As I rode in the brougham back to my home and listened to the comforting clip clop of the horse’s hooves on the bricks, I pulled the bottle of morphine from my pocket and held it in my open hand. I gazed at that small bottle, that small bottle of liquid that held a power that I could either control or it could control me.
I believe the amount the doctor had already given me was helping with the pain and making my mind, for the first time in weeks, work properly. So, at that moment, I felt I’d have the strength to use it the way it was intended. The doctor was right, I needed rest if I were to live long enough to see my plans for Christine come to fruition, so I would use it for that and for the pain only.
After that, I would put it where I could get to it if the day came when I would need it for the final time. What I was preparing for was going to be my last try at a normal life, a life I could spend in splendor with Christine. If it didn’t work and I botched the job again, then I had to rely on myself to end it. If I couldn’t rely on a merciful God to end it for me, then I had to close the curtain on my final scene myself.
I rolled the bottle back and forth across my palm, first in the lamplight and then in the darkness as the light came and went with each passing lamppost. Just like the light, my thoughts came and went, words and pictures, taking their turn wandering through my memories. Papa’s words along with Christine’s, Celeste’s, Oded’s, and Raoul’s. Pictures of the first house I worked on with my father in Perros and then the palace in Persia; pictures of Christine’s face on the other side of the mirror and on the stage. I heard her words of defense for her angel, which had given her courage to work through her pain and fears. I heard Oded’s words of encouragement to me right before we left Persia. I heard my father’s words to not give up on my goals, along with his words that I couldn’t turn back the clock but I could reset it. But would it be possible to undo all that I’d done?
I could do nothing to change the murders I’d committed in Russia, and I could do nothing to change the horrors of Persia, but I could try to control my future. Even though I’d been inebriated to the nth degree the night before, what I’d said to that couple on the street was true. I did have everything it would take to make Christine happy.
In addition to having all the right fingers and limbs, I had something that I didn’t think anyone else possessed. Most importantly, I had a heart that was full of incredible love and devotion for only her. A heart I’d never shared with another, and I knew that I would never share with anyone other than her.
But the question remained, could I reset my clock and start again with Christine? I didn’t know, but I knew I had to try.
Nineteen
The night passed calmly, with even my night visitors resting peacefully, which was surprising, considering what I’d put myself through and what was crawling around inside my leg. As I lay there in the darkness, I was also surprised that I felt no pain in my leg. Carefully stretching and rolling onto my side, I reached up for my light and then my watch. I was thinking perhaps a night hadn’t passed and I was still under the strong influence of the morphine.
Once my watch opened, it told me it was ten o’clock, so I’d either slept fourteen hours or only two. In either case, I was wide-awake, so I threw back the covers and carefully swung my legs off the bed. There was still no pain, and I remember smiling with the prospect of going through my busy day without it. I raised myself up on my feet gingerly, and I was still all right, so I took my first step.
That ended my euphoric thoughts. The pain shot through my thigh and down my leg, as if I’d been sideswiped by a guillotine. I went to the floor on my knees, causing another surge of pain. I then went the rest of the way to the floor, rocking and moaning in agony. What I was experiencing then, and the day before, was much worse than the original gunshot, and I was beginning to think the doctor was going to have his way in the end, and I would end up in his office for the next few days.
With the amount of suffering I was going through right then, I didn’t see how I was going to accomplish anything that day, but I had to. By the time the pain subsided enough for me to get up off the floor, I was shivering and recognized the feelings of a fever. Using my walking stick, I made it to the doorway and looked at my tall floor clock, which told me by the length of its chains that it was the next day and a little after seven a.m.
Once in my bathroom, I again sat on the edge of my tub, trying to make a decision while weighing my options. I could go back to the doctor and let him take care of me for a few days until I could function properly, or I could keep myself dosed with morphine enough to accomplish what I desperately needed to do. It only took me a moment of picturing Christine on her toes kissing Raoul to come to the decision of using the morphine. I couldn’t allow any more time to pass before I revealed my true identity to her. So, with the right injection, I was soon dressed and heading for the doctor’s office as I’d promised.
He was surprised to see me sitting in his waiting room, and while he jokingly teased me about my ability to keep promises, it wasn’t until a week later that he confessed what he was really thinking. He didn’t think he’d ever see me again. He thought I would die before he could finish his work.
He first checked the workers in my leg. “I’m pleasantly surprised with the progress they’ve made. They must be getting paid well or they like the taste of Erik.”
I was feeling horrible, so I barely smiled at his remark. While he poked around in the wound, I was close to giving into his wishes and staying there. The thought of someone taking care of my needs was a good one, but I didn’t tell him my secret desires. However, I think he sensed them. He had a jar of those creepy things in one hand and tweezers in the other when he began explaining what he was doing.
“I’m going to take the dead ones out and replace them with hardy ones. This you’ll need . . .” he stopped mid sentence and looked at me. Then, placing the back of his fingers against my forehead, he asked, “Won’t you please stay here? You need more than just this procedure.”
