Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  Without making eye contact, I tried to answer her without my self-loathing showing through, “It’s nothing grandiose, Celeste. Only a simple opera.”

  “No, Erik, you would never do anything less than grandiose. I’m sure it will be splendid. You must let me know when it’s finished and being performed. I must see it. Will you promise me you’ll let me know? You have my address. Just let me know.”

  I promised her, but the sick feeling within me was growing with each of her compliments. I had to get out of there before I exploded.

  “I must be going now, Celeste,” I said as I got to my feet, put on my cloak, and grabbed my hat. “I have a train to catch back to Paris.”

  “Oh, my sweet, Erik. It’s been so nice to see you again. Thank you for taking the time to visit me. I’m so thankful.”

  I looked down at her sincere blue eyes and felt like dirt, but she thought me to be a gentleman, so I needed to play the part. I reached for her hand and raised it to my lips, and then I placed a gentle kiss on the back of it.

  “Oh, Erik,” she giggled.

  “Thank you, Celeste. You’ve always been so kind to me. I’ve never forgotten all the nice things you said and did for me, and I never will. You’re truly the most gracious lady I’ve ever known.”

  “Erik, you make me blush.”

  She took my hands in hers and looked down at them, once more caressing them.

  “I watched these hands when they were so small, and I marveled at what they were able to accomplish even then. I knew they would do great things someday, magnificent things, and you haven’t disappointed me in the least. I’m so proud of you, Erik, and I know both your mother and your father would also be proud of you if they could see how you’ve turned out. Take care of these hands, Erik. They’re destined to achieve greater accomplishments than I could ever imagine; I just know it.”

  She looked back up at me. “I know you said you have to catch a train, but do you think you could take just a few more minutes to play me something? I would consider it such a privilege to hear what these hands can do now that they’re full-grown. Please, Erik, just one piece.”

  How could I possibly tell her no? Since I might never see her again, I couldn’t tell her no, so I smiled and headed for her parlor while taking off my cloak. I raised the key cover just as I’d done hundreds of times in my childhood, and, once again, the memories flooded through me. I ran my fingers silently over the keys and smiled. I ran my fingers over the keys again, listening for any out-of-tune notes. There were a few, but, knowing I hadn’t the time to tune it, I looked over at Celeste sitting in a wingback chair.

  “What would you like to hear?”

  Her response came back without hesitation. “‘The Blue Danube Waltz’ by Strauss.”

  I nodded and started to play.

  Every piano, just like every human or animal, has its own unique voice. All you have to do is listen for it and you can hear it. My old piano was no exception, and, as the first few notes spoke to me, I recognized its voice from years gone by with clarity. Strauss was a great composer, and that particular piece of his was one of my favorites. It almost always managed to make me feel happy and light when I played it. Unfortunately, that day as I played it on my old piano in that dear old friend’s parlor, it only multiplied my memories and saddened me beyond control.

  I wasn’t through the first movement before my eyes began to blur, and, unless I wanted to make a fool of myself by running out of her house in tears, I had to suffer through the pain and finish it for her. I clenched my teeth and swallowed hard, but it didn’t help. I looked at the sculpture on top of the piano and couldn’t even identify what it was, so I was left with only one option. I closed my eyes tightly, squeezing out the tears and allowed myself to feel the moments to the fullest. I could only hope the inside of my mask would catch the evidence of just how hard it was for me to relive so much of my past, along with the new vision of my current deplorable life.

  I sat with my fingers on the keys, waiting for the last notes to fade along with my tears. Once done, and I felt safe to look at her again, I turned to see her in the chair with a handkerchief dabbing the corners of her eyes. I closed the cover, got up, ran my fingers over its edge one last time, took the few steps toward Celeste, and held my hand out to her.

  She looked up at me, took my hand, got up, and said, “I don’t know what to say, Erik. I knew you had to be better than you were as a child, although I didn’t see how. I don’t know what to say. You make that instrument cry pure tears. I’ll never understand how you do it. It’s unbelievable magic.”

