Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  She wasn’t alone, you arrogant fool; her angel was with her, I wanted to shout.

  “It’s all right, Raoul. It’s over, and you’re here with me now, and you can travel home with me. That’s what counts.”

  He reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Your performance the night of the gala was breathtaking. I was so proud of you. But I don’t understand how you could sing the way you did while crying.”

  I couldn’t resist, and I turned enough to see her face briefly, and then I turned back. She was smiling, and her eyes were wide. I instantly recognized that expression. She was trying to find the right words to explain how she felt.

  She finally replied, shyly, “Thank you, but I didn’t do it on my own. It came from my new teacher.”

  I closed my eyes and smiled. My precious angel. Still so modest, even after her triumphant debut.

  Once the niceties of their meeting were over, Raoul took a stronger hand and became demanding.

  “I wanted to talk to you after your performance, and I was really hurt when you turned me away. Why did you treat me that way—as if you didn’t even know me? You didn’t have to laugh at me and throw me out. You could have been nicer to me after all we’ve meant to each other.”

  Almost as if she were telling a secret, she responded softly, “I’m sorry, Raoul. I really wanted to talk with you too, but my teacher had instructed me that I shouldn’t.”

  “Why, Christine? That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  His tone was harsh, as if he didn’t believe her, and it instantly put me on the defensive. But it had the opposite effect on Christine, and, while trying to help him understand, she began telling him what I’d hoped she wouldn’t tell anyone until after I’d revealed my true identity to her.

  “My father has sent me the Angel of Music, Raoul. Remember? Remember the angel that he said wouldn’t visit you if you didn’t take your violin lessons seriously? Well, I guess I finally must have been taking my instruction seriously enough, because the angel has visited me.”

  “Christine, I loved your father and all his stories, but you didn’t really believe them—did you?”

  “Certainly, I did, Raoul. Didn’t you?”

  He responded with a harsh, superior attitude, “Well, maybe when we were young, but we’re no longer children, Christine. While his stories were entertaining, they were just that—stories.”

  “You’re wrong, because he has visited me and he instructs me every day. That’s how I can sing the way I do. If it weren’t for him, I would still be just part of the chorus.”

  “Christine, you made it to the top because of your talent, not because of an imaginary angel. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  “No, Raoul, you must believe me. One day I was only a chorus girl. Then I heard his voice, his angelic voice, speak my name. Then, the very next day, he had me sing in my dressing room with his voice in my ear. I sang that day with a strength I’d never known. My room was filled with our voices, and it was so beautiful that I cried and nearly fainted. It was real, Raoul.

  “I was on my feet in my dressing room, not at home in my bed and asleep. It was real. And he’s been there with me every day since then. That was almost two months ago. He’s there with me every day and every day he instructs me, and every day my voice goes somewhere I don’t even tell it to go. He tells it to go there and it does his bidding, just as if I had no control over it. It goes almost without me. His voice is so strong that it takes my voice along with his wherever he wants it to go.”

  “Christine, listen to yourself. You’ve obviously been working much too hard. It’s good you’re here and away from the opera house where you can rest for a while. Stay here with me for the week and rest. Then you’ll feel better and realize your mind has only been playing tricks on you.”

  With her voice no longer a whisper, she demanded, “Raoul, no, this is real. I don’t need to rest. I feel better than I have in a long time. Why don’t you believe me? He instructs me and he sings with me, and he talks with me, giving me advice. And what about the flowers? He sends me flowers, and what about the jewels? The jewelry I wore the night of the gala he sent to me. You had to have seen them. They were real, so he has to be real.”

  “Christine, why are you making up this absurd story? I know you had a man in your dressing room the night of the gala. You don’t have to make up lies. He was the reason you sent me away, so why don’t you admit it? Tell me the truth. Who is he?”

  “Raoul, how could you?” she responded.

