Hers was the very first aria of the third act, and she was trying to read over the translations Erik had written above each line. His elegant writing was fairly legible, but he had been forced to write so minutely in order to fit both the translation and pronunciation above each line that she could barely make it out. He had procured her a better script with these necessary items printed in accompaniment with each line, but she had (to her unending embarrassment) lost it three days after he had given it to her. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him, so she had resigned herself to the headaches she got from staring at the tiny ink script in between the lines.
“Solitude-ini amee-chay,” she muttered, closing her eyes and trying to imprint the syllables into her memory. It was part of a small paragraph she was just supposed to say before she began the aria; spoken words were nice because she didn’t have to try to remember the stupid words and the notes at once. “Solitude-ini amee-chay, our-ay amor-oh-say, piahn-tay fee-or—what is that? Fee-or…ih-tay.” It wasn’t even a third of the first sentence, but no matter how many times she tried, she couldn’t manage to remember it without looking. Erik was spending countless hours trying to teach her Italian pronunciation—he had a sublime and endless patience which she did not deserve—but this was just too hard! “Solitude-ini amee-say our-hey amor—amor—blast it!” she snapped, throwing the script to the floor. “Stupid, stupid Italian!”
“You shouldn’t say that,” chided Raoul. She whirled to face him, face coloring a horrible shade of scarlet when she realized that he had just witnessed her childish tantrum. Gods—was her hair okay? Was her makeup still perfect? He shouldn’t be allowed to appear without giving her forewarning!
“Italian is a beautiful language,” he continued, oblivious to her panic. “Far beneath French, of course, but still quite distinguished.”
“Oh, yes, of course—I love Italian,” she said hurriedly. “I’m just not very good at it.”
“That’s because you’ve never had the proper instruction, my pet. Let me teach you.”
He retrieved her script from the floor, brushing the sawdust off from it (imagine the nerve of the stagehands, so lazy that they couldn’t even move the sets off the stage to work on them). “You were working on this line, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Listen carefully: ‘Solitudini amiche, aure amorose, piante fiorite, e fiori vaghi, udite d'una infelice amante i lamenti, che a voi lassa confido.’ Now you repeat it back to me.”
She stared dumbly at his mouth, which had just uttered the string of gibberish so quickly that she hadn’t even caught a single syllable. “Can you say it again?”
He repeated it, but still too quickly. When she pleaded with him to slow it down, he sighed and pointed to the first two words. “Let’s just do these. Now listen: solitude-ini amee-chay. You say it.”
“Solitude-eenie amee—amee-chee.”
“No, no, amee-chay.”
“Amee…chay,” she said slowly.
“Good. Now put it with the first word.”
“Solitude-eenie amee-say.”
“No,” he groaned, shaking his head in exasperation. She blushed and hung her head, wishing miserably that she were smarter. “Look, Christine,” he said, “nevermind about this. I’m sure you’ll get it before the performances.”
“Oh—all right!” she said, more than happy to quit. Then she remembered that she had wanted to ask him about Mamma. “Have you talked to the managers about hiring Mamma yet?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve been most terribly busy. But don’t worry, I’ll talk to them when I see them tomorrow. I came to ask you to accompany me to dinner tonight.”
She clapped her hands together, barely able to keep herself from bouncing with joy; bouncing wasn’t becoming of a lady, and she wanted to be a perfect vicomtess. “Okay!”
“I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”
She opened her mouth, but he cut her off: “I know rehearsal doesn’t end until ten o’clock, but I can’t possibly wait that long. I’ll pick you up at seven, and if anyone objects, they’ll be looking for employment elsewhere.”
“But a half hour—that isn’t enough time for me to—”
“Now now, my little nymph,” he chided, with the air of a humoring parent, “I refuse to hear any protests. I’ll see you at seven.”
She bit her lip as he strode off, her mind suddenly awhirl with all that she had to do to prepare. She couldn’t make herself perfect if given half a day—what could she possibly do in half an hour?
