Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  From that night on, I was even more watchful over my possession. She wasn’t out of my sight for a second during the day, unless Raoul was in the house, and, in that case, I followed him. Because of that, I was eating little and sleeping even less as my obsession with her took over my life completely. I even started talking to her while she was in different parts of the house just to see her smile when she heard my voice. I wanted her to realize that I was always by her side, no matter where she was, and hopefully that would work as a deterrent from any future fraternization with the young de Chagny.

  But what lay ahead of us wouldn’t be to my liking regardless of what I tried. It seemed as if the three of us were caught in a rip tide and were carried away by its superior strength. At times, it appeared we’d lost our free will and no longer had control over any of our actions.

  Raoul followed her after each performance and sometimes after rehearsals. He tried talking to her, but she would ignore him until he went away. I wasn’t sure if her actions made me feel any less apprehensive, considering when he walked away she would steal glances at him.

  As I sensed my control slipping through my fingers, I felt even more hatred for him. It was bad enough that he was of the wealthy class, which I already loathed, but for him to be trespassing on my domain put him in an extremely precarious position—between me and the only woman I’d ever loved. At another place and time, it would have been easy for me to end his threat to my happiness permanently, but I’d been living a death-free existence for a long time, and I wanted to keep it that way. I liked it that way.

  The only saving grace at that point was how quickly the gala was approaching. I knew I needed to concentrate on Christine’s lessons, since they were going to stretch our emotional strength to the limit. So I forced most thoughts about my competition to the back of my mind until after her debut performance.

  “We only have one week before the gala, Christine, and I believe you’re almost ready.”

  With a slight shake of her head, she replied, “I don’t feel ready.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Christine, and you underestimate your Angel. Now stand before your mirror. I want you to sing the last piece of the night, the prison scene from Faust. Only, this time, when you sing it, you’ll also be living it.”

  She turned toward the mirror, and I saw the frightened child I’d seen on so many occasions before, so I spoke softly to her. “Now, close your eyes, my dear.”

  She closed them, and as if that were her cue to also lift her arms, her arms rose from her sides.

  “No, Christine, lower your arms. This time, you’re no longer on the shores of Perros, you’re in a church in a small village where you live your modest but happy life as a novice, free from the snares of fallen flesh. Then, almost in the blink of an eye, your life changes and you find yourself where there is snow falling and you’re cold, colder than you’ve ever been.

  “You think back over the last year and how happy you were when the handsome young man, Faust, swept you off your feet. You feel warmth flood through you at the thought of his name, and you smile inside. You think of how he spoke of love and how safe you felt in his embrace. With your eyes closed, you can feel his touch as he tenderly made love to you, filling your soul with ecstasy.

  “You want to stay in that moment forever, but the coldness around you is too biting and brings you to the reality of your pitiful life without him. All you have left of him is a token of his love, his child growing within you. You feel terror when you’re persecuted for being a whore. You’re left alone with no one to take you and your unborn child into their home, and your fright increases as the days near for your child’s birth. You have nowhere to turn for help, and even your own brother curses you to your very face. Then, as he fights to avenge the family’s honor, you helplessly watch his struggle against your once-lover, Faust. Ultimately, with horror, you watch your beloved brother fall in a pool of his crimson blood.

  “You’re despondent, but you still feel a mother’s love when you see your son’s face for the first time. Sadly though, your respite from the tragedy called your life is momentary and fades as your fear mounts along with the icy cold of winter. You hold the defenseless small life close to you to keep him warm. You give of what little life you have left in you and allow him to suckle your breast. You’re so cold and alone as you curl on the ground and press him close to your chest to protect him from the harsh climate—and the even harsher reality of your pathetic life.

  “You try to sleep, but there’s no rest as you scream at the nightmare of your past, relived by your sleeping mind. Desperately, you run from the demons pursuing you, but there’s nowhere to hide. Then you’re wakened to your cold existence once more and the realization that you’ve abandoned your child to the elements of the night. You run to him and then press your lifeless child to your bosom.

  “The pain within you is as never before when you look upon the still face of your son, and you no longer care what happens to you. You’re powerless against the forces that drag you off to prison, now labeled as not only a whore but also as murderer of your own child. You’re empty and all is hopeless as you’re led to your execution. Then, with the last of your breath, your soul cries out for divine forgiveness.”

  I took a moment to study her face closely before I gave her the final instructions. “Now, open your mouth, Christine, and sing Marguerite’s prison song; sing Marguerite’s lamentations. Sing, Christine! Sing, Marguerite!”

  And sing she did. She sang as she’d never sung before, and, as she did, her tears streamed down her cheeks, causing my eyes to moisten. I was so moved by her performance, partially for what she was expressing and partially because I was so proud of her. She’d done it. She’d mastered all I’d been trying to teach her.

  As she finished, and the last note faded, she slumped to the floor, completely spent by that perfect and private performance.

  Softly, I told her, “That couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been sung by the angels themselves. You were flawless in every way, Christine. Your voice has been kissed by God, and, before the gala ends, you’ll have Paris kneeling at your feet.”

