After I grabbed the box with Christine’s dress in it and the box of English sweets and the silver opera glasses for Madame Giry, I stood at the exterior door. When I looked back into the room, it was exactly the way I’d pictured it: perfect.
I used César to carry me and my packages to the secret passage entrance. After giving him an extra pat, I told him I wouldn’t be long. I next put Christine’s dress in her armoire and then returned to the passage. After closing the mirror, I looked back into her room and took a deep breath. With a smile in my heart, I pictured her in that dress and willingly placing her hand in mine.
What a beautiful picture that was, but then I also pictured her screaming in fear when she saw me. I shuddered at that thought. I looked down at my hands that were shaky and weak. How can I present a strong figure when I feel so sick? Perhaps I should wait a few more days and get well before I try capturing her heart.
That started another round of internal arguments, the same arguments I’d had before. No! You can’t turn back now. Quit using excuses for not moving forward. You’re not that sick. Why do I fear her so? Why do I tremble at the thought of facing her rejection? I’d faced a dozen armed men without fear. What power does she hold over me that they didn’t? Those men had held the power of life and death over me, but then, so does she.
She holds my heart on her whispered breath. With her yes, my heart will soar, and with her no, it will plummet to the depths of hell. Oh, Christine, what will it be when you see me? Will you see my devoted heart or my deformed face?
My final decision was that her delicate breath had more power than a thousand mighty men, but if I didn’t try to capture her heart and I lost her to her childhood sweetheart, then I was dead anyway. So, I had to try, and I had to try that night. Therefore, within minutes, I was in the column next to my box, waiting for the second act to finish. After the applause subsided, I only had to wait for my managers to leave.
Moncharmin got to his feet first, stretched, and laughingly commented, “It’s not a bad house, considering we were to experience a catastrophe this evening.”
They both laughed and then Madame Giry came in and they laughed even more. “I thought your ghost always came to claim his box by this time. He’s late,” Richard joked.
Again they laughed and Madame Giry, undeterred, responded strongly, “I’m going to lodge a complaint against both of you. You had no right to kick me earlier just because I spoke the truth about our Opera Ghost.”
I felt a frown form on my brow, wondering why in the world would someone in their station kick anybody, much less a lady. It was such a childish thing to do. I made a mental note to address their uncivilized behavior toward my one supporter at a later time.
Taunting the poor lady even more, Richard jeered, “A complaint? With whom? The Opera Ghost?” They again laughed. “You have no right to file a complaint because this is your last night as box keeper. You’ve been replaced, so save your breath.”
She glared at them, as did I, and then she spoke sternly to them in her impeccable French. “I wouldn’t laugh just yet, Messieurs. The night is still young, and the Opera Ghost always has the last laugh. So mind your tongue and my words.”
They only laughed more, and she left. Once they left, I slipped in and left her sweets and glasses on the shelf. Then I left with a smile on my lips. She was always faithful to me, but, that night in particular, she had no idea just how true her words were; I would have the last laugh and a big one at that.
Once back in the column, I headed toward my waiting masterpiece far above the auditorium. By the time I reached it, the third act had begun, and I sat down again on the crate and gave myself time to recuperate from the climb. I laid my head back and listened to Carlotta slaughter the role of Marguerite.
I shook my head in disbelief. How could those two fools, who were responsible for the management of the opera house, make such a terrible blunder? Surely they had to have ears and could hear the difference between Carlotta and Christine. How could they allow themselves to be duped into letting her have that role? What ignorant fools!
I listened to the famous tenor, Carolus Fonta, as he sang the part of Faust and waited for Carlotta’s line that would be my cue to get on my feet and start my performance.
Then I heard the words from Carlotta’s lips. “Oh, how strange! Like a spell does the evening bind me!”
I was on my feet and standing by the observation window when her next lines sung out. “And a deep languid charm . . .”
I took a deep breath and parted my lips waiting for her next line. “I feel without alarm . . .”
Then I sang out strong, letting my voice fall on her throat. “Co—ack!”
I stopped laughing long enough to speak once more in my manager’s ears. “She’s singing tonight to bring down the chandelier!”
I laughed again as they glanced over their shoulders for the one speaking. I don’t know what they did after that, because I was by the gear and released it. I looked up above my head to see the chains start to move, at first almost in slow motion and then swiftly. They sped past my eyes, and I again laughed loud—but not for long.
As cries came up from the auditorium beneath me, I felt the floor under my feet, as well as the walls around me, shake. I looked up, and, at the same time, I heard the unmistakable sound of timber cracking. With that horrible splitting sound, I knew something had seriously gone wrong—terribly wrong.
I shouldn’t be hearing that sound, I remember thinking. As I began backing away, I saw the beams and the entire assemblies over my head break away and come crashing past me. As it disappeared through the floor in front of me, my mind flashed faster than lightning, and one phrase repeated in my head.
“I couldn’t have made a mistake! I couldn’t have made a mistake!”
There were people screaming, glass shattering, chains rattling, and wood splitting. I couldn’t have made a mistake. I’d never made a calculation error—never. What had happened?
