Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  The thought of Christine’s eyes when she gave me my first kiss gave me hope that something could happen between us. I saw the love in her eyes, and I felt it in the air around us that night. I knew she would love me with a love that was true—as I did her. But then, at the same time, it was the thought of her traumatized eyes that made me realize I had to free her from the harmful effects of my company. But regardless of the expression in her eyes, the bottom line was clear, my death was the best thing for all concerned.

  As I took a sip of my wine and watched the sparks gracefully rise from the flames, I again questioned the condition of the dead. I didn’t want to believe in another life after the one I’d mutilated. If there was a life after death, it would mean my father had been watching me my entire life. It would mean he saw all that had happened to me and, worse yet, by me. He would also know what I was about to do. Without a doubt, his heart would be bleeding and would have been bleeding all my life, since my entire life had been spattered with failures.

  I took a deep breath and the last swallow of my wine. Then I glanced toward my music room, knowing what I had to do next, so I got up and went to my armoire. Once there, I took out the green velvet bag and shook my mother’s locket out into my palm. I looked at my scratched name inside and felt entirely different than I had the first time I’d seen it. I felt warmth and envisioned the softer side of my mother when we shared our musical journeys together. But then I made the mistake of wondering, was she also alive somewhere and watching my life? I closed my eyes tightly and clamped my jaws, not willing to let my thoughts go in that direction.

  I instantly replaced the locket in the bag and set it on top of my piano. In the same fashion, without thinking about it, I took the small box that held my supply of morphine out of my armoire and laid it beside the bag. My palm was the next item to land on my piano, and I felt its smooth finish. With another sigh, I sat down and began playing.

  Even though I couldn’t enjoy it the same without Christine, I played several pieces. “Moonlight Sonata” was the last one, and as my fingers traveled over the familiar keys, my eyes closed. In the darkness, I saw my mother at the piano and heard that beautiful refrain fill our home and my heart. I swayed to the rhythm, both as that child and as the man. After the last note faded from my music room, I opened my eyes and looked at my outstretched fingers lying over the keys. Then I shed tears for my poor unhappy mother and her poor unhappy son.

  That unplanned journey confirmed that I loved certain aspects of my life too much to put an end to them. I deeply loved and needed my music, the one constant in my life that always gave me the courage and hope to keep living. But while it helped me want to live, it didn’t help me find a way to live without hurting anyone in the process. No, there was only one answer. I gazed at the black and ivory keys and then the box—my means of life and my means of death.

  With another deep breath, I got up and went back to my armoire, knowing what I needed to do next. I took out my saddlebags and then knelt beside my trunk. I took out my old cloak and tore open the hem, releasing the jewels and gold coins stored inside it. Then I put them in a leather pouch and tossed it in my hand a few times.

  When another surge of memories approached, I took that pouch, and all the money I’d stored in the trunk from the opera management, and put it all in my saddlebags, and then I laid them on top of my piano. I next put my bag of treasures inside my violin case along with my violin. I was ready to close the case but then stopped and ran my fingers over the shiny amber curves, releasing memories and desires. Consequently, I lifted it out of its case and, with my eyes closed, readied it under my chin. As I raised the bow, the first notes of “Papa’s Song” filled the room, just as they’d filled the cemetery that tragic day. Long before the piece was finished, my tears had escaped my mask and fallen to the instrument in my hand. My father—my Papa, I still missed him so much.

  I was again ready to place my violin in its case when I had one more need, so I again raised the bow and released “Anna” from the strings. As I did, I could hear my mother’s talented harmony accompanying me, and, without hindrance, I let more tears flow.

  Eventually, I was able to put my Stradivarius in its case, and, after one more look and one more caress from my fingers, I closed the case. But before I could leave that room of music, I had to spend some last moments with my cello. The last notes that room held came from one of my own compositions, “Cellos in the Clouds.” When the music faded, I sat quietly and thought about all the compositions I’d written. The one I’d just played was my favorite for the cello.