  She was laboring for breath, and her hands went to her chest. Then, when she raised her head, I could see she was still crying.

  “Christine,” I said softly, “wipe your tears and get up.” She did as I asked, but the tears didn’t stop and her hands were trembling. “Christine, you’re no longer Marguerite. You can stop crying now.”

  Her head shook ever so slightly. “I’m so frightened. I feel like she was inside me. She was so powerful.”

  I smiled at her. “That’s called superb acting, my dear. You’ve just tasted it, and now center stage belongs to you. Don’t be frightened by its power—embrace it.”

  She took a handkerchief from her drawer and wiped her tears, and I smiled at her continuing innocence. There was such a contrast between her humility and Carlotta’s arrogance. I never wanted Christine to sink into that same trap that most stars fall into as their fame climbs. I almost felt bad that I’d started her on that road, which could possibly destroy her sweet sincerity. But then, as I watched her wiping her tears from her rosy cheeks, I simply couldn’t picture her ever being anything different than what she was right then, a delicate and modest heart.

  “You’re ready, Christine, ready for the center of any stage. But you still need my tutoring. I’ve yet to teach you how to enter that magical place where you can become whatever characters you want without my voice guiding you.”

  She nodded, and I sent her home to rest. For the rest of the week I took her deeper and deeper into the heart of both Juliette and Marguerite, and each time she was perfect. But, each time, she was completely spent when we were finished and that concerned me. So, the last evening before the gala, I gave her special instructions.

  “Tomorrow morning we won’t have a lesson, and I don’t want you coming in for rehearsals. I want your voice rested. I’ll see to it that Gabriel under
stands why you need your rest. So don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything for you. Don’t return until it’s time to get into makeup. I’ll be here and help you prepare your voice and your mind for the pieces you’ll perform.”

  She nodded, as she always did, and then I spoke calmly to her. “Now, there’s one more act you need to perform this evening. Tonight, you’ll appreciate why I told you to leave that one rose out of the vase. Put on your wrap and take that dried rose to the roof. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

  She looked at the dried rose still on her dressing table and asked with a frown, “Why?”

  “The time has come,” I began, “for you to let go completely of that part of your past that is holding you back. Tonight, you’ll watch it disappear—you’ll feel it disappear.”

  She didn’t question any further and did exactly what I’d instructed. I followed her to the roof and hid behind the statue of Apollo, watching as she looked around.

  “Angel, are you here?”

  “Yes, my dear, I’m always here with you. Now, go to the edge of the roof and hold the rose in both your palms over the edge, as if you’re offering it as a sacrifice to the stars.” She obeyed, and I continued. “Gently, crumble the rose petals between your fingers until they’re finely ground.”

  Again, she obeyed, and I went on with my strange orders. “Now, open your hands and watch the remains of your dead rose drifting to the earth below, vanishing in the mist.”

  She opened her hands, and I spoke softly at her shoulder. “That’s your past, Christine. It’s powerless and can no longer harm you. Say goodbye to that part of your past that has held you in its dark prison. You’re free now, and you’ve proven it with the power of your voice. Whenever you hear any doubts creep into your mind, I want you to picture those rose flakes as they are now, gone from sight. Then make those doubts float away—vanish. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded slightly. “Yes, my Angel. I’ll do as you ask.”

  “With your past behind you, tomorrow can be a new day, full of music as you’ve never known before. Go home and rest and prepare for your new life to begin, a new life where you alone will be queen of your destiny.”

  She turned quickly and looked right where I was, behind Apollo. Had I not thrown my voice properly? Was I too caught up in the emotion of what I was trying to express to her? Had I become careless? Silently, I waited for her to make the first move.

  “Are you leaving me now, my Angel? Is this the last of my instruction?” she asked with that same frightened voice I’d become accustomed to. “I’m not ready for you to leave me. Please, don’t leave me.”

  Running my gloved fingers over the cold bronze in front of me, I responded tenderly, “No, my child, I’m not going to leave you.” Then the angel and the man struggled within me, before the simple man continued. “I’ll never leave you, Christine. I’ll walk beside you forever. All you need to do is want me to stay, and ask me to stay, and I’ll stay.”

  When she answered, her voice trembled, “Yes, please, stay by my side. Don’t ever leave me.”

  Closing my eyes and pretending she was actually speaking to me, the man inside the angel’s voice, I answered her softly, “Very well then, Christine, that’s where I’ll remain—by your side—forever.”

  I laid my head against Apollo’s lyre and fought to bring my unsteady emotions under control. I loved her so much and would have given anything to have her say that to me—the man. The deeper I went into my deception, the deeper I was digging my own grave, for, without her, I would surely lose my life in one way or another. While I labored for breath, her words asking me not to leave her flowed through my heart in a steady stream.

  Her voice in my mind was taken over by the sound of her steps crunching the snow in front of me, and I looked up in time to see her looking up at the stars. As I studied her perfect face in the moonlight, she spread her arms and held her palms toward the heavens. Then she spoke words that I hadn’t expected and that left me momentarily speechless.

