the man deserved some love in his life and now he had the only woman he had ever loved. He had no fear for Daaë knowing Erik would tend her, and after her tears in his old home he had no doubt of her love for him. He was happy for her too, because now and that she would be happy with Erik. She had cried out of love for him but now at last she was with the man she loved…