I began by throwing out all the dead and dying flowers, which was a ridiculous project. Why did I care if there were dead flowers around my home when there was going to be a dead body lying in it soon? I couldn’t answer that question either, so I figured it was just another one of my idiosyncrasies.
I washed all the dishes, threw away all my dirty clothes, boxed the blood-splattered wedding dress and put it under the bed. Then I spent some time cleaning my music room that I’d left in a shambles after my angry fit. When I replaced Molly on her pedestal, I ran my fingers over her nose and ears and apologized to her for my cruelty, another peculiar act.
While in there, I tried spending some time with my music, but, as I’d explained to Oded, there was no life in it without Christine. It only made my fingers blur on the black and ivory keys, so I didn’t play for long.
I hadn’t had a bath in days, so taking one was a logical next step, but not a good emotional step. Her bath was still filled with her lavender things, making it difficult to be in that room. I started to put her things in her armoire, but then I stopped. It hurt to be reminded about her, but then it also made me feel closer to her, so I left them where she’d left them.
While the tub was filling, I got a glass of brandy and stripped my clothes and mask off. As I slipped under the water, my eyes closed, and I tried to relax while massaging my aching neck and shoulder. I moved it around in circles and then looked at the horrible scar that was left as evidence of our love triangle. When I did, I noticed a lot of new bruising streaking down my chest, probably from my exertion in the mirror chamber, I reasoned.
I took a swallow of the brandy, a deep breath and thought again, doesn’t matter now. Not much did. However, the warm bath, that scar and the other scars that came into view, brought to the fore another distressing time in my life.
There had been far too many times when I would have given anything for a warm bath, especially during the ten years after my father died and I’d left home. Again those thoughts made my chest hurt, partially because of the loss of my father and partially for the young boy who’d lost not only his father and protector but also his childhood that October eve.
During the agony of the night my father died, I remember thinking about the cliffs at our ocean property, but nothing more. I didn’t think about my goal of Venice or my excitement about its nearness just minutes earlier. And when I’d needed them the most, I couldn’t hear my father’s words of wisdom and direction. I couldn’t recall his instruction: Never let any obstacle stand in the way of your goals.
But then, he couldn’t possibly have known it would be his own tragic death that was the first insurmountable obstacle in my path. And in his wildest imagination, he couldn’t have guessed the number of obstacles that would raise their ugly heads along that path. There were numerous heads, so vile and shocking they made my deformity pale into nothingness.
If I’d known what awaited me in the days, weeks, months, and years to come, I’m sure I would have thrown myself off those cliffs that same night. But I was innocent of all the trials that awaited me.
More brandy slid past my lips, and I closed my eyes momentarily while savoring its distinctive warmth and the warmth of the water surrounding me. Opening my eyes, I watched the crystal glass sparkle as I set it on the edge of my marble tub. Then my sight focused beyond it to my mask lying on the floor where I’d dropped it. Sighing, I reached for it and ran my fingers over its details.
Closing my eyes again, I thought it was by far the best I’d made and the one Christine favored. It was also the one I’d been wearing when I felt my first kiss from the woman who owned my heart—my Christine. It wasn’t difficult to see why we preferred it, even more than the one she threw into the fire. It appeared the most human, with its tan color and unique features.
I took a sip of brandy and closed my eyes again, shivering with the thought of the days that had followed my father’s death—the horror of his funeral, telling him goodbye, composing and playing “Papa’s Song” for him, being robbed and having the violin he gave me crushed, being kidnapped, and spending six months in that circus cage. My time alone trying to make it to Venice had been extremely hard on me, but it was a holiday compared to the time I’d spent as a circus freak—a living corpse.
Even though I was in a nice warm bath and in my own home, it made my stomach sick to remember that time. But my next vision actually made me close my eyes tightly and turn my head away, as if my bath was responsible for conjuring up the sight of my first victim’s blue face—Yves’ blue face. I again shuddered and took another sip of brandy.
