To put it mildly, Nadir was reluctant.
"I'm retired, Christine," he said uncomfortably after she had—haltingly and tearfully—explained the situation. "I'm sorry. I know things are…difficult for you. But I told you last year. I'm too old for him. I can't handle—"
"Please, Nadir," she sobbed, kneeling on the floor next to the small sofa, putting her forehead in her palm. "Please. You're the only person who can help me. I don't know what else to do! I've tried everything I can think of."
Nadir had begrudgingly admitted to her that he had a key to the alleyway entrance and front door of the underground house. It was how he had been able to access Erik's house all those times last year, and he still had it. None of the other options he gave her would work. Mailing the key would take too long and was too risky. Flying to Los Angeles and back herself would also take too long. She needed Nadir.
"It's only been a day or two, though, right?" he said. "That's really not that long. I'm sure if you tried again to—"
"You don't understand," she interrupted. "He said he was going to kill himself!"
A long moment of silence from the other end. "I can't get involved in this anymore. You know what happened last time."
"All I need is for you to come open the door for me," she said, gulping down a fresh wave of tears. "You don't have to talk to him or even see him. I'll pay for everything. Nadir. Please."
"Christine." He sighed deeply. "I tried over and over to get you out. And now you're finally free. Why are you doing this to yourself?"
"I'm begging you," she whispered desperately. "I'll do anything. You said you wish you could have helped me. Help me now. Please."
Finally, unhappily, unwillingly, he said that he would have to see what flights were available out of LA that day. "I'll send you the details once I've booked something," he said, which caused her to give a little cry of relief, burying her face in the cushions of the sofa, sucking in gasps of air.
"Thank you, Nadir," she whispered. "I—thank you."
An hour or two later, when he texted her the flight details, including the very late landing time, she replied: Can't you come any earlier? Please.
That is the absolute earliest I can be there, he wrote back several minutes later. I will see you tonight.
She wanted to keep arguing and insist that he find a way to arrive earlier, but she resisted, knowing she should just be grateful that he was coming in the first place.
There was another performance of La Rondine that evening, and she prepared in mute, horrified silence, forced to endure Samantha's attempts to gossip about Carlotta's imminent departure. It was all surreal, and Christine simply nodded, staring at her pale face in the mirror, counting down the minutes until the show was over.
After taking a hasty bow at curtain call, she rushed backstage, stripped off her costume and makeup, and yanked on her normal clothing and shoes before seizing her bag and running out of the building, heading to the alleway. It was by now very dark outside, and she paced back and forth, her arms wrapped around herself, sick to her stomach.
At last—at last—he arrived, climbing out of a cab at the end of the alleyway. When she saw him, she nearly broke down into sobs again.
"Nadir!" she said, rushing over to meet him, throwing her arms around him in an embrace. If he was surprised, he said nothing, instead giving her back a few gentle pats. Then she pulled away and tugged on his arm. "Let's hurry. Please."
"Hold on," he said, adjusting the small bag draped over his shoulder. "I'm not as fast as I used to be." It was only then that she noticed his cane. He limped as he walked to the doorway—not heavily, but enough to make it clear that something wasn't quite right.
"You're still hurt?" she asked, her voice a squeak.
"No, I've recovered," he said, the tone of his voice a little defensive.
There was a long silence. Christine, not knowing what else to do, stepped closer and took his bag from him, slinging it over her own shoulder. He thanked her politely and then rummaged around in his pocket before pulling out a small ring of keys, which he held out to her.
"It's the large one," he said. "With the square bow."
Her hands were shaking as she inserted it into the door. It unlocked smoothly, noiselessly, and she pulled it open, the familiar air washing over her. She closed her eyes momentarily and inhaled deeply, the cool, slightly-damp scent comforting.
Nadir limped closer, and she turned to look at him.
"You're coming with me?" she asked.
He nodded, his expression a little grim. "Just in case."
Her heart skipped a few beats at the ominous statement, but she didn't have it in her to ask for clarification. Instead she stepped through the door, grabbed the flashlight that was thankfully still there, and began the journey down.
It was much slower with Nadir. She wanted to run, fly, race through the tunnels to the underground house, but she couldn't leave him alone in the dark. He limped along patiently, step after slow step. She was ashamed to realize the dull, steady thunk of the cane was setting her teeth on edge, and she again reminded herself that he had flown back into the city with only a few hours' notice, just to unlock a door for her. He had almost died because of her, but he had still returned at her request.