  “Thank you,” I replied honestly.

  I took her arm and escorted her into the drawing room. But I wasn’t to escape just yet. She turned toward me and placed her hand on my chest.

  “Erik, I realize I’m probably being just an old pest, but I ask only one more thing. Your voice when you were a child was as none other; it was so angelic. Would you please, before you go, allow me to hear what the man’s voice sounds like? You don’t have to sing much, just a little, please.”

  Once more, I couldn’t refuse her, but I was hanging onto my emotions by a thin thread. How could I maintain control if I cried again? Then I thought about Christine and the control she had when she sang from Faust. She maintained her control, even though her eyes were streaming tears. Could not the teacher practice what he taught? Therefore, taking just a moment to think of something appropriate, I began with Roméo’s last lyrics to Juliette. She was watching my eyes as I sang, and I watched her eyes again fill with tears.

  When I finished, she shook her head and whispered while wiping her tears, “Never before, and never again, will there be a voice such as yours.”

  Putting my cloak back on, I stood in front of the door. “Thank you again, Celeste. You’ve always been so encouraging to me. Your precious heart will surely be one of the blessed.”

  She picked up the bag with my mother’s locket in it and came back to me, placing it in my hand. “You can’t forget this.”

  With a plethora of emotions battling it out within my heart, I again thanked her and placed what I feared was going to be a heartbreaking stumbling block for me in my cloak pocket. She raised her hands to my cheeks and smiled.

  “Take care of yourself, my dashing young man. You’re a very special person, Erik.”

  I kissed the back of her hand again, causing her to giggle and lower her head again.

  “You also need to take care of yourself, Celeste. You have the most beautiful soul I’ve ever known. You are, and were, so very kind to me. You’re one of the good memories I have of my childhood. You gave me unconditionally the love of the mother I never had. I’ll be forever thankful for having you in my life.”

  She got tears in her eyes once more, and, before I also went back to that place with blurry eyes, I told her goodbye and left her gracious company and her warm home. I was positioning my hat as I walked back to Jasper and wished it were as easy to leave behind the sick feeling I had in the center of my heart as it was to walk out of her door.

  All of Celeste’s words were a doorway to the truth in my soul. She saw my hands and saw beauty and music. I saw them and saw the blood of all the men who’d taken their last breath beneath them. I stood next to Jasper and looked back at her home. I could see the firelight flickering through the curtains over her window, and I should have felt warmth. I should have felt elated and full of pride after her glowing compliments and high spirits, but I felt just the opposite. I felt despicable, debased, as if I should slither down a dark hole where I belonged.

  I mounted Jasper and started slowly toward the stable, with the last remains of the setting sun lighting my way. A cloud cover had replaced the blue of the day’s sky, as well as any optimistic thoughts I might have had earlier. The sea breeze had picked up, finding its way through my clothing, and I shivered. But the coldness penetrating me the most was of a different sort, and it passed through my heart like a long, pointed icicle, plummeting to the gro
und.

  I rubbed my hands together for warmth and then looked at my fingers with horror. As far as Celeste was concerned, those hands could do no wrong and could only create beautiful music and beautiful buildings. Yet, only one day earlier, those hands had nearly taken another man’s life right there in her own town.

  I took my gloves from my pocket to conceal those hands from my sight, but first I touched the spot where Celeste had caressed them. I felt the heavy weight of guilt press down on me in a way that it hadn’t done in a very long time. She saw my hands through innocent eyes guided by a perfect heart, but, if she knew the truth, it would surely kill her.

  I spread out my fingers, catching the moonlight on the gold band, and closed my eyes to the truth. Celeste saw only my father’s good hands, but all I saw were slaves that did the bidding of a wicked heart. I saw them as being more deformed than my face, but not as deformed as my depraved soul.

