Would I be allowed that much time with Christine? Someone like her had to have a dozen suitors at her door. How could I compete with young handsome men? Would it be possible for someone like me, a freak of nature, to have a second chance for a woman to love me?
I felt frightened and confused and powerless. I pressed my hands against my head and told myself to give up my silly schoolboy fantasies. If I pursued Christine, I might be driven out of what was left of my mind. Or perhaps I was already out of my mind for even considering such a possibility.
One more time in my life, I was facing a crossroads, and my heart swung like a swift pendulum within my chest. At one moment, determined, and the next, powerless. My love for her had stripped me of my strength and resolve, but there had to be a way of taking back my self-will and regaining my power and then using it to capture her heart.
The Shah of Persia, and his entire regime, had had no power over me, and yet this small seemingly insignificant person had me on my knees. What was to become of me? I had, for the first time, tasted love’s bite, and, for the first time, I was left without a potion to heal its wound. What was to become of Christine and her lonely heart? Could I fill a need for her as she could for me? Could I ever make her love me? Should I dare try?
My head was beginning to ache when my father’s words, from so many years in the past, surfaced. Just a matter of minutes before his tragic death, he gave me valuable advice that he wisely knew I would need and that I’d used often.
“Keep your eyes on your goals, Erik, and don’t allow anyone or anything, not even yourself, to get in your way.”
Then I thought about where I was standing, with his wisdom in my mind instead of my insecurities. I was living in an opera house, just as that ten-year-old child wanted when everyone around him said it wasn’t possible. I wanted it bad enough to make it happen, and nothing was able to stop me, not even an international war. Would making Christine fall in love with me also be possible if I put my mind to it—and my heart?
My advanced years had allowed me time to gain wisdom and temperance. My deformity allowed me to be compassionate toward the suffering of others. My being without love for so long made me appreciate its value more than any other man. When I added those qualities to the other attributes my intellect afforded me, I knew I would make a near-perfect husband. But would that be enough?
When I heard her drawer open, I knew she was dressed, so I returned to the mirror. Seeing her again was all I needed to end my argument with myself. She was worth every risk. Even if she refused me and my heart was broken, I had to try. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t. So, with renewed determination, I proceeded with my plan.
She was writing in her diary, probably talking to her father about me. It was perfect. I was relaxed and in control, so I again took a deep breath. But the voice that followed wasn’t her angel’s, it was Meg’s.
“Are you ready, Christine?” she asked as she opened the door and stuck her head inside. “We don’t want to be late. You know how upset Gabriel gets when he’s kept waiting.”
“I know. I know,” Christine responded while shoving her diary back in the drawer. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
Meg shut the door and I sighed. A missed opportunity. I didn’t dare start my act right then or that pest, Meg, could interrupt again.
Christine might have sounded in a hurry but she didn’t act it. She actually looked reluctant as she headed for the door and then reached for the handle. Without turning it, she looked back over her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror. It made me feel uneasy—odd, having her look so intently at herself in the mirror, while, from my perspective, it looked like she was looking directly at me. Was she?
I closed my eyes slowly and took a deep breath. When I opened them, she was still there. What was she looking at? What was she thinking? Could she see me? Certainly not, I chastised myself, or she would be screaming. If only I could have her look at me the way she was looking right then and not be frightened—if only.
I’d often heard the expression, time stood still, but I’d never experienced it for myself until that moment. With Christine’s eyes fixed on the mirror, my heart could pretend she was looking right at me even though my mind knew she wasn’t. I watched her with a longing soul, secretly asking her not to leave me alone. I wanted to speak her name. I wanted to keep her there with me forever. I wanted to become her Angel of Music, whom she already had an attachment to. There was so much I wanted to say to her, to help her through her fears, to comfort her in her loss, to encourage her in her voice; there was so much. But I didn’t, and, as time stood still, so did I.
Without moving her eyes from the mirror, she turned the handle and moved into the hall. I closed my eyes and lowered my head. She was gone again, and I was alone again.
I believed she was heading for the ballet studio, so that’s where I planned to go, but not before I’d read what she’d just written. Not wanting a repeat of the last time I entered her room, I waited before opening the mirror. After making certain the door was locked, I sat in her chair and took out her diary. Her simple writing filled me with hope.
The beautiful voice called my name and permeated my dreams, Papa. Did you send him? Could that angelic voice be my long-awaited Angel of Music?
I sat there, transfixed by her words, and read them over and over. Oh, if I only had a normal face. At no other time in my life did I want one more than then. If I had a nose, I could simply approach her and tutor her in the flesh and make her love me. I closed her book and held it gently in my hands, and then I closed my eyes and let them fill with tears.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. I wanted to pursue her like any normal man in love. I wanted to send her flowers and ride with her in a coach across the countryside. I wanted to sit and talk with her over a candlelit dinner, with soft music playing in the background. I wanted our voices to harmonize in songs of love. I wanted to sit with her before a fireplace and read to her from a book. I wanted to walk with her on the streets of Paris, and enter shops, and buy her expensive jewels and hats and gloves. I wanted to pamper her as she’d never been pampered before. I wanted to hold her and make her feel safe in my embrace. I wanted her to love me.
