"You wish you had not come. If there were not so many around, you would reach out your arms, with the prayer on your lips for it all to come back to you. It seems cruel, cruel, to give us such a vision; to let us dream and drift through heaven for six months, and then to take it out of our lives."
― Erik Larson, The Devil in the White City
Christine inhaled the stagnant and heavy air of her dressing room, letting it invade her body with the promise of a strength she must capture within. She glanced at herself in the mirror, assessing her appearance warily while finishing her makeup with a quivering hand. She thought about how every human must hold their own personal rhythm that another may never understand; that each heartbeat was so very unique. In this moment, the beat of her pulse hammered through screaming veins as she considered what she must do in the ruse that was this evening: to love Erik. It was to cross the insurmountable wall of defenses they had forged between one another, and she had so far been unable to conquer the chasm. Too long had she tried clawing her way through the deceit and obsession that had so tainted their relationship…Yet still, the challenge to do so raged deeply within her soul. Perhaps she was mad, she wondered, adjusting the rose in her hair, attempting to relax her breathing. Mad to want more from him, to crave his presence in her life, no matter the blood on his long, beautiful fingers…despite the malice of his actions.
"Yes," she whispered to herself, fingers toying with the sleeves of her flouncy, peach costume, "Perhaps I am going mad to want such things."
A light and sharp knock resounded on her dressing room door, an alarm that abruptly jostled her from her somber reverie.
"Cinq minutes, Mademoiselle Daae!"
"Merci, Cinq minutes," she answered solemnly, her breath catching in her throat. The realization of the swift passage of time until she must orchestrate the coming events, the singing of his opera, her voice serving as the answer she would give to Erik. It caused a shiver to run through her body. Her uncertain passion was a vine climbing aggressively from the roots of her feet, only to throb and grow into her troubled heart until she was sick with pain. It was not the hold she sought, however. For that must come from another, an embrace she should not fear anymore… A dangerous but tantalizing communion of two lost souls.
She was finally ready. She must be, for there was no reversal of her fortune now. She must take control for the safety of countless strangers; for the preservation of her heart and of those that belonged to the two very different men that she loved. She would sing, and she would meet each unsteady and uncertain moment as it came…she would sing to Piangi the score she wished to sing to its true composer.
To Erik; for Erik. She would sing and forgive each mark of transgression between them as a loss not to be reexamined or recalled in fits of fury. Losses not remembered would be replaced by something boldly presenting itself as a rebirth, cracks and flaws revealed in their unabashed and unwavering beauty.
The blossoming of the Glass Lotus would begin once again.
Christine shifted the corset on her heaving chest and gave one last touch to her hair. She opened the door and walked out of her dressing room, resolute and determined within her choice. Tonight, she would sing for Paris. For herself.
For him.
The Glass Lotus would become Kintsugi, as the Japanese called it, something broken and meticulously pieced back together with gold, seamlessly, one imperfect fragment at a time. He had mentioned the art form as they sat on his divan, showing her illustrations of it in one of his many rare books, drinking tea from the samovar after nightly vocal lessons. His singular voice would weave an effortless translation of the beautiful character of a language she could not read nor understand. Of all the exotic and unique things Erik had shown her, this fragile concept had stuck with her, an idea she could not pull from her mind. Christine's voice would repair the shattered edges of their love with a mellifluous and impenetrable beauty no one could touch. Her voice, her heart, would give glory to that which had always and unfairly been perceived as ugly and unwanted.
"Kintsugi," she whispered to herself, recalling with great clarity the taste of the syllables that were magical when Erik had uttered them to her, the cursive rolling off of his tongue in a sublime incantation.
Imperfection made stunning and painful. Painful in a way it would stir the soul with the unattainability of capturing a butterfly in the palm of one's hand. Too fragile to touch, lest one contaminate those tiny, papery wings; ceasing the soft flight of the butterfly forever…
Yes, Christine knew that there were so many beautiful things that existed in the world that were too delicate to touch. To touch them would destroy them, and Erik was one of these things. Too beautiful and unique to touch with her small, quivering hands.
The little songbird would spread her withered wings, sodden and tattered with the wet heaviness of far too many tears. Tonight, Christine would repair that which was imperfect with their music. She would fly on a breathless wind of song that would finally bring her home.
