Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  “Have you thoroughly thought this through? I can’t help but feel there must be another way, a way for the man who saved the life of his enemy last night to also be saved. I watched you as you took such gentle care of Raoul. It’s that man I saved in Persia, and it’s that man you need to save this day.”

  I looked down at his hand that was swirling what was left of the brandy in his glass, and then I walked across the room and turned slowly to face him. My movement made the candle’s flame flicker beside him and send flashes of light into his moist eyes that returned to examine mine. They were pleading for me to reconsider, and that vision stayed etched in my heart for the rest of my days and made it extremely difficult to respond to his plea. I had to take a few deep breaths and clear my throat before I had sufficient control to make a cohesive answer.

  “I have thought this through, for many years actually, and, if there’s another way, I don’t know of it. It’s not necessarily what I want to do, but it’s what needs to be done. I’m exhausted, Oded, and drained of all will to fight and too full of fear to live any longer.”

  With one swallow, he finished his brandy and placed the empty glass on the table beside him. Then he rose to his feet, moved toward me, and placed one hand on my shoulder.

  “I’ll do what you ask, but, before I let you go, I have one last request. You once told me that four days was a small price to pay for a fine jewel. Do you remember that?”

  With that painful reminder, I looked him squarely in the eyes, hoping he would see the sincerity in mine. “I’ve never been able to forget it. Your daughter was worth so much more than four days, and I would have been willing to pay whatever you asked.”

  “Erik, I consider you a fine jewel. So I’m asking you for four days. Wait four days and really think this through before you do anything. Can you promise me just four days?”

  As usual, I found it difficult to refuse him, so I simply nodded in agreement. I paused long enough in front of the door to glance over my shoulder one last time at the kind face of a truly good confidant—my only confidant. Finally, there was nothing more he could say to change my mind and nothing more I could say to make it easier on him.

  With a knot in my throat, I opened the door, but, before I could walk through it, his fingers wrapped around my arm, and one more time he spoke my name. I reluctantly turned to face him, and then he grasped my shoulders and proceeded to kiss both of my cheeks. He backed away and spoke in barely audible words.

  “May Allah walk beside you in your time of need, my friend.”

  I looked at him and smiled. “I hope Allah is wise enough not to walk in that dangerous position.”

  “Erik,” he scowled. “No sarcasm. Not now. Please.”

  The room fell silent once more, while his expression brought decades of memories surging through my bleeding heart. No more words needed to be spoken; our moist eyes said it all.

  I turned again and slowly walked down the stairs, expecting to hear his voice again, but there was no voice, only the sound of my lone footfalls on the wooden steps. As I crossed Rue de Rivoli, I looked up at his window and the silhouette of my true friend and companion for one brief moment more. Then I lowered my head to the breeze and began my lonely walk through the Tuileries and to my empty home.

  The cold night air whipped my cloak open and sent a shiver to my bones, almost making me reconsider my decision not to take a brougham. I wrapped my cloak around my exhausted body and reconfirmed my determination to walk the streets of my home country.

  The rain had stopped and the clouds had moved on, leaving Paris dark and quiet. But there were still intermittent flashes of jagged silver daggers in the distance, serving as a reminder that great power still remained in those clouds. As I had on many occasions, I thought about the possibility of harnessing that power for the good of all mankind. I sighed. If that were only possible. Ultimately, the investigation into that idea would have to remain in the laboratory of someone who would live longer than myself.

  Once I reached Rue Scribe, there were more people present, mostly couples, strolling hand in hand and whispering words of love. I listened to them as they passed, not caring if they saw me or if they crossed the street to avoid me. It didn’t matter to me anymore, but, strangely enough, no one seemed to notice me, or, if they did, it didn’t matter to them either.

  Eventually, I was making my way across the dark lake. As usual, the mist swirled and parted before me, as if obeying some silent command. Once inside my home, I immediately gave into my exhaustion and passed out across the divan. When I woke, it was to the same eerie silence I’d fallen asleep in, only I woke feeling strangely uneasy and anxious. I felt as if I’d just lived through one of my horrendous nightmares—had I? Had I only dreamt those last three monstrous days or were they real?

  I sat up and glanced around, hoping there would be something—anything—I could see to bring my disquieting thoughts under control. But, when I headed toward the music room, my desire for it to be nothing more than a bad dream evaporated with the sight of a small pool of water by the door to the mirror chamber. Instantly, visions of Raoul and Oded lying unconscious in that horrible room crushed my heart. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was real—only too real.

  I slumped against the doorframe, took off my mask, and lowered my face to my palms, repeating, “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

  But my agreement with Oded spoke, too loud and too clear. The thought of waiting four days before ending it all was agonizing, and I almost didn’t honor my promise to him, especially since I knew it wasn’t going to make a difference. It wouldn’t change who I was or prevent another disaster from happening at my hands. So why did I agree to it?

