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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 17/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3126
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Loving a Phantom is not an easy thing to do.
THE WAY OLD FRIENDS DO
“You want to do what?” Erik asked, turning around on the piano stool to send a frown in her direction.
“I want to cook you dinner,” Christine repeated. She was beginning to wonder whether her idea for something nice with which to surprise him had been an entirely sensible one given the way he was behaving. Anyone would think that no one had ever done anything spontaneously kind for him before, she thought, and then realised that, in truth, they probably hadn’t. “You’ve cooked for me before and I wanted to return the favour; thing are so busy now that I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together that isn’t connected with lessons or rehearsals.”
“Oh.” He looked rather taken aback, the frown vanishing as his eyebrow arched in surprise. “Oh, I see. Yes, that would be pleasant, but...”
“’But...’?” There was obviously an objection coming, and she steeled herself for it.
Erik sighed and waved a hand towards his mask. “I cannot eat properly with this on. I fear I would not do justice to your efforts.”
Christine sat down in the armchair, putting her basket down on the floor at her feet. “I will cook whatever you want me to,” she told him, reaching out to cover the hand which rested on the ivory keys with one of her own. His fingers were cool and soft. “If necessary I will make a soup, if that is easier for you, but do you not feel able to remove the mask in front of me? You know that I am not bothered by your face, and I would rather you felt you could leave it off within the comfort of your own home.”
“Oh, my dear.” He seemed much smaller all of a sudden, very vulnerable, as he sat there, gaze fixed on the sheet music on the stand in front of him. “You should not have to look upon this abomination that stares back from the mirror; it is enough to put me off my food, let alone those less used to it. Watching me eat is not... well, let me say that it is not a pretty sight.”
“Meg and Madame Giry must have seen you,” she pointed out, but he shook his head.
“Antoinette, yes, but not Meg. I would not make her endure it; I made sure that I took my meals when she was elsewhere. Her mother, whether I like it or not, has seen all of me; I have no secrets from her, not now.”
Christine rose, crouching down beside him so that she could see the part of his face he did not hide from the world. “Would you keep secrets from me?” she asked gently.
“Were I given the choice, never,” he said sadly, “but there are some things that I would not have you suffer and my face is one of them. You are so young and lovely... why would you wish to gaze at my ruined features? Only beauty should touch your eyes.”
“Oh, Erik.” She pressed his hand to her cheek, holding it there between both her own. “I love you, and I want to see all of you. Do you not realise that I have grown up and learned to accept you for who you are? I am no longer the frightened girl who ran from you that morning.”
She felt his fingers touch the top of her head and closed her eyes as he softly began to stroke her curls. “I truly do not deserve you,” Erik murmured. “Sometimes I wonder whether you really are an angel, sent to redeem this old sinner.”
“If that is true, then you have no need to wonder,” Christine said, sitting up so that she could meet his gaze. “The Lord must have seen that there was potential within you or he would not have brought us together.”
He grimaced and gave a humourless laugh. “Indeed.”
“Erik.” She reached out, laying a hand upon the cold porcelain of his mask. “Let me see you. Please. There is no need for you to hide here.”
At her touch he stiffened, his head drawing back a fraction. While he was ill he had allowed her to see his deformity, to stroke and caress it, but since his recovery he retreated behind his shield as though afraid that too much exposure to his true self might somehow drive her away. Saddened, she let her hand drop to her side. There was sorrow in Erik’s odd eyes, too, and with another sigh, heavier than the last, he traced a finger down her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I am trying, but this is not... easy for me. Just... just give me time.”
Christine’s response was to wrap her arms around his neck and hold him close.
________________________________________
Their conversation resulted in her mood being rather subdued as she made her way around the shops and the market.
After thumbing furiously through her recipe books she had eventually decided that a casserole would be sensible; she could leave it to cook slowly while she was at rehearsal and Erik would not find it too difficult to manage with his mask. Picking up the small package of beef from the butcher’s counter and putting it in her basket Christine reflected that, now he was ensconced once more in his twilight world beneath the theatre, he seemed to be reverting to all his old habits, shunning the daylight and spending his nights stalking the hallways. He had been doing so well, or so she had thought, but now they seemed to be going backwards, any progress he had made evaporating as the Phantom began to return.
