Opening night was a whirlwind.
Christine wanted to remain indifferent, unaffected. She really did, for Mr. Khan's sake. But she couldn't help but get caught up in giggling with some other girls as they pulled on their costumes and applied their makeup (Christine having explained the slight bruise on her face as resulting from a clumsy fall). She felt nervous, excited, anxious. So long. She had waited for this day for so long, and it was finally happening. There were no last-minute role switches or fires to stop her this time.
This was what it had all been for, she thought to herself, waiting in the wings for her cue, her stomach in knots. The hundreds of hours of practice, tears, regrets, pain and embarrassment. She said a quick, silent prayer in the wings, asking to do well and to make her father proud of her. And please watch over Mr. Khan, she added quickly. Help him get better.
It passed quickly in a blur of lights, violins, and Carlotta Guidicelli's dramatic entrances and exits. Christine wondered if all performers felt this dazed and disassociated. She could hear herself singing, and she was singing the right notes with the right words. She performed the correct actions onstage, and then the audience applauded. Afterwards, she was shuffled offstage to wait for her next scene. Someone pushed a bottle of water into her hands, and she sipped it absentmindedly, glancing up into the dark expanse of the various flies, pulleys, and ropes. She wondered where Erik was lurking and if he was watching her right then.
Carlotta was very dramatic, a very appropriate Elektra, Christine thought. Although Erik despised the woman, Christine couldn't help but admire her stage presence and the confident way she demanded the attention of the audience. Christine doubted she would ever be able to pull off such a role. While she did not want to be relegated to soubrette roles her entire life, she also was not sure if she was entirely suited for such melodrama.
Carlotta then sank to the ground for her death scene, her arms flailing, the music crashing, and Christine blinked, surprised that it was all over already. Her first real performance, and she had survived. She hadn't humiliated herself.
The audience applauded as the cast returned to the stage for curtain call, and she couldn't stop herself from smiling widely as she took her bows along with the other servant girls. For a few moments, with the lights shining on her and another performer clasping her hand in their final bow, she felt that things were not so bad.
The dressing room was alight with excited chatter and laughter, and Christine, feeling a little sheepish, shyly accepted a few compliments from some of the older and more experienced women. There was another show the next evening, and she was already looking forward to it, thinking of things she could improve and do differently for a better performance.
Although she hated herself for it and tried to convince herself that she didn't care, she felt anxious about what Erik would say, how thrilled he would be for her. It was a confusing, unsettling feeling. She should hate him. She did hate him. He had taken everything from her. But…she couldn't stop her heart from skipping a few beats as she approached the door in the alleyway, knowing he was waiting on the other side. She hadn't forgotten his reaction when she had sung at the gala, and she could feel faint goosebumps spread across her skin at the thought of experiencing it again.
Opening the door, she was both relieved to see him and annoyed at the mere sight. She hesitated for a moment, and then her selfish and vain side won out, and she shuffled inside, shutting the door behind her. She was about to ask him his thoughts about the performance, but to her shock, he slid his fingers around her wrist.
"Come," he said, pulling her. "I have a very busy evening and no time to linger."
Stunned, she stumbled along after him. Where were the adoring words? The murmured praise in his beautiful, purring voice? Wasn't he happy to see her at all? Did he even realize she had performed in her first opera?
"Did you watch me tonight?" she asked blankly, tripping a little as they turned a corner in the dark tunnels.
"Of course I did."
She waited for several long moments before prodding, "And?"
"And?" he replied distractedly.
"The opera," she said, starting to feel hurt. "Did you like it?"
"It's hard to enjoy anything more than a few seconds of Carlotta Guidicell's shrieks," he said. "It was quite a painful show."
But me? she wanted to protest childishly. What about me, Erik?
Instead, she fell silent, sullen, wanting him to sense her mood and realize that he hadn't said anything about her performance. But she was disappointed again; he didn't say another word the rest of the way down.
By the time they entered the house, she had worked herself up to the verge of tears. All this time and energy spent for this moment, and he was acting as if it didn't matter. Why had he gone through all this effort with her, for her, if he didn't even care? It made no sense, and the confusion added to her hurt.
"I must leave for a few hours," he said, having not even bothered to close the door behind them. "You should rest. I'm sure you are tired after tonight. Sleep well."
And with that, he left, the heavy lock sliding into place. She stood, staring at the closed door in disbelief. After five seconds, she burst into tears. Why hadn't he said anything to her at all? Had he been so disappointed in her performance that he didn't even want to talk about it?