If only . . . .
Three
I placed her diary back in the drawer and took a deep breath. Feeling quite sorry for myself, I headed for the mirror and my lonely, dark passageways. I started to reach for the lever but then stopped and looked at my reflection. I removed my cloak and looked intently again. I examined myself from my hair to my shoes. I stepped closer to the mirror and looked at my face, or should I say my mask. After removing my mask, I looked harder. I placed three fingers over my would-be nose and then scrutinized each facial feature.
With the tips of my fingers, I touched my temples, where a few flecks of gray gave away my age. My eyes then traveled to the scar above my right eyebrow and the one on my right cheek that gave away a sad portion of my past. But other than those things, if I had a nose, I wouldn’t look that bad. I’d grown into the unusual bone structure I’d had as a child, and even my eyes weren’t as sunken as they once were. In addition, with the nutritious food I’d eaten during the last few years, I no longer resembled a skeleton. I looked as fit as any other Parisian man—if only I had a normal face.
But, then, if I had a nose, I wouldn’t be living in the bowels of the opera house, and I never would have met Christine. I took another deep breath, replaced my mask and cloak, and then left through the mirror. Regardless of my thinking, the fact remained, I didn’t have a nose and therefore I wasn’t in the same brotherhood with the rest of the men in Paris.
Within minutes, I was behind the mirror in the ballet studio and there she was, warming up with the rest of the ballerinas. I leaned back against the wall, and, with fascination, watched her every movement. Soon, Gabriel and a pianist came in and the music began. With it, the girls started going through their routines. She was very good, not the best I’d s
een, but very good nonetheless. I was completely captivated by her, until Gabriel shouted harshly and broke my trance.
“Mam’selle Daaé! Your lack of attention is disrupting the entire rehearsal. If you can’t keep up, then perhaps you should sit out until you can—or maybe you should go home.”
I was shocked! What had I missed while in my stupor?
Christine pressed her hands over her face and ran from the room, with Meg right behind her.
“Mam’selle Giry, get back in line!” he shouted.
My confusion first turned to anger, and I glared at Gabriel with a threatening rebuke poised on my lips. But then I glanced at Christine in her flight, and I felt such pity for her that it outweighed my anger. So I turned quickly and headed back to her dressing room, hoping she was heading there also. I was behind the mirror before she entered, and, when she did, my heart broke for her. She was sobbing pitifully and instantly threw herself across her divan, burying her face and tears in a blue pillow.
From the time I was a small child, I was never able to watch a woman cry without feeling completely overtaken with compassion for her. Even when I was angry with my mother, my hardened exterior would crumble when she wept. So to watch and listen to Christine in such need of comfort, I was again overtaken by my own emotions. Therefore, my nicely rehearsed script surrendered to what was in my heart.
“Christine. Don’t cry, my child. I’m here,” I said softly.
She gasped, and half of her face appeared from behind the pillow. She looked around, guardedly, and whispered, “The voice?”
Then she started breathing rapidly, sat up, curled her legs under herself, and pulled the pillow close to her chest, as if she needed it to protect her heart from any further threats.
Making sure I projected my voice to scatter through the entire room, I continued with the gentlest of tones, “Don’t be frightened, Christine. You’re safe here with me. I’ll protect you now. You’re no longer alone.”
After several quick breaths, and looking around her room again, she questioned, warily, “Where are you?”
“I’m anywhere you want me to be, my dear, and I’ll never be far away from you—ever,”
With wide eyes full of curiosity, she sat up, and asked, “Who are you? Are you the voice that spoke my name last night?”
“Christine, I can be whoever you want me to be. I can be your teacher, your protector, and your friend. I can be your Angel of Music.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, as she bolted to her feet. Her eyes filled instantly with more tears. “Oh!”
With her automatic belief in me, I felt a twinge of guilt over my deception. I was deliberately deceiving her for my own selfish gains, and I felt bad. She was an innocent child, and I was taking advantage of my stolen knowledge about her. She had needs, and I was deliberately using them to trick her just so I could be near her.
For a moment, I wasn’t certain I wanted to continue with what I’d started, but it was too late. There was no turning back. My guilt was not sufficient to overpower my own need for her. Besides, I reasoned, if I had a nose I wouldn’t be deceiving her. I would approach her in honesty and offer her my helping hand. But, through no fault of my own, I didn’t have that necessary facial feature, so, in my eyes, I only had one choice.
“Are you still there?” she asked with concern.
Grinding my teeth and trying to calm my anger over my untruthfulness, I responded softly, “Yes, my child, I’m always here.”
Taking a step forward, she began throwing questions at me. “Did you meet my father in Perros? Are you the one who helped him? Are you the one he promised to send to me?”