"Thank you for coming back," she said, turning left down a new passageway, following the familiar blue arrows. "You don't know what this means to me."
He didn't reply for a few moments. Then he said, somewhat solemnly, "I just hope you know what you're doing, Christine."
She couldn't tell him that she had no idea what she was doing. All she knew was that she needed to ensure Erik was alive, and this was the only way she knew how.
After what felt like an eternity, they walked up final passageway that led to the front door, and Christine couldn't help herself—she abandoned Nadir and ran the rest of the way, shoving the key into the lock as quickly as she could and throwing open the door, stepping inside the house underneath the Opera House. Home.
Automatically, she looked towards the piano, expecting to see Erik stepping out into the front room. He didn't appear. The house was still, silent. She looked around. The only thing out of place was his chair, which was turned over on its side. The sight made her stomach drop; it felt like a bad omen. Dropping Nadir's bag by the door, she then went to the office. Empty as well, and as dirty as the last time she saw it.
Nadir walked into the house as she hurried to the bedroom, and she could hear him follow her, his cane tapping smartly on the hard stone floors.
The bedroom was dark, and she flipped on the lights to see the bedsheets strewn across the floor, along with some empty bottles and a broken drinking glass. The dark green dress, the one she had worn to the opening night party of The Cunning Little Vixen, was on one side of the bed, crumpled and stained, ruined beyond repair.
Erik was lying on the other side of the bed, unmasked, his eyes closed. Her heart froze in her chest; she couldn't see him breathing.
Immediately, she ran over and onto the bed, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, sobbing and screaming.
"Wake up!" she shrieked, his head lolling back and forth as she shook him. "Erik! Please! Wake up!"
"Stop that," Nadir said, limping over to grab her shoulder and pull her away. "Calm down. Let me see."
Tears streaming down her face, she moved aside, allowing Nadir to get closer. He grew very pale when he saw Erik's bare face, but to his credit, he didn't hesitate, instead leaning over to put a few fingers on the long, thin neck.
"His pulse is still strong," he said. Then he looked around and picked up a small, empty pill bottle from the bedside table. He examined the label, and Christine watched breathlessly, her hands clasped together.
"Opioids," Nadir said, rolling his eyes and tossing the little bottle onto the floor. "Of course…"
"What?" she said, glancing back at Erik. "What do you mean?"
"Drugs," Nadir said shortly, his brow furrowed. "I don't know what else I was expecting."
"But—but he'll be okay?" she pressed urgently, leaning over to peer at Erik's horrible face, searching for some sign of consciousness.
"It would probably take a very high dosage to kill him," Nadir said. "I'm sure his body has built up some kind of tolerance."
The iron grip around her heart loosened just a little, and she smoothed back his thin hair.
"Erik," she whispered. "It's me. It's Christine. Can you hear me?"
Nadir's hand returned to her shoulder, pulling gently. "Come on," he said. "He could be unconscious for several more hours. There's no point in waiting."
Christine ignored him. "Erik?" she said again, pressing a hand against his bare cheek, uncaring if Nadir thought she was being stupid. As she looked closely, she saw movement behind his eyelids. "It's me," she continued, sniffling. "Christine. I'm back. Erik?"
Nadir pulled harder on her shoulder. "Let him sleep," he said. "There's nothing you can do." It took several more minutes of Nadir telling her that it was useless to try to wake him before she reluctantly climbed off the bed. Just as she took a step towards the door, there was a sound behind her, a murmur from the bed.
She turned back around, but Nadir was the one still by his side, and he leaned over, his brow furrowed deeply.
"Erik?" he said, loudly and clearly. "Can you hear me?"
Several silent moments went by. Nadir repeated himself. Eventually the murmur returned, soft and slurred. Christine went back to the bed, eyes wide.
"What's happening?" she asked. "Is he awake?"
Nadir didn't answer, instead putting a hand on Erik's arm, frowning. Erik spoke again, barely audible, his lips hardly moving, his eyes still closed.
"I don't under—" she began, but Nadir shook his head quickly to silence her. When he spoke next, Christine realized that both he and Erik were speaking in Persian.
