In her jewelry box, I found the first jewelry I’d given her from the gala, her pearls from the night of our first romantic dinner, the two sets of hair combs and matching necklaces, and her watch. But I didn’t want to give them to Oded. I wanted her to have them, so I left them in her jewelry box, hoping she would take them with her when she left my home for the last time. Not giving myself time to think about what I was doing, I left my home and climbed the stairs to the passage behind the mirror.
Then, with my palm on her mirror, I whispered, “Christine.”
If but for only a moment we could have shared our love, my life would have been worth living. If she could have given me love for but an hour, I could have made the sun hesitate and take notice. If I could have expressed to her the depth of my love, I could have changed the course of tides. But since neither of us could or would express that love properly, the sun kept moving and the tides forever rolled and my life was no longer worth living. As Henry had told me on his deathbed—life wasn’t fun anymore.
I pressed the lever, and her mirror rumbled softly on its pivots and opened, releasing her fragrance. After lighting her table lamp, I leaned back against the wall and let memories of her rush through my heart. When I pictured her at her dressing table, preparing for the gala, my entire being ached to go back to that moment. If I could, our time together could have been so different and she could have expressed her love for me—I just knew it.
During those last minutes when we were together in my home, I saw her eyes speak to me that language of love, but it was too late for those words any longer. The only thoughts left to speak were words of goodbye.
I whispered, “She’s all gone.”
With a heavy sigh, I set Sari’s box on the dressing table and then sat in the chair, telling myself not to go to that dark place but to do what I was there to do. Therefore, I opened the drawers, looking for anything I could send to Oded and found everything still where she’d left it.
My hand and thoughts went straight to her diary that had helped me to understand her and teach her. When I lifted it out, a single dried rose petal dropped to the floor, so I set her diary on my lap and reached for the petal. I held it to my face, closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and pictured her putting those petals in her diary.
Again, I whispered, “Christine.”
The melody of “One Beat” floated through my heart, and I relived the day I’d composed it. While lost in that memory somewhere, I was startled by the sound of a key in the lock. Instantly on my feet, I grabbed Sari’s box and was in the passage with the mirror closing when the dressing room door opened.
Remaining motionless, I watched Meg and Jammes enter. Meg stopped abruptly, looking at the lit lamp on the dressing table. Her eyes widened and she covered her nose and mouth with her shaking fingers, while I held my breath and wondered if she’d seen the mirror close.
Jammes, looking at Meg’s worried face, asked, “Meg, what’s wrong?”
Meg looked at the mirror and barely whispered, “Someone’s been in here.”
“Christine?” Jammes questioned with excitement.
“No,” Meg whispered once more. Then, while leaning in closer to her companion, she added, “Not Christine.”
Meg finally turned her gaze from the mirror and glanced around the room quickly. Her sight stopped when she noticed the diary on the floor. Almost cautiously, she moved across the room and picked it up.
“See,” Jammes insisted, “Christine must have been here. Isn’t that her diary?”
Meg only nodded and looked again at the mirror. “It wasn’t Christine who was in here, Jammes. Don’t you smell that musty, damp odor?”
Taking a deep breath, Jammes answered, “Yes. What is it?”
“The mirror has been opened. He’s been here,” Meg murmured.
Jammes frowned, looked at Meg’s face, and then at the mirror before she questioned, “Who, Meg?” Then in an instant, her fingers covered her lips and a gasp. “Do you think he was really in here?”
Meg looked down at the diary in her hands, and when her eyes came back to the mirror, there were tears in them.
Jammes, still a bit concerned about her friend, asked, “What’s wrong, Meg? Talk to me.”
“He loved her so much,” Meg responded softly, while looking back at the diary. “He loved her, and she loved him.”
My eyes closed, and I sighed. I knew she loved me. My heart pounded steadily against my chest, and, when my knees became weak, I leaned against the wall. When I heard Jammes’ voice again, I looked back at the two ballerinas.
“Meg,” Jammes said as she shook Meg’s arm, “you’re trembling. We should go. We can come back for Christine’s things later.”
Meg shook her head. “No, this won’t take but a minute.” Then she quickly grabbed all of Christine’s things out of the drawers, including her diary. “We can come back for her clothes later,” she added.
Jammes opened the door and was gone from sight while Meg turned the lamp off and started to leave, but then she hesitated with her hand on the door. Once more, she looked at the mirror and then lowered her head and left, closing the door behind her.
I stayed for a few moments in the dark passageway, feeling the rose petal between my fingers. “Oh, Christine,” I whispered. “Oh, Christine.” I then slipped the rose petal into my pocket, remembering all the times I’d watched her in her dressing room.
Meg’s words echoed with each beat of my heart. Christine loved me. I knew she loved me. Then, once more, varied memories floated through my mind—like morning mist through an empty park. Christine joyful and laughing—Christine terrified and sobbing. I pressed my palm on the mirror and thought, that’s where it all started, our downhill plunge into the disaster of our lives.
