Then, softly, I said, “I apologize . . . . I . . . I don’t . . . I’m sorry. My behavior was despicable. I’m so sorry.”
I finished backing into my music room and then closed my door. I laid my head back against it and began to cry. What had I done? I’d just ruined everything. My tears came without restraint, and I was soon sitting on the floor with my knees curled to my chest. Oh, what had I done? There was no way she could learn to love me now, not after she’d witnessed the worst of my personality traits. What had I done? What was I to do? How could I go back out there and face her? Again, in anger, I tore my mask off and threw it across the room. What was I to do now?
Two hours passed, during which time I’d cried all the tears I had in me, replaced my mask, and cleaned the shambles I’d made out of my music room. While in that process, I knew I had to take her back to the living above us before I did further harm, a harm that could be irreversible. When I pictured what I’d done to her and what I could have done to her, I shuddered with fear. I could have easily killed her, the woman I loved. What was wrong with me?
Then, pacing, I knew I’d never be able to look in her eyes again, not after what I’d done. But I knew I had to take her back, so I told myself to become a man and go into the next room and face the music. Eventually, I took a deep breath and opened the door. Christine was sitting curled in the corner of the divan, and, as I entered, her eyes rose to meet mine. In shame, I looked away from her. Then, keeping my eyes on the smoldering fire, I walked to it in silence.
Placing one hand on the mantel, I lowered my head, swallowed with difficulty, and spoke gently. “I’m truly sorry for the way I’ve treated you, Christine. There’s no excuse for my behavior. I hope I didn’t hurt you, and I hope that someday you can forgive me.”
I could tell she was watching me when she softly replied, “No, you didn’t hurt me, and I’m also sorry. I had no right to do what I did, and I don’t know why I did it. There are times when I just become so curious about something, and I don’t think through my actions or my words. It’s a failing I have, I guess, and I’m not sure how to control it. At times, I say or do things that are none of my business. Today was one of those times, and I’m truly sorry for intruding on your privacy that way, and I hope that someday you can forgive me.”
By the time she was finished, I was looking over my shoulder at her, thinking about her humility. Then I came to the realization that what she’d done to me, although wrong, was one of the reasons why I loved her so much. Removing my mask was due to her need to know about me, the same need I’d seen in her those days when she questioned everyone she came in contact with. It was a good quality, so how could I be angry with her? I couldn’t; in fact, that quality was definitely one of the reasons I loved her so much.
“Christine, I need to take . . .” I couldn’t say it. I hurt inside with the thought of taking her back up, so I waited to gather my strength while I gazed at the dying embers. I didn’t trust myself, so I knew she had to leave, but I couldn’t say it. I didn’t want her to leave.
“Yes?” she asked. “You were saying?”
As I clenched my jaws, I gave into my selfish desires. “Never mind. It can wait.”
I believe she was just as exhausted as I was, so she didn’t pursue it further. Gradually and guardedly, we began talking, first about respecting each other’s privacy and about our personal failings. Then we talked for hours about our likes and dislikes that led into a discussion about the different things we could do while she was there, starting with her lessons.
We wanted them to continue each morning as before, and since we’d missed a proper morning exercise, I suggested we practice at that time. She agreed, but as we entered the music room again, I could feel the tension, with even the air around us still remembering those horrible minutes. Therefore, I tried to get us right into the lesson. The sooner we started the better; it was a safe place for both of us to be. But her natural curiosity got in our way.
“May I ask you a question, Erik?”
“Feel free to ask me anything. You’ve earned that right.”
“You said you had a bed in here. Where is it?”
For the life of me, I don’t know why I answered her the way I did. I can only blame it on my perverted and sick sense of humor or perhaps I was merely trying to lighten the spirit in the room. I’m not sure, but my answer was ridiculous.
I walked over to my coffin, pulled the tapestry off of it, opened its lid and said, “Right here.”
She gasped first with wide eyes, and then she looked up at me and grimaced. “You sleep in a coffin?”
“Why not?” I came back with a snicker and in a matter-of-fact way. “We all end up there someday anyway, so why not get used to it now while we can?” Her eyes were horrified, and it made me respond with a grin. “Feel. It’s really quite comfortable. I have it padded and lined with velvet.”
She cautiously peeked inside. “I see.” Then she quickly backed away.
“I bet you’re thinking it would take someone truly demented to think of sleeping in a coffin, or maybe it would take someone truly demented even to have a coffin as a fixture in his home—right? But then, what would you call someone who burrowed a hole in the ground and built a home there like a mole? Demented? Deranged? A lunatic? At the very least—unbalanced?”
The expression on her face was priceless, and I couldn’t help but laugh aloud as I closed the coffin and put the tapestry back over it. “No, Christine, I don’t sleep in a coffin. I was just playing around. Perhaps someday I’ll tell you the story about how the coffin got in here, and then it won’t sound quite so insane—well—maybe—maybe not.”
She was still staring at it as I headed back to my piano. “To answer your question, you’re sleeping in my bed so . . . Oh, I guess that doesn’t sound just right, does it?”