She could tell that Nadir was repeating something, the same words coming out of his mouth over and over with greater urgency. To her shock, he then used his free hand to grab Erik's shirtfront and yank him up slightly, Erik's head falling backwards heavily, his throat jutting upwards, eyes still closed.
Again Nadir repeated the phrase, the loudest and angriest yet, and when Erik finally breathed a response, Nadir's expression collapsed into one of revulsion. He let go, and Erik slumped back onto the bed. Before Christine could stop him, Nadir then drew his hand back and hit him, hard, across the face.
"Stop!" she cried, horrified, grabbing onto his arm. "What are you doing? Stop!"
Nadir took her hand and turned away, heading towards the door.
"We're leaving," he said shortly, ignoring Christine's protests. He was stronger than she had thought he would be, given his condition, but she was able to yank herself away from him.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Why did you do that to him?!"
"It's no more than he deserves," Nadir said, his voice colder and more furious than she had ever heard it. "How could you come back here after what he did to you?"
She looked at Erik again, making sure that he was still breathing.
"He—I know he isn't perfect," she began anxiously. "But he—"
"He's broken you," Nadir said angrily. "Can't you see that, Christine? He has manipulated you into caring for him, but there's no defending what he's done. God, I…" He shook his head, briefly pressing a hand over his face. "I can't believe I thought he wouldn't. I thought things were different with you. I thought…" He looked at her again, his hand dropping back to his side.
"You told me he hadn't," he then said. "I asked you. Don't you remember? I asked you last year, and you said he had never touched you against your will."
She blanched. "He didn't. Hasn't."
"Then why is he saying he did?" Nadir demanded, pointing towards the bed. "Why is he the one confessing? He can't hurt you anymore. You can tell me. You're not the only woman he's raped."
Her heart dropped to her stomach, and she looked blankly between Nadir and Erik's prone figure on the bed.
"What?" she croaked. "That's—no. That's not true."
"It is," Nadir said bitterly. "In Tehran. He was put in prison for what he did. You don't have—"
"No!" she interrupted, shaking her head wildly. "No! It's not true! He said that he didn't do it! He said he would never!"
"Of course he would say that to you," Nadir said. "He's in your head, he made you believe his lies. I've said all of this to you before, Christine! Please." He stepped forward and took her hand again. "Let's go. You've done all you can for him. We both have. We can't help him anymore."
She stared at the bed, at Erik's bony, still frame, his face bare and horrible. He had been so adamant in his denial when she had asked him why he had been put in prison. I didn't do it! I would never!
And with her? All those strange nights, in the very bed she stood next to, he hadn't forced her. The only time…
She swallowed harshly. Erik had insisted on a "normal marriage" after the disaster with Raoul. He had come to her in the middle of the night, somehow both tender and cold, and he hadn't been deterred by her obvious terror. He had touched her skin and whispered in her ear. I won't hurt you, Christine, I swear. Did he think he wouldn't have hurt her had he continued? Did he think she would have somehow enjoyed his unwanted touch?
Nadir pulled on her hand again. "Come on. It's time."
She looked back at him. "Why did you help him escape if you thought he was guilty?" she asked. "Why did you go with him to England?"
"I thought he was innocent," Nadir said. "He swore to me he was. But obviously he was lying."
Before she could reply, a choking, gurgling sound came from the bed, and she quickly turned around. Erik was convulsing slightly, his shoulders twitching, his head pitched back and his mouth open. Christine grabbed at Nadir's arm in terror.
"What's happening?" she whimpered. "What's wrong?"
"He's going to vomit," Nadir said. "He needs to lie on his side, or else he could suffocate." There was a slight pause. "Maybe we should just…"
But she was already back on the bed, sliding her hands underneath Erik's angular torso, pushing as hard as she could. He was too long and cumbersome at that angle, so she climbed over him and pulled from the other side, her eyes stinging with tears as Erik continued to shake. She had barely managed to get him into an awkward, uncomfortable-looking position on his side when he vomited all over the pillow.
It was an awful sight, his face horrific and the sick revolting. Christine hesitated, not wanting to touch anything. She then remembered how he had cleaned her up the night she had drunk too much and had thrown up all over herself. He had wiped off her dress, taken off her ruined shoes, helped her into clean clothing, and put her in bed, all without any snide remarks about how disgusting it had been.