I closed my eyes, tightened my jaw, and shook my head.
“Erik, you infuriate me.” He paused, but was still intently watching my face. “Will you at least stay here long enough to eat something? You look as if you haven’t eaten in weeks.”
I opened my eyes and looked at the sincerity in his. “Very well,” I replied.
He smiled broadly, as if he’d just won a lot of money in a horse race, quickly set the jar down, and left the room. He was back almost as quickly, telling me his secretary was getting me something to eat. Then he continued with the procedure, while giving me further instructions.
“If you don’t stay off your feet, the movement of your muscles could squeeze our friends to death. Then their little dead bodies,” he said as he raised the tweezers holding one, “would compete with your needs, because the survivors would use part of their appetites to eat their brothers and sisters instead of you. Do you get the picture, Erik? Can you understand the importance of resting your leg?”
I got the picture all right, and it was gruesome. I would not only have those creepy things eating their way through my flesh but I would also have them dying inside me. I shuddered and nodded, and he smiled and patted my knee. He checked the stitches on my head and then listened to my lungs, asking me how they felt.
“They feel better, thank you. I don’t think the problem was an infection as much as the lake water I breathed.”
He stopped, raised his head, and looked sternly at me. “Why did you breathe in lake water? Was someone trying to drown you?”
“No,” I replied as I relived that frightening moment. “No one but myself. I was careless and fell from my boat. It was a simple accident that almost prevented me from seeking your help.”
He smirked. “You know, Erik, unless you change your lifestyle, I believe I could give up my practice and concentrate solely on you. What do you think? Can I come live with you and make your health the source of my primary income?”
We b
oth chuckled, but if he had any idea what my true lifestyle consisted of, he would be shuddering and not chuckling.
A few minutes later, his secretary came to the door with a tray containing the food he’d ordered, and a few minutes after that he was finished giving his creatures a new home. He handed me the tray, but I really didn’t feel like eating and I think he knew it.
“You’ll probably feel better if you eat, Erik. Your body needs nourishment to fight this.”
I knew he was right, so I began to eat the soup while he gave me more instructions. I managed to get all the soup down, but I couldn’t begin to eat the rice dish, even if it happened to be my favorite one that Oded had always made for me. It made me think of him and what advice he would give me for my new illness. I’m sure he’d have some type of remedy for it, but I had no intention of seeking his help, since it would come with many questions that I didn’t want to answer.
Doctor Leglise put the rice dish in a glass jar, telling me to eat it later. Then he put me in a brougham, instructing me to go straight home and rest. I told him I would, but I knew rest was the last thing I’d be doing that day, even if it meant I’d be killing some of my workers.
The first item on my agenda was to find out Christine’s whereabouts, because, if she was in another country with my young rival, then the rest of my plans were pointless. But assuming she was still within my reach, I made mental notes of all I had to accomplish, keeping in mind the doctor’s words about not walking, especially up and down the stairs.
In addition, I knew I was facing a new challenge, moving around inside the opera house without being seen. For my entire life my biggest asset, other than my intelligence, was my agility and speed. Those attributes had allowed me to live within the opera house all those years without being seen, or, if I was seen, it was only as a shadowy figure that vanished quickly. But, at the present time, I was neither agile nor swift, so I had to use more of my wit. I’d have to use more of my passages instead of the open corridors, which meant a longer walk, but I could take my time.
My first stop was Christine’s dressing room. My heart was pounding as I approached it, because I feared she’d be gone for good. Her room was empty, but the lamp on her wall was turned down low, which meant someone had been in there that day. My first thought was to go to the rehearsal studio and see if she was there, but then I decided on a less strenuous solution, her diary.
I entered her room and was instantly caressed with her fragrance. I closed my eyes, smiled, and took a deep breath; she’d been there recently. After making sure her door was locked, I sat down and took out her diary. Again, the sight of her perfect hand made me both ache inside and smile, but I didn’t smile for long.
Her words expressed how much distress she was in, much more so than any of her previous writings. She felt she’d done something terribly wrong and that her angel had found her unworthy of any further tutoring. I felt horrible.
Raoul also added to her sadness and frustration. He didn’t understand why Christine felt the way she did about her angel’s disappearance, and she felt he should have understood and supported her. It seemed his answer for everything that was going wrong in Christine’s life was to take her away from the opera house, which wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted someone to help her know what to do and how to fight for her rights, not take her away. So, in the end, he only complicated her problems.
While those words were disquieting, they could be rectified just as soon as I could talk with her. But the words that caused me the most apprehension and anger were about her performances.
Carlotta had been slandering Christine and accusing her of trying to sabotage her roles and performances. She’d even sworn to get even with my angel. She was lying to the press about her, telling them that both her appearance and voice were no better than a toad’s. She was threatening the new managers in order to get Christine placed back in the chorus, which she’d successfully done.
