Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  She started to say something else to me, but then she spotted the blue box. She frowned and reached for it, and then looked toward the door behind her. She turned it over a few times and then looked around her table, I think looking for a card. Then she sat motionless and stared at the floor, still with the same frown on her normally smooth brow.

  I finally couldn’t stand the silence, so I told her, “Open it, Christine. It’s for you.”

  “But . . .” she started to say before I interrupted her.

  “Don’t question it. Just open it.”

  Once she removed the lid, she gasped and lifted the necklace and earrings out of the box. Then, with her eyes locked on the sparkling jewels, she asked, “Who gave me these? They’re so beautiful. Did the managers do this? Did you see who gave these to me?”

  “They came from the same place that the other sapphire necklace you wear came from,” I answered softly.

  Again she gasped, but that time she looked up and around the room. “You? You gave these to me? But why?”

  That was a good question, and, other than the fact that I’d just wanted to give them to her, I had to think a moment for an appropriate answer.

  So with a smile on my lips, I simply said, “You deserve them, my dear. You’ve worked hard all these weeks, and you deserve something special to go with your special night.”

  I think she must have heard the smile in my voice because she visibly relaxed, nodded, and began thanking me profusely. While wishing I could place those gems around her delicate neck myself, I had a strange feeling.

  Up until that moment, her flawed mirror had been my partner, allowing me to come and go in that part of my home with comfort. It had been my friend during the last several weeks in allowing me to come as close as I could to the woman I loved. It allowed me to see her beautiful face up close and to hear the whispers of her heart, but, right then, it became my enemy.

  It was the one obstacle standing between Christine and me, the one obstacle preventing me from sweeping her up in my arms and telling her how much I loved her. So, until I could find a sure way around that problem, I had to be patient. Who knows? Perhaps someday I’d be allowed the privilege of holding her in my arms.

  “It’s getting late, Christine. It’s time to call for your wardrobe mistress.”

  She literally shuddered and took a deep breath. “Are you certain I’m ready for this?”

  “I wouldn’t be letting you do it if you weren’t. I’ll be right beside you on that stage. Now go.”

  I watched her, silently telling her how much I loved her, until her wardrobe mistress arrived with her gown. While she stuttered and stammered over the beauty of her dress, I looked at her through love-struck eyes. I backed away from her mirror and headed for a secluded place where I could rest before the performance began. I would have gone all the way to my home and bathed and dressed properly for her debut, but I had no strength left in me to do so. Therefore, the hard floor of my passage would serve as my bed, and my blood stained clothes would serve as my evening attire for that one night.

  An hour later, I was barely aware of the pain in my leg or my cold sweat and chills as I took my place among the ropes and flying scenery above the stage where Christine would be standing. I was so nervous for her. I believe the only other time I’d been that nervous was when I was waiting for the Shah to make his appearance at the palace in Persia so that my performance could begin.

  As I watched her take her place in the darkness behind the heavy red curtains, I could feel her anxiety. I wished, beyond all else, that I could absorb her fear into my body, just for that one night. She was so frightened, and we both needed my arms around her to comfort her and calm her fears. But, as usual, all I had to give her was my voice.

  Her wardrobe mistress and hair dresser where right beside her, so I couldn’t encourage her just yet, which left me to wait, anxiously, for them to leave her alone. Her bare shoulders were taut and her fingers were clutching and pulling nervously at the long satin gloves that covered them.

  I could see her eyes darting all around, and I knew she was searching for my voice, but there were still people too close to her for me to comfort her. She might have needed those people for the last touchups, but she didn’t need them nearly as much as she needed my voice. Unhappily, I waited for them to leave her side so I could be there for her.

  Then I saw the cue given to open the curtains, and her attendants scurried off stage, leaving her alone. As the red velvet began to part, she took several rapid breaths and turned her head, almost as if she was going to bolt.

  I instantly spoke softly in her ear, “I’m here, Christine, and there’s nothing to fear. Trust me. Take a slow, deep breath and close your eyes for only a moment. Feel the waves at your feet carry your fears away with them.”

  She did just as I asked, and, as the house fell to silence, the music started—the music to her first solo.

  “Now relax your shoulders, Christine, and let your fingers move gently across the delicate petals of a rose. I’m here with you. I’m here in every note. Your Roméo is here and you’re my Juliette. Now sing, Juliette.”

  I saw her shoulders relax, and I laid my whispered voice one last time on her tender neck. “Raise your voice and sing, my angel. Sing for your Angel of Music.”

  She did it! Just as practiced, just as instructed. I was breathless while listening to every note perfectly executed, every transition effortlessly maneuvered, and every emotion pulled from the depths of her heart. I was so proud of her, and my eyes filled with tears. Then, with the passion that only a man in love knows, my heart filled even more with love for her.

  Once I saw she no longer needed my voice, I moved slowly around the rigging above her to capture every angle of her face and form. Her voice filled the house and my soul with her angelic music, and I was once again breathless. She was so beautiful. She was exquisite. Everything about her was wonderful.