  I quickly put my gloves on, not to protect myself from the crisp air, but to protect myself from any further visual reminder of my past and all the evil those hands had done. What happened to those hands that at one time knew nothing but good, that created nothing but beauty, whether it was music or a magnificent building? What happened to that child that they belonged to, the child that had so much potential, that child that Celeste still saw in me? What happened to that small innocent child?

  Seventeen

  When I entered my room in the inn, there was a stream of light coming from a lone gas lamp outside my window. I leaned back against the door and listened to it click as it closed. It was extremely still on the second floor, with nearly everyone in the inn downstairs having a nice meal with a friend or perhaps a lover.

  I listened to nothing but my own breathing as I watched that stream of light filter through the thin lace curtains. My leg burned from my ankle to my waist, but the pain that drove me was the pain in my heart, and it was that pain that I needed release from the most.

  So I grabbed my vial of morphine, the only power strong enough to remove my torment. I sat on the edge of the bed near the beam of light and tried to fill the syringe. But I was so weak and my hands were shaking so badly that it slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor at my feet. In the process of reaching for them, my spread fingers passed through the ray of light and then they stopped in mid-motion.

  My hands were trembling, so I tried to steady them by clenching my fist several times, but each time I opened them and reached again, the tremors returned. I sat there, looking down at my hand, along with my father’s gold band, and the syringe just beyond on the floor. I blinked several times as I realized just what I was about to do to myself. I was seeking escape from my emotional pain in a way that I swore I’d never do again.

  The last time I tried that type of release, I nearly killed by best friend; what would I be capable of doing this time, with my enemy more than likely just downstairs? That action only intensified my abhorrence of myself, so I slowly got to my feet and backed away without moving my eyes from my supposed helper, lying so innocently on the braided rug.

  No escaped my lips as I stared in the silent darkness. I ground my teeth and told myself that, if I was going to take any drug as an escape from my pain, it would be a large enough dose to do it completely. That way, I’d never suffer again, and I’d never be able to create suffering for others ever again. I felt my breaths as they started coming faster and faster, and then I screamed and charged at the defenseless syringe and bottle. Stomping on them repeatedly, I continued to cry out and growl until there was nothing left but shattered pieces of glass sparkling in the lamplight.

  Once there were only fractured pieces of my soul left to take back to Paris with me, I grabbed my violin and left. I looked at no one as I limped quickly through the dining room, not caring if Christine and Raoul were there or not. I couldn’t sit in the same train car with them; in fact, I couldn’t sit in a car with anyone. So I found one filled with cartons of something—I didn’t know or care what. I located somewhere to lie down and that’s where I stayed the entire ride.

  With the winter air flowing through many holes and cracks in the car’s walls, I was cold, but I didn’t care. What difference did it make if I was cold? I felt it was my punishment for having such a frigid heart.

  Once back in Paris, I slithered against the walls and among the shadows as I made my way toward my hole in the ground. I didn’t take a brougham; instead, I made myself walk, regardless of the pain in my leg and regardless of the snow falling around me. I was punishing myself severely. I hurt all over, not only physically but more so emotionally. I hurt all over inside and out.

  I pushed my little boat hard through the dark mist leading to my self-made prison, which was then like a tropical paradise in comparison to the horrors contained in the dungeon of my soul. Once in my home, I took off my cloak and emptied my pockets of what was left of the medical supplies and my mother’s locket.

  My poor mother. My poor unhappy mother. Just another casualty in the growing list of souls that have been left damaged or dead in my malignant wake. How many more will there be? How many more will I send to their final resting place before someone stops me and sends me to mine? Perhaps I’d already met the man who could halt my attempts to rid the planet of its inhabitants. Perhaps it was Raoul who had enough courage and enough reason to prevent me from further harm.

  I slumped down in a chair and buried my face in my hands, almost enjoying the surges of pain as they shot through my body. I raised my head from my hands and looked at my piano, wanting and needing to play, but that would also be an escape from my torment, so I deprived myself of that as well.

