Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  Daaé? That name struck a familiar chord. It wasn’t one heard every day, but I was too intent on watching Christine to allow my curiosity to have its way. So I gazed on as the coachman took their arms and helped them enter the black brougham. I stood alone in the shadows, mesmerized by the coach’s lantern as it moved slowly down Rue Scribe. It got fainter and fainter until the darkness swallowed it up—and Christine along with it. Soon, I could no longer hear the horses’ hoofs on the cobblestones.

  At first, I walked slowly on my return to my secluded domain, with my thoughts twisting and turning inside my head. I felt such a desperate need to be with her, and, knowing how much encouragement and training her voice needed, I wanted to help her to believe in her potential. That’s what my compassionate side told me, but my logical side was telling me to forget about her and her strange power over me. If I didn’t, someone could get hurt—more than likely, me. I didn’t like either of those feelings, so, like an addict to the needle, I set my sights on my music.

  I was in a run by the time I reached the third cellar and out of breath by the time I reached my little boat in the fifth cellar. When I reached my organ, I tried to lose myself in loud and desperate chords, but, after three pieces, I realized my music wasn’t going to work its magic on me that night. Somehow, those blue eyes and red lips possessed a stronger magic, making my music, my lifelong companion and protector, impotent.

  I got up and paced for a while. How could this happen to me? I always maintain the superior position. I always have the answers. I tried to force my rational mind to gain control, but it appeared her magic had nullified it. I began to feel extremely agitated, which I always would when I lost control of a situation, especially if I didn’t understand why I’d lost it in the first place. Once I put my mind to it, I normally wouldn’t have that much difficulty regaining my balance, so what I was experiencing wasn’t what I was used to. It wasn’t me.

  Like a storm of locust, questions swarmed around in my mind. How long had she been here? What was she doing here? Where did she go to dine? Where does she live? When will she be back? I needed to find out more about her, but how? I couldn’t simply ask one of the stagehands or another ballerina, since no self-respecting ghost would ever think of being that outspoken.

  I sat on my piano bench, with my elbows on my knees and running my fingers through my hair. Then, when I pictured her writing at her dressing table, the obvious solution to my predicament hit me, and my head quickly popped up. Without further thought, I charged toward the exit in my music room that led to the third cellar. My destination? Even though I knew I was trespassing on her privacy, I had to read her diary.

  Shortly thereafter, I found what I needed, and, with my conscience pricking me only a little, I nervously opened it. I didn’t hesitate for a moment in reading it though, blaming my reprehensible action on my insatiable appetite for knowledge about that woman who held me captive.

  Her penmanship was impeccable, just as I expected. After reading only my own scribbled hand for so long, hers was most pleasant to behold. Her writings covered the last five months and read like a letter to her father. The first three-quarters of it had been written while she was attending the Paris Conservatory of Music. She was miserable there and felt inadequate. She thought the other artists didn’t like her. She wished she could talk to her father and listen to his words of comfort. Several times she told him she was still waiting for her angel. I felt so badly for her, especially on the days when her entries were only a few words.

  I’m so unhappy. I’m so sad. I’m so lonely. I miss you so much.

  It was apparent that she had a close relationship with her father and missed his presence in her life. I wanted to sit with her and ask her so many questions. But there was no way I could remain the Opera Ghost and have a normal conversation with a beautiful woman at the same time. At least that’s what I thought at that moment; therefore, I went back to my reading. Within the next few pages, I got the answer to at least one of my questions, and it made my heart hurt when I read her words.

  Even though it’s been many years, I still cry each time I run my fingers over your headstone.

  Her father had died, and I instantly felt her pain and tears forming in my eyes. The answer to that question only added several more to my list. One of them was about her mother, who wasn’t mentioned anywhere in her diary.

  The last quarter of her writings covered the last few weeks since she came to the opera house. She spoke about the rehearsals and her feelings about the performances and the people, Meg in particular. She continued to write about her feelings of inadequacy and being so lonely. But then, the sorrow I felt for her turned to anger when I read one passage.

