"Did you have a pleasant visit?" Adele asks as Raoul escorts Christine into her office.
"It was fine." Christine's look of displeasure at the placing of his hand on her back for a time longer than some might consider necessary to guide her to the couch gives lie to her response. This, accompanied by the younger woman's refusal of his direction, instead heading for the armoire behind her desk suggests the meeting was not fine at all.
"May I have a cup of tea, Madame. As it turned out, it was colder than I expected on the rooftop and I am feeling a chill."
"Of course. M. le Vicomte, would you care for a cup…or a brandy?"
"Raoul has another engagement he must attend to."
The curt reply coming from Christine, once again confirms the sense that whatever hopes the young man has in terms of wooing her young charge, if not entirely dashed, are in serious danger of being limited at best. Has the time Christine spent with Erik, however short, found the girl actually smitten with the strange man she herself both admires and fears?
His own response to Christine wanting a private meeting with Raoul was devastating for him. In the time spent with him, she never experienced him to be so distressed. The temptation to wonder about what ifs regarding the two comes to mind but stops with his deformity. Without the deformity, he would not likely be living here, essentially in hiding from the world. Every bit of the man cried out handsome, charming, witty and gifted. The world would be at the feet of such a person. As far as Christine, had they met under other circumstances, there would be no question the girl would be enamored. But…
"Actually, my brother can wait…he is accustomed to waiting for me," Raoul says, a smug grin on his face.
"Even if you do not mind keeping le Comte waiting, I fear he would be most upset to learn it was because of something to do with the opera house," Adele says, taking her cue from Christine's rebuff of the young man, rising from her seat. Taking a few steps forward, she reaches for his arm. "His patronage has always relied on our never creating any difficulties for him."
"He need not know," Raoul says, sidestepping her, moving out of reach.
"He might if I somehow apologized to him." The former ballerina stands with both hands on her staff preventing him from moving farther into the room…guarding the girl. "Christine and I have things to discuss about her new schedule. I acquiesced to your little meeting in deference to your position, but now business must be attended to."
Raoul offers a small bow laughing lightly. "You are quite correct, Madame. I am taking advantage of your good graces. Christine said I might take her to supper…"
Christine's glare is not lost on her guardian. "I did not agree to supper. I said we might have luncheon at some later date."
"Of course. Of course. I thought I might persuade Mme. Giry to agree to allowing you to being free after your next performance…or sooner…like tomorrow…I am certain my brother would not be averse to that."
"But I am," Christine snaps. "Please go now, Raoul. We have both wasted enough of Madame's time quibbling over meals. Once Madame and I fix a schedule of when I will sing again, I might consider discussing when I might be free for luncheon."
"Very well," he says, raising his hand in an effort to calm her. "Madame Giry, I apologize for taking up so much of your time. I look forward to speaking to you further about when I might call on Christine."
"If it pleases you," Adele sighs. Will he never stop talking? "For now, I believe it is time you took your leave."
When Adele makes a move to the door, he says. "I will see myself out. I do not wish to cause any more inconvenience to you Madame…Christine, I cannot wait until we meet again." Finally taking his leave, he closes the door softly behind him.
"Thank God." Adele turns to face Christine. "What was that all about? The man is persistent, I will give him that, but…"
"May I have a sip of the brandy?"
"Of course, but not too much…your voice…but a sip," Adele says. "You look like the devil."
"No, the devil just left," Christine says, breaking down in tears, holding onto the armoire to maintain her balance.
"What happened? I thought you were friends, but now I wonder," Adele says, going to the girl, placing an arm around her shoulders.
Christine throws herself into the older woman's arms. "He is no better than the old fools who hang about our rehearsals…worse."
"Come sit down," Adele says, as they walk to the sofa.
Christine flops down on the green velvet chaise, putting her head into her hands. "I loved him so when we were young. Many nights when I felt wretched over traveling around so much, I would dream of Raoul coming to rescue me. Carry me off as his bride." Sniffling in a short, deep breath, she uses the lace-edged hanky tucked in her sleeve to wipe her eyes. "I was so happy to see him again. Then he…he tried to force himself on me. Called me a harlot and kissed me." Looking up into Adele's dark eyes, she says, "I felt so dirty. Worse than those poor souls who sell themselves on the street. He just assumed I would do whatever he wanted."
