In which Erik gets some good advice. Will he listen to it?
Hi folks. Apologies again for the long wait for this chapter. My life is complicated right now, but things should settle down after the first of the year. Thank you for sticking with this story!
Chapter 22. July, 1887. Saturday night to Sunday morning.
"I am going to have a baby. Isn't it wonderful! I never thought it would happen this quickly! And you're as surprised as I am, aren't you? I've wondered for a bit, you see, and so I went to the doctor two – no, wait, it was three days ago now. And he said yes, and that I'm very healthy and everything should be fine, and oh, Erik – " Christine went on excitedly, but her husband was not listening to her, being wholly preoccupied elsewhere.
Ah, yes, there it was, his heart. It had not stopped after all, though for a brief second it had been giving every indication of doing so. He had shot to a sitting position when she gave her revelation, and Christine had followed suit.
"Erik?..Erik?" With great difficulty he managed to focus on Christine's face. She was looking at him with trepidation now. He must master himself just at present. She had appeared so happy when she told him; he did not want to be the one who extinguished that light in her face.
"Christine, I... I do not know what to say." Which was perfectly true. Apparently it was enough, however, because she suddenly threw her arms around his neck and pressed her smooth cheek against his twisted one. He wrapped his own arms around her. At least now she could not see his expression, and he could let it reflect his true feelings for the moment.
What were his feelings, precisely?
Fear. Yes, that was definitely there. Fear of himself no longer being important to her because she would inevitably focus on the baby, fear that he would not measure up to whatever her idea of a good father was – or to her memories of her own father, perhaps? Fear for her life, too. God, women did die in childbirth sometimes, didn't they? He tightened his arms around her, wishing he could fight dragons for her; but this trial was one she would have to undergo alone. He would not be able to do it for her, nor even be there during the final struggle. He had never felt so dreadfully powerless. He decided instantly that if she died, he would throw himself straight into the Seine.
There, that was one decision made. Bizarrely, he felt reassured by the knowledge that if the worst happened, he would have a plan in place, and there would no agonizing over which course of action to take. The fear receded, just a little, and a quivering wonderment took pre-eminence next. He had dreamed of having children by her before. It had been during the terrible months he had spent locked in the unyielding grip of his ghastly, sickening obsession with her, when he had fantasized of all the ways in which marriage to her would prove, once and for all, that he was worthy of being a human. His fracturing mind had spiralled further and further away from any vestige of reality, as he pictured a bevy of perfect, beautiful children who adored him and looked up to him, who would undoubtedly inherit his skills and be able to put them to better uses than he had. Sunshine and roses always surrounded his feverish imaginings, and the images that his brain conjured were of a patently impossible perfection... he and Christine sharing one mind and never disagreeing, the world willingly accepting him, and their marriage, their family life never being anything but joy and love.
But his fantasy had finally ended, splintered around the spear of her kiss, and the madness that dogged him, perpetually ready to overpower his more rational side at the least sign of weakness, had begun to recede. The piercing reality of being actually married had shown him, as nothing else might have, just how absurd his dreams had been, and how little he understood of how to be joined to another. His experiences of family had been nearly all awful; and since his childhood, he had not really interacted with others on any level apart from those of either business or manipulation and terrorizing. Madame Giry and the daroga were the only two exceptions to this, but of course those relationships – if such a word could legitimately be used to describe them – were not a marriage. He could bend objects to his will, and music, and even knowledge itself, but a wife... someone whose mind worked on its own, and frequently in ways which he could not hope to comprehend, someone with her own wants and needs, and dislikes, and quirks; that was an entirely separate thing, and it could be both thrilling and terrifying. With Christine's constant presence, her sweetness and goodness surrounding the both of them, he had begun to comprehend just how warped his own mind was. He had always been aware that he did not think like most others, of course, but had chalked it up to merely the supposed stupidity and hypocrisy of the rest of humanity. He assumed that the violence and bitterness of his life stemmed from his mistreatment at the hands of others; anyone, he thought, would have reacted as he did, if they had his face. He was not responsible for the actions he had been forced to take. He'd been born with certain talents in recompense for his face, and he would use them as necessary to survive. What else could he be expected to have done?
