The following weeks saw a strange, invisible shift come over the Opera House and its inhabitants. Even Christine, who spoke to so few people and therefore wasn't privy to any gossip outside of what Samantha could provide, sensed the change. People were muttering in corners, women whispering in the dressing room, harried-looking staff power walking up and down the hallways. Wagner's multiple ensemble numbers in Das Liebesverbot meant more time rehearsing with the entire cast, which gave Christine ample opportunity to notice the heads bent together, hushed conversations happening behind hands.
She was finally able to ask Samantha what was happening during a quick break from a long rehearsal, and the older woman's eyebrows raised in surprise.
"I thought everyone knew," she said. "Someone's been gathering signatures, calling for Carlotta and Poligny to resign."
Christine's mouth dropped open a little. "Who?"
"Of course whoever it is isn't going to come forward," Samantha said, digging in her bag to pull out her bottle of lemon water. "Carlotta would stab them, probably. And Poligny would fire them. But the petition was given to Moncharmin last week."
"And?" Christine pressed, wanting to hear it all before they were called back. "What's going to happen?"
Samantha shrugged. "We just wait and see. I mean, Poligny and Moncharmin are co-managers. Who knows what they'll end up deciding to do."
Looking around to ensure no one was listening, Christine leaned forward and whispered, "Did you sign it?"
With an annoyed scowl, Samantha shook her head. "I didn't get a chance to before it was submitted! But I would've. Didn't you?"
"No one asked me," Christine said, weirdly hurt by being left out. Before Samantha could reply, the break ended, and everyone had to shuffle back to their places.
Two days later, Christine was stepping out of Reyer's office, having been asked to come and collect an updated score for her part as Mariana. Reyer mentioned nothing about her "manager," the petition, or the strange attitude of the cast and crew, so Christine followed his lead and said only a quick thanks after being handed the score.
As she closed the door behind her, she looked over and saw Carlotta exiting another office, followed closely by Moncharmin. They were in the middle of a heated, serious conversation, and Christine panicked, groping blindly for the door handle behind her, wanting to dart back into Reyer's office and hide until they passed. She had done her best over the past few weeks to have no interaction whatsoever with the temperamental leading lady. However, Carlotta had already seen her, and with an angry flick of her dark hair, she marched up to Christine, shoving a manicured finger in Christine's face.
"It is her!" she hissed. "I know it! She does this! This bitch!"
"Please, Ms. Giudicelli, we've been over this," Moncharmin said consolingly, rushing over. "Miss Daae didn't sign anything, you know that. She has nothing to do with this." He put his hands on her shoulders and tried to pull her away. "Now, come back into the office and we—"
"Who?" Carlotta snapped, pulling out of his grasp. "Who are you fucking, you bitch? Who does this for you!"
"Please!" Moncharmin said exasperatedly, giving no room for Christine to respond. "There's no need for—"
"They think I am the one who has sex for my position? I never have done such a thing! Never! But you!" Here her finger wagged dangerously close to Christine's nose, and Christine pressed herself back into the door as far as she could. "You come and ruin everything! Who are you fucking?!"
"Stop this right now!" Moncharmin snapped, his bushy gray eyebrows drawn together in an expression of deep disapproval. "Ladies, please. Miss Daae, if you could just—"
Before Moncharmin had finished his sentence, Carlotta drew back a hand and slapped Christine, hard, across the face. With a pained gasp, Christine reeled and clutched at her stinging cheek, her eyes quickly filling with tears of humiliation.
"You bitch!" Carlotta whispered, her voice trembling with rage, tears in her own eyes. "You ruin my career! You ruin my life!"
"That is enough!" Moncharmin barked, grabbing Carlotta's slim shoulders and forcefully pulling her away from Christine. "Miss Daae—just go. I will be in contact with you soon. Ms. Giudicelli, you will come back to my office. Really, this behavior is outrageous!"
Christine didn't hear Carlotta's reply, as she had followed Moncharmin's command and left the hallway as fast as possible, darting through the door that led out of the administrative wing and hurrying through the building and towards the alleyway. Her face was warm, and tears were still stinging her eyes. She had the rest of the day off and had intended to go straight home, but she paused at the thought of Erik seeing her like this. If he ever learned what had happened, who knew what kind of vengeance he would enact upon Carlotta.