  Don’t question it, was my final thought. I’d given my word to my friend, so I knew I needed to keep it without thinking about how difficult it was going to be for me. So I replaced my mask and took out my watch. It had stopped, but the floor clock had a few more minutes to go before it stopped, which meant I’d already completed at least one day as I’d slept. With that in mind, I focused on keeping busy so I could live through three more days with the least amount of anguish as possible.

  I had a thundering headache, and my right shoulder was stiff and sending sharp pains down my arm and into my chest. Thinking I must have slept in the wrong position and perhaps needed to eat, I got a glass of wine and some food and set them on the coffee table. I took a few bites and a few sips, and then I stretched out on the divan, laid my mask on my chest, and got comfortable.

  When I did, I focused on a long-legged black spider gingerly making his way across the ceiling above me. As he skillfully spun an addition to his already extensive web, I watched him and realized we weren’t much different—that spider and I.

  He was a solitary and silent creature, working endlessly to create something new. While working contentedly alone, with only an occasional visitor whom he quickly destroyed, he always watched for a larger creature who wanted to destroy him. Yes, we weren’t much different—that spider and I.

  I too worked best alone and created endlessly, with only the occasional visitor whom I usually managed to destroy in some way. I was also constantly on the lookout for those who wanted to destroy me. Luca, Pete, and their sons were the first to try, and, in their efforts, my poor father became my curse’s first victim. But, regrettably, he was only the first in a long line of victims who were unfortunate enough to make my acquaintance. There were only a few exceptions who survived my presence—my curse. Yes, that spider and I were more alike than my two-legged contemporaries and I were.

  As I watched him work on his masterpiece, I thought about all the things I’d built, thanks to the excellent instruction I’d received from my father. My mind wandered through my childhood, and I thought about my first introduction to music. I relived those wonderful moments when I watched and listened to my mother playing her piano.

  I smiled when I thought about my father sitting by my side on the piano bench and singing our strange du
et, and I remembered the proud look on his face when he found me playing the piano all by myself. Unfortunately, I also saw the horror, uncertainty, and fear on my mother’s face as the weeks, months, and years passed, and I could still feel my pain and confusion with her inconsistent reaction to me and my musical genius. Our complicated relationship, filled with our love for music and our shared hatred and fears, perplexed us both.

  I relived the conversations my father had with me while trying to convince me that my mother loved me. Most of those conversations took place during our trips to the sea, trips filled with his guiding words, laughter, and our tears. The visions of the sea breeze tossing his hair like spun gold and his expressive hands, gesturing as he talked, were still vividly etched in my mind.

  Most of the memories about my father involved him teaching me with emphatic emotions; his facial expressions when he talked about life and death and love and hate; his body gestures when he explained how to hammer a straight nail, trowel a smooth wall, and draw a perfect angle; the sound of his deep voice when he expressed important lessons about enjoying the beauty of a sunrise, controlling my temper, believing in my own abilities, and always being optimistic about my next day of life.

  Regardless of how much time had passed, my love for my father hadn’t diminished one bit; in fact, it increased measurably once I realized what a weighty responsibility he had in raising such a difficult son. He was a remarkable man in every way, and I still wished I could be more like him.

  As I looked at my fingers reaching for my wine glass, I pictured my father’s long fingers as they followed the words in my small storybooks, and I heard his rich comforting voice as he read each word. I could feel our excitement when I learned to read on my own and when he brought home my first real book, the one on music. He instructed me well; however, he was never able to quench my thirst for knowledge, and, to this day, neither had I.

  I actually felt a chuckle in my heart when I thought about the day he brought Molly into my life. That day and the day my little sister was born were wonderful days, and they both helped me fill many more days with glee. My friendship with Celeste was another bright spot in my young life. She still held a special place in my heart, and I was thankful she lived so far away so she wouldn’t hear about my death. I know it would pain her if she did.

  I closed my eyes and relived the time when my father took me to Venice and we saw our first opera. Even though it had been several decades since then, I could still feel the music swirling around me and my determination that someday I would live with music surrounding me all the time. I pictured the black plaque with the gold words, Box Five, carved into it and telling myself that I would be back. Great memories, all of them.

  But then I could still feel the pain during the darker side of my childhood; like the night that uncovered my rampant temper. I felt pity for that child when he discovered the chicks he loved had been killed. What made that night even worse was my anger and disappointment in my father for being a party to their lifeless bodies floating in my soup. My anger frightened me terribly that night and it still did.

  Another traumatic event that surfaced while I watched that spider was when my mother refused my embrace. As if it had just happened, I felt first the pain and then the anger as I chased her down the street, screaming my hatred for her. I could feel the torment in my heart as I retreated into the forest all alone, feeling so ashamed and frightened. That day began my nightmares, filled with gawking and terrified faces, and my hatred for mankind.

  I took a deep breath and could feel the many scars begin to form on my heart as well as the physical pain when my mother found me playing her violin and threw me out of the house. I closed my eyes to those horrible weeks when I suffered such agony with my first lung infection. But what was even worse was when I’d listened to the account of my birth that explained why my mother feared me so much.