But it was impossible for even him to believe that Christine would act in the same fashion he had, for any reason. Nothing could have induced her to kill, or even to commit his lesser crimes of extortion, kidnapping, or torture. Why, she had even agreed to wed a monster in order to save the life of the Vicomte and the myriad denizens of the Opera up above them, who were wholly ignorant of her sacrifice for them! And she had kissed him, him of all people, and while he was in the process of attempting to carry out those dreadful murders. Forced finally to see that he could not claim to love her while putting her in that position, he'd set her free.
And then she had come back, of her own accord this time, and that had made all the difference. When it was her own choice, he could marry her with a clear conscience, let her take him to her bed, live with her, keep her with him always. And he could not be sorry that he had done so, even if at times she drove him mad and it seemed impossible to understand her or to be a good husband to her. And if marriage was so different from what he had thought it might be... what would having a child be like?
Christine was still talking. Had she ever stopped? Probably not. At some point she was going to expect a response out of him, and woe betide him if she realised he had barely heard a word of what she was saying. He tried to focus on the sound of her voice, but the words slid around him like so many eels, and he could not grasp all of their meaning.
"... so happy... always wanted... know you'll be... live above ground now?"
There, that was something that made some sense. He snatched at it feebly.
"You want to live above ground, Christine?"
"Oh, yes," she said enthusiastically. "It's sort of... fairy-tale-ish, living underground, and your rooms are lovely, and it's nice to be based here, in the heart of the city. But I miss the sun and the wind, and birds singing, and the tunnels are so cold and dark, even the one that gets you outside quickly – and anyway we can't keep a child underground like this! Where will it run and play? You remembered about getting a real house, too, didn't you, isn't that why you were designing it? Where shall we put the nursery? We'll have to have one, of course."
"Ah... I'll... see to it."
"You'll have to keep your laboratory well locked up, we simply can't have the baby getting into the sorts of things you keep in there. You could design a lock that couldn't be opened, I know you could. Maybe one on the music room door, too, I know you wouldn't like anything in there being damaged."
In horror, he pictured his piano scratched and damaged, the strings of his Stradivarius snapped, and scores torn to bits by a destructive child. If that child took after him to any degree, it would undoubtedly wreak havoc from the cellar to the attic.
If the child took after him at all, surely Christine would hate it, as his father had hated him.
Marvellous. There was something else to worry about. He hadn't yet thought about the fact that the child just might have the misfortune to resemble its sire. Christ, what then? How could he burden Christine with a monster for a child? How could he have been so selfish as to risk it?
But... but she'd wanted him to... and he'd wanted... Everything was too much. He was desperately tired, and the shock of Christine's news wasn't helping a bit. Without meaning to, he swayed, eyes drifting closed.
Instantly Christine was all solicitousness, helping him lie down, pulling up the blankets, fussing that he needed some rest and they could talk about this just as well in the morning, couldn't they, and she was tired too, here, she'd just curl up next to him and...
Soon she was fast asleep. Erik, however, was not so lucky, and lay staring at the ceiling, mind whirling in useless circles, until his fatigue overcame him and, without meaning to, he slipped into sleep as well. He slept restlessly, with strange dreams that he could not remember when he woke as Christine was getting out of bed.
"Up already?" he asked blearily.
"Yes. Go back to sleep for a while, I'll wake you later."
He dozed off again, till he woke once more, reached out for her, and remembered she was already up. Yes, he could hear her clattering about in the kitchen. Eventually she came and informed him that breakfast was almost ready, and kissed him sweetly; he got out of bed, washed and dressed quickly, and came obediently to the table. Doing so was going to have to be a sacred duty from now on.