She turned and looked at me, and again I felt that irresistible urge in the pit of my stomach to laugh, so I did. Then I tried again.
“I’m allowing you to sleep in my bedroom so . . . No, that won’t work either.”
Again I laughed and lowered myself down on the piano bench and my eyes on the keys. I tried to maintain myself, but then I looked up at her, and she was smiling and her eyes were beginning to dance, so I lost it again and started laughing uncontrollably. I tried humming as I ran my hands and fingers over my cheeks and lips to stop myself from laughing.
Then, without looking at her, I began apologizing. “I’m sorry, Christine. I don’t know why I’m finding this so amusing.” I took a quick breath and blurted out rapidly between a broad smile. “While you’re here, I’m sleeping on the divan. There, I got it out.”
I heard her chuckle, and I made the mistake of looking up at her, and then I lost it again. I got up and began pacing around the room. My eyes were tearing, so, with my back to her, I removed my mask and wiped my eyes, slapped my face a couple of times, replaced my mask, rolled my head and neck around, shook out my arms to my sides, and took a deep breath. Then, when I was in control, I turned back, and, with a staunch demeanor, I went back to my piano.
“Are you ready to start your lesson?”
She didn’t answer, which forced me to look up at her again. She was smiling broadly, prompting me to speak up with a large smile of my own.
“Don’t smile at me, Christine, unless you want me to lose it again.”
“Would that be so bad?” she asked as she walked toward the piano. “I’ve never seen you laugh. I’ve seen you smile, and I even remember hearing you chuckle, but I’ve never seen or heard you really laugh. It was quite enjoyable, to tell you the truth. You should do it more often.
“Don’t be such a Frenchman, Erik. Don’t hide your feelings. You said you brought me down here so I could come to know you. Well, how do you expect me to know you if you hide who you are? Don’t present to me the Erik you want me to know but the Erik you are. I love your laughter. It’s just as becoming as your singing and makes me feel comfortable around you. You should reall
y do it more often.”
I ran my fingers over a few harmonious chords. “Your presence makes me happy enough to want to let go and laugh. You inspire me in many ways, Christine.”
She laid her hands on top of the piano and tapped her fingers on it. “Oh, come now. After what I just witnessed, with only a coffin as a catalyst, I have a feeling there are plenty of times when you find yourself laughing.”
Again sending a few chords into the room, I responded, “Well, I have to admit that, at times, my abnormal sense of humor comes to the surface and has even gotten me in serious trouble on occasion, but . . .”
My fingers lay still on the keys, and I looked up at her, unable to finish that sentence, unable to find any words that could express the magnitude of her presence in my life. So I simply sighed and suggested we get started on her lessons.
There wasn’t a mirror for her to face, so I had her face the piano while I stayed behind her. As usual, to get her into the right frame of mind to warm up her voice, I had her go to the shores of Perros. Only with our not being separated by the mirror, I was able to feel her closeness.
When I told her to close her eyes and raise her arms from her sides and to feel my wings beneath them, I actually placed my arms under hers and laced my fingers between hers. When I told her to hear my voice in her ear, I placed my lips in her hair and spoke to her, taking in her fragrance at the same time. I could then feel the warmth of her body so close to mine. Fortunately, that segment of her lessons didn’t last that long or I don’t think I could have maintained a position of propriety.
She was able to concentrate even better than when she was in her dressing room, but it wasn’t as easy for me. Her nearness was enough to drive me crazy, and it took all my willpower to resist taking her in my arms and holding her close. The duets we sang together were the most difficult for me, considering they were mostly love songs, and, on the stage, the man and woman would be in each other’s arms, right where I wanted to be. Therefore, during most of the duets, I stayed sitting at my piano.
That first lesson didn’t last long because, once again, she was putting pieces together and coming to realizations that were both surprising to her and also disturbing. She was singing, and I was at the piano when she stopped and stared at me, and then her fingers pressed against her lips and her eyes began to moisten. Then her soft voice filtered through her fingers.
“If you’re my angel, that means there’s no Angel of Music.”
“Yes, there is, Christine. Didn’t you ask for the angel of music that your father spoke of to teach you?” She nodded, and I continued, “Well, I was the man your father spoke of. Remember, I met him in Perros. Just as I told you, he heard me playing my violin and he also played for me. I did give him gifts, just as we spoke of in your room. Now, have I not come to you? Have I not taught you just as you asked? And have you not gained your rightful position center stage, right where you wanted to be?”
Again, she nodded, and again I went on. “Then, just because I don’t have wings and fly around doesn’t mean I can’t be your Angel of Music. I am your angel, just as you are mine. You’ve saved me from my lonely life. You’ve given me new meaning and a reason to look forward to the next day. The times I’ve spent with you in your dressing room were the highlights of my day, and the rest of my day was spent waiting until I could talk with you again.
“I’ve watched you speak with different ones in the house, like the seamstress or the goldsmith, and the way you treat others is proof that you’re an angel in many respects. And now you’re here with me in my home, and even if it’s only for a few days, you make my breaths worth taking. You are my angel just as I am yours. Nothing has changed.”
