Chapter 5
At some point over the next hours, Christine realized she hadn't used her crutch since the early morning. Her ankle was of a normal size, and there was only a mild soreness when she rotated it. She wasn't ready to run a marathon, but she thought she could probably make her way around without help.
She should show Erik her recovery progress, but she wasn't sure what he would say. Or do. He was a loose cannon, ready to go off whenever someone lit a match. She desperately needed to talk to him. She wasn't sure how much she wanted to reveal, but at least a little bit might help placate him.
Erik didn't come to her when he returned. She only knew he had from the music that began to drift from the piano. The sudden playing startled her, and she quickly got up from the bed to head into the living room. She had been reading the book on opera, and she wanted to talk to him about the section on French opera. She brought the book with her just in case.
She had never heard anything like what he was playing, and she knew without a doubt that he was playing his own music, something he had created out of his own despair. Sometimes he would pound upon the keys, a furious, desperate melody that she literally felt deep in her heart. Then he would slow, drawing out the minor chords in a way that made her shiver.
Was he still upset about earlier? Is that why he was acting this way?
As she made her way to the main living area, she caught sight of him sitting upon the bench, his back to her. He was hunched over the keys, his back an arch of tension, his hands flying wildly to and fro.
"Erik?" she called softly.
If he heard her, he gave no indication. He continued to play his mad composition, a never-ending dichotomy of sounds. She set her book on the low table near the divan. Giving him a wide berth, she moved to stand next to him, in his field of view where he could see her if he looked up.
He didn't acknowledge her, but she knew he noticed her there. His fingers played quicker, beating eerie chords out of the ivories.
"Erik," she tried again. "What's wrong? Is this about earlier?"
He paused long enough to bite out a string of words: "Rejection is hardly a new tune for me." He began to play again with one hand while the other produced a yellow manila envelope and tossed it at her feet. Then he went back to his furious performance.
Heart pounding, she picked up the large envelope and thumbed open the top flat. As she pulled out the thick stack of papers, she immediately caught sight of the official letterhead at the top of the first page.
Hartford Hospital; Hartford, Connecticut
Dr. Helena Thompson
Oncology Associates
She glanced down the first page, seeing her name and medical terminology with which she was now very familiar. She didn't need to read through to know what she was looking at. She did a quick flip of the pages, seeing familiar files related to oncology. Radiation. Treatment options. Surgery. Hospitalization for infection. More surgery. The last two years of her life compiled in a thick, sterile file.
She gripped the papers with both hands, wanting to rip them to shreds. "How did you get all this?" Her voice wavered only slightly, and she glared at him through her tears.
He did stop playing then, resting his hands calmly on his thighs. When he looked at her, his yellow eyes flashed with anger. He had no right to be mad at her!
"Daroga has his own talents, his own connections. Medical records are an easy thing to find."
"But why?"
"I have told you, he is the ultimate meddler in my affairs. He dug his way into your life story and found what he was looking for. I suppose he believes the definitive stain on my soul would be if you died down here."
She shook with ice-cold fury. "This is none of your business!"
"None of my business!" He swept off the bench, stalking toward her. Without thinking about her actions, she flung the medical records at him. He batted them away with an arm, causing an explosion of white papers that floated about the floor, but he stopped himself before he came closer.
"Exactly!" She heard how shrill she sounded, but she didn't care. "You didn't need to know any of this. You invaded my privacy!"
He started toward her again, and she stumbled back to put the divan between them. "You took off my mask, Christine. You kissed the monster under the opera. You dared to touch me again and again, and I believed all of it. But a dying woman cannot make any promises!"
She sputtered. "I'm not dying! I've- I've had treatment, I've gone through pills and radiation, and so many fucking doctors' visits!"
He knew all of this already. She had no doubt that he had read every record in her file. He knew everything.
Her face heated. "I have another check scheduled soon to make sure I haven't relapsed, but right now, I'm in remission. Still, you had no right to know any of that!"