Christine wished she didn't care so much about what he thought, but she did. She wanted to hear his praise. She hated feeling this conflicted, and the anger from that made her cry harder. She was not supposed to care what he thought of her or her performance. He was a murderer, he was trapping her down here, he had made her marry him, for god's sake. But she couldn't help herself. She couldn't control the deep part of her that still craved his approval, even if that part of herself made her logical side sick.
She sat on the sofa and cried herself out, angrily wiping her eyes every so often and watching the door, waiting for his return. She would stay there, however long it took, and make him talk to her when he returned. Although she despised herself for even thinking it, the childish part of her wondered quietly what was more important than her? Her debut, what he had been obsessing about nonstop for weeks, and he had just left her, no explanation. For an insane moment, she wondered if he had gone out to get her flowers. Then she pressed her hands over her face in disgust. What was wrong with her?
After waiting there for what felt like hours, she gave up, going to the bedroom. She fell asleep quickly, exhausted by the performance and her breakdown, and didn't hear him return.
The next morning, she emerged to find him sitting in his chair, reading from a small dark book.
"Good morning, my dear," he said, looking up at her. "Did you sleep well?"
Still sour from the previous night, she gave a reluctant little nod, not wanting to speak with him. She could see his thin lips pull down in displeasure at her response, but he didn't say anything and went back to his book instead.
She did not have the motivation to cook, so she ate yogurt and fruit for breakfast, swirling the spoon around aggressively, trying to think of ways to make him as unhappy as he was making her. Maybe she would do badly tonight, flub a line or miss a note. That would make him say something. But she set her spoon down and sighed, pressing her face into her hands. Any mistakes would just make her unhappy as well.
After she cleaned up her dishes, she went back to the front room, intent on going over some blocking in the privacy of the bedroom. However, he stopped her before she could disappear.
"Come over here," he said, calling to her from the piano. "There are a few measures that need adjusting. I would like to review them with you."
She went over to the alcove, obediently standing next to the piano. Hours spent here, and he couldn't be bothered to tell her a single nice thing about her debut.
"So I guess I was bad," she finally said, her voice sullen.
He looked up at her, frowning. "'Bad?'" he repeated.
"My performance last night," she said. "It was bad, then?"
"Of course not," he said, sounding a little surprised. "I would never have let you perform if I thought you would be bad."
"But apparently it wasn't good," she said, unable to help the resentful tone in her voice. "Not good enough to say anything to me about it."
His eyes narrowed. "What would you like me to say?" he said coldly. "Shall I lie to you, tell you it was the performance of a lifetime? Very well." He stood, his height always impressive when he went from sitting to standing, and gave a little mocking bow.
"What a night, Madame Daae, truly a spectacular showing. You will never be able to surpass such a wonderful performance as servant girl two." And to her humiliation, he clapped his long hands together in exaggerated applause, the sound echoing through the house. Then he sat back down. "Now are you satisfied?"
It was mean. Mean. She hated this side of him, and she looked at the floor in embarrassment, tears pricking her eyes. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry yet again, but she knew she was not excused from the lesson, so she stood there, waiting for him to say something, because what could she say in response to that?
To her surprise, she heard him sigh. When he spoke, his voice was much softer, almost gentle.
"Christine, I…" He hesitated, and she couldn't help but look up at him. "Your performance last night was passable," he said. "You were not as wonderful as I know you can be. There were several mistakes. You held back your true talent. But I suppose you did well enough."
The criticism hurt more than she wanted to admit, and she wanted to disagree with him, but he was right. She knew she had made mistakes. She had been nervous. But she had hoped he would have overlooked them and told her how pleased he was with her.
"I am too rough with you," he said suddenly. "I know this. I try to be…gentle. It's difficult for me. But you are delicate, and I don't want to hurt my wi—" He paused again, clearing his throat just a little. "My wife," he finished. He straightened a few pages on the piano stand to cover the moment of discomfort. Then he continued: "I haven't had many opportunities in my life to be kind. Anything resembling kindness has always been used against me. I'm sure Nadir has told you enough lovely little stories that you understand my meaning."
She nodded, touched by his confession.
"So you will have to be patient with me, I'm afraid," he said. "This is all very…new to me. And you're so painfully young."
The last bit made her a little indignant. "I'm not that young, Erik."
He gave a thin, humorless smile. "The very fact that you don't even realize just how young you are says otherwise. But that's no matter. It means we have plenty of time to shape your exquisite voice."