So, reluctantly, Christine turned from the exit and spent an hour or so loitering around the rehearsal spaces, watching the baritone playing Friedrich and the soprano playing Isabella rehearse a scene from the second act. She took deep, calming breaths and rubbed her cheek occasionally, hoping the redness was subsiding.
The encounter was unsettling. She had never been hit before, not by anyone, and Carlotta's hateful words rang in her head. Why would Carlotta think she had anything to do with this? The accusations were hurtful. While Christine didn't particularly like Carlotta, she still thought the older soprano to be genuinely talented. Things would be easier if Carlotta left the company, that was true, but that didn't mean Christine wanted her career ruined.
One of the show directors worked the soprano through some blocking of the scene, but Christine's mind was still far from the people in front of her. She would tell Erik she had stayed longer to chat with Samantha. He wouldn't have any right to be angry at that. With a little sigh, she grabbed her bag and stood. Before leaving the building, she stepped into a bathroom to look at herself in the mirror, just to be sure her eyes were dry and her face looked normal.
She walked down the dark and silent tunnels, thinking. Erik had again been uninterested when she had told him about the petition. His indifference to the whole affair was strange, as he was usually so involved (oftentimes too involved) in the Opera House's productions and general artistic direction. Why didn't he care that the leading soprano and the manager had apparently been having a years-long affair? And now that there were calls for their resignation, why wasn't he more concerned? If Carlotta and Poligny both left, there could—and would—be significant changes at all levels of the Opera House.
Just before she got to the underground house, a thought came to her, causing her to actually stop and stand still for several long seconds. The more she considered it, the more she was certain. It was obvious. She should have realized it from the very beginning, and a stab of embarrassment shot through her for having taken so long to realize, followed by a swell of deep annoyance.
Erik emerged when she closed the front door of the underground house behind her.
"You took a very long time, you know," he said as she pulled off her shoes. "Your rehearsals ended over an hour ago."
She set her things down on the couch and went to the kitchen without a word, intent on getting something to eat. He followed her.
"Nothing to say for yourself?" he said, a hint of steel under his voice. "Or have I—"
"Do you think I'm stupid?" she interrupted suddenly, putting down the carton of grapes she had pulled from the fridge.
He frowned. "What? Of course I don't think that."
"I'm serious," she said. "Obviously you're smarter than me. But do you really think I'm stupid? Be honest."
"I am being honest," he said irritatedly. "What is this? What's wrong? What happened at rehearsals?"
"How did you spread those rumors about Carlotta?" she asked, folding her arms. "She's not actually sleeping with Mr. Poligny, is she?" Further realization dawned on her. "You're—you're getting them both out. You're making both of them leave."
There was a slight pause that preceded his reply, confirming everything. Her expression fell into a scowl as he said, "Baseless gossip and hearsay is beneath the Ghost. Why would I be interested—?"
She cut him off again. "You always have to know everything that's going on here. You knew they never had an affair. You're just spreading rumors to push both of them out. And…those signatures. God. How did you get that around? Or are they all forged?"
"My dear, I never—"
"You said you don't think I'm stupid!" she said sharply. "So stop treating me like I am!"
His eyes and mouth hardened, and he was silent for two or three long seconds before saying coolly, "Very well. It's done. They will both be gone before the end of next week. Moncharmin can either find another co-manager—preferably one who can keep his fat hands to himself—or leave as well. That's his choice. And that croaking Spanish toad will be someone else's problem."
She looked at him in disbelief. "You knew this whole time. I kept telling you all those rumors. I wanted to help you. But you just let me be an idiot for weeks."
"No," he said. "That is not true. You needed plausible deniability. You cannot be involved with this in any way."
A sick feeling of shame bubbled up in her stomach, and tears came back to her eyes, which she tried to wipe away in frustration. Why was she always crying?
"Carlotta said…" she tried, her voice shaking with effort to hold back her tears. "She said she knows it's my fault. She was right." Again. You now have sex with someone powerful. Christine wasn't any better than some well-connected gold digger. No matter her talent, it was Erik and his influence that was paving the way for her success. It wasn't her. It was him.
"She can prove nothing," Erik said. "You have done nothing suspicious, you signed nothing."