  Her golden hair once more took on the appearance of a bright halo around the delicate features of her breathtaking face, just as it had the first night I saw her standing almost in that same place. She was an angel in every way. She was my perfect angel that was saving me from my lonely solitude.

  I watched as she moved gracefully across the stage, with the soft folds of her skirt flowing fluidly to the floor and out behind her, like a cool refreshing waterfall. The royal blue of her gown did just what I thought it would, causing the blue of her eyes to resemble deep pools of crystal clear water. The silver streaks of metallic thread sparkled throughout her bodice, like thousands of twinkling stars in a night sky. The sapphire heart on the silver chain was perfectly placed, lying close to her smooth cleavage.

  Her hands and arms moved gracefully, letting me know how comfortable she was. I thought there was no way I could be more proud of her than I was at that moment, knowing how far she’d come from that frightened child I’d first met. That monumental night seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Once I could take my attention away from her, I started watching the audience and it didn’t take long to realize they were just as enthralled with her as I was. They were mesmerized, and not one of them was talking or looking around. She had them spellbound. I was so proud, and I wanted to shout from the chandelier—see my Christine, see my angel. But I was a ghost, or an angel, and not a man who could afford to make such a fool of himself by exposing his heart in public.

  I was holding my breath and my heart was pounding as she reached, effortlessly, for the last note of her first solo.

  There was a hush, and I laid my voice tenderly on her neck. “Parfait, mon ange. Parfait.”

  I saw her look around only momentarily before the audience exploded with thunderous applause. I moved back farther into the shadows and watched like a proud parent. The moment was nearly perfect. The only sour note came from that young de Chagny, shouting and applauding from his brother’s box. You’d think he had a vested interest in her. The arrogant fool.

  I tried to ignore his
presence and focused only on Christine and her flawless performance. By the time she’d finished with the last piece of the evening, the one from Faust that had brought both of us to tears in her dressing room, the entire house was on their feet. And not only the ladies had handkerchiefs pressed against their cheeks but also some of the gentlemen did as well; not to mention me. I was beside myself with pride for her.

  Her arms were loaded down with several bouquets of multicolored flowers, while the audience, refusing to release her, continued their thunderous applause. From the shadows on the catwalk, I smiled with unbelievable contentment and watched her through the moisture in my eyes.

  But then she collapsed and lay in a pool of royal blue satin and multicolored flowers.

  Nine

  I jolted forward on the landing above her and cried out her name, but my voice was only one of many that gasped and cried out. My teeth clamped down, as did my fingers on the railing in front of me. What happened? I frantically asked.

  Many were around her within seconds and she was lifted up in someone’s arms, someone other than me. They headed in the direction of her dressing room, so I was through the maze of ropes, steps, and beams and behind her mirror within seconds, completely forgetting about everything that was wrong with my ailing body.

  My hand was on the glass as I watched the room fill with unnecessary people who prevented me from seeing her. She was laid on her divan, and I strained to see or hear something—anything. The only comfort I received was when I saw the house doctor enter the room. Then I heard the words I’d wanted to shout.

  “Everyone needs to leave. Mam’selle Daaé needs air. Leave! All of you!”

  It was a relief to see everyone start to leave until I saw who was directing them, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. He even pushed his own brother, the Comte, and the old managers out of the room. My pleasure turned to anger, which was quickly eased once Christine came into view.

  The doctor was beside her, holding her wrist in his hand. I closed my eyes and fought the temptation to rush through the mirror so I could be by her side. I waited, nervously, for the doctor to give some reason for her collapse and for that arrogant boy to get out of our lives.

  Finally, all were gone from the room with the exception of the doctor, her maid, and that fair-haired intruder. Christine started to come around, and then the doctor said she’d only fainted from over-exertion. Again, I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. I opened them when I heard Raoul say her name. He was kneeling beside her and waiting for a response, but I think her unexpected reply surprised both of us.

  “Do I know you?”

  “It’s me, Christine, Raoul. Remember? I’m the one who you sang for along with your dolls. The one who listened with you when your father told us stories about Little Lotte and the dark North.”

  I hadn’t known Christine long, only a matter of weeks, but our association was intimate and on a plane that allowed me to recognize her body language and tone of voice to a heightened degree. So her next actions were clear to me, and I read her with the ease of a child’s storybook.

  She laughed nervously, and I knew she was acting, and the act was for me, me alone. I could feel my eyes narrow as I glared at both him and her. She had no need to put on an act for either of us, unless she was hiding something. She could simply acknowledge him for the old acquaintance that he was, and then send him on his way. If she were honest, she would do that, but she didn’t, and that act bothered me and angered me almost as much as his arrogance and intrusion into our world did.

  She continued to fidget nervously, and Raoul continued to try to spark her memory with words about the sea and a scarf. Then I tried to let the love I’d been feeling for her only moments before remove the anger that was growing within me. At that moment, I wasn’t sure who I was the angriest with—him or her.

  Christine relentlessly insisted that she didn’t know the young man, and she spoke like a true diva when she told everyone to get out and leave her alone. The frustrated de Chagny finally gave up and left and so did the doctor, after telling Christine to go straight home and rest. Her maid began giving her compliments on her performance and unfastening her gown, which was my cue to disappear.