So, with a little breath of resolve, she carefully lifted up his head and slid the ruined pillow out from underneath him. Then she went into the bathroom and returned with a wet hand towel, which she used to gently wipe his face. She reached over for a clean pillow and tucked it underneath his head before arranging his thin arms and legs in a more comfortable position.
Nadir watched this all silently, his brow again furrowed deeply. Christine was both enraged that he hadn't helped her roll Erik onto his side and also guilt-ridden that he was undoubtedly too slow to have been much help, all because of her.
She watched Erik's ruined, motionless face. I may be a monster, but I would never…
But he had tried with her, hadn't he? Did that mean he had done it before?
"Who—who was the woman?" she whispered shakily, unable to look at Nadir.
"What does it matter?" he said. "It's time to go. You've been kinder to him than he ever deserved. You've done enough. You don't owe him anything."
No. She owed him everything. He had given her music, and the music was everything. If the music was gone from her life, if he was gone, then there would be nothing. Nadir wouldn't understand any of this. She hardly understood it herself. But a deep, fundamental part of herself knew that she wouldn't survive without the music. Without him.
"I can't leave him," she then said, still staring at the horrifying face. "I can't."
There was a long silence. She could very clearly sense Nadir's disappointment and frustration, and it made her slightly ashamed, but she didn't take back her words.
"He's a murderer, Christine," Nadir then said, slowly and clearly, obviously trying to make her understand the gravity of the situation. "He has killed countless people. For money. For fun. For no reason at all. He's a drug addict. He's a liar. He's a thief. He's a rapist—"
"No he isn't!" she interrupted shrilly, finally looking over at the older man with tears in her eyes. "He said he didn't! I—I'm going to ask him again when he wakes up. He'll tell me. He wouldn't lie to me."
Or would he?
The unspoken question hung in the air, but she ignored it. Nadir's brow was still furrowed, his mouth pulled into a deep, disapproving frown. He then shook his head, sighed, and limped from the bedroom. The sofa in the front room groaned slightly under his weight, and she looked back at Erik, putting a few fingers on his neck, feeling for a pulse herself. It was steady, strong.
She wiped away the tears in her eyes before carefully scooting around him and curling up behind his angular frame. She had to ensure that he stayed on his side to prevent any chance of him suffocating during the night, so she shifted even closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. The soft rise and fall of his chest lulled her to sleep.
It was a long, restless night. She slept off and on, continually woken by Erik's movements and mutterings. He briefly opened his eyes a few times, but it was clear he couldn't actually see her. He vomited again, but there wasn't much left for him to expel, as it was mostly bile that covered the pillow. After cleaning him up once more, she went to the front room. Nadir had fallen asleep on the sofa, his head resting in his hand, and she gingerly shook his shoulder.
"Nadir?" she whispered. He woke with a grunt. She continued: "He was sick again. I think he needs food. And he's probably dehydrated. What should I do?"
Nadir rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. "You should leave," he said gruffly. "So should I."
She swallowed, thirsty herself, and said somewhat nervously, "You can—can go. If you want."
He sighed, glancing towards the bedroom. "You can't do anything for him. If you try to give him something to eat or drink, he could choke. You just have to wait for him to wake up." He shook his head. "I've done this many times before. Trust me."
Nadir had told her that before, albeit somewhat vaguely. I tried for months to get him clean.
"There has to be something we can do," she said pleadingly.
"No," Nadir said, shaking his head again. "We're not doctors. We're not in a hospital. There's nothing we can do safely except wait. Don't worry. He always wakes up. He's a tough bastard to kill—like a cockroach."
Christine glared, outraged at the comparison, but Nadir didn't appear bothered by her sour expression. Without another word, she returned to the bedroom, tempted to slam the door on him but ultimately deciding against it. She crawled back into the bed, exhausted and anxious, and she watched the rise and fall of Erik's bony shoulder as he breathed until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer.
Around six in the morning, as she dozed next to him, he started to twitch, moving his long limbs and rolling onto his back, right onto her. She wriggled out from underneath his bony frame and stood next to the bed, leaning over to look at him closely.
"Erik?" she said, putting a hand on his bare cheek. His skin, usually so cool and dry, was flushed and clammy. "Are you awake?"
He began to whisper again, his voice very slurred. This time, however, if she listened carefully, she could hear the words he was saying, though she didn't understand the context.
"Oh god…I hate it here…Please. Let me out. I'm sorry…You never understood, did you? You had her…God. Please…Christine."