Raoul de Chagny's heart was a ragged muscle, struggling to find each beat in the haze of his worry and uncertainty, in his unsteady determination to be the victor.
He could feel every throb of blood rushing through his body as he took each stuttering breath. His tortured thoughts and the uncertainties of his plan careened like a wave washing over him, the severity of the water's impact hitting all too suddenly, too sharply. There could be no errors tonight. The shadow would be captured. The question of Christine's love would be answered, and he would eliminate the possibility of her choice. The girl he loved was forever in a whirlwind, never fully his.
There could be no mistakes this evening.
Raoul paced a maddening circle in his box to the right of the stage, his hands running through his thick, wavy blonde hair, exasperation writing a story of hard lines across his handsome features. His thoughts were a viciously spinning maelstrom as he went over each detail of the plan he had made for the Opera Ghost's demise. It was insanity, this trap to catch and kill this evasive and violent madman. Raoul would be certain the demented freak would die, tonight. The gendarmes stood at the ready, armed and waiting in the wings and boxes for his command.
Did she love him? For she spoke of him as a secret; this strange, extraordinary man, with his perfect voice and his incredible mind…But he was just a man, wasn't he? Not a spectre, or a ghost; just a malformed and disturbed composer besotted with his future wife. He was ugly and terrible; that was it. Yet, he somehow still held Christine in his grasp, and he must be done away with. He would most certainly appear, for he could not resist the one thing that held power over him - Christine's voice. It was the mellifluous, golden call of a siren to the murderous genius that stalked her and hunted all those that would stand in between him and his pupil.
For a moment, the Vicomte felt a tinge of remorse for what was to come. It was a grating whisper in his ear, a voice that taunted and offered him the question, "Is this which I have planned, this creature's demise, truly justifiable?" It was only for Christine's sake. Although she had told him that she was frightened of her former maestro, she had also spoken of her gratitude for how he had been her friend and dearest confidante; how he had crafted her voice into glory, forcing a light to shine upon her spirit. Christine cared deeply for this man, this haunting shadow that she supposedly feared. Her body shivered like a fragile blade of spring grass blown by the wind each time she sounded the two syllables of his name. Her every reaction to the man, this Phantom, disturbed the Vicomte, for he could not deny the passion she shared with her crazed teacher, their music a bond he could not sever. When Raoul had asked her if she held love for her strange maestro, had he looked like a normal man, she had been unable to respond to him. Her eyes had searched the distance before her, focusing on the many glints of light in the Parisian night sky. But she had not answered when he asked if she loved another man. She did not even look him in the eyes.
Had Christine been searching for Erik in those lights? That faraway look in her eyes, always searching…
Why did this ghost, this monster, this murderer enrapture her so? What did Erik offer her that Raoul could not provide? It was maddening! What was it that Erik held over her? What strange, all-consuming connection did he share with the sweet, innocent girl with the golden voice?
That night on the rooftop of the Opera House, the magnificent building of which HE had apparently some part in creating, still haunted the Vicomte, as did the evening he had found Christine enthralled and tormented by her dark angel's voice. It had beckoned her with such sweeping seductive powers when she visited her father's grave in Perros-Guirec. The connection between his sweet fiancée' and that freakish madman was undeniable and strong. There existed a cord between them that Raoul could not bend nor break, a bond that held no place for him.
The Vicomte was always quite confident and self-assured in every manner and motion of his life, from the way he carried his body, to the witty and charming words he spouted out in social gatherings like a rigid upper-class automaton. But this time, he was undeniably frightened by the uncertainty of Christine's love. Where did her heart reside, to whom did it belong? It was this putrid fear that propelled him onward, in search of the denouement that would surely be in his favor this evening. Which man would claim the bloody victory, and who would lie, defeated and broken on the floor of the Opera Populaire?
The Vicomte's thoughts wandered to his childhood by the sea, the rush of sand through his fingers, the smell of the water hitting his nostrils, and the high, tinkling laughter of a little girl, her scarf lost to the wind. He had gone after it, swimming like a hero…He had retrieved it, that red scarf, and had been bewitched by the look of gratitude in the girl's large, blue eyes.
He still was.