  She had that same hurt in her voice that I’d also caused. But considering it was Raoul who was causing her hurt, my uncontrollable temper of forty years took over, and I responded angrily without giving thought to my actions. I rose from my chair, glanced quickly at her hurt expression, and then, with clenched teeth and tight fists, I glared at him.

  The voices in the restaurant became a far away subdued rumble, as I looked at the superior aristocratic expression written on Raoul’s young and chiseled face. Fortunately, for the young couple, and for me, they were too absorbed in their own heated discussion to even notice my angry posture, but that didn’t last for long. I caught their attention when I briskly moved past Raoul, knocking his shoulder and chair with my arm and hip so hard that it sent him and his chair to the floor. I kept going without an apology as he picked himself up and threw crude comments in my direction.

  As I moved quickly to the other side of the room, I thought, he needs to be thankful that I have a higher agenda planned for the hours ahead. He needs to be thankful that was all I did to him.

  I stood behind a silk screen divider while fuming at Raoul’s words, which were hurting my sweet and innocent Christine. I was furious with him, but then I became angry with myself, because I wanted to hear their conversion and that was impossible from where I was standing.

  I glanced around the screen, and, from the expression on Christine’s face, it appeared they’d quickly forgotten the unrefined, cloaked man. She was obviously upset, and I just had to go back. By the time I sat down, Raoul had just apologized and was beginning to question her again. They were both emotionally involved enough not to notice that the clumsy and rude man had returned.

  “He sends you things?” Raoul questioned.

  “Yes, beautiful things,” she responded thoughtfully.

  “He sends you things just like any man would?” he repeated.

  “Well, I suppose—yes.”

  “And it was him that I heard in your room after the gala?”

  With the child’s wonderment, she responded, “Yes. Although I never see him. It’s only his voice that fills the room, but sometimes it’s right in my ear. He’s real Raoul—you must believe me. He’s real. I’m not crazy, and I’m not lying to you.”

  Again there was silence before he responded dictatorially, “I believe you, Christine, but I don’t believe he’s an angel. I believe he’s a man that’s playing a trick on you.”

  “Raoul, why would you want to spoil this for me?”

  “I don’t want to spoil anything for you, Christine, but you’re being deceived by someone clever enough to trick you into believing he’s an angel.”

  Frustrated, Christine tried again. “But why do you continue to insist on this? Why can’t you simply believe that he’s my Angel of Music? Mummy does, and so does Meg.”

  By this time, his tone was definitely demeaning. “Because these things just don’t happen, Christine. I’ve seen many desperate men during my tours of duty, desperate men fighting for their lives, and I’ve seen those same men cry out for divine help, and not once have I seen any of them rescued by an angel. Don’t you think someone’s life is more important than someone’s voice? Why would an angel care more for your voice than someone’s life, Christine? Try to think logically about this. The voice you hear and the voice I heard that night was the voice of a man. Maybe a very talented and clever man, but a man just the same and nothing more than that.”

  “No, Raoul
! It’s an angel’s voice. I’ve never heard a man’s voice like his. It’s so gentle and beautiful, and yet, one time, he spoke with such power that it made the large and heavy mirror in my room shake. No man’s voice could do that, Raoul—no man’s. You heard it yourself. Did it sound like a man’s voice to you?”

  I visualized Raoul holding her hands as he answered compassionately, “Christine, please listen to me. It was a man’s voice I heard, not an angel’s. I fear for you. You’re so young and naive. For some reason, someone is trying to trick you, and, since it’s a man, I suspect he only has his selfish desires in mind. You must stop this instruction now before you get hurt. He only wants one thing from you, and he’s using this deceit and your innocence to get it from you.”

  “Raoul!” she nearly shouted.

  Oh, no, I thought. I recognized that tone in her voice. He’d just crossed over the same line that I had. His accusations had just brought out the full force of the protective woman in her.

  She sprang from the chair so quickly that she bumped into the back of mine, and then she read him the riot act, much the same as she’d done to me when I’d attacked him. Her skirt was actually against my shoulder and arm as she blasted him, and I nearly lost my composure with her so near to me.