  Father, what am I to do? When are you going to send my Angel of Music? How much longer do I have to wait? Is he delaying because I’m not worthy of his instruction? Have I done something wrong? Have I not worked hard enough? I’ve really tried to do as I’m told, but I feel like such a failure. Please tell me what I’ve done wrong so I can do better. I know I can’t progress and become successful without him. Please, father, please hurry and send my Angel of Music to me.

  My eyes narrowed as I thought, another lie told by a person with religious beliefs. At one point, I was getting so angry I almost threw her diary back into the drawer, but then I saw the last passage she wrote under the current day’s date.

  The voice called to me from the shadows, and it drew me toward it as if I’d lost my personal will. His voice is angelic, breathtaking, captivating, enchanting, and so much more.

  I was right. She was just as captivated by my voice as I was by her presence. It was obvious she’d had a hard time finding the right words to describe her feelings about my voice, since she’d scratched out several of them. Yes, I mused, it’s hard to describe what we were feeling.

  The last words on that page were written in larger bold letters.

  Thank you, father. He has come to me. Thank you for sending my Angel of Music to me. Now I can be successful—now I can be happy!

  I slowly closed her diary and ran the dangling ribbon bookmark between my fingers. I thought about her words and her feelings for a few moments before I placed her private thoughts back in the drawer. In so doing, my fingers fell against her blue silk scarf, and, after raising it to my face, I took a deep breath of her fragrance—lavender.

  With the scarf still against my face, I closed my eyes and pictured her right there where I was sitting, causing an ache to surge through my chest. It was a similar feeling to the ones I’d had when I thought about my father. I missed her. I hadn’t even met her, and yet her absence made me feel sorrow. I felt a need to be beside her and touch her hand or her cheek. I needed to talk with her and find out all about her. I wanted to know her innermost thoughts and secret desires, and I wanted to share mine with her.

  I took one more deep breath of her fragrance before I replaced her scarf in the drawer and closed it. I turned out her lamp and headed for the mirror. Once inside the total darkness, I listened to the mirror close behind me, and I felt so alone in an unfamiliar way.

  I was halfway to the fifth cellar when I couldn’t bear the thought of entering my empty home alone, so I turned around and headed for the roof, hoping to find solace there. I walked its perimeter in silence and watched the faint street lamps below me as I had on so many other occasions. But that night, everything was different and would never be the same again. I couldn’t get her out of my mind, and the more I thought about her the more confused and frightened I became. I needed her in a way I’d never needed anyone, and I didn’t understand why.

  I looked up at the multitudes of stars in the night sky and was struck with the alarming realization that I had no control over my life any longer. At that moment, I believed I was being moved through my days in the same way the stars in the heavens were, and I believed I had no more say over what happened to me than those celestial bodies had. I felt as helpless as a pawn being maneuvered around a chessboard, governed by a
much larger force. And that thought made my blood flow hot.

  What a cruel game You play, my heart protested into the dark sky. If it weren’t for Your magnificent creation, I wouldn’t believe in Your existence at all. So You’re all-intelligent and all-powerful. So You exist. So what of it? You create and then You sit back and watch us like a Caesar at a gladiatorial game. Uncaringly, You watch us stumble and fall and bleed and hurt. It would be better if You hadn’t created at all than to create and then do nothing to help Your creation.

  Wasn’t it bad enough that You made me with this face? Did You have to give me this intelligence along with it? Did You want to see what someone would do with my unusual combination of gifts; a passion for life and music, a superior intellect, the sensuality of any normal, red-blooded man, and this monster’s face? Well, are You happy? Do You see what I’ve become—what I’ve done? Are my responses to Your cruelty all you expected?

  I think not, since You decided to make matters even worse by sending sweet Christine into my life. Are You trying to drive me over the edge of all reason? Was it Your design that I should be moved so deeply by her?

  I raised my face and hands to the sky, and screamed, “What do You want from me?”