Once again I laid my head back against the tub, remembering the crude but clever tub I’d made in a stream. Those baths were cold, but, after spending so long in that filthy cage, they were wonderful to me.
That had been one of the strangest times in my life. I remember feeling nothing, just going through the same routine day in and day out. I ate and I bathed but I never spoke, sang, or even hummed. It was as if I didn’t have a mind of my own, as if I was doing whatever someone else told me to do; however, I was completely alone during that time, with the exception of Molly. But I didn’t even talk to her.
I’d found my cruelest enemy while in that cage, then I had no one while at the stream, and, shortly thereafter, I found my guardian angel—Jean Luc. As a small boy traveling alone across France and Italy, I seldom had a chance for a warm bath, except for the year I spent with Jean Luc. He truly snatched me out of the grave and gave me light and hope, and the thought of him made me feel warm in a different way.
Singlehandedly, he helped me realize there were good people who shared this world with me. He was a living example of my father’s guiding words: Give them a chance to know you, Erik, and they’ll have to love you. Thoughts about Jean Luc made me think about the Gypsies, who also befriended me.
If my thoughts could have gone straight from Jean Luc to the Gypsies, that period of walking through my memories wouldn’t have been too bad, but they couldn’t. Between them sat horrible times, some of the worst in my life.
I tried to breathe past the sting of that memory and focus on something pleasant, but, at that time, everything around me painted a heartbreaking picture. While looking at my mask, I saw all the roads I’d traveled with it—most of them distressing. When I looked away from the mask, I saw my home beneath the Paris Opera House and those last horrible hours with Christine.
Thankfully, I also had pleasant thoughts of her, which stirred up memories filled with happiness, music, and laughter. If I could stay focused on only those occasions, then I could ward off the grief and the temptation to let the drug end my agony before the four days were up. Concentrate, I told myself. But I couldn’t get past the thoughts about that poor boy traveling across Europe alone. I wanted, or perhaps needed, to mourn his loss.
I remembered going from one day being hopeful about Venice and then the next day being in so much physical pain that I turned to alcohol to control it. Then I thought about that year when I was so inebriated that I could hardly remember anything about it, and I felt repulsed. My teeth clenched and my head shook when I thought about what it took to end that year—a bullet in my back and being jailed as a thief.
I could still see the kind eyes of the doctor who took care of me while I was behind bars and who helped me get my feet back on the road leading to Venice and the conservatory. Sadly though, I could also see the disgusted eyes of the director of that conservatory when he rejected me without an audition. Such two extremes. But then, that was my life, going from good to bad to worse and back again.
Nevertheless, as I thought about that boy after he was rejected by the conservatory, I had a measure of pride in what I’d accomplished. True, I might have borrowed their Stradivarius for an extended period of time, but I’d done so with a smile on my lips and not in angered retaliation. And even though I was shunned by the majority of those I came across in the months that followed, I’d made the decision not to let them knock me down. I was determined to
travel with my devoted horses, Molly, Libre, and Big Luc, and learn about cultures, history, music, science, and everything in between.
However, my brow furrowed and my eyes closed tightly again when I recalled the reason why my plans were altered. While fighting for my life against two full grown men, I’d killed them both. At first I was beyond traumatized. I vomited repeatedly and then spent the entire night sitting by the small lake with my mind and emotions in a thick fog, but when I came out of that fog I no longer had any feelings—good or bad.
As I watched the brandy swirl around in my glass, I remembered how empty my heart felt, almost as if it wasn’t there. That was the worst period in my life, even worse than the time I spent in the cage. I killed without the blink of an eye; however, I never went looking for victims, they innocently approached me, just like a fly in that spider’s web, and I killed them simply because they were in my way or they looked at me the wrong way.
