"Every year, the Palais Garnier bore witness to a strange ritual. Like a calendared seasonal gala, every twenty-eighth day of February, a veiled woman would arrive first, followed closely by a man." For fifteen years after the events of the novel, Christine and Erik continue to correspond in secret. Once a year, they meet at the Opera. Leroux. AU.
Every year, the Palais Garnier bore witness to a strange ritual. Like a calendared seasonal gala, every twenty-eighth day of February, a veiled woman would arrive first, followed closely by a man.
She always wore black from head to toe, her face hidden behind a thick veil. He, too, cut a peculiar figure,dressed similarly in black, with a long, waxen nose and a stiff beard that seemed unnaturally brittle and thick. A perceptive eye might have noticed the carefully hidden loops fastening over his ears, but even if someone did notice, they knew better than to breathe a word of it.
The couple were polite and unassuming, though their choice of Box Five, infamous for its curse, always drew a second glance. Yet, they never made any complaints, and their singular visit each year resulted in generous tips, often in the form of thousands of francs. The general consensus among the staff was that they were a very nice, albeit eccentric, wealthy coupe, and, as such, no one ever gave them anything but the most gracious service.
As the years wore on, their visits became a fixture of the Palais. Veteran attendants came to know their requests and anticipate them with clockwork regularity. No one but the attendants themselves was ever allowed to enter Box Five during their visit. One of the couple's peculiarities was that they always asked for their seats to be moved into the shadows of the box, though the attendants could only speculate about the reasons, often exchanging mischievous grins.
Over time, the attendants began piecing together details from snippets of conversation. It was strange how routine their exchanges started,always with her asking after his health and him responding in kind. As the years passed, it seemed as though they were watching their lives unfold in front of them, like a series of daguerreotypes. The woman's belly swelled and flattened over the years, while the man's gaunt frame gradually thickened, gaining some much-needed flesh.
At first, only the woman spoke, but eventually, the man's tongue loosened, revealing a voice that was unexpectedly glorious. His speech was slow and deliberate at first, but with time, it grew more confident. Her voice, too, was melodic, especially when she encouraged him during their conversations with the attendants, who grew familiar with the couple as the years passed.
Their appearance changed as well. The severe black clothing they had once worn softened into shades of grey and blue, becoming less stark as the years progressed. Lines began to etch themselves into the woman's face, while the man's hands grew stiff and wrinkled with age. Despite these changes, the couple remained remarkably restrained. They rarely touched, never kissed, and no sounds of pleasure or delight were ever heard from Box Five. Instead, the air was filled with the dulcet tones of demure conversation, soft questions and brief answers.
The years somehow deepened the mystery, even as the couple themselves grew more comfortable with the attendants. For a pair engaged in what seemed to be a passionate love affair, their interactions were shockingly placid. There was a familiarity to them, a serenity that only grew stronger over time. Though his face was bony and hollow, with the most ridiculous straw-stiff beard, the deepening wrinkles around his eyes brought a pleasantness to them, and their remarkable shade of gold captivated the attendants. The woman, even as time wore graceful lines into her face, retained her beauty. She was ever gentle, and ever kind, especially toward the man.
One small detail eventually stirred speculation among the staff. The woman had always worn a wedding ring, but the man himself never had. Then, one year, to the surprise of one observant attendant, the man began wearing a ring as well. It was a small detail but shocking nonetheless. The attendants revised their previous assumptions, crafting new theories about the couple's relationship. Many now speculated that they were having a torrid affair, perhaps both had been widowed and had found comfort in each other but had married elsewhere. No one could quite agree on the details, but the mystery only added to their allure.
Five years into their annual appointments, an unexpected sound nearly shocked one of the oldest attendants into fainting: it was the sound of laughter. It began with the man's, low and hesitant at first, followed by the woman's, ringing like church bells beyond the velvet curtain. No one had ever seen the man smile, much less heard him laugh. To hear both of them laughing together, their joy was like the joyous burbling of cherubim.
Time passed, and the couple's laughter became more frequent. The man, though he now walked with a cane, somehow moved with greater ease than ever before. There was a lightness in him, a contentedness that no one could quite explain. He spoke of children, though none were shared with the woman, and she mentioned a husband, a naval fellow, with whom she remained captivated.
It was puzzling, but no one dared question the pair. Their meetings brought the staff great rewards, both financially and in witnessing the transformation of the man. It became clear to all that the woman was a beacon, guiding him through some unseen storm. The man's soul seemed to grow with each visit, no longer shrinking from the light but following it. He began conversing casually with the attendants and no longer requested their seats be moved into the shadows.
Indeed, the attendants and staff of the Opera house came to love the pair, heralding their arrival each year with great fanfare.
As the years wore on, as they are wont to do, there came a day when the woman arrived alone. The man did not follow. The woman's face showed no surprise, only a sorrowful acceptance. She wore all black again, her veil returned, her wedding ring still gleaming on her finger.
Condolences were murmured and apologies expressed, but the woman only smiled sadly, her hands folded prayerfully before her.
"There is no need to grieve," she consoled them softly. "Erik lived before he died. And he died all the better for it."
No one quite knew how to respond to such a cryptic remark, and so she was shown to her box with somber decorum. No one saw when she departed, but in her place, there was left a box of letters tied in black ribbon, the red ink faded and illegible. When the few literate attendants attempted to read them, all that anyone could make out were two names repeated in the greetings and the closings: Erik and Christine.
It was the last time anyone ever saw the strange woman. But no one would ever forget her or her strange companion, who had somehow been less than a lover yet more than a husband. Some later pieced together a fantastical story about a fleeing diva and a mysterious phantom. Still, that tale was too far-fetched for anyone to truly believe.
No, the strange couple would remain forever a mystery. A mystery and a measure of love's complexity, transcending all rules and roles to bring a tired soul to rest.
Not intended to be romance but you can read it that way, if you like. Please give it a review; guest reviews are accepted and do not require registration!