Après la pluie, le beau temps
Christine
April 1884
The thick, harsh bristles of the scrub brush argued their tiredness as her hands, stinging from the lye, forced them onward. Despite the severity of her labors, her actions were rhythmic. Josephine was admiring her older brother, her eyes humbly following the notes Alexandre plucked out, which Christine echoed in the abuse of her brush. The floor, after all, was in a state of absolute sham, with her absence being the cause. A relaxing visit to Meg's flat in Orleans had brought to light the loneliness she had attempted to hide from her children. This meant the floorboards were in the unfortunate position of receiving the bulk of her ire. And still, she had yet to repaint the porch steps, now severely chipping from different pairs of feet pounding upon it over the years. Staring down at the red digits -slowly resembling the skin of a tomato, her mind wandered to the revealing conversation in Meg's sitting room.
Meg and her husband, a man of the name of Pierre Giumon, first cellist at the Garnier, lived comfortably. The couple would often stay in the dormitories afforded to company members at the Opera during the season, retreating to the town of Orleans, a few hours by train outside of Paris. They preferred to avoid the crowded streets of France's capital city. Meg, being Prima Ballerina going on five years, was continuing to attend taxing rehearsals with grace and optimism. The strain that ballet place upon the joints, holding harsh, unnatural positions for so long, only allotted a few years for a dancer to be in the spotlight. Meg was making the best of the time she had.
Seeing Christine only a few times since her friend's sudden marriage to the mysterious Monsieur Opera Ghost following the night of Don Juan, she grew to accept her choice in husband. The couple had been there, celebrating her subsequent marriage to Pierre. Erik had approved, even offering compliment to the bridegroom on his musical technique as well as choice of wife. They had also been in attendance for her mother's funeral, a small affair, nearly a year later, in which Erik offered to help her husband carry her coffin, placing it gently into the ground. Over the years, Meg could see how the seemingly odd pairing had truly thrived together, and understood him more a human and less a ghost. They were loyal friends.
Antoinette Giry, having only passed a few years prior, bequeathed a surprising small fortune to her daughter. The Opera ghost had evidently valued her services immensely, to neither Meg nor Christine's knowledge, and it showed. As ballet instructor and lead choreographer of the Garnier for close to thirty years, there would not have been a day in her life in which she was not working. Her mother was nothing if not valued. Succumbing to a quick bout with pneumonia, Meg was relieved that she went without a lingering illness, one that would keep her bedridden and impotent. The 'idleness' of old age surely would have killed her in and of itself.
Gingerly handing Christine a cup of tea-with extra cream and sugar, (just as she liked it) Meg finally had the opportunity to speak plainly with her closest friend. Taking a sip, Christine smiled, her effort evident, and set it down. Christine knew what this conversation would comprise of. With the maid watching Christine's two children, the two women had a moment of peace. Meg needn't begin with small talk, they knew each other well. So she began with the most pressing issue.
"Christine, how long did he say this would last?"
"About a year, enough to complete the palace and its surrounding apartments. And before you remind me, I know. I know it's been much too long."
"Ma cher, I am sure there are a myriad of reasons as to delay on the site. Weather, limited funds, lack of labo-"
"I know Meg." she said quietly. Meg knew her friend had thought this over many times. "I just know that he would have done anything to come back. He agreed to finishing what he designed in the years he lived at court previously. No more, no less, and still, it should not have taken as long as it has. This is what scares me. Meg, they can make him do terrible things, they can do terrible things."
"I understand", she said plainly. She could offer no solace, no peace.
"I feel this anger Meg, an anger that seems to grow from within me. They took him from us, when we needed him most! They want him for their own leisure, to provide them amusement with his music and tricks!" Her speech grew harsher and quicker, picking up volume. A usually controlled and genteel Christine spilled forth her emotion. "Our children need their father, I need my husband!"
Meg could only give take her hand and offer her sympathy. It had been much too long. Three years. Three years raising the children alone and running a small farm far away from town had taken a toll on her friend. She knew it wasn't the physical stress, though, but the loss of yet another person in her life. The loneliness that it can bring, even when surrounded by the children.