"So—so you're just going to bully and threaten anyone who's mean to me?" she said, the tears beginning to slide down her cheeks despite her attempts to hold them back. "And that's how I'll get my roles?"
"We've had this conversation before," he said impatiently, her tears apparently doing nothing to soften him. "There is a reason Carlotta Giudicelli is the leading soloist, and it is not talent. You want me to stop treating you like you're a stupid little girl? Then grow up. Stop being so naive. This business is unkind. It's full of cheats, snakes, and backstabbers. I've done no worse than what's already been done a thousand other times in a thousand different companies."
She was momentarily tempted to tell him that she had just been slapped because of what he had done, but she resisted, the memory of Carlotta's tears keeping her quiet. Instead she shook her head, wiped again at her wet cheeks, and left the kitchen, pushing past his bony frame that took up most of the doorway. He followed.
"What would you have me do?" he hissed. "Look the other way when some lecherous manager takes advantage of you? Stay down here in ignorance while roles you are destined to play are continually assigned to those with less talent but more sway and power?"
"You're treating me like a prisoner," she said, turning quickly to face him. "Still. All you do is control me and my life. Don't deny it."
"That is not—"
"You lied to me for weeks!" she said shrilly. "You're playing with me like a—like a doll instead of treating me like a real person!"
"What?" His eyes flashed, and his fingers curled up into his palms, creating fists. "How dare you say—"
"You said you'd respect me and my decisions! You said you want us to be happy here! I get that not everything in theater is fair and merit-based, but—"
"This is for you!" he bellowed suddenly, his body coiled tightly. "This is what Erik can give to you! You were created to sing on the great stages of the world! Why will you not let me give you that? Why do you reject everything Erik offers you? Why can he never be enough for you?!"
Christine opened her mouth, gaping like a fish. The declaration left her speechless, but she still fumbled for an answer as best she could: "You don't—I'm not rejecting your help! I only meant—"
"You want nothing from Erik, is that it?" he snarled, completely ignoring her protests. "The monster can give you nothing? Then why do you take him into your bed and ask for his touch? Why beg for his hideous mouth between your thighs?"
Her face was aflame, and she was shaking with embarrassment and rage. "Don't—don't you dare…" she choked out, scarcely aware of what she was saying. How dare he use that against her?
"Well?" he sneered. "Which is it? Do you really want nothing from Erik, or do you want every pleasure he has to give?"
"You're a bastard!" she shrieked, shocking even herself with the fury in her voice. "I hate you! I hate you!" And she ran to the bedroom and slammed the door shut behind her, throwing herself onto the bed. Her angry sobs were devoid of tears, strangely enough, and she beat her fists into the pillow and seethed, desperately hoping her words had deeply wounded him.
Why did he insist on hurting her and humiliating her like this? It wasn't enough to keep her in the dark for weeks, laugh to himself every time she came to him with news he already knew about, smugly watch her worry and fret over the future of the company. No—he had to weaponize their intimacy and mock her with something that was still so strange and private.
All she had done was demand the truth from him. No lies, either directly or by omission. And somehow it had ended like this. But she wouldn't go to him for forgiveness, because what had she done that was wrong? He didn't get to be the victim. Not again.
The evening was spent in complete silence and solitude. She refused to emerge for dinner, and he made no attempt to coax her out. Her stomach growled ferociously, but she gritted her teeth and drank water from the sink in the bathroom instead, not wanting to see him. Maybe ever again.
The next morning, she was greeted by a huge bouquet of flowers and a plate of pastries on the table. Without a word, she took them and stuffed them into the rubbish bin, cramming every last crumb and petal inside. Then she ate breakfast and went to rehearsals without even looking at him.
She hated him, hated what he had done to her. Even now, when things were finally beginning to turn around for them, he still hurt her. Why? Was he simply incapable of kindness? Maybe asking him to be nice to her was asking for the impossible.
When she returned from rehearsals, it was to an empty house, causing her to breathe a sigh of relief. He didn't return the entire evening, and she lay in the bed alone, wondering how much more of this she could endure. How many more times would he do his very best to hurt her and drive her to tears? How many more times would she allow it?
She was just dozing off to sleep when the bedroom door opened, but she didn't turn to look. Footsteps drew near the bed, and cool fingers grabbed her chin, angling her face upwards.