She inhaled a wet, whimpering gasp when she heard her name, but before she could respond, the dull thunk of Nadir's cane sounded in the room. He approached the bed, his clothing rumpled, his eyes drooping with exhaustion.
"He's saying things," Christine said, reaching over to tightly hold Erik's bony hand in her own.
"I think he's waking up," Nadir said, stopping next to her and frowning at the way Erik's head moved back and forth on the pillow. "He might be confused when he's finally conscious. Maybe it's better if you wait outside the room. He could get violent."
She shook her head quickly, and to her relief, Nadir didn't press her any further. They both watched in silence as Erik continued to speak, panting and twitching. To her disappointment, he switched back to Persian, and Nadir stepped closer, putting a hand on his bony shoulder and speaking clearly and loudly for several moments.
He glanced at her and quickly explained, "I'm telling him where he is and that he's safe, since it's possible that he won't remember where he is."
Christine's hands made their way over her mouth, and she stared, breathless, as Erik's eyes began to flutter open. He gasped deeply, as if coming up for air after being underwater, and his long arm shot out, roughly pushing Nadir away. Nadir stumbled, unsteady on his feet, and Christine grabbed hold of his arm to keep him upright.
When she reached out to touch Erik, wanting to reassure and comfort him, Nadir quickly took her wrist and pulled it back.
"Not yet," he said. "Not until he's more coherent."
Erik twisted and turned on the bed for a few more moments, as if his body was relearning how to move. His eyes finally opened all the way, and he blinked up at the ceiling. She could immediately tell that, despite his consciousness, he was still somewhat dazed. His pupils were too large, his mouth slightly slack, and he ran his hands over his thin chest a few times, like he was making sure he had a corporeal form.
Before she could say anything, Nadir stepped in front of her, blocking her from Erik's line of sight, and towards the bed. Before she was able to protest this, he said, "Erik, can you understand me? Do you know where you are?"
There was a momentary silence, and then Erik spoke, his voice more intelligible than it had been all night, but the hoarse, soft, sing-song nature of it was slightly unnerving: "Nadir. You're back. Why? You've come. Come to see me die."
"No," Nadir replied firmly. "You're not dying. You just had too many pills."
"Pills," Erik repeated, still staring at the ceiling. "Too many. Not enough. But Nadir. You can finish the job, eh? Come, come. Go on."
"You need water," Nadir said. "Food. You need to sober up."
Erik shuddered and then coughed, deep and dry, as if trying to expel something. He curled up on his side, away from Nadir, and a pale, bony hand stretched out, fingers long and reaching for something invisible in the air in front him. "I saw her," he crooned. "God, she was beautiful. I need her. Nadir."
"Erik, tell me about Tehran," Nadir then said.
"Tehran," Erik said, his hand returning to cradle his own chest.
"The general's wife," he pressed. "What happened?"
"That bitch," Erik rasped, anger in his voice for the first time. "Bitch. She ruined Erik. Why, Nadir? Why? What did he do?"
"Did you touch her?" Nadir asked, ignoring the way Christine shook his arm. She was simultaneously trying to get him to stop and to keep asking. Her heart was in her throat as he asked, "Did you rape her?"
"You asked me then," Erik snapped, suddenly sounding more like himself. "My answer is the same. Why are you asking me this?"
"Because of Christine," Nadir said coldly. "You said that you touched her when she didn't want you to."
There was a long silence. Then a low, soft moan filled the room. Erik wrapped his arms over his head, curling in on himself, bringing his knobby knees up to his chest.
"Erik is a monster," he whispered, but the tone of his voice made it seem like he wasn't addressing Nadir. "He wanted—I tried...God. How could I have done that to her? My Christine. Oh. I told myself for so long…I was not that kind of monster. And yet…Oh, god. Kill me. Please."
Christine couldn't stand watching in horrified silence anymore; she pushed past Nadir and climbed onto the bed, crawling over to pull on his bony shoulder.
"Erik," she said shakily. "It's me."
He turned to look at her, blinking several times, his shapeless mouth agape. The stunned expression was so sincere and out of character for him that she couldn't help but smile a little, despite the tears that were still in her eyes.
"Christine," he whispered, his eyes roving over her face. "You're real?"
"Yes," she said, reaching for his trembling hand and pressing it against her flushed cheek. "I'm here, Erik. I'm here."