She tried not to feel despondent as she passed the plate glass window of the Cafe de l’Opera, glancing at the happy couples within and knowing that there was a real chance she might never be able to sit there with the man she loved, sharing a meal and a bottle of wine and just indulging in each other’s company while the rest of the world went about its business, completely disregarding them because they were no different from anyone else. For a while she stood there, just watching the scene inside the cafe, seeing Maurice expertly weaving his way amongst the tables, exchanging a word or a joke with regular customers; Christine felt like a small child outside a toyshop, nose pressed against the glass.
Eventually she tore herself away; she had things to do before returning to the theatre and another chaotic Rigoletto rehearsal. Monsieur Pevitt, the conductor, had walked out after a particularly explosive row with Monsieur Reyer and the musical director was tearing his hair out trying to cope with both musicians and singers at the same time. The first bassoon and third trombone were both making trouble and it was getting very difficult to concentrate. Erik was just itching to interfere, but she begged him not to, counselling against revealing his continued presence in the building. He had acquiesced for the moment, but Christine knew that if the difficulties continued she would not be able to stop him taking a hand in proceedings.
Turning away from the cafe she barely noticed someone walking close to her in order to avoid other pedestrians until she had crashed into them. Her basket fell to the floor, the onion and carrots she had bought rolling this way and that; with a cry she dropped to her knees, desperately trying to recover them. A strong male hand swiftly retrieved the basket and held it out to her as a familiar voice said,
“My sincere apologies, Mademoiselle; I’ll make good any damage. Are you – Good God. Christine!”
She looked up quickly to find herself meeting a pair of wide blue eyes, the sandy brows which framed them raised in surprise. The boyish face was just the same, of course, there was no reason why he should have changed at all in three months, but he was wearing a navy blue uniform, its gold lacing restrained compared to the Hussar costume he had worn for the Bal Masque, and his fair fringe had been cut quite short. His expression was a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “Hello, Raoul,” she said, taking back her basket.
With a shaky smile, he handed her the errant onion. “You’re the last person I expected to see, out here on the street,” he confessed.
“I am allowed out sometimes,” Christine said, a little nettled by the implied assumption that Erik kept her locked up underground. “We do have to eat, after all.” She softened when he winced at her tone. “I didn’t expect to see you, either.”
“I have a few days’ leave before I transfer to a training ship. How are you?” he asked, blue gaze searching her face. “I heard that the Opera was to reopen.”
She blinked, her turn to be surprised. “I wasn’t aware that it was common knowledge.”
Raoul shrugged. “Word gets around. Actually, Philippe told me; he might have thrown over Sorelli but he still hears things. He tells me that the Marquis de Borges has eagerly taken his place as patron.”
“He would know more about that than me,” Christine said, distracted as she heard a nearby clock chime twelve. “I’m sorry, Raoul; I have some errands to run before rehearsal.”
“May I walk with you?” When she didn’t object he fell into step beside her. “He’s a good man to have on side, old de Borges,” he remarked lightly. “A bit of a roué who’s too fond of ballerinas for his own good, but he’s a decent enough sort. Dandled me on his knee once when Mama insisted that we children be paraded at one of her parties.”
“He must have taken a shine to you.”
“Hardly. I was all golden curls and petticoats back then; he thought I was a girl.” Raoul smiled when she giggled at the image. “How are you, Christine? Really?”
“I’m well,” she told him truthfully. “My life at present suits me.”
“And your Phantom - ” She shushed him, glancing around lest someone overhear “ – oh very well, your Erik – is he - ?”
“He is recovering nicely, thank you. The doctor believes that the bullet did no permanent damage.”
Raoul lifted an eyebrow. “Then why did you look so sad just now, before I bumped into you? If that - ”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she assured him quickly.
“If you say so,” he allowed, but did not look convinced. She knew that however hard she tried she would never be able to persuade him that, despite what he had done, Erik was intrinsically a good man; there were far too many shades of grey for a more simple soul like Raoul to understand. “You do know that you can tell me, don’t you, if he ever... if things get too - ”
“I know, and I am grateful to you for still caring.” Christine forced a smile and decided it was time to change the subject. “You’re looking very dashing in that uniform. I was surprised to hear that Philippe had permitted you to join the Navy; are you not his heir?”