Christine was enthusiastically cleaning her plate and chattering on some more about the baby. Erik concentrated on his coffee cup, and crumbled a bit of bread onto his plate. Fortunately his wife did not seem to require much in the way of responses out of him, and when she was finished, she hopped up, cleared the table and refilled his cup for him, and then bustled out of the room. He sat morosely, staring at the table without seeing it, till she came back attired in a rose silk day dress trimmed with matching satin, and white lace pleated at her neck and wrists. Her best feather-trimmed hat was pinned securely to her coiled hair. Smiling beautifully, she swooped over to embrace him again.
"Where are you going?" he asked, taken aback.
"Why, to Mass of course!" she responded, looking surprised. "It's Sunday. Did you forget? Yes, of course you did, you were composing. Whatever am I going to do with you?" She patted him on the head, which he hated, and sailed out, radiating happiness.
Erik exhaled slowly. Where was all this energy coming from? He thought pregnancy was supposed to be hard...
Pregnancy. Oh God. He got up, intending to go out and take his mind off the immediate crisis by some form of vigorous physical activity. Perhaps he should go and inspect Box Five? Or climb through the flies? Or maybe even head all the way up to the roof? By the time he got back home again after that, he might well be so worn out that he wouldn't be able to think at all, which would be all to the good. He wasn't getting any younger, and having a female in the house was sapping his capabilities... in more ways than one.
Did everything have to make his mind circle back around to the damnable predicament they were now in? Scowling ferociously, he put on his cloak, hat and mask and stalked out of the house. As he turned to lock the door, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
"Confound it, daroga, don't you know better by now than to startle me?"
"Of course I do. Why do you think I was keeping well back and out of your range?"
"The day you learn what my range really is, Mihr of Mazanderan, will be the day hell freezes over. What the devil do you want anyway? If you're here to give me one of your damned moralizing lectures, you can just head right back out. I warn you I'm in no mood for it."
"Not at all, I came to see how you were, as I have not seen you for over two weeks."
"Yes, well, it was a lovely holiday, that's true – "
"Your manners are as above reproach as always. And how is Madame Phantom today?"
"Go to hell."
"I see you are unusually cheerful today. And what has brought this on?"
"Daroga. Out."
"Do you know, I think you've put on weight. I believe being married is good for you."
"That's all you know!" snapped Erik. "It will certainly not be good for my sanity, I assure you, nor my peace and quiet, nor my pocketbook, nor, no doubt, Christine's health."
The Persian's eyes became keen. "Oh? Why?"
Erik was silent.
"May I be so forward as to guess that congratulations are due?"
"Why on earth would one offer them? I tell you, daroga, I'm not ready for this."
"No one ever is," said Mihr. "But you might have thought of that before you risked just such a blessed event occurring."
"Still the old policeman. I don't even have to come right out and tell you, do I?"
"No, I can spare you that indignity. It was not a difficult thing to surmise. I would not have expected it to happen quite so soon, but I suppose one must make allowances for – shall we say, your adoration of her?"
Erik glowered darkly and snarled, "Will you go away now that your vulgar curiosity is satisfied?"
"I'm parched from that long walk down here. Invite me in and give me some tea, and then maybe I'll leave you in peace."
When they were sitting in Erik's parlour, teacups in hand, the Persian looked keenly at his old friend and said, "May I hazard a guess that you are somewhat... unsettled by this news?"
"Unsettled. I suppose that is one word you could use for it."
"Well, you must not be angry, as I have heard of no dropped chandeliers lately – "
"I thought I told you I was not responsible for that."
"Surely you don't honestly think that I believed you? Do I look stupid to you?"
"As you've gone to the trouble of asking, I must say – "
"Wait; on second thought, do not answer that. To return to the original topic of conversation: you must not be angry, nor jealous either, as Christine is apparently allowed to come and go as she pleases, given your explanation that you have permitted her to go to Mass today."
"Christine is perfectly free to 'come and go as she pleases,' just as I told you before, and you did not believe me then."
"I know you too well. After all these years you have still not learned not to try to get your excuses past 'the old policeman.' I always could see right through them, you know."