"And if you grew sick? The flu put you in the hospital twice last year! If you caught something down here in the dark and cold, I would never have forgiven myself. And I don't do well with guilt." He swept around the divan and caught both of her upper arms in his steel grasp. She pushed at his chest with her fists, but he held tightly, giving her a shake as he spat at her. "I am used to this dampness, this stone coffin, but you are not, Christine. You, with your warmth, your softness, your goodness, are not."
"I was cleared for travel!"
"And travel you will." He let go of one of her arms to fetch a smaller packet from inside his coat. He pressed it into her grasp and spun away, breathing heavily.
She held a plane ticket in her shaking fingers.
"W-what is this, Erik?"
"It is time for you to go home, Christine."
And tears flowed freely down her cheeks. "You're sending me away?"
Now he was the one stumbling away from her. "I am setting you free!"
"Of course you would say that." She was growing hysterical. She could hear it in her voice. Would she have another panic attack? Would he even care? "You don't know anything, do you? You don't understand anything."
He thrust a long finger in the direction of her room. "Go pack, Christine. You will have a few hours of rest, and then Nadir will drive you to the airport."
She laughed at him in desperation. "You stupid, stupid man!"
"Go pack, Christine! Or leave it all. I do not care either way. But you will go with him, and you will get on that plane."
She wanted to scream at him you can't make me! He could make her, he had always been in control of whether she stayed or went. He hadn't mentioned that she was walking around freely without her crutch, but she supposed that just made it all the easier to throw her out.
She stalked back to her room and slammed the door, well aware of how childish she looked. Her pillow muffled her scream.
Seconds later, Erik's morbid song rose up again from the piano.
Sometime after she had cried out every tear she could, a small knock sounded on her door. She didn't move, still pressing her flushed face to her now damp pillow. She heard the rustle of clothing and then the sharp tap of glass against stone as something was set on the floor.
"Water and food," said Erik, his voice rough.
I hope his fingers are bleeding, she thought, glad for at least a few moments of silent reprieve.
Her body desperately wanted both, but she couldn't bear to see him, not yet. She waited until his footsteps faded away, waited longer until he began to push his desperate melodies out of the piano once again. Only then did she rise, quickly scoot the tray into her room, and close the door.
The cool glass of water felt heavenly down her throat. She chased each gulp with a bite of the sandwich he had made. Even after all of that, he was looking out for her.
Of course, now he just thought of her as a cancer victim.
Stiffly, she grabbed her suitcase, flinging it open, and began to throw in her belongings. She hadn't unpacked much, not wanting to make a mess where Erik could see. She had a small pile of dirty clothes that she threw in without care. With one arm, she swept her lotion and a few small toiletries she kept on the dresser into the open carcass of her suitcase. Who cared how she packed?
She threw open the door to the bedroom and strode into the bathroom. She only kept her toothbrush and toothpaste in there, along with her bath items, and she was able to easily grab those. Erik's music quieted a bit as though he was trying to listen to her actions while continuing to also play.
She threw everything into her suitcase. She zipped up her suitcase, kicked it upright, and flung up the tow handle. Then she grabbed her purse, throwing it over her shoulder. She slipped on a pair of sandals and tied her hair back into a low ponytail.
Lugging everything behind her, she walked out of the bedroom with grim determination.
"I'm ready!" she shouted over the piano.
He didn't turn to look at her. He didn't even pause.
She dragged her suitcase across the living room and left it near the corridor where she knew the lake and its boat lay in wait. Seeing the book on opera laying on the table where she had left it, she hesitated, then grabbed it and tossed it into her purse before she could change her mind.
Then she stalked back to Erik, hoisting her purse back over her shoulder. "I want my cell phone battery back."
He glanced at her, his expression cool and calm. "Your flight isn't until 7:45 am. You still have nine hours before you need to check in."
"I don't care. I can sleep at the airport."
"Nadir isn't here to pick you up, my dear. He is the one with a car." Erik tapped out a low melody, contemplative. "Likely, the old fool is already asleep."
"Then give me my battery, and I will call a cab."