Christine yelped as the hairbrush snagged a particularly ugly snarl. With an agitated cry she tried furiously to rip it out, but it was inextricably ensnared. “Damn it—to—Niflheim,” she cursed, hopping around on the one shoe she had managed to put on and trying to untangle her hair and avoid all the shards of glass on the floor at the same time. Things couldn’t possibly be going any worse. As if it weren’t bad enough that she’d lost the costume earrings she’d been planning to wear, dropped the glass bottle of perfume she’d appropriated from Carlotta (she was practically gagging from the power of the scent, and she’d already cut her foot in two places), and her hair was an absolute disaster, she couldn’t find a costume that was half-decent, in her size, and that she hadn’t worn on an evening with Raoul already. And she couldn’t pick out shoes until she’d chosen a costume. Thinking about shoes, she realized sickly that she wouldn’t be able to jam her bandaged foot into anything her size. She had been on several romantic excursions with Raoul that had been absolutely wonderful; why was this one going so badly?
She glanced at the clock on the wall by the door and gasped. But surely that clock was wrong—it had been broken since she had moved into the dressing room.
Then she remembered that Erik had fixed it a few weeks ago, and she moaned in horror: she only had seventeen minutes! Oh gods, what could she do?
The brush dangling from her head, she hopped over to the mirror, shoved it out of the way, and rushed down the stairs as quickly as she could on one foot. The brush ripped out hair with every bounce, but she needed both her hands to steady herself down the stone staircase. She almost slipped at one point and had to grab a torchbracket to keep herself upright. Finally she made it to the bottom of the stairs and pulled the secret lever that allowed her to bypass the underground lake.
It had seemed like such a dark, endless journey when she had accompanied the Angel down to a mysterious cavern, but now, though her throbbing foot emphasized every step, it felt as if Erik was just a few steps away.
She threw open the secret door and looked wildly about before spotting him near the piano. “Erik!” she cried, hopping over to him. “Erik, I need your help!”
He was instantly by her side and helping her into a chair. “What’s the matter? Is there another piece of glass in your foot?”
“No, my foot’s fine now thanks to you, and I’m sorry to bother you again, but I can’t get this blasted brush out of my hair!”
He couldn’t completely suppress a smile as he set to freeing the brush from the snarl. She yelped a few times, anticipating the tugs of pain, but his fingers were so deft and so gentle that she couldn’t feel anything but pleasant caresses along her tangled locks.
“How long is this going to take?” she asked, fidgeting in her seat. “I’m kind of in a hurry and—”
“Here you are,” he said simply, handing her the traitorous brush.
“Stupid brush,” she snapped at it, jumping to her feet. “Ow!” she cried as her injured foot hit the floor. “Stupid foot!”
She started for the doorway at a sort of hop-skip that allowed her to move faster. “Thanks, Erik!”
“Do you want me to carry you back to your dressing room?” he asked concernedly.
“No, that’s—ow!—that’s fine, I’ll be okay,” she called back to him as she hopped past the tapestry.
She made it back up to the surface as quickly as possible, ignoring the pangs in her foot in favor of speed. �
��Oh, gods!” she exclaimed as the clock came into view. She only had four minutes!
She threw off her hideous peasant dress (wincing as she heard the seams rip in her haste) and reached for the best costume she had been able to find. Then she remembered that she needed to tighten her corset if she was going out with Raoul, and she hurriedly set to undoing the knot. Her fingers fumbled over the little ball of cord, unable to unravel it as her mind raced through everything she still had to do: put on the dress, find some larger shoes and some earrings, apply her makeup, fix her hair, locate her gloves—
She was practically in tears by the end of the list. She wrestled wildly with the cords, but only succeeded in tightening the knot. Hel curse it all, if she only had a decent corset this wouldn’t happen! Oh gods, Raoul would take one look at her—hair tangled, dress rumpled, makeup-less, ugly, unadorned and fat—and turn away in disgust!
She looked at the clock again—two minutes.
Christine fell to the floor and started weeping. She was a failure, a hideous stupid failure, and Raoul would hate her when he saw her. She would lose all the jewelry and silks and noble titles and everything else worth living for.
She sobbed into the cheap imitation rug, her knees aching from the fall against the unforgiving floorboards. She was nothing, she was nothing, she was nothing—
Then, out of nowhere, a figure in black knelt in front of her, and two familiar hands gently pulled hers away from her face. “Christine, why are you crying?” asked Erik softly.