I felt as if I was in the midst of a slow-moving nightmare. What was happening just couldn’t be happening. I stood there staring at the gaping hole in disbelief until the rumble subsided. Then there was no sound, other than the cries from below me. I moved to the edge of the splintered floor and looked down. Why? I don’t know.
I watched in stark horror; there were people running, people staggering, people screaming, people crying, and people lying over the seats or in the aisles amidst the twisted and shattered chandelier. I felt my head shake slowly—what had I done?
Above the cries, I thought I heard Christine calling out, “Angel!”
I searched through the mass hysteria in the auditorium below me until I saw her in her little boy’s costume, minus the wig. Her hair was tossing from side to side as she searched each aisle, all the while calling for her angel.
I could only watch. I was unable to move or respond to her calls. It wasn’t until I saw her start to run back toward the stage that I could move, but not far or fast. I started backing away from the disaster scene, while still telling myself that it wasn’t possible for me to make a calculation error of that magnitude.
When I was able to really move, I don’t remember feeling any physical pain while running down the stairs toward the main level. All I remember was going over and over the calculation in my mind, trying to understand what had happened.
Then the sight of the bodies lying everywhere woke me up, and I felt truly sick. I then began questioning what was wrong with me. Was I then an intentional murderer without even trying? Had I become so tied in with death that I could cause it even when there was no intent?
By then I was on the main level and running through the corridor behind the boxes with many other people, but I gave no thought to them or being seen by them. I ran down the steps to the auditorium and through the sea of red and gold seats, then past more people and back up the stairs on the other side. Again I ran through the corridor behind the boxes, and then down and around corners, and more corners, a
nd more people, until I was in the hallway leading to the dressing rooms. I kept running into and past people without any regard to who they were or who saw me.
I moved quickly past César, not even halting long enough to give him a pat, and into my dark passageway. By the time I reached the mirror, my mind and heart were a mess. It was only the sight of Christine that gave me what I needed to think. She was pacing frantically across her room, while her fingers tugged and pulled at the belt loops of her trousers, and her whispered voice kept repeating toward the floor.
“Angel . . . oh, my angel where . . . Oh, my angel. If you’re not dead . . . oh, please . . . please show yourself to me. Oh, please my angel—answer me.”
I closed my eyes for a second and took a breath, trying, unsuccessfully, to control my voice. “Yes, Christine, I’m here.”
She leapt and turned in circles. “Are you all right?”
That question only added to my confused state. “Yes, I am.”
“Oh, I thought you were . . . I thought you were dead,” she whimpered.
“Why would you think your angel was dead?”
Her bewildered voice expressed the confusion in her mind, while she walked aimlessly through her room. “Oh, I was so frightened for you. There were so many who were hurt, and I couldn’t find you. I called for you, but you didn’t answer. You said you’d be watching me, and I was afraid you were there and hurt. I’m so thankful you weren’t hurt, but there were so many who were hurt. Oh, those poor people. There were so many, and they were just . . . oh, those poor people.”
I didn’t know how to respond to her. My mind was in a shambles and reeling as the vision of the falling rigging swirled around and around in my head. I felt as if I was trying to control a runaway team of horses, heading for a cliff and without any reins in my hands. My so-called superior intellect was as useless as wet paper. There were no quick-witted words to be found anywhere within me. I was in shock, total shock, and her words about my welfare only confused me more.
“I don’t understand, Christine. Why would you think an angel would be among those hurt?”
Her hands were covering her face and she was shaking her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I was so afraid. It was so horrible—so horrible.”
My eyes were closed as I pictured all the ones lying among the rubble, and I clenched my jaws. Then I responded, almost to myself, “Yes, Christine, it was a horrible accident.”
That was one of the times when she turned and looked directly at the mirror, and I knew I wasn’t controlling my voice properly, but, at that time, I really didn’t care. I was numb and yet in horrible pain at the same time. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself, much less how I was going to help her. She was still moving around the room and speaking to me, but I don’t remember what she said from that point on. I just watched her in her fright and I felt so sick in my gut.
My head felt as if it were under water, her words and my thoughts muffled and swirling together, preventing me from hearing either of them clearly. My one thought, that I can remember, was of music. I wanted and needed my music. I think I turned with the intention of going to my piano and my music, but then I must not have, because I was still behind the mirror, motionless and watching Christine sob.
Then, although I don’t recollect hearing it, I felt my voice inside me singing. I could feel it inside my throat, but I couldn’t hear anything with my ears. I didn’t know what the words were or the melody.
Christine stopped crying and raised her head, looking right at the mirror. I watched her eyes and face become as one who was sleepwalking; then she started to approach the mirror. As she got closer, I raised my hand and laid my fingers over the latch, but I don’t remember thinking about doing it. The mirror opened and she kept walking and I kept singing. Then I took her by the wrist and directed her inside.