"My Daroga feels responsible for you. He wants to make sure you make it safely to the airport."
She took a deep breath. "I don't want to spend another second here! Call him!" She searched her purse for her cell phone and flung it at him. The phone thudded against his chest and fell into his lap. She felt a surge of satisfaction.
Erik stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he pulled the battery from his coat pocket and slid it into the phone. He punched a number and waited with the phone to his ear.
Christine folded her arms and stared back.
"Ah, Monsieur Khan," Erik said, his tone mocking. "Why, yes, I know the hour. My dear Christine wants to go to the airport now. Yes, now. She may yet walk if you do not come to fetch her. Of course you may speak to her. No need to shout." He pressed the speaker button with a thumb. "Go ahead."
"Miss Daaé, I understand that you are under a lot of stress right now, but-"
She hoped her voice sounded as pissed as she felt. "Come get me. Now."
"Miss Daaé-"
"I'm going to the airport now one way or another, Mr. Khan. Since you seem so concerned with my safety, I'm being nice and letting you pick me up. How far away do you live?"
"About twenty-five minutes. But why-"
"You have thirty minutes before I leave."
As Nadir sputtered, Erik ended the call with a tap of his thumb. He coolly passed the phone to her, and she slipped it into her purse.
"Satisfied, my dear?"
She wanted to scream at him. Of course she wasn't satisfied. Thoughts swirled in her head, a thousand things she could say at that moment. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked to the small, makeshift kitchen. In a bowl on the table, she found an apple and began to devour it with ferociousness.
Behind her, Erik began to play once again.
Christine kept a close eye on the clock on her phone. Nadir Khan arrived twenty minutes later, out of breath and moping the sweat from his brow. Dark bruises appeared beneath his shirt collar, and she felt a small pang of guilt when seeing how much Erik had hurt him because of her.
Though really, only Erik was to blame for his rotten temper.
She jumped up when she saw the Persian and threw her purse over her shoulder. Erik hadn't moved from his position on the piano bench, and his melody picked up in tempo and volume. Christine had wondered if her masked companion would take her to the surface himself, but it seemed he would let his old friend do all the work.
"I'm ready, Mr. Khan," she said, straightening. "I just have the one suitcase."
Nadir glanced at the black-clad figure pounding furiously on the keys a few yards away. "Anything else, Miss Daaé?"
"Of course not."
She refused to look at Erik, and he was giving her no notice. As Nadir took her suitcase and led her to the small boat, she expected Erik to come after her. She really did. A small part of her thought he might change his mind at the last second and charge down the hall after her. Nadir helped her into the boat and pushed them off the edge of the shore.
Erik didn't come. Christine heard him continue to play, and the notes echoed off the yawning expanse of stone ceiling above long after she lost sight of his home in the darkness.
Nadir tried to strike up friendly conversation as he pushed them across the inky waters with the pole, but her glare quickly made him falter into silence. When they landed on the far shore, she climbed out. She didn't recognize this new cavern and guessed that he had steered them to a new, working exit. When he offered to carry her suitcase, she let him. She took some perverse pleasure in watching him struggle with both her large suitcase and the lantern he held.
They climbed a long, winding staircase, took a door to the left, and climbed again. Nadir said nothing except to direct her or tell her to watch her step. A glance at her cell phone told her they had been walking with a steady ascent for nearly thirty minutes. Erik had been right, at least, about this: she couldn't have made it out with a busted ankle.
She pushed aside thoughts of him. She hadn't sensed his presence this whole time, and she guessed that he hadn't followed them. She heaved a relieved sigh when Nadir finally pushed open a door, and fresh air hit her face. It was a clear, warm summer night, a gentle breeze cutting through what might have otherwise been mugginess. Christine didn't care. It was her first taste of outside in days, and she relished the feeling across her skin.
"My car is around the corner, Miss Daaé," said Nadir, setting her suitcase down on its wheels.