And he brought his hands to the keys, playing a scale for her to follow, signaling that their quiet, confusing conversation was over.
The next night, he was waiting for her again after her performance, and she hesitated a little, unsure if she wanted to ask.
"Better?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, his voice warm, and she felt herself blush.
A brittle, begrudging truce built up between them over the next few weeks. She loved being on the stage, though it frustrated her to know that Erik wasn't completely satisfied with her performances.
"You are still holding back," he said one night, frowning. "I don't understand why."
Everyone else seemed happy with her. Even Mr. Reyer had gone out of his way to compliment her once. She was becoming more familiar and comfortable with some of the other girls and was grateful to have some modicum of social interaction outside of Erik. She wished she could talk to Meg again, but since there was no dance number in Elektra, their paths hadn't yet crossed, and Christine had not found the time to seek her out.
Still, there was now a hesitant peace in her life in the underground house. It helped that she was able to leave nearly every day for performances. She didn't feel so trapped and stir crazy, forced to stay inside day after day. And Erik, despite his dissatisfaction with her performances, had become softer, less sarcastic and snappy. One evening, she returned to find an eclair waiting for her, one she recognized from the bakery they had stopped at a few times. It was thoughtful, and she could tell that her happy reaction pleased him.
Another evening, he presented her with a pretty little silver watch, undoubtedly annoyed that she had begun to complain that she never knew what time it was, forcing her to ask him over and over when they had to leave for the performance. She was thrilled with it, having always hated the strange timelessness that she existed in in the house. It felt like a step towards some type of normalcy, and she loved to look at it, checking the time with almost childish glee. It was comforting to again have an idea of when to go to bed, when to wake up, when to get ready to leave.
She kept getting sucked in by the comfortable quiet of it all, but then she would see the ring on her left hand, and she would have to quickly remind herself that this was not normal or comfortable.
One Monday evening, she was unhappily flipping through a book, trying to distract herself. Erik had disappeared several hours ago, claiming vaguely that there were "things to attend to." There was no opera that night, a break for the performers and crew, and Christine already missed it all.
She wished there was more to do during the quiet days in the house instead of always reading and cooking. Maybe she would ask Erik to bring down some kind of entertainment for her. Puzzles or cards…she could teach herself to crochet or knit. If he was in an especially good mood, maybe she could convince him to give her some kind of tablet with a few movies. It had been so long since she had watched one.
She checked her watch again. Just after eight. Only a few more hours, and then she could go to bed, and tomorrow she would be back onstage.
The front door then opened, and Erik stepped in. She looked up at him, relieved to have some sort of company for the rest of the evening.
"Put on your shoes," he said. "We're leaving."
She closed the book, setting it aside. "Where are we going?"
"Nadir has asked to see you."
Her stomach jumped, and she quickly grabbed her shoes before hurrying over to the door, looking at Erik closely, trying to see if he appeared worried.
"Is he okay?" she asked as they stepped out of the house.
"Yes," Erik said. "He is…well. You will see. He wants to speak with you."
Why was he always so cryptic about everything? She huffed a little, resigning herself to not knowing until she spoke with Mr. Khan. Erik seemed agitated, but he was quiet as he led the way up.
The summer night was calm, and Christine looked at the streetlights as the car drove through the city. She wondered if Erik would ever let her go for an evening walk before it got too cold. She desperately wanted to go see her father. It had been so long since she had visited him, and she wanted to tell him all about her debut.
They arrived back at the nondescript concrete apartment building, and Christine could see a window cracked open on the first floor. Cooking smoke trickled out. A woman, heavy and short, stood near the window, tending a pan on the stove. A few children's bikes were scattered in the small front garden. Christine followed Erik to the front door, looking around nervously.
It was a noisy evening in the apartment building, children talking and screaming, television sets blasting the news. Behind Mr. Khan's door, however, was only silence, and Erik unlocked it and led her in, quickly shutting it behind them.
Mr. Khan's apartment looked exactly the same, though Christine was glad to see that the rotten apples were gone. Still, nothing else looked touched. She didn't know if that was a good or a bad thing.
"Come," Erik said quietly, leading the way down the hall and to the bedroom. She was anxious, unsure of what to expect.
The lamp was on, filling the room with a warm yellowish light. To her relief, Mr. Khan was awake and sitting up with a newspaper in his hands, his rectangular reading glasses making him look like a kindly grandfather. When he looked up to see her hesitating in the doorway, he quickly took them off and put the newspaper aside, reaching out his hand in an invitation to approach.
