Chapter 12

A promise kept part 1

Erik undressed himself from his sopping clothes and hung them over the edge of the large tub to dry. The storm had quieted but the boat still rocked a little and she wrung out the clothes into the tub before tossing his sick-bucket out the window, rinsing it in the bathwater. He groaned as he leaned over the chamber pot to vomit but noting came out except a spasm of gagging that racked his frame. He groaned in pain and gagged one last time, before clutching feebly at his pounding temple. Christine went to him, more worried for his stomach than his nudity. When he lifted his face, he looked drained and sleepy, so Christine gathered the towels and laid his wet body on the bed.

She grabbed many thick towels from the W.C. and draped them over the bed as she blotted water from his face and eyes. Christine went and made him some hot tea with lemon like he enjoyed and propped him up on her arm. Her eyes were gentle as she took patiently took care of him, every move was gentle. She alternately stroked his hair and held the hot cup to his lips so that he sipped it slowly and didn't choke. She waited for him to finish it and let the warmth ease him, his body sank down all the way to the pillow and she lifted the covers over him.

Erik watched her as she administered to him, the greying sunlight shimmering in her strawberry blonde curls, her cool hand stroking his neck. He felt like a monkey with the dark fuzz of his facial hair leaving a shadow on his chin and throat. It was also horribly itchy and he reached up to scratch at himself, being too humble to ask her to help him shave. That was too much to ask, and he would be too embarrassed to ask her to the first place. Christine moved his hand down and shook her head, going over to the station where there was a razor and other shaving supplies. He shied away from her; not willing to let her near the good half of his face as much as he loved her it was dangerous.

"You need a shave love," she said as she approached him.

"Uh, I am not sure that's a good idea dear…"

"Why?" she asked.

"Well… it's just that those things are very sharp and women don't usually shave their faces and…"

She laughed, "Erik I know what I'm doing."

"Oh?"

"Yes," She looked sad, "I shaved Daddy Daaë when he was ill and couldn't do it…before he died now hold still."

Christine set the things down and boiled some water as she heated the razor, to which Erik grabbed her wrist. She took her other hand, grateful that he was groggy and his fingers were easy to pry away. Erik reached up and wiped a stray tear from her eye, feeling like a bastard for bringing the pain back for her. His wife pushed him back on the bed telling him to hold still for her. He did as she painted the shaving cream over his facial hair, smiling as the warm foam caressed his throat and chin. It felt good to have the fuzz removed from his face, and he felt his eyes close, feeling sleep take over him as she soothed him

She sat down on the bed and ran the towel over his damp skin, careful to get inside the lines of his scars so that they didn't get infected. Christine gently dried him, making sure he was no longer feeling ill before she jostled him. Erik was fine with this, finding he enjoyed a little tenderness now and again. He was also willing to do whatever she wished though, if she wanted him to brush her hair he was right there counting to one-hundred as if she were some princess from a fairytale. Erik brushed her with his comb first and then ran his fingers through her hair to insure its silkiness. But for now he just wanted to sleep and so he closed his eyes and pulled her down on the bed with him.

She snuggled closer, her body relaxing as she began to sing to him, her voice half drowsy with sleep. Erik felt a smile touch the corners of his mouth as he remembered the tune of the lullaby he had sung to her for many nights as his troubled child protégée. It was strange to have her sing for him not as his student but as a woman who loved him, meaning to comfort and love him into a peaceful sleep. It was usually the other way around no one ever cared enough to make sure he was comfortable, no one bothered to give a damn. Still it was nice to know that she cared enough to sing to him when he was sick. Erik wrapped his arms around Christine and began to hum along with her song.

Usually, he would sing her little love songs as he did and sometimes she would fall asleep on his knees with a peaceful smile on her lips and pleasant dreams in her mind. Dreams filled with new futures, a world where no one knew them and their life could be anything they wished. She saw herself holding a baby boy with her husband's coffee hair and raindrop eyes. The thought of being pregnant was something that excited her, and she saw the perfect boy in her mind, perhaps he might be blonde and forget me not eyed like her. They would be musical of course and as brilliant as their father and strong like him too.

The dreams were the reason that she looked forward to sleep so much, and when she sometimes dozed off during the day Erik would hold her close to him. He would never wake her; he would lift her to his arms and sit on the bed, still singing to her unless he happened to doze off. Then they would lay there letting the sun from the window warm them and ignoring the cabin-service maid as she came in to bring them their afternoon meal. Christine would smile, being the light sleeper that she was. Erik would wrap his arms around her to insure she was very warm and could go back to sleep. That almost always worked, his warmth coupled with the sound of his deep, steady breathing was as soothing as any lullaby.