I didn’t allow myself more than a few seconds to think about the horrible monster I was, both inside and out, before I sighed disgustedly, lit my lantern, turned, and walked away—without looking back that time. Finish it quickly, was my main thought, so with one quick glance at the keepsake box in my hand, I began my journey toward my Persian friend. It wasn’t the scheduled time for me to deliver the box, but I couldn’t wait the four days. I wanted and needed to finish what I’d started before I turned coward and changed my mind.
Before long, I stepped out into the open and closed the last of the Opera’s doors behind me. The night was clear but had a hint of a chill as I walked the deserted streets alone toward Oded’s flat. I’d walked that same path so many times before, but, that night, life was missing from my steps.
Once more, I looked down at the box in my hand, reflecting the nearly full moon, and thought about my friend. The first thought that came to my mind almost brought a smile. Despite the bitter memories of our departure from Persia and that last night in my Paris home, there were good memories also, beginning with our first encounter. Well, at least they were good memories to me. Perhaps Oded had a different version of our first meeting, but, as for me, I was definitely amused.
I looked at the stars overhead, the same stars that had appeared in the Russian sky that night. They hadn’t changed one bit, they were still in their assigned places, but our relationship had moved from place to place and changed dramatically.
Once I reached the Tuileries, I stopped when I saw a light in his window. Since I needed him to be in bed before I left the box, I took out my watch and looked at the time. It was two a.m., so he should have been asleep, but since he wasn’t, I sat on a park bench, intending to wait for the light to go out. That’s what I told myself, but deep inside my heart I knew I was only postponing the inevitable.
I really didn’t want to end my life, but I felt it was necessary, and those two conflicting thoughts were torturing me. So much so that for the first time I could understand how someone could put a bullet through their brain without any consideration for the ones who would have to clean up the results of their action.
To this day, I fear, if I’d had a pistol on me at the time, I might have en
ded it right there in the park. But I didn’t carry a pistol, so I sat there, bent over with my head in my hands and pulling at my hair.
With a deep breath, I sat back up, ran my fingers over the gold box in my hands again, and looked down the silent street. I might have exasperated Oded that day in Russia but not nearly as much as during the decades that followed. I lowered my eyes to the box and sighed sadly at the memory of our time in Persia. He was a worthy opponent, and he was a worthy friend.
The gold filigree shimmered in the lamplight, and my fingers followed the curves around its graceful designs. I raised my eyes to the lit window again, and my heart ached for my unfortunate friend. My head shook with the memory of his great loss, the memory of our great loss.
I watched silently as a shadow moved across the wall of his flat until the figure of a man appeared in the window—Oded—Mon Ami. I took a deep breath and allowed myself to feel the pain in my heart, but it was only momentary. I thought I was hidden among the trees and the shadows, but apparently not, because he abruptly turned from the window and darted toward his door.
Instantly, I jumped to my feet and took off at a run away from him, hopefully disappearing in the darkness and the scattered trees. When he reached the street, he began calling my name and continued to call as he crossed the street and entered the park.
“Erik, don’t play this game with me. Come, talk to me! I need to talk to you!”
I hid behind a large tree and held my breath, but his next words made my jaw drop.
“Erik! Comte Philippe de Chagny is dead! Do you know what happened to him? Erik! I know you can hear me. Answer me!”
For only a moment, I was shocked and confused, and I almost answered him just to satisfy my curiosity, but then, as my brow furrowed, I became angry. The tone in his voice was definitely accusatory, and I ground my teeth. It would never end. I would always be blamed for all the deaths in my sphere. It would never end.
Even though I wanted to know what had happened to the Comte, I didn’t dare approach Oded with the anger I was feeling, so, while he continued to call to me, I set my jaw and slithered farther away. On my way back to the opera house, different scenarios about Philippe’s death came to mind.
He didn’t have any enemies that I could think of. He was liked and respected by all in his circle, or at least that’s what I thought. I knew Raoul had been fighting with him about Christine, but I couldn’t see Raoul killing his own brother. But then I knew he was quick to pull the trigger, so perhaps in anger he could have.
When I reached the lake, I was still in deep thought about the Comte and even somewhat sad. I knew he would be missed by many. Why was I allowed to keep living when such a fine man had died? If there was a being controlling our lives, he wasn’t fair.
I was starting to get in my boat, but then I couldn’t do it. My curiosity had to be appeased. I had to know what had happened to him. So as I looked back toward the stairs, I thought about two avenues to answer my question. I could go back up on the streets and find a newspaper or I could eavesdrop on any who were still awake in the opera house. I felt sure their conversations would include such terrible news.
I figured two sets of people would be awake in the house, the watchmen and the stable grooms. Since I didn’t know just where the watchmen were, I hid Sari’s box behind a loose brick and headed for the stable. I found two grooms playing cards and talking about the girls they’d slept with recently, so I waited for a change in their conversation. It took two changes before a familiar subject came up—the Opera Ghost. Then, sure enough, Philippe’s death weaved its way into the Ghost’s affairs.
Supposedly, the Ghost lured him down to the fifth cellar with incantations and then drowned him in the lake. The grooms reasoned it had been several months since Joseph died, and the Ghost needed a fresh kill. I closed my eyes tightly. I would be glad when I could no longer hear such ridiculous gossip. As I turned to leave, the grooms had another thought. The Ghost lured him down there to experiment with a different type of death, something other than strangulation.