Adele sits down, wrapping her arms around the sobbing girl. "I am sorry, Christine. Our other patrons tend to act with a certain amount of grace when procuring an evening with one of the troupe, even when the outcome is assumed. Comte Phillippe has obviously not instructed his brother on the proper treatment of a woman."
"I hoped…"
"Hoped what?"
"Oh, nothing." Christine shakes her head and blows her nose, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"That he would be a suitable alternate to Erik? Is his deformity so extreme you cannot bear being with him?"
"He wears a mask of some sort of mask most of the time," she says, eyes searching the room, hands fidgeting with the handkerchief. "I only saw him without it once…for a brief moment."
"And…"
"Have you seen his face?" Christine asks, biting her lower lip.
Adele nods. "Years ago."
"How does it make you feel?"
"Now?"
The girl nods. "Yes, since time has passed."
"Well, I seldom see him without a mask, but I do not think too much about how he looks. He is Erik," Adele laughs lightly. "Nadir, M. Khan…you may have seen him…the Persian man with the strange hat?'
Christine shrugs, shaking her head.
"Anyway, M. Khan knew him years ago and knowledge of his face seems not to bother him either," Adele says, taking Christine's hand. "But then neither of us would be…um…romantically involved with him."
"When Raoul kissed me I wanted to throw up."
"Oh dear."
"Raoul is far uglier in his soul than Erik's face could ever be," she says. "I am sorry now I ever knew him."
"But?"
"Is it wicked to care for someone, but not want to see his face, but letting him know that would deeply hurt him?"
"Not wicked…human I would say."
"At the moment, I wish I was not human," Christine starts to cry again. "I simply do not know what to do."
Nadir leans against the embossed wallpaper of the hallway leading to the offices from the backstage area of the auditorium. So many years had passed since he and Erik spent any time together, but his first sense of his former prisoner…friend was he was little changed. More acerbic, perhaps, his dry humor both funny and disconcerting. Nadir always thoroughly enjoyed his time with the damaged man. The physical abuse he experienced never seemed to bother him too deeply. He would watch the man who was little more than a boy put himself into a sort of trance. Something he likely learned during his travels to the Far East.
Nothing at the palace was sufficient to cause emotional distress. That suffering he saw only with his son. Reza touched Erik's heart. Even then, there was a wall – to protect himself or Reza, he was not sure. There was no doubt in his mind about Erik's love for the boy. How much love does it require to help someone die?
"The delirium suggests extreme pain," Erik said. "Were I not holding him, he would be beating his head against the wall. Which is how I found him. Thus the bleeding you see."
"I only left for a moment…to get him some water."
"I am not laying blame, only telling you what I saw."
"Do you have something to help?"
"What I have to end the pain will also end his life…are you prepared for that?"
"He is gone then? He will not come back from this?"
"No."
While he could not see Erik's face when the girl and the vicomte walked passed them, he sensed a change in the man he spent the past hour with. Cocksure and arrogant when discussing Buquet. Later turning into anger and frustration when learning Mlle. Daae had gone off with the young man for even a moment. The anger becoming fear when he believed her to be threatened. Then despair. Despair perhaps being too strong a word but seems to suit the situation.
He realizes now what was different about this man in Paris from the one in Teheran…there was a lightness about him. Even in his sarcasm, his life force was different. More positive…jovial, even, if that word could ever be used to accurately describe Erik.
He loves her…and, in whatever has transpired in the past couple of weeks, had him believing she cares for him as well. Seeing her with her former beau crushed that belief, even if, in his mind, he assumed no such thing. The young woman was putting Raoul off. Insisting on it, to his ears. Oh, how he wishes he could have witnessed what transpired on the rooftop. His sense of people told him she wanted to be quit of the young man.