That little girl needed his efforts again. But she was a woman now. A woman who claimed she wished to marry him, although she never truly was with him, her gaze always searching for something past the smile he granted her, eating lunch or strolling through the park. Her mind was always playing a symphony he would never hear. Christine was always so far away, and it tormented him. For no matter what he did, she was never truly present in his company. Raoul thought again of the small girl who had accepted the scarf from his fingers, a radiant grin on her face as she took the sand-covered fabric in her hands. Why could he never see that same look of admiration and wonder in her eyes now, that sweet kindness playing across her features? It had been only an instant, when he had reunited with her after her triumphant debut in Hannibal, that he saw that same, innocent joy cross her features again, but soon after it was lost to him…a red scarf disappearing into blackened, ocean waves…
Depths that were too far for him to reach.
But, he would have her back! She was still his betrothed; the woman he planned to wed, the future mother of his children. He would see her saved this evening, he would bring her back from the dark madman's void into which she had fallen! He would eradicate the vile, loathsome creature from their lives, and remove the twisted torment from his beloved's heart.
Raoul continued to pace, his sweaty, nervous hands alternating between fumblings at his pockets and frequent blind touches inside his waistcoat to assure that the pistol he carried was still sufficiently holstered and hidden in the folds of his clothing. Nothing could go wrong this evening; there could be no missteps. The Opera Ghost must be caught.
Caught or killed.
Raoul de Chagny preferred the latter. He would save Christine and take her far away from all the gaudy, detestable madness of the Opera house. He would ensnare her in the comforts and lifestyle only he could provide to her, she would come to forget this entire sordid business. For if he did not take her away, she would undoubtedly become the monster's bride…
"Vicomte, the cast are assuming their places, the gendarmes are ready…shall we sit?" The shrill, grating voice of Monsieur Firmin immediately roused the young man from his reverie, his pacing coming to a startling halt. He was exhausted by the bumbling antics of his companions, and his frustration with their inability to handle this "Phantom situation" baffled him to no end.
Irritated by the sound of the manager's intrusive voice, the Vicomte straightened his waistcoat in an action of nervous energy, sputtering, "Of course we are ready, gentlemen," as he gave an almost combative eye to Monsieurs Andre' and Firmin.
"Shall we sit and wait for this macabre dance? Surely, we will have an end to the Opera Ghost's ridiculous endeavors tonight!"
At the Vicomte's request, all three sat, sweaty palms and fists clenching on their knees, awaiting the performance that would surely be one to remember. As the minutes before the curtain opened slowly and laboriously crawled by, Raoul found that the time with his thoughts and choices allowed him to find a bit of clarity. His decisions no longer wobbled in conflict when he imagined the beast touching his Christine. Tonight there would be no room for failure or uncertain, boyish cowardice. He would be a de Chagny, a proud and courageous heir of his illustrious family name. He would see this through, no matter the outcome. His plan would be followed to completion, and his directions to the gendarmes would be clear.
Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny gripped the pistol hidden inside his jacket once again, relishing the feel of the smooth metal on his skin and the power that the weapon wielded, the unspeakable and irreparable damage it would cause tonight. Erik and all his madness would cease to exist, no longer alive to haunt Christine and her thoughts, her voice, her heart…
"Shoot to kill" would be the order.
—-
Christine shivered involuntarily as she listened to the orchestra preparing to begin the overture, Erik's overture. All players began feverishly tuning to the oboe's strong A as it resonated in a wavering silken ribbon throughout the auditorium space. The soprano felt the impact of a deafening realization - almost a question - that was painful in its honest beauty; tonight would most likely be the first time anyone other than herself would hear his music, the incomparable and utterly unique majesty of his work. She shuddered at the significance of the thought. Paris would be gifted a masterpiece tonight from a reclusive composer, from a genius who had been shunned into exile from the world of 'normal' men for the misfortune of his wretched face. Oh, how she wished she could save him, to create a space for him amongst those that walked the streets, that passed unnoticed in the marbled halls of the Opera. She longed to create for Erik an opportunity to be a part of the society of Paris, to have his talents recognized by the masses, to pull him from the suffocating depths of sorrow and darkness that consumed him…
But how?