"Christine," he said, his voice much stronger than before. "I'm glad to see you."
"You're feeling better?" she asked stupidly, standing awkwardly by the bed.
He didn't reply, instead looking over to Erik, who was now filling out the doorframe. "You've told her, then?"
Erik shrugged his thin shoulders. "I thought it best coming from you."
Nadir rolled his eyes, muttering, "Damned coward."
"Told me what?" Christine said, looking between them. "What's going on?"
"Nadir is leaving us, my dear," Erik said.
She felt her stomach flip. "What? What do you mean?"
"You want me to tell her, but then you tell her anyway?" Mr. Khan looked agitated, glaring at Erik. "Let me talk to her. Leave us alone."
Erik did not budge, leaning on the door jamb instead.
"For god's sake," Nadir snapped. "Five minutes. It's the least you can do for me after this whole disaster."
After another moment of silence, Erik gave an annoyed sigh and shut the door. His footsteps retreated down the hall.
Christine immediately turned to Mr. Khan. "What's going on?" she said again. "What does he mean?"
Mr. Khan seemed to struggle with how to continue. He then patted the space next to him on the bed. "Please sit," he said. "I wish I had a chair to offer you, but this will have to do."
A little awkwardly, she sank down on the mattress, now at eye level with him. He was still too thin, and his beard and hair were now both overgrown. But he was clean, and his eyes were alert, intelligent, just as before.
"I'm leaving," Mr. Khan then said. "I have a cousin in Los Angeles. I'm going to stay with him."
"What?" Tears immediately welled up in her eyes. "Mr. Khan, no, please…"
"I'm sorry," he said, reaching over to take one of her hands. "Christine, I…I can't do this anymore. I have to truly and officially retire."
"But…" What could she say? Stay and protect her, still basically a stranger to him? Stay and fight Erik? He had almost gotten himself killed for her. She couldn't ask him to do that again.
But she could not stop the tears, and she began to cry quietly, pressing a hand over her eyes, not wanting him to see.
"I'm so, so sorry," he whispered. "I tried to get you out and I failed. But I'm too old, and Erik is too much for me now. I wish I could have helped you, Christine."
Her shoulders were shaking with her sobs. This was the last thing she had imagined would happen. If Mr. Khan left, then she would be alone, no one but Erik in her life.
"P-please don't go," she cried pathetically. "Please."
"It's done," he said. "My cousin will be here in two days, and we will travel together."
"But you're s-still hurt!" She was grasping at straws, she knew. But if she could delay him, maybe it would make him rethink his decision. "You can't t-travel like—like this…"
"No, I probably shouldn't," he admitted. "But this is how it has to be."
She was crying noisily now, wiping at her face, trying to stem her tears with no success.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "Please believe me. I tried."
He really had. She couldn't tell him otherwise. He had tried so many ways to convince her to leave. But she had refused to believe him time and time again.
"Christine, I—we don't have much time." His voice was low now, insistent. "Tell me quickly, before he comes back. Are you all right…physically, at least? Safe?"
She had no way to answer that. Physically safe, yes. Mostly. But what did that matter?
"Please answer me." He took one of her hands in his weak grip and tried to pull it away from her face. "Has he—has he touched you at all against your will? Sexually?"
Christine looked up at him, sickened by the question, and shook her head.
"You're sure?" he pressed insistently. "You can tell me."
"No," she whispered. "N-no, he's never…"
Relief flooded Mr. Khan's face. "Thank god," he murmured. "There's that at least."
She was shocked that Nadir would suspect Erik of doing something like that. Then again, Erik had almost killed him. Maybe nothing was out of the realm of possibility for Mr. Khan when it came to Erik.
"Will you come back?" she said, tears still streaming down her cheeks.
He shook his head. "I'm sorry."
She was just about to continue begging him to stay when the door opened, and Erik stepped in. Desperate, she whirled around, pointing at him.
"Are you making him leave?" she demanded wildly.
"This is his choice entirely," Erik said, holding up a hand in defense. "I told him he needed more time to heal before making the journey, but he is stubborn."
"Mr. Khan," she said, turning back to him. "Nadir. Please. Please don't go!"
He took her hand again and squeezed it softly.
"I wish I had been able to see you perform," he said. "I'm sure you're wonderful."
It was too much. Christine buried her face in her hands and sobbed.