  Not letting myself think too deeply, I went to Christine’s bedroom and placed my violin on her bed and the box of morphine on the small table beside her bed. Once I got the jeweled knife out of the kitchen, I put it in the saddlebags along with the rest of my wealth.

  Only one last group to organize, I thought. I gathered all my writings, the many pages containing my life story and the important pieces of music I’d composed, with the exception of Don Juan Triumphant. I didn’t want that dark piece of music remembered by anyone. Then I put them all into my old black satchel and fastened it closed. For a few moments, I ran my fingers over the tattered bag, removing layers of dust and remembering when I began chronicling my life stories at that small lake in northern Italy.

  Once that journey was finished, I set the satchel beside my saddlebags on my piano, and put the green velvet bag in my pocket. Then I took one last look around my music room and all my instruments, again with pleasant memories of the endless hours spent in my private, musical world. I looked at the bust of Molly, smiled, and ran my fingers across her nose, remembering her and the man who’d given me that gift. I took a deep breath and headed toward the door, letting my fingertips slide across the top of my piano for one last caress.

  I next stood in my parlor and wound my watch and then pulled the chain on the tall clock to keep it running for as long as it could. I wasn’t going to be around long enough to appreciate either of those actions, so I don’t know why I did them. Then, after running my fingers over the horse heads on my father’s watch for one last time, I put it in the bag with my mother’s locket and put them both in my vest pocket.

  Then I stood in the silence, trying to think if I’d forgotten to do anything before I brought the final curtain down. I could see the bed from where I was standing, and I pictured what was shortly to take place there. When I did, I realized that, while I’d taken precautions to make certain my death was as pleasant as I could make it and that it wouldn’t present too much of a disturbing sight to those who would take care of my burial, there was something I hadn’t thought about.

  I wanted Christine and Raoul to think I’d died of natural causes, but if I passed out before I could hide the morphine and syringe they would question what had really happened to me. Consequently, when I sat down at the dining table to write Christine a note about what to do with my things, I had to add more to make my natural death convincing. I wrote slowly, trying to use my best hand, so it wouldn’t be too difficult for her to understand.

  My Dearest Christine—My Angel,

  I thank you for being here and taking care of my final needs. I hope and pray it won’t be too difficult for you. I love you with a love that’s true, and I’ve never wanted to hurt you in any way, so I deeply apologize for this last unusual burial request.

  On my piano, you’ll find my saddlebags. They hold the accumulation of a lifetime of wealth. I’d like you to keep them for three months. If, at the end of that time, everything is all right between you and Raoul, and he’s taking care of you properly, I’d like you to give them to Oded. If not, I want you to have them.

  Beside my saddlebags, you’ll find a black satchel. It contains my thoughts I’ve written down throughout my life, both in music and word form. I don’t know if you or Oded want them, but if someone does, they can have them. Perhaps they might help any who read them to understand why I was who I was and how hard I tried to be a good person—e
ven if I didn’t succeed.

  Beside me on the bed is my violin case with my violin and some other important treasures inside. I’d like it, along with my ring that I trust you’ll put back on my finger, to be buried with me. Then, except for you, I’ll be taking with me all that mattered the most to me.

  All your jewelry is in your jewelry box. You should take it with you, but if you don’t want it or the jewels around as a reminder, then please give it to Oded. I owe him. He gave up so much to save my life in Persia, so, now that my life is over, I’d like to repay him somehow.

  I’m not sure what condition you’ll find me in, so I feel the need to explain what you might see. I didn’t realize my heart would cause me so much pain in the last days. I thought it would merely tire out until it stopped, but that hasn’t been the case. At times, such as right now, there’s so much pain in my chest that I can hardly bear it. You’ve seen me in dire pain, but I can honestly say this is the worst I’ve ever experienced. So if you see a morphine bottle or syringe you’ll know I took too much while trying to relieve the pain.