I took a sip of brandy, shook my head, shivered, and forced myself to think about a better time. While remembering my ability to kill so easily, I automatically turned my thoughts to my little trainer who taught me the skill of the Punjab lasso. I learned other important lessons from him, like how to control my temper. That was something my father had spent years trying to help me learn, and yet just a few months with that strange Oriental and I had the insight I needed to manage my temper, which helped me save lives instead of taking them.
All in all, by the time I was 20, I’d learned how to live among the hateful men who wanted to do me harm without harming them, and how to be self-sufficient, or, should I say, how to get what I wanted even if I had to steal it. However, I also learned how to make a good living doing what I loved the most—creating music.
I laid my head back against the tub and remembered the time I’d spent with the Gypsies. Those were good years; traveling, working on construction sites, and meeting up with the Gypsies for their carnivals. That was the beginning of my wealth. Between working for powerful people with riches to spread around and then entertaining for people who were appreciative of my art and who also lined my pocket with what riches they had, I always had everything of a physical nature that I wanted. But few of my emotional needs were met. I was hopelessly lonely and feared letting anyone get too close to me because of what I believed was my curse.
I raised my head and nodded, thinking that my trunk in my music room still held more material goods than I would need in a normal lifetime. But then my lifetime was only going to be a matter of days, so that wouldn’t take much. I decided then to leave what I had with either Christine or Oded. Even if Raoul rejected Christine for some reason, what I had in that trunk would take care of her and Oded for the rest of their lives.
I took another sip and laid my head back again, still thinking about the carnivals. I thought about Michaela who inspired my first love ballad, “Butterfly Wings.” I relived my performances in my tent that was decorated to resemble an opera house, and I remembered the elation I felt from my appreciative audiences’ accolades.
Then I felt a large smile on my lips when I thought about the night I’d first encountered Oded. I even chuckled aloud when I remembered the frustration in his voice. He never did handle my pranks or sarcasm well.
When I thought about Oded, I decided to do something I’d been putting off—getting a box to put Christine’s things in for him. I had a particular box in mind, so, after getting out of the tub and dressing, I headed for my old trunk in my music room and knelt down beside it. I hadn’t opened it in many years, and, once I did, the smell released memories of long ago.
I thought about the Shah and how pleased he was with his palace. Even when I was fighting for my life, I was also pleased. I was victorious in battling against his powerful regime and had saved a thousand lives in addition to my own. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling good about some of my stay in Persia. Out of all my designs and builds, I think I was the most proud of that palace. It accomplished what I wanted. It protected the Shah, and it was a stunning jewel on Mazenderan’s landscape.
Other than the time I’d spent with my father, that period held both my highest and lowest points—the happiest and the saddest. I learned how to accept love from others, and I learned how to trust, to a degree anyway. But then, I also learned about the darkest part of my heart—the heart that should have stopped beating at my birth. If it had, many lives would have been spared. But it didn’t stop at my birth or any time thereafter, so I had to stop it. I glanced at my watch and realized I had two more days before I could perform my last act—like it or not.
I moved my old and tattered cloak aside, feeling the jewels enclosed in its hem and thought about how I’d acquired them all. I was still a wealthy man, but what had my wealth brought me? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! My existence was sad, cold, and lonely, just as cold as all the jewels in that hem. I might have had all the physical comforts a man could want, but, as for that which makes up a true life, happiness and contentment, all my wealth had been useless—powerless to give me a truly happy life.
When I found one lone sapphire lying in the bottom of the trunk, I rolled it in my palm. Meager trinkets and nothing more. All those years they’d been lying in my trunk, and they’d been no use to me whatsoever.
“No use to me now,” I muttered.
While still looking at the blue stone in my palm, I made the decision to give Oded my jewels and gold coins. He deserved them. After all, he would still be living a comfortable and respectable life in Persia if it weren’t for me. My jewels were a mere token compared to what I owed my persistent Persian.