“I-it’s nothing,” she managed, her voice made thick and ugly by all the congestion her tears had brought.
He handed her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose, feeling ashamedly like a child.
As he procured another handkerchief from his shirt pocket and began drying her eyes, she blurted out all the terrible troubles of the past half-hour, unable to meet his concerned gaze because she knew how ridiculous her problems would seem to a man. She wanted to stop herself, but she couldn’t keep from pouring out all her frustrations to him. She managed not to mention Raoul, but, in her distraught and muddle-headed state, she couldn’t keep from telling him everything else.
When she had finished, she continued to stare at the floor, certain that he would start to laugh, or perhaps chide her about the triviality of her troubles. Instead, he wiped a fresh tear off her cheek and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Christine—I wish I had known you were suffering under so much pressure this evening. I could have helped you.”
“You did help me,” she sniffled. “A lot.”
“What else can I do, then?”
“I—I can’t find the earrings I was going to wear—they’re big and silver with little fake diamonds. I set them on the vanity and now I can’t find them.”
He stood and began searching through the clutter on the vanity. She hung her head, certain that he would reprove her untidiness, especially after he had spent so much time cleaning her dressing room, but he said nothing about it. “Who is it you’re meeting tonight?” he asked, dropping a half-eaten slab of molding cheese into the wastebasket.
She stared at him stupidly, panic racing in her mind like a whirlwind and scrambling up all the excuses she had so carefully planned. “Uh—well—” She suddenly remembered the story she had settled on: “The Comte de Chagny—Phillip, or whatever his name is. He loves operas, especially Idomeneo, and he’s interested in how I plan to play Princess Ilia.” It was a good lie; Raoul had told her of his brother’s avid interest in the arts a few weeks ago—if Erik knew anything about the comte’s character, it would corroborate her story.
Erik looked rather surprised. “He’s only been to the Garnier a handful of times in the years I’ve been here,” he commented, as he continued to search. “I’m glad to hear that he’s interested in his patronage. But my point was that the comte wishes to speak to you—not the lavish costume and jewelry you’ll be wearing. I’m sure he’ll be just as pleased to converse with you in your usual, practical attire.”
“I only own ugly clothes. I can’t go out in public—amongst the nobility of Paris!—in any of that!”
He was about to speak, but she interrupted: “Nevermind the earrings—I’ll have to wear something else. Gods, I’m so late!” She rushed to the vanity and began hastily lining her eyes with a black pencil.
Erik gently grasped her wrist, stopping her before she could pick up a tin of eye shadow. “Christine, you don’t need any of this. It’s character and kindness that constitute beauty, not blush and lipstick.” He smiled, a kind of grave, fond smile, and said hesitantly, “You’re more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen, even without elaborate makeup and costumes and filigree.”
She stared up into his eyes, so touched that she was afraid she might start crying again.
He was right, she realized; Raoul loved her, and therefore he loved her for her own beauty, even unenhanced by all the splendorous wealth that made her more beautiful than a goddess. She didn’t want to face the aristocracy without this sublime beauty, but all that truly mattered was that Raoul loved her.
As she basked in the warmth and happiness of this revelation—that she was beautiful even without it all—she continued to stare into Erik’s face, so kind, so devoted—
She realized suddenly that she was standing there in front of him wearing only a chemise and underskirt. “Oh gods!” she exclaimed, snatching the costume off the chair and covering herself. “Get out, get out, get out! I mean, thank you so much for everything you’ve done and I feel so much better because of what you just said but get out while I dress!”
He apologized (in a rather embarrassed fashion) and started for the mirror, but she said hurriedly, “Come back after I’m dressed and help me stuff all these bandages into my shoe!”
As she raced to throw on the gown and run the brush through her hair a few times, she felt a great weight lifted from her shoulders; since Raoul had come back into her life, she had been sweating under the constant, unrelenting pressure to look absolutely perfect and richly adorned every moment of the day, for fear that she would run into him unprepared. Erik was so wonderful—when he came back she would have to thank him again.
She felt the tiniest bit of guilt over lying to him—she’d never even seen Raoul’s brother—but what else could she do? She couldn’t jeopardize her marriage or her divahood.