"That Spanish bitch hit you?" Erik then said furiously. "And you said nothing to me?"
She pulled away from his grip, yanking the blankets over her head. Go away, go away. He was relentless; he pried the blankets off of her and took her face in his hand again, as if inspecting her for damage. With as much force as she could muster, she smacked at his arm, pushing it away from her.
There was a long moment of silence, and she could sense that he stood there, watching her.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he said, his voice now quiet and pleading. "Christine? How can I protect you if you hide these things from me?"
"What are you going to do, Erik?" she snapped, sitting up and glaring at him, breaking at last, unable to stop herself. "Kill her?"
He folded his arms. "Well, perhaps she would have found herself in a few more…unfortunate circumstances before she finally departs. The wig and costume department is a prime habitat for lice and pests…And they don't even lock up her wigs, you know. They sit out in the open. Anyone can touch them."
She shook her head, furious and annoyed that he was trying to make her laugh. "Go away," she then said, lying back down.
A few moments of silence passed. "You are still very angry with me," he said.
"What gave it away?" she said sarcastically, pulling the blankets to her shoulders. "Leave me alone."
"I should not have said those things," he murmured softly. "It was cruel of me. Sometimes I…" There was a slight groan as the mattress sank under his weight. She scooted to the very opposite end of the bed, curling into herself, away from him.
"I know you are kind," he said. "I know you are gentle, and there's no malice behind your words. Yet my mind tells me that you are trying to trick me. That you want to humiliate me. And so I am…cruel."
"I'm tired of hearing this," she said, staring resolutely at the wall, her eyes dry. "I'm tired of hearing you come in and tell me you know you should be nice to me, and then you're mean to me the very next day. I'm sick to death of it."
"Yes," he said quietly. "As you should be." After another minute, there was a shifting on the mattress, and he lay down next to her. She was slightly outraged that he would even think she wanted him close to her. But he made no move to touch her, and they lay there in silence for a very long while.
"I—I used drugs for a very long time," he then said, the statement so out of the blue and so surprising that she looked at him over her shoulder. He wasn't looking at her, staring up at the ceiling instead. "I was younger than you when I started. It was my way to…escape my own life. My own mind. I was addicted for many, many years."
She then turned back to the wall. "I know all that already," she said, disappointed.
"Of course," he said. "But you'll indulge me for a moment while I set up the story, won't you? I only wish for you to understand…" He trailed off, not finishing his thought. Then he started again: "The drugs made me very gullible. Very stupid. Many of the scars you see on my body are a result of those years. I knew what happened when I took them, yet I couldn't stop.
"And so my mind started to war with itself. Years and years of forcing myself to second-guess, to distrust, to question everyone…I was paranoid when I was sober and trained myself to be paranoid while high. I sometimes wonder if I developed some sort of…disease. Illness. Or if something in my mind broke during those years.
"But doing so served me very well. I avoided many situations that would have ended my life. I was…hurt less often. And even now, decades after I've stopped using, my mind continues to work that way. It isn't a switch I can turn off. And with you, when I know perfectly well that you are sweet and sincere, my mind tells me otherwise."
They fell back into silence, Christine staring at the wall, her eyes wide open.
"What did you do in Tehran?" she asked.
"I did many horrible things," he whispered.
"Like what?"
He was quiet, and she was just beginning to believe he wouldn't answer when he said, "People died because of me."
"How?"
"Why are you asking me this?" he said miserably. "What do you want me to say? That Erik is a monster? You know this already."
"Tell me," she said.
"I designed weapons," he said. "I invented poisons. I came up with many lovely new ways to torture people. I worked with military officers to strategize how to decimate rebel groups. I killed dozens of so-called 'enemies of the state' at the command of various officials. Would you like any details? Exactly how I dispatched all those lives?"
A shiver ran through her, and she clutched at the blankets tightly. "Why did you leave for England with Mr. Khan?"
"Christine, please—"
"Tell me," she said again. Commanded. Mr. Khan had already warned her that the story was 'not very pleasant.' But she had to know.
"I was…I was put in prison," he said hollowly, his voice distant and dry, as if speaking to her from somewhere far away. "For three years. Three years imprisoned in a cell in Tehran. And Nadir helped me escape. We had to leave the country as quickly as possible. England was far enough away from Tehran but close enough that we could travel the distance safely and relatively quickly."