When we were both behind the mirror, it closed. I put my arm around her waist. Then I began walking slowly and guiding her through the nearly black corridor. I don’t think I once removed my eyes from her face, and her eyes stayed fixed on my masked face. She walked in her sleep-like state, and I could still feel the music in my throat.
As I led us toward the lone lamp at the far end of the passageway, the passage became lighter. Then, without warning, I watched her eyes wake up and her mouth open, followed by a horrible, retched scream. Within that instant, we were both wide awake, and I automatically wrapped my fingers over her mouth and told her to stop screaming. I repeated her name several times, but her only response was to push against my chest with great force.
But her attempt to be free from me only lasted for a few moments. The next second found her lying limp in my arms and me trying to keep both of us from falling. My masked face so close to hers must have awakened her, and her scream definitely awakened my senses and my body. That scenario cleared my mind quickly, and I registered everything, from the strange situation I’d brought Christine into to the tremendous pain in my left leg and hip.
I slid down the wall with her still in my arms, and then I sat on the floor with her lying across my legs. I ran my fingers over her forehead, repeating her name and telling her to wake up. She was completely unconscious, and I closed my eyes and shook my head. I’d obviously not made a good first impression.
I looked toward the end of the passage, which was a little over six meters away, and tried to make the right decision. Should I try to take her the rest of the way to my home while she was still unconscious or do I stay there until she wakes up?
I laid my head back against the damp stones, closed my eyes, and questioned, what was happening? Nothing was going according to plan. That night was supposed to begin a completely new and different life for Christine and me—but not that different. I could see then that my being shot was only a prelude to the catastrophe that had just occurred with the chandelier.
In addition, there I sat on the cold floor with the woman I loved unconscious because of her fear of me. The woman I was supposed to enchant and sweep off her feet, I’d nearly frightened to death. Nothing was working right, and I couldn’t help but wonder what else was going to go wrong.
I looked at the lamp and the way back to my home, and then I looked back at the darkness and her dressing room. I was seriously considering taking her back to her dressing room and laying her on the floor, hoping that when she woke she’d think it was all a bad dream. But then I looked down at the beautiful woman in my arms, and I pulled her closer to me, desperately wanting to bury my face in the creamy skin of her neck. But I didn’t. Instead, I ran my fingers along her cheek and knew I couldn’t let her go. I had to somehow finish what I’d started and not let another day go by without her knowing exactly who her angel was.
But how was I going to get her out of that dark and dreary place? I thought about sitting there with her until she woke. But I feared what she would do if she woke in my arms and on the floor, if seeing me on my feet was enough the make her faint. I had to get her out of that passage if I could and as soon as I could. With that determination in my mind and heart, I managed to get to my feet and test out my leg.
It took me only one step to wish I had my walking stick. The last time I remembered having it was in the chandelier’s rigging room, so I had no idea where it was at that time. But, with or without it, I had to get Christine out of that dark passageway; therefore, I prepared to endure the pain.
I knelt down, took a deep breath, clenched my teeth, lifted her in my arms, got to my feet, and started walking. By the time I reached the end of the passage, I could feel the sweat on my brow, and I can’t even describe the pain in my leg. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the cool wall until I had enough breath and strength to continue.
I hadn’t counted on her passing out and having to carry her that far, although it would have been terribly romantic if I could have done it with strength. But even with my carrying her, it wasn’t the romantic vision I had as I laid my original plans in order. I shook my head. How did
my masterful scheme get to this place? But then I thought about César and was thankful I had him to help me.
At that time, he was truly a necessary part of the equation and not merely a romantic idea. As I opened the door and crept through it, César nickered. Then, leaning against the wall, I looked at him with gratitude and he looked at us with his eyes and ears alert.
While telling him to stand still, I lifted Christine up and laid her over his back, apologizing to her as I did so. Other than dragging her, that was the last way I wanted to transport the woman I loved to my home—throwing her over a horse like a pair of leather saddlebags.
César nickered and started stepping sideways toward the wall, and I instantly reacted. “César, halt! Easy, boy—easy. You’re going to squish her. Easy, boy. Good, boy,” I said softly.
He halted, and I held her in place by grasping the belt of her little boy trousers. Then I moved around his rear until I was on the other side of him by Christine’s head. He’d come close to smashing her head against the wall, and I shuddered at the thought. Then, while rubbing his neck and talking to him, I took a minute to think through exactly how I was going to transport her safely.
I had little choice, and I had to count on his training if we were to make it to the lake without another disaster, so I threw his reins over his neck and prepared to move on. I then spoke to Christine, trying to wake her, but she didn’t respond. Therefore, I grasped her belt tightly with one hand and with the other I grasped her upper arm.
I began giving César verbal commands, and he obeyed me perfectly; in fact, he was the only part of my well thought out plans that was working right. That night was supposed to be so romantic. I was the strong and dashing caped man in black who would lift her effortlessly up on the back of his mighty steed. Then, with great ease and grace, I would swing up behind her, and, with my arms around her, we would ride the white stallion down the passageways to my home. All the while I would sing to her a beautiful song composed just for that occasion.
Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine Page 29