By the time I reached the lake, I had my own ideas about his death. I could see Philippe trying to prevent Raoul from crossing the lake in pursuit of Christine, an argument ensuing, and Philippe falling into the lake. But the most plausible scenario would be Philippe using my boat to find his missing brother.
I knew how easy it was to capsize my boat, especially for someone not familiar with it. I also knew how heavy dress attire was when it was wet. More than once, I’d barely escaped death in that fashion. And since I’d found my boat in the middle of the lake with a Chagny scarf in it, I felt my version of his death was the closest to the truth.
I leaned against a pillar and remembered a conversation I’d overheard in the stable about another death blamed on the Opera Ghost. While I wasn’t directly responsible for Philippe’s death, I was responsible for that other man’s death. But that one was truly in self-defense, and I still had his dagger and the scar it left in my side as proof.
I closed my eyes and saw all the deaths that occurred within the walls of the opera house during that traumatic time for France, and Paris in particular. Considering how they used the opera house during that war, it was a wonder it was still standing. I shuddered when I thought about all the men I’d had to bury.
As I looked at the dock, I pictured being there with Dominick when he returned from the war. He was emotionally scarred, but he was alive, and I was so thankful for that. I also remembered the other times we talked on that dock, explaining to him why I chose not to fight when tormented by the other workers. Then I pictured his battered face after being beaten up by them for defending my name.
Dominick was special to me, and I felt privileged to have tutored him and known him as a friend. I might have had to bury several men during that war, but at least none of them were friends. The only thing I lost of a personal nature to that war was my beloved horses. When I allowed myself to think about the time I spent with them by the lake before I left them alone, the pain in my heart was tremendous. I could still picture them healthy and happy in that meadow and not on someone’s dinner plate, so the tears I shed over them were bittersweet.
I lowered my eyes when so many memories about the construction of the opera house surfaced. I remembered how frantically I’d worked on the plans for the judging committee and the day they interviewed me and turned me and my plans down. I remembered everything about the opera house, from my first day working on it straight through its inauguration and beyond.
I even had to smile when I thought about the way I controlled my managers and the other directors in the house. That also went for how the legend of the Opera Ghost got started and all the outlandish stories told about him—or me. I thought about all the newspaper articles written about him and how those stories helped increase the popularity of the performances.
When I took everything into consideration, I felt good about my time at the opera house. I accomplished much, not only on the structure itself, but also in the lives of the people associated with it. And I felt good about others as well, like Dominick, his family, the people in their little town, and the Marseilles and the construction of their home. Those thoughts made me think about Oded and how he tried to encourage me to see all that I’d accomplished and could yet accomplish.
I took a deep breath and began walking around the lake, looking at the arches and thinking. I glanced across the lake and remembered my excitement when I began construction on my home in the fifth cellar. At that time, I thought it would solve all my problems. But then, that was before I became known as the Phantom and before all my serious problems began.
It was strange. I’d fought my entire life to keep from being locked behind bars, and yet I’d sentenced myself to a solitary life beneath the busy streets of Paris. But even if I wasn’t living in the depths of the Opera House and I’d built that sought-after castle in the sky, I would still be waking in it alone. As I walked and relived my career as the Opera Ghost, my f
ootfalls echoed through my memories.
Before long, I was also walking through the corridors and running my fingers over the banisters, walls, sets, seats, sculptures, lamps, mirrors, and more. I looked up at the grand chandelier and remembered the day it was put in place and Box Five and the many hours I spent perfecting it and the column I escaped through. As I did so, my feelings were leaning toward what Oded wanted—the preservation of my life.
I stopped on the grand staircase and looked around at all I could see, and I remembered the day when I’d stood on the grand staircase in the palace in Persia, and I felt the same pride for both. I’d accomplished good in my life, and I knew, if there was a way to control certain situations, I could accomplish much more—just as Oded had said. What I was feeling was why he wanted me to wait the four days, and, as I surveyed all I’d done, his ploy would have stopped me right then if it wasn’t overshadowed by what I almost did that last horrible night in my home.
It didn’t matter what I’d accomplished—or could—in a constructive way, but what did matter was what I almost did and could still do in a destructive way. I looked at the magnificent building I was in, and in one instant I could have brought her down to nothing more than a heap of rubble with broken and bloody bodies mixed in. I closed my eyes tightly to that ghastly vision.
“No,” I whispered. “I’m going to win this argument with Oded. I have to stop the possibility of any more disasters happening.”
With that thought, I began my walk back to my home, and, in the process, I realized something I’d never thought about before. While I knew I was always happy when I was doing the things I loved most, creating buildings and music, it was only when I was doing it for someone else, and not my sorry self, that I was the happiest.
It began with my father. When I saw how my actions cut into his heart and then made the determination that I would no longer do anything to hurt him, my life took a turn for the better. Then when I discovered why my mother was so unhappy and knew I could no longer hurt her, I became content with her negative reactions to me.
Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine Page 81