However, the one sapphire in my hand I wanted to give to Madame Geri as a token of my appreciation for the many years she’d supported me. During the time when I was all alone and fighting for my right to have Box Five for my personal use, she was the only one who’d helped me get what I wanted. She never once turned down my request to deliver a note to my managers, sometimes at a cost to her reputation and position at the opera house. Yes, that gem would suffice nicely as a farewell gift to her and support her comfortably in her retirement, so I slipped it into my pocket.
As I moved my cloak aside, I found what I was looking for, the gold and turquoise box. I lifted it out and ran my fingers over its delicate swirls and the soft velvet inlays. Winding the spring on its bottom, I opened the lid, and then I closed my eyes and listened to the melody. For a few moments, I relived the first time I’d heard it, and I felt at peace.
During those rare months in Persia, I’d had hope for a real and happy future with Vashti as my wife. But then the music brought another vision, and I closed the lid quickly before the truth and further grief surfaced, the truth about what I’d lost in Persia—Vashti. Nonetheless, that box was the perfect place to put Christine’s things, and, as I again ran my fingers over the gold carvings, I honestly smiled. I pictured Oded’s grin and sparkling jade eyes the first time he saw that box and understood its purpose. That was such a happy time in both our lives.
As my soft chuckle echoed through my music room, I pictured his eyes so confused and frustrated the first time he heard my voice. I remembered having to restrain my laughter that cold night to keep from giving away my location. I could remember everything about that night in Volgograd, Russia; how the cold breeze was nipping at my fingers, the sound of the leather cinch as I tightened it, the smell of the smoldering campfire, the distant cry of a small child in his wagon, the sight of a billion stars in the dark sky, and Oded’s voice the first time I heard him speak my name—everything.
I looked down at the orchids embossed on the cover of the box and remembered how irritated he’d been with me long before he’d ever met me. Poor Oded. Oh, Oded, why did you have to come looking for me that night? Why did I let my curiosity get the better of me? Why? As usual, too many questions and not nearly enough answers or the time to find them.
Holding the box in my hand, I sighed and let memories, many and varied, flow freely across my heart. I’d
helped many in Persia with my imagination, but I’d also hurt many with my diabolical genius. My only wish was that I could have helped more and hurt fewer.
My thoughts also meandered through the time I spent with Oded’s family. I smiled when I thought about his boys and how I taught them to ride and to build. I thought about Sari, a jewel finer than the palace, and Vashti, who would have made an excellent wife just like her mother.
I still could see her beautiful jade eyes when I removed my mask in front of her. Her expression and the words she used at that time warmed my heart, but it also fractured my heart when I thought about her horrible death and my last vision of her poor burnt face.
Enough of this torture, I told myself, so I went back to searching through the trunk. But as I moved more things around in it, a musty smell met me, bringing my thoughts to the one dark spot in the palace—the mirror chamber. While it protected the Shah, it was also the predecessor for the horror in my cellar home, and that thought made my insides shiver. It also made me think about the terrors in Persia, beginning with my assassination of those generals, their retaliation against Oded’s family, and my counteraction—the campfire slaughter.
With those thoughts, the same sick feeling rushed through me that I’d had the previous nights, and I couldn’t let that happen, not when I still had two days to wait for my release. I looked around and felt the walls coming in on me. I lowered my head and closed my eyes, willing myself to stay in control.
But I couldn’t. That irresistible urge to run filled me and stripped away my control. I was losing what little restraint I had left, and that foreboding feeling entered my gut—like something terrible was about to happen.
Fifty-Five
As a result, I jumped up with Sari’s keepsake box in hand, knowing I couldn’t wait the full four days. Once in Christine’s room, I quickly went through her dressing table, looking for items to put in Sari’s box for Oded. I found her diary, a lone shoe buckle from the production of Juive, and a handkerchief and placed them in the box. I hoped if Oded had a chance to read Christine’s writings then he might understand how we felt about each other.
Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine Page 80