“Not for much longer,” Raoul said gloomily, adding when she looked confused, “He’s finally getting married. Said he can’t afford to have me dragging the family name into disrepute any more.”
Recognising that the Comte’s barb was directed at her, Christine rested a sympathetic hand on his arm. The de Chagnys had never approved of their relationship, had done their best to show her barely veiled contempt and disapproval during the months she lived with them as Raoul’s fiancée; though he was old enough to make his own decisions, it was made quite clear that they thought a penniless chorus girl, however much he loved her, utterly beneath him. “I’m sorry, Raoul,” she said, and meant it.
“I’m not. It relieves the pressure enormously,” he declared, and this time it was her turn to look sceptical. “No, really, it does. It means I can finally live my own life, instead of being continually in his shadow. I can actually do something, and you remember how much ships always fascinated me.”
“I do.” A memory, long pushed to the back of her mind, of him sailing model boats on the pond behind the house in Perros where he was staying with his governess, blossomed in her mind’s eye. He tried to teach her all the nautical terms, to make her his first mate, but she got easily confused, much to his frustration. She had to swallow against the lump that had appeared in her throat. They had been such good days. “As long as you’re happy,” she told him.
“I think I can be,” he said, and it was a noncommittal answer which would have to do.
They had crossed the Place de l’Opera and reached the grand facade of the theatre. Christine glanced up at the imposing white stone, the gilded statues on the rooftop just visible from this angle, reaching up into the cold, cloudless sky. “Well, here we are.”
“Indeed. I suppose I should be getting along; I may be escaping his influence but my brother does not appreciate it if I am late.” Raoul grimaced, and hesitated as if not sure how to take his leave of her. After a few moments he held out a hand. “It was lovely to see you, Lotte.”
It was her old nickname, falling so easily from his tongue in another reminder of all that they had shared. She took the offered hand and he shook it, his grip firm and lingering just slightly as they both pulled away. They looked at each other, suddenly unable to speak, and so Raoul took the initiative, striding back across the square and throwing her a jaunty salute before he was swallowed up in the press of people on its fringes.
Christine felt a tear trickle down her cheek and she dashed it away furiously, turning towards the Rue Scribe and the entrance to Erik’s home.
________________________________________
After preparing the food and banking up the fire in the range so that she could leave it to slowly cook, she made her way to the auditorium and another difficult rehearsal.
This time Monsieur Reyer was threatening to walk out, claiming that the managers were not listening to him and it was beyond even his means to deal with so many performers all at once. Alphonse Renard was complaining about the false hump he was being made to wear as the crook-backed jester, one of the sopranos in the chorus, relegated to a mezzo role, told everyone loudly that such disorganisation would never have happened under Monsieur Lefevre, and the wardrobe mistress, Madame Michon, ran around in increasingly tired circles, pinning here and adjusting there, trying to make something of costumes from storage which were more than twenty years old. It seemed that Marigny and Fontaine were reluctant to spend much money until everything, including new leading players, was in place.
“Your teacher, Mademoiselle,” Reyer said to Christine at one point, when he stood to one side mopping his brow and watching an argument between Renard and Marius DuPre, who was playing the Duke, threaten to break into a fight, “I am told by Madame Giry that he is her cousin and a remarkably talented man. Do you think he might consent to assist us if I suggest it to the managers? The way things presently stand there is no other chance of us being ready in a month’s time without some kind of divine intervention; it was so much easier when everyone was in the thrall of the Phantom!”
It was so unusual for the musical director, a tartar and a perfectionist, to ask for help, and from one of the singers to boot, that Christine was momentarily speechless. When she registered exactly what he had said she replied guardedly, “I will ask him, Monsieur, but he is very shy, almost reclusive. He does not care for crowds.”
“If you do so, and he agrees, I shall be forever in your debt. He created something of true beauty with your voice, Mademoiselle, and we are in need of a man who can work miracles!” Reyer declared, hurrying off to stop his principal artists coming to blows.
Christine considered his request as she descended to the fifth cellar once more, wondering how she would put it to Erik. She knew that he would be reluctant, but seeing the company in such a shambles might convince him that his guiding hand was needed.
There had been no sign of him while she was making the casserole earlier, and for the first time since his return he was not waiting by the boat. His absence surprised her, but by now she did not really mind punting herself across the lake, practise making her ever more adept at guiding the gondola through the currents. She jumped out when it bumped against the jetty on the opposite short and carefully tied it up, making her way towards the hidden door in the rock.