  That began my questions and doubts regarding my existence. Was I from another planet? Was I a demon? Or was I simply a deformed and demented child genius? I looked back at the spider and realized I was going to my grave without having answers to those questions, while, at the same time, I knew I was going there with a peace that was far overdue.

  I don’t know how or why it happened, but, for the first time in my life, I felt a calmness float over me with the realization that I was at peace with my mother—finally. I’d always felt I hated her, but I knew then that I didn’t and never really had. If for no other reason, I was glad that Oded had encouraged me to wait before ending my life. If he hadn’t, I never would have had that peace with my mother.

  In retrospect, I could understand what that child felt. It was frustration and hurt because of not knowing why his mother treated him so harshly. But, as I thought about Celeste’s description of my mother and her death, what I felt for her was different than what I’d felt for Franco, Pete Jr., Yves, and the rest of mankind that treated me badly.

  I hated them, and that’s what enabled me to want to kill them, but I never wanted to kill my mother or see her dead or even see her hurt. While I’d lost my temper with her often, I never hurt her physically, and, since I’d nearly killed Franco, I knew I’d had the physical strength to hurt her if I’d really wanted to. I believe I was shaking my head when I finally understood why it hurt so much to hear about her death.

  “I didn’t hate her,” I whispered.

  Why couldn’t I have understood that I really loved her while she was still alive? If I had, our life together would have been so much different. Another tear trickled from my eye when my heart opened up and allowed me to mourn my mother’s death. It was then that I made the decision to put my father’s watch and my mother’s locket in that green velvet bag together and have it in my vest pocket, close to my heart, when I went to my final resting place.

  Death. My life was so full of it, and, when I closed my eyes again, I could see clearly that lantern being thrown at my father and then him bursting into flames. I could hear my screams and feel the heat from his body when he said his last words to me and took his last breath. As if a knife was entering my chest anew, I felt the anguish in my heart when I saw his life leave his blue eyes.

  From my earliest recollections, I’d needed to control the actions of those around me to protect my heart, but, after experiencing the horrifying death of my father, I realized I couldn’t control everything and everyone.

  I quickly took a large swallow of my wine, trying to change the direction my thoughts were going in, but it was too late. That horrible nightmare and the sounds and sights became real, and once more my mind wouldn’t be calm. Relentlessly, my thoughts swayed back and forth between two of my worst nightmares—my last hours with Christine and my last hours with my father. I could put all my horrendous nightmares in one big bag and it wouldn’t weigh nearly as much as the ones I’d had to face those two nights.

  Nightmares—my life was riddled with them. Some were real life events, but most were sinister nightly visitors and thankfully nothing more. Often, I couldn’t tell the difference between the two. In fact, sometimes I thought I was in the midst of a nightmare and trying to wake, only to find I was already awake and the living nightmare had only begun.

  That autumn day in 1846 was one of those days, and, even though logic told me I was an adult and living in Paris, my overactive emotions turned me back into that wounded child in Perros-Guirec. I grabbed my stomach with real pain, just as real as on that morning when I’d had to wake and face the truth about my greatest fear and my worst living nightmare—my father’s horrible death.

  As the warmth of one lone tear trailed across my temple and nestled in my hair, I could no longer see that spider through my tears. My heart still ached with the thought of never hearing my father’s rich voice or seeing his warm smile again.

  I took out my watch, wiped the tears from my eyes so I could look at the time, and started to set it on the table. But then I stopped and ran my fingertips over the two horse heads on the cover, now severely worn f
rom all the times it had been caressed. How often I’d watched my father remove that watch from his pocket, look at the time, close the cover, and feel the horse heads with his fingertips. Then he’d always smile at me as he replaced it in his pocket.

  How is it that an inanimate object like my watch could hold so many memories, both special and painful? But no matter how agonizing they might be, I would never give up the memories of that extraordinary man. What a unique privilege I’d had to have him as my friend and father, my mentor and inspiration. He always tried his best to give me an abundance of love and proper guidance, regardless of how difficult I was.

  My chest rose with the taking in of a deep breath, and I thought, how long should a son mourn the death of his father? One year? Five years? Ten years? It had been 35 years, and I was still lamenting the loss of that incredible human being as if it had just happened. So how long was a son to lament? That was a question I’d never been able to answer, and, since my death would put an end to it all, I never would answer it.

  While my excellent memory had served me well over the years, there were times when it was truly a detriment, and the time I spent watching that spider was one of those times. To me, remembering was so much more than a mere recollection of happenings, it was a reliving of events with all the joy and despair included. During those times, I cursed my ability to recall events so clearly.

  I’d spent the last few days shedding so many tears and feeling so much anguish that I really didn’t want any more of it; therefore, when another surge of pain streaked across my heart and another tear escaped from my eye, I stopped watching that spider, swung my legs off the divan, and angrily rose to my feet.

  “Enough,” I growled. “Enough!”

  Then I rebuked myself. Enough of this torturous trip into my past. I won’t allow myself to spend what time I have left wallowing in self-pity—I won’t! I’ll prepare for my death and burial. That’s what needs to be done, so that’s what I’ll do.