  I love you, Christine, perhaps with an insane love, but it was the best my heart could give. From the first moment I saw you on that stage, my heart belonged to you and it will until it beats its final beat. I wish for your life with Raoul to be a happy and complete life and that in time you’ll be able to think about our time together without heartache.

  Whenever you see two red roses, please remember that you deserve your present and your future to be perfect. Always believe in the gifts you’ve been given, and pass them on to your progeny, as all good parents should.

  May your home be filled with the laughter of children and music, and your heart with unbridled happiness—my dear, sweet angel.

  Your Angel of Music forever, Erik.

  Once I felt I’d told her all I needed to tell her, I placed the note beside the roses and her jewelry box. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and looked back at her dressing table, picturing her brushing her long, blonde hair. I saw the look in her eyes that day when she placed the combs in her hair, and I then understood that look was an expression of her desire for me. But it was all right for me to remember and then let it go, because I also believed she loved Raoul and that he would take good care of her.

  Memories. So many memories. I’d heard it said that your life passes quickly in front of your eyes before you die, but what I’d experienced over the last four days was more than a quick passing. I’d lived my entire life over again, so I’d call it more a leisurely stroll than a quick passing. But then, I’d never done anything like a normal man, so why should my final memories be any different?

  I’d used my memories of Christine to help me during my four-day waiting period, and I planned to use them again before my end came. I wanted thoughts of her—her singing, her fragrance, her laughter, her eyes, her movements—to be the last thoughts I ever had. I wanted my death to be as pleasant as possible, and what better way to make it pleasant than to fill it with thoughts of the only woman I ever loved?

  Knowing that my time on earth was over brought sadness to my heart, since I really didn’t want to die. I loved life and almost everything that went along with it. I loved music, sunsets, horses, the ocean, conversations with friends, fine food and wine, and the laughter of children. I hated heated arguments, fighting, wars, and death. But, even though I hated those things, I was somehow responsible for them happening far too often. Why did my life have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t it be like any other man’s life?

  I suppose no man really wants to die when the time comes to say goodbye. Most men usually don’t have a choice in the matter. A war or accident or illness can snuff out their lives without their having a say. I, however, while coming close to death’s door many times, had always managed to escape its grip. Well, not this time, I mused.

  I had to stay focused on that last night with Christine, Raoul, and Oded in my home. I’d almost killed more people in that one evening than I had in the whole of my life. I had to stay focused to prevent any more disasters caused by my hands. It was the only solution.

  I’d tried everything else during my life. I’d tried living by my father’s guidance. I’d tried living a solitary life. I’d tried being human and controlling my temper and living among mankind. I’d tried burying myself in the depths of the opera house. I’d tried giving my heart to a woman. But, no matter what I tried, I always caused someone to be hurt or even killed.

  Since I’d almost taken down part of Paris, I feared what my next diabolical scheme would be and how many more lives I could harm. No, I couldn’t trust myself any longer. I had to end it once and for all. No more waiting periods—no more four days—this was the day of reckoning.

  I sat on Christine’s bed for a few more minutes, looking around the room at all her things. A few more memories traveled across my heart before I took a deep breath, and thought, I’m ready. There’s nothing more to do. I’ve done it all. So I opened the wooden box and took out the morphine and then filled the syringe to the desired level—full. After another deep breath, I watched it lying across my palm. I’d performed that act so many times in my past, but never before with the same intent, never before with a lethal dose of the drug waiting for me.

  I’d perfected my plan for a peaceful, uncomplicated, and clean death, which was nothing like the life I’d led. There would be no mess for anyone to clean up after me. No blood from a dagger or gun and no harsh sounds—just blissful silence.

  I took the rose petal from my pocket and held it in my closed right fist. Then I pushed up my right sleeve and readied the syringe against my vein while thinking over my plan. I would first inject the drug quickly, throw the syringe in the drawer and shut it, lie down on Christine’s pillow, and take my last breath, filled with her fragrance.