Erik did not see that. What had the world done to him, not to recognize something so obvious? Well, he meant to confirm his suspicions and find out from the vicomte himself. If there was anything he could do to remove the vicomte interference in Erik's life he would do it.
Straightening up as he hears the sound of the door opening – the delivery of Mlle. Daae to Mme. Giry's office taking very little time, as he suspected, he says, "M. le Vicomte, I am so happy you are still here. I should like to have a few more words with you about the incident with Joseph Buquet."
When was he ever going to be able to walk about the world as a normal man? Slipping between walls, and now scurrying down the stone steps beneath the opera house, have him feeling like the rats he often sees darting away from his feet when the unexpected light from his lantern shines in their yellow eyes.
"What color are my eyes, Maman?" Her own were a blend of green and brown as he recalls. It was years before he knew the true color of his eyes.
"A sort of brown…why must you be always asking questions about yourself. That is quite vain."
"But cats do not have brown eyes…their eyes are yellow or green…at times blue."
"What does it matter? You can see which is what eyes are for."
At least she did not cast him from the room like the time he asked about his pénis when the appendage began changing in size during his sleep, aching and accompanied by dreams he did not understand.
"Is this normal, Maman? I wake up and my bed is wet."
"You are wetting your bed?" she cried, coming at him with her hand raised to strike him.
"No. Not that. Not anymore – not for a long time. I use the chamber pot," he said, backing away from her, trying to keep the tears he felt swelling in his eyes from falling. "I swear…this is different."
"You are the devil incarnate, I swear."
"I did nothing to make it so, Maman."
The priest came the next day to hear his confession.
"Maman says I have sinned…I am a demon," he cried. "What is wrong with me?"
The priest said gently, "Nothing is wrong with you. You are becoming a man. What you are experiencing is the devil tempting you to indulge in sins of the flesh. You must resist the urge as best you can."
"But it happens when I am asleep."
"Do your best. Save yourself for when you wed. God will reward you."
Lies…lies upon lies. The color of his eyes is amber or gold…like those of a cat – not brown. As for his urges, relieving them was the only physical pleasure he came to know in this horrible life. His own touch. Even at that his actions are wrought with guilt. God be damned.
Could Christine know how much the brush of her hand on his shoulder meant? Of course, she would not. Despite the life of poverty she led, there was physical comfort from her father and, now, from the vicomte. The ballet girls hugged one another all the time finding comfort in human touch…and, from what she told him, her mother was most comforting to her.
"When I would fall and cry, Mama would gather me in her arms and rock me until I felt better."
"Did you fall often?"
"No," she laughed in the wonderful way she had, a slight trill making the sound even more musical. "You asked if she was affectionate when I was troubled. I remember her always being of comfort to me. She would tuck me into bed at night, and brush my hair, but she was most loving when I was hurt in some way."
Affectionate. Christine is most affectionate. He is already missing her presence…the small gestures many would see as normal and not even notice. This house of his no longer a mockery of a real home with her here.
How easily the boy gathered her in his arms that night without a thought. Pulling her close. Holding her hands. Touching her cheek. Did they revisit their embrace on the rooftop? Was she once again enamored of his perfectly shaped nose and thin lips not distorted by a cruel birth?
Even hearing the brief broken bit of dialogue between her and Raoul was enough to overwhelm him. Thankfully, the tears falling down his cheeks did not infringe on the journey down into the bowels of the Palais – the dark was his friend, the path all too familiar.
Once across the lake, he docks the skiff. Once inside, he slams the door, shooting the bolt behind him.
The organ both beckons and mocks him. Sitting down on the bench, he strokes the keys. "Music – my first love. The one thing in life that never failed me. Why did I have to hear her sing? There are no melodies I can produce with your keys and pipes that will replace the sound of her voice."
Isis comes running to him, rubbing her face against his shin. "Mon petite, little cherie." Picking up the cat, he presses her close to him. "I fear Christine is lost to us. Come, I must pack up some of her things. I suspect she will decide to return to her room with Adele even if, as my friend the daroga insists, she is uninterested in being courted by the vicomte. I sense she is already happy to be living above ground again and I cannot blame her for that."