She sighed and nodded. “I suppose.”
We then practiced until she said she was hungry. So I took her to the kitchen and showed her another feature of my home.
“Open that pantry door,” I began.
She did and then exclaimed, “It’s empty! It doesn’t even have shelves.”
“Certainly it does, but, like a lot of things around here, they’re hidden. Push that button and watch what happens.”
She did, and as the sound of a faint motor began, she leaned forward and looked down into the cold, dark hole. Then, as a metal chest rose up to meet her and clicked into place, she chuckled.
“There are the leftovers from our meal,” I explained. Then as I took the few items off the shelves and pushed the button to send the chest back down, I explained further. “There’s a metal shaft that goes down about ten meters to the level of the lake. Down there, it’s cold so it keeps my food fresh longer. It also means I don’t have to share my food with the many rodents that inhabit this place.”
“That’s amazing,” she offered. “Ingenious, actually.”
I held her chair out for her, and she sat down and began to eat. But, once more, I couldn’t, even though I knew I really needed to. I hadn’t eaten anything in almost three days, but I was too afraid of becoming terribly ill in front of her, so I waited, telling myself I could eat later when I was alone.
Before I sat down, I put the teapot on the stove to heat water for tea. When I sat down, she stared at me.
“What did you just do?” she asked with her normal curiosity.
I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m heating water for tea.”
She frowned. “But where’s the flame?”
“Oh, that’s a stove I’ve been experimenting with. It isn’t heated by gas flames; it’s heated by electric coils under the metal plates. Right now, I have three different plates for three different temperatures, but I’m working on a switch that can be used to change the temperature of each plate.”
While she stared at my stove with fascination, I stared at her with fascination.
“I’d be finished with that switch, but I’ve been a bit distracted lately,” I said with a longing glance at her.
She shook her head and looked back at me. “You are an inventor, just like they say.”
I nodded, and then we talked while she ate. Once she was finished, she automatically started cleaning up after herself. I wanted to do it for her, but, considering my current physical condition, I let her do it while I enjoyed watching her move around in my home.
Then we retired to the drawing room with a cup of tea, where I made a fire and we talked more. It was then that the inevitable happened. She was still putting pieces of the last weeks together, so that, along with her natural curiosity and caring personality, the conversation began that I should have expected.
“It was your voice I heard on the stage that night with Meg, wasn’t it?”
I smiled at her while remembering that pivotal night in my life. “Yes. That was the first time I saw you, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. You were so angelic, and I was drawn to you as I’d never been drawn before. I believe I started falling in love with you that very night. Especially when you walked toward me and looked right at me, although I don’t believe you knew it at the time.”
She lowered her eyes to her lap, almost as if she was embarrassed. “I felt the same, only I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d never heard such a voice as yours, and I was also drawn to you.”
To hear her say those words sent a flood of warmth through my body, but then she had to spoil it with her next comment. “Meg and others said you were the Phantom, and then there were those who called you the Opera Ghost. Were you . . . are you both those entities in one?”
I sighed. “I’ve been called by many names by many people, but whatever they choose to call me doesn’t change who I am. As you can see, Christine, I’m nothing really that mysterious. I can’t walk through walls—well not literally anyway—and I do have feet to walk on. I’m just a man that leads a rather peculiar life—for obvious reasons.”
She looked down at her hands again with a serious expression, and then it came out. “The Opera Ghost has been blamed for many bad things that have happened in the opera house, even Joseph Buquet’s death. Is there any truth
to those accusations? Or are they just more of the superstitions that are rumored?”
The time of true test had just arrived for us both. I wanted a good relationship with that woman I loved, and I could easily lie to her. I felt she would believe me, since she could see so many of the other rumors were false. But I didn’t want our relationship to be built on any more lies. I had a way with words and I knew it, so I could easily talk around the subject, allowing her to think I’d answered her question when I hadn’t. But did I really want to use that tactic on her? What would she do if she knew the truth? Would that end it all for us before it really began? I struggled a few uncomfortable moments before I could answer her.
“I can assure you, Christine, that some of my accomplishments have been greatly exaggerated. Most are allegations never proved, although, as with all rumors, there’s probably a measure of truth in all of them. The challenge comes when we try to sort out the truth from the untruth. If we listen to all rumors spoken by the superstitious, then we could miss the true beauty of the truth that lies beneath the rumor. I’m said to have no feet so therefore I float. Well, it’s obvious that I do have feet, and I can’t fly around, that I can assure you. However, a long time ago I had to learn how to be agile on my feet, so, I presume, I can give the impression that I’m floating.
“It’s said that I can walk through walls. Well, if that’s true, then last night you also walked through walls just as I have. I don’t walk through walls. I walk through doors just like everyone else does. The only difference is that my doors don’t look like doors, but the truth is that they are doors just the same. It’s said that my eyes glow like lanterns and that they light my way in the dark. Well, Christine, you’re right here with me, so look in my eyes. Are they glowing like a lantern?”
She looked at me intensely and then shook her head. “I can see what you mean, but then . . .”
Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine Page 34