  “How can I ever express my gratitude to you for all you’ve taught me? How do you thank an angel with mere words? I wish you were a man of flesh that I could wrap my arms around and thank properly. That I know how to do, but how can I, a mere human, show my appreciation to you, an angel?”

  As moisture filled my eyes, I took a step away from Apollo. The man in love took complete control of my actions, and I prepared to unveil myself to her there in the moonlight. What better time would there ever be than right then, when she was so appreciative of what I’d given her? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pictured her arms around me; I felt her arms around me.

  My heart pounded, and warmth rushed through me at the thought, but then I felt the pain I would know if she rejected me. I also saw her fear and disappointment take control of her less than 24 hours before the gala. I couldn’t do that to her, and, ultimately, I retreated behind Apollo, letting that part of the man who was filled with a lifetime of fears win that battle.

  “Angel, are you still here?” she asked.

  I quickly swallowed and did all I could to control my tone. “The best way to show your appreciation to an angel is to stay true to the course he helped you begin. Never lose your courage and belief in yourself or in him. That’s all he asks. Now, you must go home and rest. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow evening.”

  She did as I asked, and I followed her until I saw her bedroom light go out. On the brougham ride back to the opera house, I was deep in thought about my Christine. I tried to put aside my personal thoughts and concentrate on the next 24 hours that meant so much to her future success. She’d progressed better than I’d expected, and I felt I’d prepared her as much as anyone could for her debut performance.

  My thoughts were still so focused on Christine that the driver of my brougham had to speak to me several times before I responded and got out. Then, as I walked the area above the stage where I would be during her performance, I couldn’t get the sound of her voice out of my mind. Her asking me not to leave her played over and over, and, each time, my heart ached for her words to be spoken to me—the man.

  As I stood looking down on the stage for one last moment, I pictured my angel, with her golden hair illuminated by the stage lights. I pictured her in the royal blue gown and sapphire jewels I’d personally prepared for her debut. I believe I was smiling the entire time.

  I’m not sure if it was because of my fatigue or my concentration on Christine, but, in either case, I lingered there too long. I’d failed to see or hear a man quickly grab the back of my hair with so much force that it sent me back against a beam. My strength returned to me in an instant, and my rage flared, fueled by years of trained reactions. Then I turned on the fool who dared to confront me. My hands were around his neck, and I had him pinned to the same beam he’d had me up against, when I saw who the brainless idiot was—Buquet.

  My fingers pressed into his throat, and I moved my face closer to his and scowled. Then, instead of showing the fear I expected, he only smiled. His one hand was still gripping my hair, and I prepared for his other hand to grasp my wrist or my fingers, but they didn’t. Instead, his free hand ripped my mask from my face, and his expression changed to one too familiar to me.

  It was identical to that of the man who’d trapped me in his basement and then sold me, that small frightened boy, to that circus. Instantly, my fury rose to a new height. As I squeezed his throat even harder, my growl of pure rage echoed across the empty stage below us.

  “Buquet—you’ve made the worst mistake of your life—you stupid fool.”

  Then his eyes rolled back and he went limp.

  Seven

  Fury, fear, and a host of other emotions flooded through me before I could react properly. I first released him, letting him drop hard on the wood boards beneath us. I then knelt down on one knee and wrapped my fingers around his neck again, only that time I was feeling for a pulse. My heart pounded strongly and my lungs strained to pull air in through m
y tight throat until I felt his heart beating. With my fingers still around his neck, I contemplated his fate. Should I permanently remove that disruptive fool, or do I let him live?

  Since the war with Prussia, I’d managed to live without causing someone’s death, but was my determination not to take another life stronger than my hatred for that insane man? Fortunately, more for me than for him, the thought that governed my actions right then was wrapped up in Christine. So, with a huff, I removed my hand, grabbed my mask from his fist, and got to my feet.

  I looked down at him with scorn. I wasn’t going to let him, or anyone else, do anything to mar Christine’s debut. I was glaring at him, thinking of what I could do that would threaten him enough to get him to leave me alone. I was about ready to shove him with my foot and send him down a flight of stairs when a stagehand came around a corner, causing me to quickly leave.

  I was still fuming once I got to my home, even knocking over a chair and sweeping the table clean of all that sat on it, including a vase full of flowers. I didn’t know what to do about Buquet. I had to have him out of the picture before the gala, since it wasn’t possible to watch over Christine from the catwalks if I had to be on guard against his meddling. But then, short of killing him, how could I accomplish that feat?

  Huffing, I began cleaning up the mess I’d just made, strangely apologizing to the flowers for my behavior. As I picked up my inkbottle and quill, which were also victims of my temper, I knew what I needed to do, so I sat down and wrote my managers one final note.

  My Dear Messieurs Debienne and Poligny,

  I first want to congratulate you on your forthcoming retirement, but I would be remiss if I didn’t express my deep disappointment that I wasn’t personally informed of your plans. I thought by now our relationship would have demanded that you consult me before making such a serious and permanent decision. I’ll dismiss your ill manners this time, considering, I’m sure, you’ve been preoccupied with the preparations for the management transfer.