She nodded. They had emerged from the ground itself, the exit a small hatch tucked into an otherwise nondescript alley across from the opera house. The Palais Garnier rose before them, a haunting reminder of what she had just experienced. Nadir secured the door with a padlock – only a way out if you had gone in?
She followed Nadir to a sleek black car parked outside a nearby café and climbed into the passenger side after he opened the door. She could feel him glancing at her as he began to drive.
"You still have a long time before your flight, if you would rather rest at my flat first." She could tell he was trying to be kind. That seemed like Nadir Khan's motto – kindness first, practicality second. He should sooner realize that not everyone preferred kindness. Sometimes, sparing someone from reality was more harmful.
"No," she said. "I want to wait at the airport." The sooner she separated herself from everything and everyone who reminded her of Erik, the better.
"Very well." He drove on.
Charles de Gaulle Airport wasn't that far away – a little less than 30 minutes from the opera house in such little traffic. Christine took out her plane ticket to look at the details for the first time. The flight was at 7:45 in the morning, like Erik had said, and there was only one stop at JFK. The ticket had cost over three thousand dollars.
She turned to Nadir. "Did you buy this ticket or did Erik?"
"I did, Miss Daaé, but I used his funds. He insisted."
She hadn't thought about Erik as having money, but as she considered his home, she did remember thinking that his furnishings, while sparse, seemed expensive and well-made. His clothes as well were tailored and made with fine fabrics.
"How does he have the money for this anyway? Does he have a job?" She was prying, but she didn't care. Erik wasn't around to scowl at her, now was he?
Nadir frowned, and Christine thought he was choosing his words carefully based on how mad Erik might get if he knew. "Erik has past and current exploits that serve him well. We are also both very good at managing money. Miss Daaé." He paused, licked his lips, cleared his throat. "I have never seen him act with anyone the way he has acted with you."
"Is that why you forced him to send me home?" A headache was forming between her eyebrows. She resisted the urge to rub across her breastbone. How long had it been since she had taken any painkiller? As soon as she got on that plane, she'd pop a Percocet and pass out.
"I have known him for over twenty years." He gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. "You don't know how much of that has been spent getting him out of trouble."
Her eyes widened as she realized something. "You're protecting him as much as me."
"What he is now is largely my fault."
"Because of Persia."
Nadir choked. When they stopped in a line of cars pulling up to the airport, he turned to gawk at her. "He told you?"
"Yes. At least vaguely. He knows what you're doing, Mr. Khan."
The older man pulled out a handkerchief and swiped it across his brown. "I can't believe he spoke with you about those years. He has never-" He stopped, tried again. "Maybe I was too quick to judge his intentions with you. Your illness was the perfect opportunity to save him from making any dreadful mistakes, but I see likely that he had himself under control."
"I suppose." Christine thought of their kisses, their touches, and how they had been so close to going beyond even that. Neither one of them had been in control of themselves, had they?
Nadir pulled up to the American Airlines loading platform. Christine made sure she had her ticket and passport ready while he pulled her suitcase from his trunk.
They both stopped on the platform, gazing at one another. Nadir handed her a small envelop, saying the money tucked inside was for food and a cab back to her apartment once she arrived home.
Christine thought she might cry, but she was too exhausted for that. Her tears would have to wait until she landed in Boston. She opened her mouth to thank him, and the words dried up inside her. She would have rather been left alone.
Nadir tucked both of his hands into his pockets. "My number is in your phone, Miss Daaé, if you have need of me. Don't hesitate to call. Text me when you arrive so that I – we – know you are safe. Please."
It was something a friend or family might say, something a father would ask of his daughter. She barely knew the man, and yet she could see why Erik kept him around.
"He's lucky to have you," she said, meaning it. "Take care of him for me."
He nodded. "As long as he lets me."
She really didn't have much else to say. She didn't want to shake his hand or linger. Now that she was at the airport, now that it was clear this was happening, that Erik wasn't coming for her, and that this little adventure was over, she just wanted to get away.
She grasped her purse with one hand and kicked the suitcase onto its wheels with a foot. "Goodbye, Mr. Khan."