"Prison?" She wanted to roll over and look at him but resisted the urge. "Why?"
"Does it matter?" he said. "Erik had many enemies…Any one of them would have been delighted to present whatever charge—true or not—and lock him away."
"But why? You were already doing…bad things for them. What did you do?"
"I didn't do it!" he snarled, the sudden violence in his voice causing her to flinch. "I would never! I may be a monster, but I would never…"
There was a sudden silence. Then he whispered: "Oh. Oh god. God. I—" He made a choking sound, and she finally looked over her shoulder. He was curled up as well, facing away from her, shivering, his arms wrapped around his head. Soft, wet gasps came from him, and she realized, her heart skipping a beat, that he was crying. Crying. Erik was crying.
She wanted to let him cry, tell him that he deserved whatever horrible things he was feeling, deserved whatever scraps of remorse were hurting his cruel heart, but she instead rolled over and shifted closer to him, putting a hand on his thin arm.
"Erik?" she whispered weakly, helplessly, unsure what to do. "Are you okay?"
He curled in closer to himself, as if trying to disappear, and she gently wrapped an arm around his waist, pressing herself against him.
"It's okay," she murmured into the back of his neck, unaware of just what was okay. "I'm here, Erik. It's okay."
Her words didn't seem to make any difference. He continued to cry, shaking, and when she reached up to run her hand through his hair in a soothing gesture, he quickly pulled away from her and stumbled from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
She thought he would be gone the next morning, but when she left the bedroom, she spotted him immediately: slumped over at the table, his head in his spindly arms, a smudged glass of whisky next to him with the nearly-empty bottle beside that. For a moment, she wondered if he was sleeping or passed out, but when she shut the bedroom door behind her, he looked up in response to the soft click.
He hadn't changed his clothes, his hair mussed and his feet bare. His eyes were bloodshot, and they looked at her with such a haunted, miserable expression that she paused on her way to the table, unsure if she should approach.
"Erik?" she whispered nervously.
"You are right to hate me," he said, his normally-beautiful voice ugly and thick. "But you do not hate me nearly as much as you should."
"I don't hate you," she said. "You know I don't. I shouldn't—I was just upset. I'm sorry I said that."
"No," he said slowly, shaking his head. "I deserve every bit of your wrath. Why haven't you killed me? You've had every opportunity. No one would find out. No one would care. Why not now? There is a knife in the kitchen."
"God, Erik," she whispered, pressing her hands over her mouth momentarily. "I could never…No! I would never do that."
"You're right," he said, dropping his head into his hands to stare at the table. "Too many loose ends. I will set up an account in your name only. Everything I have is yours. I'll give you the keys to your old apartment. I will kill myself to spare you the mess. And then you can leave me down here to rot."
"Stop!" she said, starting to really panic. "What are you talking about? What's wrong?"
He clumsily pushed himself up from the table and made his way to the office, grabbing onto the furniture for support as he went, as if he were a very old man, and she followed, her arms wrapped around her chest, her heart pounding wildly.
The office was a mess, papers strewn all over, books pulled from their shelves, bottles of alcohol overturned and dripping onto the rugs, two or three shattered glasses littering the floor. She watched nervously as he went to the desk and began opening the drawers, pulling out the contents and dropping them on the floor as he searched. Pens, letters, keys, envelopes, a small metronome, little vials of liquid, a few small books, pill bottles, staff paper, handkerchiefs, and various other odds and ends bounced around on the hard ground as he dug through drawer after drawer.
At last he pulled out a small set of keys, held them close for momentary inspection, and then thrust them towards her.
"Here," he said, slumping into the desk chair, as if the walk to the office had exhausted him. "Keys to the apartment. Take them."
She stood still, staring at him.
"Take them," he said again, shaking his hand slightly so that the keys jingled merrily, the sound feeling inappropriate in the dim, filthy room. "You can leave the ring. Or take it with you and throw it in the river. As you like."
"What are you talking about?" she whispered shakily. "What are you doing?"
"You may go," he said, his fingers trembling as he held the keys towards her. "You are no longer Erik's prisoner. You are free."