  I forced myself to remember all my crimes against humanity until I didn’t care about anything anymore. Then I grabbed a bottle of brandy and a glass and headed for the divan where I lay back with a full glass in hand. As I felt the warmth of the first swallow move through my chest, I stared at the mural on the wall and thought about Christine. I knew I would never see her or talk to her again; I would make sure of that. I was releasing her right then to have a normal life, one that Raoul could give her.

  I knew she would be in distress as she waited for her angel to return to her, but she would get over it, I reasoned. And with Raoul’s help, I didn’t think it would take too long—not nearly as long as it would take her to get over her emotional suffering if she were to come to know the real me. So I let her go. I let Christine go. I let my angel go. I let go.

  With the glass of brandy in my hand and the pain in my chest mounting with every breath I took, I let her go. I let her slip away as I slipped into a period of deep despair that rivaled any other time in my life. I took a large swallow of my brandy and made myself face the truth about myself and what I’d done with my life.

  Celeste’s words and looks of sweetness haunted my every thought, and the only positive thought that mixed in with the horrible truth was that she didn’t know who her boyish Erik really was. She was blissful with the lie I presented of myself, and that was a blessing. A dashing young man she called me, and Raoul’s words for me were a diabolical and selfish man—what a contrast in perceptions.

  I wished I could be what Celeste saw in me, but the truth was that Raoul, even though he’d never met me, was closer to the truth about my true nature. Christine was so beautiful and innocent. Raoul was right. She deserved so much more than my deformed body, mind, and heart.

  The first glass of brandy went down smoothly and so did the second. After the third one, I no longer bothered with the glass and began drinking straight from the bottle. My eyes became heavy, and I fell asleep. When I woke, the bottle was empty so I headed for another. Time was irrelevant and no longer marked by the movement of the hands on my clocks but by the number of bottles sitting on the table or floor in front of me.

  I didn’t know how much time was passing and I didn’t care. I slipped in and out of consciousness and would wake in a different place around my shrouded castle—my bed, my bathroom floor, with my head d
own on my dining table, in my boat, under my piano, on the floor by my organ, in my mirror chamber, or in the passage leading to the third cellar. Those are the places I could remember, but I’m sure there were many more locations that I didn’t remember.

  The only thing consistent about that time was my return to the cupboard and another bottle. I had periodic encounters with my temper as I slammed my fist into some unsuspecting object in my home or wiped the coffee table clean, sending the collection of bottles across the room.

  To sleep on and on is all I wanted. I didn’t want to think anymore. I didn’t want to live anymore, but I was too much of a coward to deliberately end it all. Perhaps if I drank enough, I’d fall asleep and never wake up, I remember thinking. Then the inevitable happened. On one trip to the pantry, I found it empty. Needless to say, I wasn’t steady on my feet as I headed for the trap door in the mirror chamber that would lead me to my wine cellar, and the only friend I had right then, another bottle.

  My trusty and skilled fingers weren’t working well, and it seemed to take a long time to work the spring that released the door, but, once done, I headed down the stairs to my collection of fine wines. My head was spinning, and my legs felt as if each had an anchor attached, which caused me to trip and fall halfway down the wood steps. I hit my head and shoulder hard enough to make me cry out. Then, as I lay there looking up at the faint light coming from the trap door above me, it faded and went out.

  I woke, at first not knowing where I was or how long I’d been there. In fact, I had no idea how long I’d been drinking and again I didn’t care. But I’d sobered enough for tears to begin forming when my thoughts turned to Christine and my love for her. I repeated her beautiful name over and over as the damp and cold began registering on my unstable senses.

  I lay there in the cold cellar, trying to gain some mastery over my tormented mind. What was I doing? I evidently hadn’t drunk enough to kill myself, and, within the confusion and haze, I felt an overpowering need to find Christine. I could hear her calling me in the darkness, and I saw her face in tears when I wouldn’t answer her pleas to her angel. I saw her pacing in her room and twisting that ribbon on her robe, and I felt horrible. Even while trying to set her free, I was hurting her.