But she was even more soothed as she realized how beautiful their love looked to this old woman. She heard the old lady chuckle gently and call them 'precious younglings' before she tucked them in even though it wasn't her job. Sometimes she would hear the old woman say something like, 'ah young love' and even cry a little for a husband or lover who had long passed. She was awake then but she pretended not to be so she could remain in her husband's arms. It was a like some beautiful dream world that she was stuck in and never wanted to leave.

She had begun to wonder just how long she would be on this boat, but did not want to ask her husband because he might think she did not enjoy being alone with him. It was just that being the country girl that she was; she hated being confined to small places for long periods of time. Christine liked the openness of land and the wide blue skies stretching on forever. Even in the opera house she hated the cramped dormitories of the ballet with all the other girls. Particularly at night when it was noisy with the other girls fornicating with the hired help. It was a practice that Madame forbids and was severely punished if they were caught.

Those men were not the kind that one brought home to one's father in hopes of a happy ever after, no these men were those fathers warned their little girls of. Men who would abuse a woman's virginity and then leave her with either the broken heart or the lovechild that came along with it or both. Frankly Christine did not truly understand the appeal of these old, greasy stagehands that reeked of cheap whisky and hand-rolled cigarettes. True, she now a woman, enjoyed sex and the physical pleasure that came along with it but it was not just the action that bought the ecstasy.

It was also the man and the men the ballerina's snuck around with were just disgusting. Stinky and bumbling like fools, who had to be helped inside the center of the drunken girls who had to have been at their wine for a long time to feel any physical attraction to these men in the first place. The girl remembered hiding beneath her covers as she tried to block out the moans and grunts of oversexed young girls and the men. She also remembered the way the ballet rats used to tease her about her virginity and how she was an 'innocent Swedish pup' famous for the prude nature of her origins. Christine vividly remembered being heckled her that she might as well become a sister of the faith because no mortal man would be good enough for her.

Christine would snap back that she was not a prude but waiting for a husband who she loved rather than breaking the rules with these pigs. They had then called her a Christine looked at Erik, running her hands over her breasts as he laying, snoozing, naked on the fluffy bed. The way his chest rippled with the wiry corded muscles of his chest and powerful arms. He was anything but disgusting, he was a man whose voice was rough and gentle and whose movements were powerful. He knew how to please a woman and how to make her want to please him as well.

Her mother had told her when she was young that sex was a private and sacred matter between two people in love. That intercourse was meant for those who were married to make a baby and was a quiet affair not meant to be advertised to the world. These girls did not seem to understand that and Christine remembered failing at getting many a good night's rest with this going on and even worse the snoring of lushes after drinking too much rum or an excess of wine. She knew she snored too, but the most annoying part was that when she snored her roommates would wake her and tell her to be silent so they could rest.

Christine would do her best and would succeed because their snoring was so loud that she never was able to fall back to sleep. She remembered lying awake until the early morning hours holding her pillow over her head to attempt to muffle the offensive noise. It never worked of course and she would only fall asleep when she was so completely exhausted that she passed out and snored twice as loud as was the effect of extreme fatigue. Christine had often been late to practice because she had fallen asleep and not waking when her roommates jostled her.

Sometimes she would miss practice entirely and be punished with extra chores or no supper and she would sneak a crust of bread and that would be her only bite for the day. When she would miss practice repeatedly, she would get a sound lashing with Madame Giry's walking stick. Christine touched her shoulders where she felt the rough thin line of a scar on her shoulders. Madame had certainly not skimped on the punishment that was for certain. The lashes were the worst part of it, her back was sore for days and then she would cry.

She would cry because it was better to do so when Madame was lashing you for she would only stop when the tears came. The other girls never cried, they thought it was weak if you did so and their punishments were a lot worse, Christine had remembered seeing welts the size of grapes on their backs and the backs of their legs. So rather than have bumps and pain, she would give in and then be heckled by her bunkers that she was a little baby and not woman enough to take her punishment. At one point she had gotten tired of it and snuck out of her room wandering the halls until she made her way down to the chapel and lit her candles. She remembered many nights of curling up by her father's picture and falling asleep in the peaceful silence by her daddy's picture.

Of course it was a reprehensible action and she had been thoroughly lectured by Madame for wandering off but that did not stop her. The allure of a good night's sleep by daddy's picture was too much temptation for her to resist. But that was not her biggest problem, the biggest one was that she was curious and wanted to see the opera with no one telling her where she could and could not go. Christine had been known for wandering the halls well after curfew and being in frequent trouble for this minor infraction. A smile crept across her face as she remembered the first time she had heard Erik down in the auditorium on the stage. She had been a little girl borrowing the diva's identity as she dreamed and wished as his that she could be there with the crowds adoring her. One day she had been singing softly as she played court to her imaginary audience when her voice ran out a little too loud when she had heard a voice…

Flashback:

Her song was a sad one of love long lost and broken hearts, still seeing the beauty of the world. A couple breaking up as one replayed the practiced ritual of breaking each other's hearts and how she, even in the throes of losing her love still wished for one last beautiful day with him. She sang with all the emotion she felt the song entailed the dreaming lover wishing not for the traditional ending she had experienced.