As she pondered the impossible answer to her question, Christine was alerted to the sounds of the chorus coming to the stage, opening the show. Erik's haunting and dissonant chords resounded in the space, the orchestra playing in a furious but magnificent haze, a sound unlike any other ever heard in Paris. It was time. The music wove around her in a spell, its melody slithering up through the floor, through the balls of her feet, and flowing all the way up her small body. Her Erik's mad passion, his message in melody crept up into her heart, a nervous and quickening throb that caused the muscle to shift and right itself until all that she knew of the human she was became the vessel of his undiscovered genius. The unhinged beauty of his music once more brought her to life in a way no other force in the obscene and gaudy world ever could. She felt the intoxicating passion of his song pulsating through her veins. And she would sing this fire, stir the flame.
Their music was a truth, unadorned and glorious in its rawness. Untouchable to those that could not truly hear the sacred, terrible honesty of it. For there were so many of them, the people that walked the halls of the Garnier, that sat in soft velvet seats in all their finery, fans flapping at their chins, gossip dripping from their lips. Those people would never hear the sublime, ethereal little sounds, nor know the meaning of the pain that bore them, tone by tone. Erik's perfect notes would remain unheard by those that could not take the time or effort to appreciate them, Those that chose not to listen would not exist in the unequivocal majesty of music never before heard or savored. It was theirs. This music.
Hers, Erik's.
Theirs.
Hearing the tones of her cue, Christine took a step out from the wings, the echoes of the chorus dissipating as they moved offstage and she made her way forward, nervous, but strangely confident in the meanings and measures of her heart, the purpose of her singing clear. Her bell-like soprano rang through the space before she even came into the audience's view. Hesitant and unsure, she sang HIS music as the rest of the world gradually collapsed upon itself into a soundless void around her. For there was only music now.
At that moment, Christine thought of the birth of a bird, the first time it emerged from its egg, the sharp cry as it tested its strength and inhaled the crisp air of the unfamiliar world outside of its shell. . . In her mind, she pictured the first flutterings of its wings, the manner in which the tiny creature oriented itself with a new, foreign place. . .the little sounds of life becoming, of life growing. In her heart, she could feel the minuscule movement of that bird's wings flapping, a wisp on the quivering of the wind, a small but resonating movement. It meant something in the end, that movement. Freedom, growth, the knowledge of how to fly. That first chirp of learning how to sing. She knew then that the tiny bird and its song inside of her soul held a certain power. It mattered not just to her, but to two people that sought one another in the darkness. For the light had forgotten them.
What was it to capture a bird that had never flown freely, only to keep it shut in a golden, prettily- wired cage, so that it might sing to one on bright, sun-filled mornings? Just a small bird serving as an ornament to be taken out from its prison when the conversation required a certain novelty? Would she be that fragile creature? Or would she capture the glory of the music that had been gifted to her from an elusive genius? A beautiful and broken man that she realized she now called her own. Strong, dangerous, glorious, and damaged.
The tiny bird's song inside her gasping heart was the melody of a gentle resurrection for them both. For her and for Erik. Her Erik.
His music. Her voice.
Tonight, she would not be his traitor. To betray her Maestro would cause that strong, pulsating muscle in her chest to stop beating. The thought of losing him was terrible. Without Erik she would become a drowning woman scavenging for air, scrambling to the surface of the water to suck in that one essential breath to survive. Searching for his voice, the flawless baritone of it guiding her back to life.
Christine would not allow the gendarmes or Raoul to take her angel from her. She would protect her Erik at any cost, for he had shown her how to fly, to sing, and to grow into the woman she now was.
In one swift motion, in one echoing, majestic tone from her throat, Christine Daae took the stage, and the world around her fell silent, all except for the simple fluttering of the tiny bird's wing tearing open her heart.
And from the breaking of her heart's shell, that stubborn vessel that existed only for his music, she would craft something beautiful, something stunning from that which was shattered, her song a golden thread pulling the fragile pieces back together. Mending them. Recreating those scattered shards into something sublime, real, and tangible.
Kintsugi.
Erik had taught her well.
I love to see that people are reading this piece, but I would really enjoy hearing your thoughts and comments. We're about go go on a LONG ride. "Don Juan" is coming, be prepared! Thank you for taking the time to read!- Kind regards, Jess