  “Raoul, why are you trying to spoil this for me? He’s not like that. He’s kind and he’s helped me gain strength that I never knew I could have. He’s strong and yet so gentle, and he would never do anything that would put me in danger or anything such as what you’re suggesting.

  “In fact, he’s done everything to protect me. Even when I’m wandering around the opera house, he watches over me and tells me to have courage and not to be frightened. He’s been there for me when no one else could help me. I’m much stronger now, thanks to his help, and now you try to tear him down and take him away from me. No, Raoul, I won’t let you do this to me.”

  She stormed away through the labyrinth of chairs and blue cloth-covered tables. I could have warned him that it was a bad mistake to tear down someone she had faith in, regardless of who it was. I’d learned that the hard way just days earlier. But then, she had faith in everyone, and, as I would one day learn, no one would be allowed to speak badly about anyone around her.

  Raoul caught up with her just before she started up the stairs and grabbed her arm. She turned on him, and with a voice that I could hear clear across the room, she rebuked him strongly.

  “Leave me alone, Raoul!”

  I sat there a moment in surprise over her outward strength and her words of defense for me, and I smiled, knowing he’d just made a huge mistake. Raoul watched her as she climbed the stairs, and then he went to the desk clerk where he stayed for some time. It was obvious to me by their gestures and glances up the stairs what he was doing; he wasn’t merely checking in, he was checking on Christine and anyone else who might be with her.

  He finally left the clerk and went upstairs, while I set my glass of wine down and followed him. Once I reached the corner to the hallway that went past our rooms, I stopped and carefully looked around the corner. Not to my surprise, I saw Raoul standing right in front of my door. He knocked once and then twice. When there was no answer, he tried to open the door.

  He looked down at the knob for a moment and then went to Christine’s door where he paused, looked at it, and then went to the next door. He used a key on that door and went in. I groaned, knowing he’d be watching Christine carefully from then on, making it necessary for me to be extra careful.

  I went back downstairs and headed for a florist I’d seen earlier. Once there, I purchased two red roses and some gold ribbon. Back in my room, I tied them together and placed them in a glass of water, where they’d wait for their part in my night’s performance.

  The rest of the evening I stayed lying down across my bed, trying to rest my leg. I even closed my eyes from time to time, but my ears were on high alert, listening for Christine’s door or Raoul’s voice in her room. I never did hear her door or any voices, but I did hear the heavy footfalls of a man, I’m sure Raoul, in the hall outside my door.

  Several times he came to my door and knocked, and each time he tried the knob. Each time that he attempted to meet his unknown opponent, my heart quickened and my jaws tightened. What did he expect to accomplish by sneaking into my room? Other than me, what did he want to find?

  I lay there with my fingers clasped behind my head, fighting the urge to let him in and let the games begin, but I didn’t, for only one reason; Christine. I wanted nothing whatsoever to mar the solemn occasion of her father’s anniversary, so my fingers stayed behind my head and not around his insolent throat.

  As far as I was concerned, Raoul had so many strikes against him that he’d never be redeemed in my eyes. He was good looking, young, rich, from a reputable family, he had a sterling reputation, the arrogant attitude of superiority, and, most of all, he had a long established friendship with my Christine. I couldn’t have hated anyone more than him. His persistent annoyance for that few hours did serve a good purpose though; it kept me from giving into the morphine and falling asleep.

  At eleven o’clock, I put on my hat and cloak and left for the stable with my violin and roses in hand. I hated to leave Christine alone there with Raoul, but if I was going to pull off my performance perfectly, I had to get there well before she arrived.

  Once I got to the livery, I called out until the sleepy man I’d met earlier appeared.

  “I need a different horse this time,” I began.

  “Well, I have many. Which one do you want?” he replied with a yawn and a stretch.

  “I need an old, dapple-gray gelding, if you have one.”