  I lowered my head and slumped back against a granite angel, while my thoughts tore at the depths of my soul. Why now? Why did You do this now when I’d finally reconciled myself to a life of solitude? Why, when I found a place where I could hide from the world? Why did You bring her into my life and awaken all those buried desires? I rose from the stone statue and raced toward the edge of the roof, with my miserable heart questioning my maker.

  “Are You having fun yet? I hope so, because I certainly am not! Why? Why?” I cried into the night sky. “Why couldn’t You have given me an idiot’s mind to go along with my monster’s face? Why? Haven’t You had enough of moving this particular pawn around Your chessboard yet? Well, I’m tired of being shoved around carelessly. Go ahead and strike me down! Go ahead! Where’s Your lightning? Where’s Your power? Can’t You have a grain of compassion and end it all—right now?”

  I dropped to my knees and wept into my shaking hands. I’d just cursed God, and, in so doing, I knew I’d cursed myself.

  I didn’t move for a long time. It took the icy snow freezing my knees and cooling my heart before I rose to my feet. With my anger vanquished, I descended the stairs slowly, exhausted and drained of all emotional energy. I felt trapped, trapped somewhere between my face and my heart—somewhere between reality and desire.

  Once in my home, I automatically went to my organ, hoping again to escape into the notes of Don Juan Triumphant. Composing had almost always worked when I needed comfort, no matter what the problem was. I could completely lose myself, but not that night. Nothing I tried was working. I felt so lonely, and I also felt it was only her presence that would quench my thirst. However, I still couldn’t understand why. I didn’t even know her, and yet the feelings I had for her were stronger than my music. How could that be?

  I looked at my watch. It was almost midnight, and on a normal night I could head for César. But that night was far from normal, so, no matter how much I needed him, I knew riding him was out of the question. After that newspaper article about us and the police being on high alert, it was simply too dangerous to take a white horse out at night. I’d never been one to run from danger, but, at that time, my sights were set on solving my problems, not trying to outsmart the police.

  I paced through my silent world and was about ready to pull my hair out when the last words in her diary came back to me. It was perfect! It was a script written for us alone and one I couldn’t have written better myself. With excitement, I paced faster around my parlor. I ran my fingers over my jaws and chin as I thought of all the possibilities her written words presented.

  Thank you, father. He has come to me. Thank you for sending my Angel of Music to me. Now I can be successful—now I can be happy!

  With her own words she set our paths in motion; our path to happiness—our destiny. She’d been lonely and sad while waiting for her teacher, her Angel of Music. I could fill all her needs perfectly and she could fill mine. I could be as close to her as I could ever hope to be. We could talk and we could sing together. With the mirror separating us, she would never have to see my frightening appearance, but she could hear my voice that captivated her so. It was perfect!

  I could be the parent bird and catch my fledgling if she fell. With my Christine by my side, my heart would soar, and, with her Angel of Music by her side, her voice would soar. Like eagles we would fly high together. I knew it in my mind, and I believed it in my heart.

  I wanted to sleep so morning would come quickly and I could search for her. But, as usual, sleep chose to avoid me that night. I tried a warm bath, a glass of brandy, and a good book, all with no results. Therefore, I spent the majority of the night lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. When I couldn’t bear it any longer, I got up and readied myself to perform an act of an entirely different nature. I’d played many parts in my career of deception, but most of them were as far from an angel as the sunrise is from the sunset.

  As I climbed the stairs toward her room, my heart pounded in anticipation of seeing her again, and yet I seriously questioned what I was about to do. For the last thirty years, my resolve was to live alone and as far away from the human race as possible. But, as I’d learned on far too many occasions, time had a way of changing attitudes and beliefs. The strongest resolves of yesterday can melt away with tomorrow’s sun, if the right time and right set of circumstances intersect.

  Well, I must have been standing right in the middle of that intersection, because my resolve of thirty years crumbled at my feet, like a wall of glass when struck with a battering ram. When I watched that girl and heard her voice, my will had been stripped from me. I was drawn to her as I’d never been drawn before. No woman I’d ever encountered had made me feel the way she did. I felt I already knew her and that she was already mine—mine alone.