  I needed to leave anyway. I needed time to rearrange my thoughts. After her superlative performance, which we’d been working toward and eagerly awaiting for weeks, I didn’t want my first words to her to be angry ones. But my time away from the mirror didn’t work well, mostly because I spotted Raoul hiding in a doorway two doors down from Christine’s. He was watching her door closely. Or was he merely waiting?

  Was it all a deception that they were both playing against me? Had something happened while I was unconscious in the doctor’s office? Was she only waiting for everyone to leave, including me, so she could be escorted out of my home by her young man? Was I just another pawn on another chessboard, being moved around by another set of players?

  My anger, combined with my jealousy, caused my head to pound. I headed back to the mirror with my heart beginning to crack open and pour out sheer pain, more so than my leg, so I laced it up quickly with strands of unadulterated anger. With the euphoria of the night now faded and covered with insecurity and distrust, all my body’s ills made themselves known, and I felt horrible in every way possible.

  I was behind her mirror and glaring at Christine when the maid left the room. Christine went to the door, locked it, and then took her usual position with her back against it.

  She smiled and spoke breathlessly. “Angel, are you here with me?”

  I was silent while my mind, heart, and tongue battled it out over which words to speak to her first. Were they to be love and pride—or hatred and anger?

  She looked around and repeated herself, “Angel, are you here with me?”

  I allowed only one, relatively harmless, word to escape through my clenched teeth. “Yes.”

  She instantly recognized the tone and moved away from the door as her face took on the familiar look of the frightened child. She began to breathe rapidly, while her fingers reached for and started twisting the silk ribbons of her dress. She started moving around the room and glancing quickly in all directions, as if she was trying to find someplace safe to hide. Her lips parted several times in an effort to speak but then quickly closed.

  I’m sure she didn’t know what to say. There were no safe words to speak and no safe place to hide, because I saw through her deception. There was no way to escape my wrath, and I believe she knew that.

  Her hand went to her throat. Then, wrapping her fingers around it, she finally whispered, “Did I sing so poorly that you’re angry with me? I tried my best. Please don’t be angry, I tried my best.”

  She sounded and looked so sincere, and I wasn’t sure what to feel—anger at her continuing deception, or pride for her excellent acting skills, skills that I’d taught her. Her eyes were wide and her fingers were trembling as she started backing away from the mirror, while I felt my eyes narrow as I stepped closer to the mirror and spoke barely above a whisper, but slowly, coldly, and harshly.

  “You’re no longer on the stage, my dear, so you can stop the act. You underestimate your angel once more, my dear Christine. You forget just who taught you that skill you’re trying to use on your angel right now. You might be able to convince your young lover with such a display of innocence, but I’m not that easily taken in or entertained by a mere performance filled with hollow words and a shallow heart. Are you now going to slap the face of the author of your success? Have you filled your heart with my voice sufficiently and now wish to carry it away from my home and lay it in the bosom of your lover, giving it to him freely?”

  By the time I’d finished my venomous spiel, she’d covered her mouth with her hand and had backed against a wall. But then, after a few moments of staring at the floor, she pulled herself away from the wall and lowered her hand, and her eyes, that previously were filled with hurt, filled with anger.

  “Why are you speaking to me thi
s way? What are you accusing me of? You’re speaking as if I’m a woman of the streets! Why? You claim to know what’s in my heart. Well you obviously don’t. If you did, you’d know that I sang for you tonight. I poured out my soul completely this night, and it was so you would be proud of me. How can you treat me this way after all I’ve tried to do? How can you do this to me?

  “What is it you expect from me? I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do—everything. I’ve pushed aside a friend just because you told me to. I pushed him aside and hurt him just for you. How can you do this to me? What kind of an angel are you, anyway? How can you be so caring one minute and so hateful the next? How can you make me love you one minute and fear you the next? Who are you? What are you?”

  We were both breathing hard by the time she was finished venting her frustration, and I was conflicted. She’d either just become the best actress in the world or she was telling me the truth. Had I just made another horrendous blunder or was she taking me along in her deception? If she was telling me the truth, what was I doing? What was I about to do to that beautiful and fragile child with the delicate heart? Or, if she wasn’t telling me the truth, what was that devious woman about to do to my tormented and confused heart?

  Originally, I thought playing the part of an angel would be simple, especially considering all the other roles I’d performed in my lifetime. But it was turning out to be the hardest performance of my career, and I feared I couldn’t keep it up much longer. I wasn’t sure how to proceed, so I tried taking a middle ground. As I placed one hand on her mirror, she continued to move around the room while pulling at those same poor, defenseless ribbons on her dress.

  My words were still powerful and strong, but I tried to diminish the amount of anger in them as I responded, “To answer your question simply, I’m your teacher and the one that cares the most about your career, but I’m now questioning your sincerity. Do you think you’re too good to need my instruction any longer? Is that why you’re doing this? Do you wish your Angel of Music to leave you at this time?”