I was, at first, confused, but an angel wouldn’t be confused, so, buying myself time to think, I chose my words carefully. “I’ve met many people in many places, Christine. You must be more specific.”
“My father told me about a man who he believed to be his angel. No, more precisely, an angel of music, because of the sounds he produced with his violin. He came to my father on a beach in Perros at a time when he needed him very much. We had nowhere to live and no money. My father was trying to find a position with the symphony but hadn’t yet.”
I frowned and studied her face. Then everything fell into place: Perros, Daaé, violin, beach, symphony, Christine. Could it be? I reached out and touched the mirror. What are the chances? It couldn’t be the same Christine Daaé, and, yet, it had to be. I’d only been in Perros once as an adult. It had to be, I thought, while picturing the woman on the beach with her hair, like strands of spun gold, being tossed by the sea breeze. I had to shake my head in disbelief when I realized she looked just like her mother. In all sincerity, I focused intently on her next words.
“That man, or angel, who called himself only by the name of Erik, showered my father with many expensive gifts. Those gifts enabled my father to continue his dream of performing with a symphony. Then the angel appeared to him again in a dream and showed him his future as a famous solo violinist. It was that vision that inspired my father, and he did find a position with a symphony and even played solo at times before he returned to Sweden. That’s why he was so convinced that the man was his Angel of Music.”
I was dumbstruck and without proper words to respond to her, so I remained silent while I stumbled around in my memories.
She took a few steps toward the center of the room and looked all around. “Are you still here?”
“Yes, my dear, I’m still here,” was all I could say.
With the frightened voice of a child, she asked, “Why are you so silent? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, Christine, you’ve said nothing wrong. I’m pleased your father put those gifts to good use.”
“He did put them to good use, even the ones he didn’t sell. One is a beautiful necklace and the other a wedding ring,” she said as she looked at the drawer in her dressing table. “He first gave them to my mother, but, when she died, he wanted me to have them as a remembrance of that special angel. Until the day he died, he believed that angel would come to me someday and teach me how to sing like a songbird. Are you really that same angel, and have you really been sent by my father?”
While she related that story, I felt so strange. My heart felt strange. I looked at her face and then pictured her as that one-year-old, holding that jeweled necklace in her small hands. Then I pictured her the previous day when she placed a delicate kiss on that same necklace. It had served her father’s purpose. It had kept her connected to her past and gave her hope to continue without him.
I smiled softly and responded just as softly, “Yes, Christine. I met your father, your mother, and you on the shores of Perros on your first birthday. And, yes, I gave him many gifts. But they were a mere token compared to the other riches your father possessed—your mother and you. And, yes, Christine, I’ll teach you how to sing like a songbird. I’ll teach you everything you need to know to become great in anyone’s eyes. You only need to obey my voice and you’ll be the prima donna on any stage.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed again. Her fingers covered her mouth, and then she spoke through them. “Do you really think so?”
“I not only think so, I also know so. As long as you’re under your Angel’s wings, you’ll be perfect in every respect.”
Her chest rose repeatedly, and her eyes took on the appearance of dreaming. She turned slowly, looking around her dimly lit room. Gradually, her slender fingers found their way to her throat. Her lips parted several times, but she didn’t speak, so I patiently waited for her to reveal what was in her heart. The seconds passed silently, and then she finally spoke, almost too softly for me to hear her.
“Am I dreaming? Are you really here? Are you really going to teach me?”
I smiled again at her sweet innocence. “Yes, my dear, and I’ve already begun teaching you. You now have more confidence in your ability to sing than you did when you first walked in here, do you not?”
She nodded and partially turned around. “Yes, I do, now
that you’re finally here with me. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Since I wanted to watch her expressions closely, I instructed her, “I want you to look at yourself in the long mirror.”
She turned and faced me, and my heart ached so badly. I needed to touch her, but I could only allow my voice to reach out to her. “What do you see in the mirror, my child?”
“Myself,” she responded shyly.
“Your reflection is obvious. Now look closer,” I ordered. “What else do you see?”
With the slightest frown appearing on her sweet face, she answered, “My dressing room.”
Changing my tone from the comforter to the instructor, I tried to reason with her. “That’s all true, but there’s so much more in your reflection than what you’re seeing. Whenever you come into your room, I want you to look into this mirror and see the artist you are. I want you to see what you can be. Now, close your eyes, Christine.”
She willingly obeyed my voice and closed her eyes, and, in so doing, she caused me to do the same. After a moment, I took a needed breath and slowly opened my eyes again, studying her face. She was so beautiful and looked so soft. I reached out and touched the mirror, wanting to reach out and touch her, wanting to wrap my arms around her. She might have considered me to be her angel, but, with her golden hair framing her delicate face, she was the one who resembled an angel.
My thoughts were interrupted when she spoke and brought me back to reality.
“Angel, are you still there?”
“Yes, my child. Now keep your eyes closed and tell me, instead of your room, where do you want to see yourself?”
Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine Page 4