"Meg, I can't stand it. She continued, tears threatening to spill outwards "Every morning I wake up alone, praying that he'll be in the drawing room, that I simply forgot. Every time I turn a corner, I listen to see if I can make out his humming. When I sit, reading to the children, I imagine he is tapping my thigh, orchestrating some new melody. He has been part of my life for, my God, since my fifteenth year, a young girl! I have not sung in…" her hand drew to her throat. "I can't even remember" she quietly choked out.
"The children, they shall hardly know him! Alexandre was two when he departed, and he does not even know yet of Josephine's existence! Meg," clasping her friends hand, "She sits on the piano bench, tinkering at the keys. I so wish I could teach her properly, that I could teach both of them properly. Like he taught me. Every time I look at her, I see Erik. She is so much like him."
And how she was. Christine had learned of her pregnancy in the weeks following his leaving, staying with Meg in the days leading up to her delivery. Only having met a few times with Christine's husband, even Meg could notice the striking resemblance in his daughter- excluding the mask. Thick charcoal hair, carrying a shininess only characteristic in that of a child, contrasted against skin pale and pure. This contrast exuded a certain grace, aided by the presence of high cheekbones, perfect lips and defined eyebrows, creating a certain sense of regality. To complete the ensemble, she possessed bright eyes, unusually yellow in color, so much like Erik. The only clue that would lead any onlooker to believe the child was Christine's were the presence of curly locks, framing her small face. Even compared to their oldest, Alexandre, who seemed to resemble his father's likeness closely, Josephine was a replica.
"Christine, perhaps you should look into correspondence. I am sure the royal emissary could deliver letters, even in disguise."
"Oh Meg, were I able to, I would send thousands of letters, until my last breath, but he made me promise", the tears were plainly drawing lines down her cheek now, "that for the sake of the children, we cannot risk the Shah knowing of a family. Upon summoning him, he threatened his life were he not to agree. Were he to lose favor with the Shah, more than he already has, they could track us down, use the children as leverage in order for him to do their bidding. Meg- they know about Don Juan and the Garnier. I do not know how, but they do. La Daae would draw suspicion, especially at the royal emissary in Paris. Regardless, they must assume Erik has no friends, no allies, no weaknesses. I cannot risk his safety, nor the children's." she paused, a flat tone manifesting in her speech, "Persia is not a friendly place."
Meg was a decisive woman, her years at the Opera House and her mother teaching her strength in the face of such trial. Watching Christine, the companion of her childhood, suffer yet again to the crippling weight of loss, made her feel helpless. Yet she knew she was not, she could help. The euphemism made clear the danger of communication, and with no resort in terms of safe contact, she asked something she knew her friend didn't want to hear, yet needed to be said regardless.
"What did he tell you to do should he not return?"
The question hung in the air. In addressing the taboo subject, Meg was cutting through the positive assumptions and acknowledging what, may in fact, be reality. Somewhere inside, Christine knew this too. The look on her friend's face changed to something quite different, her eyebrows closing inwards and lips pursing shut.
"Meg, I canno-"
"Christine, your husband is not the type of man to be ill-prepared. What did he tell you?" she implored, grabbing both of her friend's hands, as if to drag the truth out of her.
Taking in a few shallow, rickety gulps of air, she hesitated, as if saying it out loud would solidify the reality of her situation.
"He told me to move on" she admitted.
It was quiet, almost barely noticeable, but Meg had gotten her answer.
"Then that is what you must do. Christine, I am assuming he left you a bank account, records, that he told you what to do? How to protect the children and yourself?"
Yanking her hand's from Meg's grip, Christine gaped at her accusingly. She looked down, and returned her gaze to stare upon her friend's tight features. Her friend was trying to help her by forcing reality up close. She realized that now. Meg had known loss- they both had. Christine had already lost one man in her life, she couldn't bear to lose another. Oh how she wished she could live in that false world, revel in it as she had done with her father! But it had taken much too long to pull herself out of that world, time that she didn't have now, raising children. Taking the half of herself and forcibly removing it from her grief felt like some kind of betrayal. But she was no longer a child now, no. She was a woman grown, having children of her own. It was time to put away childish things.
"You are right Meg."