"Goodbye, Miss Daaé."
She felt his eyes watching her enter the airport, but she didn't look back. The cool air hit her face and made her shiver as she strode to the American Airlines ticket counter. She checked her suitcase in and found her gate. Despite the late hour – or early hour, depending on how she looked at it – passengers walked to and fro. Here and there she saw other people sleeping in wait of their own flights.
She settled into a comfortable spot stretched across two chairs near her gate. She set an alarm on her phone for two hours before her flight, and seriously considered calling her mom. It wasn't a weekend, though, so likely her mother was fast asleep. She'd call her as soon as had to change planes in New York.
Christine pulled the book on opera from her purse and ran her thumb across the gold-embossed title: History of 19th Century Opera. She felt a little heady at having stolen the book from Erik. She wasn't interested in reading right now, the pull of getting a little sleep dragging down her eyelids, but the sight of the book helped ground her. The past days hadn't been just a dream. They had happened. All of it had happened.
She flipped to the spot where she had tucked a long strip of paper as a makeshift bookmark.
Erik had written on it.
She knew without a doubt that was his handwriting. The red ink scrawled across the small rectangle of paper with a hurried grace she had seen on his compositions. The message was brief.
Daignez seulement écouter, un moment,
Ce qu'elle va conter aux étoiles
Of course he would leave her a message in French, the smug bastard. Christine pulled out her cell phone and ran the text through Google Translate.
Deign only to listen one moment,
what she is going to tell the stars
What the hell was this supposed to mean? Was it a quote? Her first instinct was to wad the piece of paper into a ball and throw it away. She could feel her pulse quicken, and she forced herself to relax. She wouldn't let him get to her. She wouldn't.
What was he trying to say? Christine's head spun the two lines in different angles, and none of them were that great to consider. When had he even written the passage – days beforehand? Right after he had read her medical files and decided to send her away? She had left the book near him when she'd run back to her room. She bet he had written in it then.
Christine clapped the book shut with the bookmark hidden away and shoved it back into her purse.
If he had been here, she would definitely unload all of the thoughts she would tell the stars. She scoffed to herself at the cryptic message. She was in no mood. Any feelings for that man were squelched after his betrayal. She would go home and continue to life her life without him and his stupid drama.
Using her purse as a pillow, she tried to get some sleep before her alarm went off. For the next few hours, the book was a solid, hard lump under her head.
She woke up a loud noise thumping inside her skull, driving her above the surface of unconsciousness. Christine cracked open her eyes, found her phone with blurry nonprecision, and tapped off the alarm. For a few disorientated moments, she wondered when Erik had let her keep her cell phone battery. Then she heard a woman's calm voice announcing that the flight to London, England would begin boarding. The flight just before hers.
Christine snapped to reality, sitting up quickly. The seats around her had begun to fill up as she slept – a little unsettling. A search of her purse told her that nothing had been taken, and she seemed physically fine, a little rumpled and in desperate need of a toothbrush. In her haste to get out of Erik's presence, she hadn't packed anything for her long trip home, not even some deodorant.
She still had at least an hour before her flight boarded. She spent the time freshening up the best she could. The great thing about airports is that they had pretty much anything you might need to sleep there – toiletries were easy to find. Breakfast was a giant iced coffee with caramel, something she had sorely missed in the depths below the opera. She bought a different book to preoccupy her mind, a safe choice involving no romance.
By the time she finished her errands, her flight was readying itself for boarding. She glanced around her, seeing only strangers, hearing a half-dozen different languages being spoken, the press of bodies stifling after spending so many days with only Erik for company.
As the flight attendant at the front desk began to call rows for boarding, Christine understood with compete finality that he wasn't coming for her. Whatever they had shared – kisses, touches, the music – had in the end meant little enough.
Her eyes burned hotly, but she refused to cry, not yet, not while she was going to be crammed in a plane for the next thirteen hours.
He wasn't coming for her. He had let her go. And so she would have to do the same to him.