The hands of the ormolu clock on the upright piano return to their placement of both hands on the twelve. After discovering the papers documenting a history of his life he knew nothing about, the pattern of their lives was put in place at this time with this action. With minutes the playing of the organ begins – louder and even more chaotic now than has been his wont.
Nothing unusual occurred today she can put her finger on, but the music suggests he is disturbed about something. Despite reconciling herself to her present situation – her life here is quite normal and actually pleasant in many ways. Erik is a most generous host and, in truth, she has come to enjoy their time together. While not entirely reminiscent of her days with Pappa – he was, after all, her father – Erik is proving to be a fine companion.
There is talk of books he read while she shares stories of life on the road with Pappa with an occasional tale about the girls in the company. Companiable conversations are interspersed with bouts of laughter – surprising both of them. Carlotta often being the brunt of their humor. A shared dislike for the Prima Donna saves them when silences last too long.
"No nightingale is she," Erik commented after a particularly lengthy gap in their conversation.
For her part, having the knitting to concentrate on saved her from the nervous energy Erik exhibited when having nothing to say or do. His fingers seldom stopped moving and likely explain his leaving the room when the clock reached twelve and retiring to the music room. This being his habit of the past twenty-four or forty- eight hours – three days or five she is not quite certain now. With no knowledge of the sun rising and setting, this could as easily be midday as midnight.
For the moment, however, this was still the time of day to converse and converse they would.
"I doubt a crow would find her a threat." Was her ultimate retort.
"My dear, I do believe you are not the innocent some suggest you are." The comment seemed to please him and for the moment his long fingers stopping playing music she could not hear. Relaxing into his leather chair, he folded his hands and appeared to smile.
"Who suggests that?"
"Most of your companions in the troupe."
"Well, I may be innocent in some ways," she said, adjusting the skirt of the pale pink dress chosen for these chats, "but Pappa was always proud of what he called my wit and ability to know the truth about people."
After the comment about her wit, he decided she should learn to play the game of chess. A welcomed addition to their day. She found she could spend an inordinate amount of time planning one move with neither of them becoming anxious or trying to think of something to say.
"I fear you will soon surpass me," he said, moving his King out of check.
"Would that be so terrible?"
"I do not know. Do you gloat when you win?"
"As you do? Winning against an amateur is hardly something to be proud of."
"I do not gloat."
"No, perhaps not, but you are smug."
Lessons were conducted at the piano – her learning to play followed by what seemed an endless running of scales.
"Your skills on the keyboard are developing nicely."
"I have plenty of time to work on them."
"Are you bored?"
"Not the playing. I enjoy the challenge of learning to play. The vocalizing is a chore though."
"The scales keep your throat toned and are the basis for anything you sing," he explained, much as he had in the days when she believed him to be an Angel and she his willing, but unwitting student. "Perhaps you would like to simply sing?"
And so, she would sing for him. Folk songs or hymns, even operatic pieces she learned over the years. Whatever suited her. The simpler pieces seemed to calm him. He would sit in his leather chair and close his eyes. Fingering the music on the arm of the chair, humming softly along with her.
Meals were had when she was hungry – whatever she decided she wanted from a selection of choices Erik offered. He was an excellent chef – much better than she could hope to be…and decidedly better than Pappa. But rather than joining her, he simply sat across the table while she ate.
"I am not hungry at the moment, but you enjoy your meal. I will have something later."
"I feel awkward."
"Not so awkward as you would be watching me."
After what she called the evening meal – not really knowing what time of day it was, she would knit and he would read. When one cozy was knitted – she began working on a scarf. When tired, she retired to her room. Whether he slept or not, she did not know.
"Are you going to bed?"
"In a bit. I just wish to finish reading this passage, but you go ahead."
When she was left alone, an uncanny silence settled around her. Something she did not notice when first coming to this place – the complete absence of sound. No ambient noise from the street coming through the windows even late at night.
Isis was naturally silent creature, making her presence known only when asking for food. The cat's presence offered a sense of normalcy – a natural creature not being constrained by manners. For despite their familiarity both she and Erik maintained a distance between themselves. The most comfortable times for either of them was interacting with the inquisitive feline who seem to make it a point to create at least one minor crisis when they were all together.
"Isis, no, you are going to knock it to the floor," she cried, reaching for the basket of sliced bread.
"I would say she is lucky neither of us seems to mind eating much of the food she decides is better served off the carpet than on a dish."
The subsequent shared laughter helping to dispel their often mutual though dwindling discomfort.
The quiet above ground still has sounds – wind in the trees, birds, footsteps on a sidewalk, the lone cricket. Even with Pappa in the country a quiet night held the sounds of rustling leaves disturbed by the wildlife, the rush a brook or a night bird singing.