Christine smoothed the front of her gown as she waited in front just inside the Garnier’s doors; it was far too cold to wait outside. This year’s harsh winter was highly unusual—it usually only snowed around a dozen days per year in Paris, according to Erik, but it had already snowed on eight days, and it was only late November. It almost never reached the freezing point throughout the winter, either (again, according to Erik, whose vast and varied knowledge never failed to astonish her); but November had been so cold that she feared every day of December would be plagued by freezing temperatures.
As she stared through the glass out at the few, isolated flakes drifting down from Asgard, she recalled to mind one of her father’s stories that had so frightened her that she hadn’t slept for a week after he had told it to her for the first time: just before Ragnarok, the end of the world, three winters would ravage the nine worlds in succession, without intervening summers—first the Winter of Winds, then the Winter of Wolves, and then the Winter of Swords, together called by the Norse peasantry, in low, fearful voices, “Fimbulwinter”…. Then the great Wolf would rise up and swallow the Sun, and Ragnarok would begin. She shuddered as she thought about the death of the gods and the destruction of the nine worlds and every being upon them. A few gods would survive and reign over the new world of peace that would be born out of the ashes, but that did not comfort her. As she shivered and stared out at the threatening snow, she murmured the words that had been passed down from age to age in the north:
Brothers shall strive and slaughter each other…
An axe-age, a sword-age, shields shall be cloven;
A wind-age, a wolf-age…ere the
world totters.
She shuddered and tried to force it out of her mind. It was all so frightening, and it might not be true anyway.
She glanced over her shoulder as she thought it, nervous and unsure about the gods.
Suddenly the door she was behind opened to reveal Raoul, a few solitary snowflakes clinging tentatively to his top hat. “Oh, Raoul, you’re here,” she said happily, glad to put all thought of Fimbulwinter out of her mind.
“Yes, my sweet, but why aren’t you ready?” he asked, looking rather perplexed.
“But I am ready.”
“Don’t be absurd! You haven’t any makeup on—no jewelry—nothing—and your hair isn’t even combed!”
“I did the best with the time you gave me,” she said, rather annoyed. “Besides, you should love me no matter what I’m wearing.”
He stifled a laugh. “Christine, my alluring ingénue, don’t be ridiculous! I know you’re impoverished, so I could excuse the lack of jewels, but surely you could make enough of an effort on my behalf to put on a little makeup! I have to live with these aristocrats, you know—I can’t allow them to think poorly of me!”
She stared, dumbstruck, her mouth opening and closing frantically in a mute attempt to form a response. “How—how—how can you say that? I thought you loved me!”
“I do! But for God’s sake, I want you to look decent!”
She hung her head as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks, hot with agony and humiliation. How could she have been so stupid?
“Look, Christine,” he said, his voice once again gentlemanly and calm, “you’re obviously not feeling well tonight. Perhaps you should just go home. I can take you out tomorrow night.”
Erik closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to dance across the keys of their own accord while he enjoyed the soft, sad melody of Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8. It rose and fell in beautiful, sorrowful swells, moving his heart as it always did; though with Christine to live for, he no longer identified with the sonata’s despair as he once had.
As his hands played on, he let his mind dwell on her. The lambent candlelight shone through his eyelids, and in that warm, soft gold, he could see her face even with his eyes closed. The roaring fire of shame and worthlessness that had raged in his heart since his birth was barely a flicker now, just like that candlelight, soft and distant, warm rather than burning. He could still recall it to mind if he tried, but every time Christine thanked him, or smiled, or laughed, the rage and the pain lessened and grew ever more distant under the cooling rain of her companionship. The love he felt—the yearning, the adoration, the impossible desire to hold her close, to touch those beautiful lips, to kneel at her feet and beg her never to leave—had only strengthened with time, but it wasn’t the fiery, desperate passion that Don Juan Triumphant had embodied; in fact, he was so embarrassed by the fire and lust of his opera—once the sole work that had kept him alive in the dank, cold Hell of the caverns—that he had gathered together all the pages and buried them under the books on the bottom shelf of an obscure bookcase in the corner.
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 25