At that time they were performing Faust, and, even though Christine had proved her superior voice and acting skills for the role of Marguerite, she was placed as one of the town’s boys. Christine sounded so miserable, and I could feel her tears between her written words. Again, I could help Christine feel better once I could talk with her, but it was going to be more challenging to undo the damage Carlotta had caused her career.
I sat for a while, thinking about what I could do. I didn’t have to do anything about Raoul. He was doing it to himself and all by himself. All I had to do was to be there for her and let her know that I did understand how she felt, and that I would take care of Carlotta and our managers so her career could flourish.
What I had in mind for Carlotta would be simple. However, I also had a list of other things I needed to get done during that day, so that added nuisance only increased my hatred for the Opera Populaire’s contemptuous prima donna.
I needed to write my new managers a note, but I couldn’t use Christine’s stationery, and I couldn’t go all the way down to my home for mine. Therefore, I opted to find an empty office. The first one I approached belonged to Madame Giry, and, since it was empty, in I went and found some blank stationery that couldn’t be traced back to her.
With the anger I was feeling, I wrote my first note to Carlotta.
My Dear Signora Guidicelli,
I’m sorry to say—I’m not pleased with the happenings here at my opera house during my brief hiatus. My, my. I can’t leave for a moment without you performers squabbling like a flock of noisy geese. Well, I’m back, so I’d advise you to stop trying to use your wiles on my managers. It won’t work. You see, my wiles are much stronger than yours, so it would be an exercise in futility on your part even to try.
If you can remember back that far, I’m sure your first vocal coach told you the dangers of being stressed and getting sick. Why, even the common cold can be devastating to a singer. It could cause irreversible damage. You should value your voice as a gift. If you try to sing with a cold it could be your swan song. We wouldn’t want that—now would we?
So, a word to the wise, my dear Carlotta: gracefully back out of your part in Faust and let the rightful owner of the role of Marguerite take her place. There are much worse things than a cold or a missed performance—much worse than even death. I caution you to take my advice and make the right choice. If not, your voice just might be swallowed up as easily as a fly stuck to a toad’s tongue.
The stars aren’t aligned properly for you this day, and it would be folly to tempt the hand of fate this particular evening.
The Master of Voice,
OG
While I was sitting at Madame Giry’s desk, I discovered my Box Five would be occupied that evening by none other than my new managers themselves. If I wasn’t angry enough with Carlotta, well, that new bit of information sent me through the roof. I instantly wrote another note to my new managers, mincing no words as to the insanity of their attempt to sit in my box. I was almost too angry even to write, and threatened them grimly if they didn’t leave it unoccupied for my use. I was so upset I couldn’t even think of a reasonable threat, so I just told them that a catastrophe would happen if they didn’t comply with my wishes.
By the time I was finished, I had a tremendous headache and was feeling spent, so, instead of delivering the notes myself, I left a note for Madame Giry and asked her to deliver them for me. I had nothing on me to leave her as a gift, so I told her I would leave her something special in my box that evening. I then left her office and slipped into one of my passages, giving myself a moment to think and rest.
I took out my watch and knew Christine was still in the morning rehearsals, so I headed for my box, thinking I could sit and rest while I watched her. I entered through the column, made sure the door was locked, and then sat down in my chair in the shadows. The house lights were down which helped to ensure I wouldn’t be seen while I rested.
I stretched my leg out, laid it over the seat of the chair in front of me, and then I rolled to my right
hip, laid my head back against the wall, and took a deep breath. It felt so good to be off my feet, but not nearly as good as the sight of Christine when she appeared on the stage. It was a dress rehearsal and she was in a boy’s wig and clothing, but I would know her eyes no matter how much makeup she was in.
My pleasant feelings lasted only until her body language told me the degree of her downcast state. They’d stripped her, torn from her, the confidence that we’d worked on for months. I once more became angry and huffed.
I wanted to go to Christine and comfort her. I wanted to go to my new managers and bang their heads together. I wanted to go to Carlotta and ram my fist down her throat and pull out her vocal chords. I wanted to do a lot of things, but my physical condition was making it necessary to calm down and ration my energy. Therefore, I worked on my main priority, which was to help Christine.
I decided to wait for her behind the mirror and was just inside the marble column when I heard the key in the lock and then voices inside my box. I looked through the hole and saw my new managers arguing.
“I saw a head in here, Firmin. I know I did,” Armand exclaimed almost angrily.
Firmin, not giving into his partner’s anxiety, tried to put it off. “Are you sure it isn’t just all this talk about the ghost?”
Still sounding angry, Armand explained, “Don’t be an imbecile. I’m not falling for that nonsense, but I do still believe our predecessors are playing a prank on us. I just want to catch them in the act, that’s all. Now look around. What could they have used?”
They started searching behind the drapes and in between the chairs, grumbling the entire time. Then they entered a subject that added to the angry state I’d just calmed down from.
Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine Page 26