  Shortly, I was behind the mirror with a dimly lit lantern in hand, waiting for the turn of her key in the lock and another look at the woman who had, unknowingly, taken control of my life. While I waited, I began pacing and wrote her Angel of Music’s script in my mind. I wanted every word and syllable to be perfect; it had to be as perfect as she was. I had her reaction to his voice also written. I had the entire scene memorized, a scene that would have an audience in tears if it were an opera.

  Once I had it just the way I wanted it, I leaned in the corner, counting my breaths to stay calm. Eventually, I sat on the floor with my chin on my knees. Patience was not my strongest trait, but, since I didn’t want to miss her appearance, I was willing to wait indefinitely if I had to. That wait lasted for almost three hours before the sound I was waiting for reached me.

  I quickly doused my lantern, jumped to my feet, and faced the mirror, all without taking a breath. Then, still breathlessly, I watched as the light from the hallway cast her shadow into the room. While watching her light her wall lamp and lay her wrap over her chair, I desperately wanted to reach out and touch her.

  I took a deep, slow breath and tried to relax my shoulders and neck so I could control my voice properly. An angel of music’s voice should sound like a soft cello concerto, but I was so tense that I feared my voice would sound more like screechy train wheels on a track. I closed my eyes, stretched my neck, and demanded that I relax before my most important debut. Everything just had to be flawless.

  Finally, feeling ready, I opened my eyes and mouth at the same time, preparing to begin. But what I saw stopped me before I could, and I had to turn my back to her quickly. My little speech not only had to sound perfect but it also had to be timed perfectly, and while she was in the middle of changing her clothes was not the proper time. So, once more, I waited.

  While waiting, she began warming her voice, and, again, I closed my eyes. The temptation to tell her to relax was easier to resist that time, since I knew I would
have plenty of time to instruct her in the days ahead. How that thought thrilled me and confused me at the same time. Why did I have such strong feelings for her?

  I wondered, could this be the love that Oded spoke of? Nothing I’d ever experienced could compare to it. It was stronger than any sexual attraction I’d ever known. I’d sworn long ago never to become its slave again, and I never had. What I felt for Christine was much deeper and stronger than those relentless sensations that had driven me blindly toward the emerald eyes of Michaela. It was a world apart from what I felt for Vashti. Those feelings could be dismissed with enough will power, or my music, or a good run with one of my horses.

  But this new feeling, which nothing had been able to quench, was penetrating the depths of my very being and maneuvering me, just as a puppeteer maneuvers his marionettes. When I tried to bury it in my music, I found it waiting for me between every note. My usual strong will gave way to it like a willow in a hurricane. During the exertion of running up and down the stairs, it was there with me like the air I breathed. What was that all-encompassing feeling? It had to be love that I felt for her. There was no other explanation.

  If it truly was love, was I prepared for such a challenge in my twisted life? If I had to, could I simply dismiss a power that strong and walk away without doing harm, or could the law of averages be made to swing in my favor and have her return my love? Could I make a woman as beautiful as her love me, a deformed recluse?

  When I really thought about that possibility, I pictured where I was standing—hiding in my dark and damp passage—and my insecurities crept in. How could she love a man old enough to be her father, a man deformed, a man with such a dark past? I sighed, lowered my head in dejection, and realized that it wasn’t possible. I was only kidding myself and heading for a monumental disaster if I pursued her. With that realization, I felt my entire demeanor shrink, and I began to slink back to my hole in the ground where I belonged.

  But then Oded’s reasoning on that very subject caused me to stop when I recalled it. All the differences in the world could be overcome once love was allowed to grow in one’s heart. It only needs nurturing and time. He was right about Vashti. She did love me, despite my age and appearance. The expression in her eyes as I unmasked my gruesome face before her was proof of that fact. But she’d had years to become accustomed to me and know me before that event took place.