  He scratched the top of his bald head and pointed to a stall at the front of the stable. “I have a dapple-gray gelding named Jasper, but he’s not that old. He’s only five. Will he do?”

  While walking toward the horse in question, I asked, “What kind of disposition does he have? Is he gentle? Does he spook easily? Does he talk much?”

  The old man looked at me and squinted. “I haven’t had any complaints about him, but then I haven’t had anyone ask for a horse with those qualities before either. What is it you need him for?”

  By then I had the gelding’s head against my chest and was rubbing his jaw. I looked at the man and wondered if I should tell him the truth. Since my plan had no room for error, I decided to tell him discreetly.

  “I’m going to the cemetery, and I need a horse that will behave and not be noisy. It will be a solemn occasion, and I don’t what him talking to me. I might need to stand on his back so I can reach something. Since it’s dark, there will be owls that might fly around or other nocturnal creatures scurrying about. Will he stand still and quiet while all this is going on?”

  He held his chin in his hand and thought. “Perhaps, but I can’t guarantee it. I do have another gelding over there who fits your needs, but he’s black. Will he do?”

  I shook my head while thinking, no, it has to be a dapple-gray so he can blend in with the snow and shadows. I looked into Jasper’s eyes, and then, abruptly, threw my arms over my head, causing my cloak to bellow out, clapped my hands, and shouted. He raised his head and took a step back but didn’t say anything, even when a few other horses responded vocally. After a moment, he came back to me and shoved his nose in my chest.

  I looked at the livery owner, who had a more startled reaction to my strange behavior than the horse, and said, “He’ll do. I’ll take Jasper.”

  I saddled him and left for the cemetery, where I rode him to the back of the church. There, I tied him at the far corner where the roofline was the lowest and the ground level was the highest. Then I went to Daaé’s headstone and laid the two roses on top of it. I’d told Christine often that those roses represented her present and her future, and I hoped when she saw them that they would give her courage to look toward her future with confidence and not the pain of her past.

  From there, I went back and mounted Jasper. I studied
the roofline, calculating the distance between it and my lame limb.

  “Well, this is it, Jasper,” I whispered. I patted him on the neck and took a deep breath. “Please, stay calm for me.”

  Cautiously and awkwardly, I stood on his back, talking to him the entire time. Once my balance was solid, I shoved my violin up on the roof, and then I leapt for the roof’s edge, landing with my chest on it. From there it wasn’t too difficult. I swung my right leg up and then rolled over on my back.

  I took a breath and looked down at my faithful mount. “Good boy, Jasper. Splendid job.”

  Soon, I was across the snow-covered roof and behind the large cross at the highest peak. After sitting down, I tuned my violin and softly played parts of The Resurrection of Lazarus in preparation. When I was satisfied with the sound, I tried to relax while I waited for Christine to appear.

  The clouds of the day had passed and the moon was bright, so, with the new layer of snow, the entire area was lit almost as brightly as on an overcast day. I looked at my watch, 11:45.

  “Not much longer before the curtain rises, Christine,” I whispered.

  And it wasn’t. Within a minute, I heard a carriage approaching, and then it stopped by the front gate of the graveyard. The coachman stepped down and helped her out, and, at the sight of her, I took a deep breath. She was alone—without Raoul. She was cloaked in black, and, as she moved slowly toward her father’s grave, she resembled little more than a shadow cast by a cloud.

  I was transfixed by her and so thankful that I had her all to myself. A minute or so passed before I heard another coach approaching. Raoul, I first thought. But then another thought sunk into my gut. I looked at Christine and realized the dangerous position she was in, a distraught woman alone and off guard in a deserted cemetery in the middle of the night.

  I laid my violin in its case, stood up, took a lasso from my cloak pocket, and prepared for what was to come. The coach stopped on the other side of the cemetery, and I squinted, trying to see through the web of barren trees. A man stepped down, and, once he turned in my direction, I could tell who it was—Raoul.