Erik glared. That particular expression of his had been known to reduce strong men to tears; the daroga, however, had known Erik for decades, through palace intrigues, travels, the escape from the shah, and of course the more recent events at the Opera, and was therefore a good deal less susceptible than most. Undeterred, he went on, "And you are not melancholy, as you were obviously going out somewhere and not lying on a divan moaning that you wished you were dead."
"If I were you, daroga, I would not point out to someone who happens to be an extremely skilled assassin that I was the one person who had seen him in assorted highly embarrassing moments. Think what a relief it would be to me to know that I would never be forcibly reminded of them again."
"Don't be ridiculous. Who would you complain to if I were not around? Surely you don't burden your new bride in such a fashion."
"On occasion, yes. I thought a husband and wife were supposed to share things?"
"Only suitable things. Let women air their complaints to others of their sex, and men to theirs. It works much better that way."
"Do not presume to judge my marriage, you damned foreigner. Don't think I do not remember the way women are treated in your country. You Orientals may do just as you like, but I want a true meeting of minds with my Chris – with Christine."
"Hah," said Mihr, with immense satisfaction. "The truth comes out amid all your posturing. You lecture me as if you were one of those absurd women's rights advocates, and yet you reflexively describe her as 'yours'. And as for the customs of my country, Persia is far more lenient with its females than many another nearby society, and well you know it."
"Splitting hairs, daroga. Just because you let the court ladies sit behind screens and listen to political discussions, and have an education if they like, that does not mean that they are allowed anything like as much freedom as Frenchwomen. When was the last time you saw a harem around here?"
"I would imagine that, just after that regrettable debacle on the rooftop, you might have been fully in favour of our method of keeping the women locked up and out of trouble. But then, you appeared to be trying our custom out for yourself, and more than once too."
"I did nothing of the sort. I merely attempted to persuade her that I was the better choice than that fop of a Vicomte. All right, so my methods were perhaps a trifle eccentric, but when have you ever known me to do something in any other fashion?"
" 'Eccentric,' " muttered the Persian. "You don't say. And correct me if I am wrong, but I believe the word 'fop' indicates a man who is excessively concerned with his own appearance? Because if that describes anybody – "
"Daroga. I'm warning you."
Erik was prevented from acting upon the warning by one of his alarm bells going off. He leaped up, for once actually relieved, and headed for the door.
"Erik. Don't you dare," said his persecutor.
"Oh, come off it, you dolt, what do you take me for?"
"If you must know, I take you for an only occasionally sane and only partially reformed fugitive from the law."
"Old friend, you wound me. I shan't harm whoever it is; I am a changed man now, remember? Likely it's only a rat, and if not I shall use this." He waved the small vial of the Mazanderan perfume that he carried with him in a hidden pocket, wrapped snugly in the handkerchief that would be required should he have need to use the drug. "I will be back shortly and we can resume this fascinating discourse. Feel free to peruse my bookshelves. Don't mind that mirrored room over there, it's nothing to fear..."
"Erik!" the Persian called after his retreating black-cloaked back. "I thought you dismantled that thing right after you were married!"
"Oh, I did. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention."
O-O-O O-O-O
Author's Note: As "the Mazanderan perfume" is a fairly minor detail in Leroux, I thought I ought to explain it here. In the book, Erik actually drugs Christine the first time she comes down to the underground house, or "the Phantom's Lair," as stage show fans know it. We aren't ever told exactly what this "perfume" is, only that it seems to render people nearly unconscious and incapable of resisting. Erik uses the same substance to subdue Raoul before locking him up, after Christine agrees to be Erik's wife and the prisoners in the torture chamber are freed (but before the kiss which changes everything). Leroux's sequence of events is sometimes quite different from Andrew Lloyd Webber's, and the musical overshadows every other version, even the original, to such an extent that it can sometimes be difficult to remember the differences. Case in point; while writing the earlier chapters of this story, my beta reader had to point out to me that nowhere in Leroux is Christine ever mentioned as being made to put on a wedding dress! I had completely forgotten that, despite having read the book multiple times and referring back to it while writing.