  With the feel of the rose petal in my hand and the memory of what it represented in my heart, my last sight would be her room, filled with her presence. One last time, I would say her name and think of her singing, leaving my last sensations filled with only her—my love—my Christine. A perfect plan.

  As if I were merely watching the scene and not participating in it, I watched the needle slide into my vein, almost painlessly. All that’s left is to push the drug in, I told myself. The rest will be up to the liquid to do its quiet work and bring my existence to an end—welcomed or not. I slowly pushed and watched as the soporific liquid moved down the needle and on its way to its destination—its scheduled appointment to stop my heart.

  Another small push and it began to enter my blood stream, and I felt the calm start to release me from all the physical and emotional pain of the years past. Stone-faced, I watched my fingers push again, releasing the peace we all needed. No more pain and no more sorrow, neither for me nor anyone else because of me, just peace and eternal sleep.

  My eyes became heavy, and I reminded myself to push the rest in quickly and get rid of the evidence before I lay down and waited for the sweet sleep to come. Then, once more, I wondered if it would be sweet sleep or torturous awareness. Of all times, I seriously started to wonder about my lifelong belief that death was the end of it all, and that, once the drug had its final fulfillment, all I’d experience was sleep. But then how could I know for sure? What if I was wrong and so many others were right?

  Maybe there was a heaven and a hell. Maybe I would wake up to torment in a hellfire. Or, worse yet, if there was a God of mercy who listened to my heart full of remorse, then I might wake up in heaven and have to look down on the earth for all eternity. Maybe my hell would be watching Raoul take Christine as his wife, hold her, make love to her, laugh with her, produce children and grandchildren with her, while I would be helpless with nowhere to run away to. How could I know for sure what was going to happen to me? Could I bear only watching for eternity?

  My music? No! How could I look at my piano or violin and not be able to play them. No! I can’t! I can’t! Eternal torment would await me either way—heaven or hell—if I couldn
’t play my music. No!

  “No!”

  My scream fractured the still silence like a crystal vase shattering on a marble floor, and I flung the syringe from my veins and watched as it fell to the floor, landing beside its counterpart. Then I threw myself off the bed and against the armoire so hard it made it bounce against the wall with a noisy crash that echoed through my home. I reached up, gripping its façade with my fingers, and I screamed, no, again. I closed my eyes tightly and growled over and over again, pressing my head against its doors.

  Going to sleep and never waking up I could handle, but to live on somehow in just another sphere and not be rid of all my torment, that I couldn’t fathom doing. My head was heavy as I clamped down harder on the façade with my weakening fingers. My knees began to fail me, and slowly I repeated, no. Perhaps I hadn’t taken enough to do the job thoroughly, I could only hope. My fingers gave up their hold, my knees became as rubber, my entire body gave way, and I slid down the face of the armoire.

  I was crumpled like a child’s rag doll on the Persian carpet and against my armoire, with my open right hand lying lifeless and exposing the dried rose petal only centimeters from the means of my demise. My increasingly blurry vision was unable to tell how much morphine I’d taken, so I had no way of knowing just how far I’d gone. My eyes became heavy, and I was doubting my ability to fight the drug’s effect on me, but I had to fight. I had to maintain control of my destiny.

  I fought harder than I’d ever fought. No matter how bad my body wanted to sleep, I had to make my mind work and stay conscious. I couldn’t give in to that overwhelming desire to sleep. But no matter how hard I tried, my eyes closed, and I didn’t know if I’d ever open them again or where I’d be in the minutes ahead of me—heaven or hell.

  I forced myself to think about my father’s guiding words: You never know what tomorrow will bring, tomorrow is filled with new chances, never cover your heart with your anger, and never let anyone come between you and your goals. Sadly, I realized, I was the only person who’d successfully stood in the way of my goals.