Here, however, without his presence in the room, there was nothing. Was this what death was like? A tomb in the guise of a house. How did he live here? How could she live here if that indeed was his plan?
And yet, the silence is preferable to the music he plays when the hands of the clock meet at twelve when she retires to her room. Music very different than what he played that first night. No enchantment or seduction. Yes, she must admit his music captivated her. He captivated her. So much so she even chose to read a Biblical proverb about being a married woman. Imagining herself to be so loved, as her mother was loved by her father.
Cherished. For she believes Erik does cherish her. The gifts, the thoughtfulness. Even the watching and following, although discomfiting, were the acts of a man in love. Were they not? Never has he attempted to take advantage of her. Bringing her here was in itself was to prevent her being seduced by a patron…or so he believed Raoul to be.
That early music was the face he chose to show her. Now, she believes he is maskless. When he leaves the hominess of the little house and returns to the darkness of the music room, he is free to be himself. Pressing the ever-moving long fingers against the keys on the organ. The chords are raw and chaotic. Angry. Discordant. Ugly. As he believes himself to be. As he believes she sees him. Is his face truly that awful? She cannot recall. Surely, over time, his face will become one easily adapted to. The pure soul would shine through softening anything ugly. This is what she knows is happening.
Different from that first night when he came back to find her with the Bible was as if it never happened…at least on the surface. Looking back she realizes there was no way she could tell what he was feeling when he saw his father's face. All he did was stare for what seemed like hours at the daguerreotype.
"Why, Christine? Why?"
"I did not mean to harm you or to pry."
"No! Not that," he said, waving a hand at her.
"You never saw his likeness."
"He died the day I was born."
"Yes, I know."
The amber eyes questioned her.
"The documents…your birth record. The record of his death," she said going over to his chair, kneeling on the floor next to him, touching his hand. "I am so sorry."
"For his death or the prying?" He asked, pulling his hand away.
"Both, I suppose," she answered, sitting back on her heels, not making any sign of moving away from him. "Although my intention was not to pry, but to pray."
Casting a side eye at her, he said, "Clever girl. You are not merely a beautiful voice with a pretty face."
"If you are referring to the rats, most of us are quite bright – no one seems to care about that."
"True, playing dumb often reaps greater rewards than showing one's wits."
"You should be grateful to me for finding these papers."
"Should I? How is that," he asked. "Perhaps I was quite content not knowing this history."
"Then you would be a liar."
"Yes. I suppose so." Riffling through the papers, he frowned. "What is this deed?"
"A house in Rouen." Getting onto her knees, she crawls closer to him, to look at the faded paper. "Was this your mother's house. I wondered why you had to go through an auction if the house was yours."
"This is not the same house. I knew nothing of my father's family."
"Your mother…"
"My mother was full of hate and anger."
"Your father loved her," Christine said, picking up the brochure with the sketch and the small heart. "You can see the love in his drawings."
Erik looked off, past Christine toward the upright. "She loved to sing. Was quite good as I recall – as much as a child can know about such things. It would appear she was a soubrette before getting married."
"She must have loved him."
"Or she became with child and he offered to marry her…then had the temerity to die."
"Erik!"
"Is that any different than Madame Giry, except her patron was not so generous? The difference being Adele was able to take care of herself here in Paris and her child was beautiful. Two houses?"
After that comment he refused to speak any more on the topic. Dinner was had – not the event she expected and judging from his refusal to eat at all – was it his. It was then their routine began. To be honest, things were much like what she experienced as a child. Days ran into one another, except this was like some sort of performance. It was only a matter of time until the façade would crumble.
The change in the music is the key. Gathering up her courage, for she knows he will be annoyed, if not truly angry, when she enters the music room. He said as much.
"Your lessons will be held here…in the sitting room," he said. "The entire house is yours to explore, except for my bedroom…and the music room."
"I should like to listen to you play."
"What I play in there is not for your ears."
"But, I can hear it – not well, but some of the sound comes through the walls."
After that, only occasionally did the sound reach a pitch she could truly hear. Mostly she senses his playing. The communication was there between them. Tonight, however, he did not seem to care if she heard or not. There was a deeper passion to the music. Perhaps he is calling her. Whether or not he wants her to join him, she decides to visit the forbidden room. The monotony of the last twelve or twenty-four or forty-eight hours, three days or five must be shattered… however comfortable.
As she expected, he is lost in his playing, stopping every few measure to write something…putting the notes to memory, she presumes…before starting again. A disturbing as the music was several rooms away, being here with him is overwhelming. Her heart begins to race and breathing becomes difficult.
Even so, she walks toward him and when he pauses, in that brief moment, she presses her hand on his shoulder, saying, "Erik, this cannot continue."