The aria had been one of mama's favorites and as she sang it she imagined her mother smiling at her. She sang the song softly to the visual of her mother as she applauded and smiled at her. Mama waved at her and tossed her a rose as she placed her hand over Papa's and gave him a deep and warm kiss. Christine bowed to them, blowing them a kiss which they pretended to catch and then retuned in kind. Then, quick as a flash they vanished and the lights of the stage went out, leaving her in the cold dark auditorium with no one around her but the chairs and walls. It was then that she heard his voice, a lovely male voice as deep and rich as honey being heated on an intimate campfire.

"Child, your voice is as pure as an angel." He said.

Christine looked up, turning her head from side to side frantically looking for the man who was speaking to her. There was no on there, but she was no fool and she knew that no man had a voice like that and was not real because her father had promised her an angel and so an angel she would get. Unless the angel was her papa and that was even better. A smile broke out on her face and her blue eyes lit up, she turned toward the source of the voice and looked peering for the source of the voice.

"Who are you?" she asked, and the voice laughed in "Papa taught me never to talk to strangers."

The voice laughed, "A wise decision my dear…but surely I am no stranger…"

"You aren't?" she asked, puzzled.

"No," he said.

Her eyes lit up, "Daddy?"

The voice was sad then as he sighed "No," he said, "I am not daddy, I am your angel."
"Angel?" the child asked.

"Yes," he said, "The angel of music is here to make u better, now we shall begin your lessons my dear…"

"But Madame…"

"Never mind… you are no dancer. "

"All right Angel…"

He had spoken to Madame Giry the following morning, and the lashings and rehearsals had stopped. She was allowed to sleep in the chapel if she liked and her curfew had been stripped. She spent nine wonderful years that way and then the time came when she longed for real affections and a love story like mama had with Daddy. One night she had been sad as it was the Lover's holiday yet she had no sweetheart to call her own whereas girls younger than her were flitting and flirting with men. It was on this day that her angel had seen the sadness in her and she had been given the gift of a lifetime but did not know it yet.

"Child…what's the matter?"

Christine groaned, it was a relief to hear from her childhood guardian at the very least, and she always felt better afterwards. Still, she did not know how to tell him when most of the time he was so focused on music that little else mattered to him. Not that Christine blamed him, after all the purpose of his existence was to bring her music not to sort out her love life. But now she really just wanted a friend to complain to that did not call her a Swedish Pup or Prude. She shrugged and thought it best to give it a try because if he couldn't understand then it was really hopeless.

"I'm lonely maestro…"

"Lonely," he echoed in a tone that personified confusion, "Why would you be lonely, when you have everything, your music, your own angel why should you be lonely?"

"It's just…" she hesitated.

"It's just what?" he repeated.

"I want a friend." She said.

Then he seemed to chuckle, "you have friends, many of them my little social butterfly."

"No, not those, a different kind of friend… a gentleman-friend," she blushed

Silence greeted her but it was not the frustrated silence that he got when she would fall asleep in the middle of a lesson. Nor was it the angry silence he acquired when she allowed her curiosity to get the better of her. That was obviously his least favorite time of the night when she bombarded him with her endless barrage of questions about his whereabouts and what heaven was like and so on and so forth. It was a thoughtful quiet, the kind papa used to get when he was deciding which story he would tell her that evening.

At last he said, "Why would you want that?" and then in a voice drenched with sorrow he asked, "Am I a bad friend for you?"

Her response was quick, "No!" then softer, "No, but you are not of this earth and I cannot be in love with a man who is not on earth."

Again there was silence and then, "Would you love me if I were?" then he clarified, "A mortal gentleman-friend?"

Christine answered without hesitation, "Yes of course."

"Even if I were ugly, and my face were distorted?"

She laughed, "Yes, but why would an angel be ugly?"

His voice turned grave, "When an angel gives up his post in heaven he must pay the price."

"Price?"

"Indeed, the last Angel that left heaven was…" he stopped, "Your father…he saw how beautiful you were and longed to be a mortal father to you so the Lord had to replace him and I was picked."

"Oh?"

"Yes, his price was a young death…" he sounded sad, "I do not know what I would have to give up having a chance to be your gentleman-friend."

Christine had been sad by this, "I can't ask you to give something up for me…"

"Oh no I would do it," he said and she smiled.

"You would?"

"Yes," he said instantly, "But only if you would love me."

"Oh I would!"

Christine smiled and stifled a yawn, to which he laughed gently. "Sleep child, I will see to it soon you have your 'gentleman friend.'

End flashback

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