“Erik?” she called as she entered the gas-lit hallway, hanging up the cloak she had worn against the cold of his labyrinth. “Erik, are you there?”
The door to the music room opened and his shadow fell across the Persian carpet. “Would you care for a glass of wine, Mademoiselle?” he enquired, offering one as she approached.
Christine barely even noticed the proffered drink. She was too busy gazing up into his face, his unmasked face. He stood quite still, eyes averted, allowing her to see him in all his glory, the light playing over the crevices in his twisted cheek and sending strange shadows from the irregular lumps and bumps which dragged down his eye and distorted what should have been the left side of his nose. His teeth gnawed at his bloated lower lip; beneath the fine linen of his shirt his thin chest rose and fell quickly as he obviously struggled to restrain panic, his long fingers clenched around the delicate stem of the wine glass.
Silently, Christine walked up to him. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then she stood on her tiptoes, reaching up to kiss the mangled flesh, stroking the thinning hair at his temple. She moved her lips to meet his, and a long, stuttering sigh escaped him. Drawing away slightly, she met his mismatched gaze with a steady one of her own.
“I think dinner should be just about ready,” she said quietly, and he nodded, closing the door behind them.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3126
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Loving a Phantom is not an easy thing to do.
THE WAY OLD FRIENDS DO
“You want to do what?” Erik asked, turning around on the piano stool to send a frown in her direction.
“I want to cook you dinner,” Christine repeated. She was beginning to wonder whether her idea for something nice with which to surprise him had been an entirely sensible one given the way he was behaving. Anyone would think that no one had ever done anything spontaneously kind for him before, she thought, and then realised that, in truth, they probably hadn’t. “You’ve cooked for me before and I wanted to return the favour; thing are so busy now that I thought it would be nice for us to spend some time together that isn’t connected with lessons or rehearsals.”
“Oh.” He looked rather taken aback, the frown vanishing as his eyebrow arched in surprise. “Oh, I see. Yes, that would be pleasant, but...”
“’But...’?” There was obviously an objection coming, and she steeled herself for it.
Erik sighed and waved a hand towards his mask. “I cannot eat properly with this on. I fear I would not do justice to your efforts.”
Christine sat down in the armchair, putting her basket down on the floor at her feet. “I will cook whatever you want me to,” she told him, reaching out to cover the hand which rested on the ivory keys with one of her own. His fingers were cool and soft. “If necessary I will make a soup, if that is easier for you, but do you not feel able to remove the mask in front of me? You know that I am not bothered by your face, and I would rather you felt you could leave it off within the comfort of your own home.”
“Oh, my dear.” He seemed much smaller all of a sudden, very vulnerable, as he sat there, gaze fixed on the sheet music on the stand in front of him. “You should not have to look upon this abomination that stares back from the mirror; it is enough to put me off my food, let alone those less used to it. Watching me eat is not... well, let me say that it is not a pretty sight.”
“Meg and Madame Giry must have seen you,” she pointed out, but he shook his head.
“Antoinette, yes, but not Meg. I would not make her endure it; I made sure that I took my meals when she was elsewhere. Her mother, whether I like it or not, has seen all of me; I have no secrets from her, not now.”
Christine rose, crouching down beside him so that she could see the part of his face he did not hide from the world. “Would you keep secrets from me?” she asked gently.
“Were I given the choice, never,” he said sadly, “but there are some things that I would not have you suffer and my face is one of them. You are so young and lovely... why would you wish to gaze at my ruined features? Only beauty should touch your eyes.”
“Oh, Erik.” She pressed his hand to her cheek, holding it there between both her own. “I love you, and I want to see all of you. Do you not realise that I have grown up and learned to accept you for who you are? I am no longer the frightened girl who ran from you that morning.”
She felt his fingers touch the top of her head and closed her eyes as he softly began to stroke her curls. “I truly do not deserve you,” Erik murmured. “Sometimes I wonder whether you really are an angel, sent to redeem this old sinner.”
“If that is true, then you have no need to wonder,” Christine said, sitting up so that she could meet his gaze. “The Lord must have seen that there was potential within you or he would not have brought us together.”
He grimaced and gave a humourless laugh. “Indeed.”
“Erik.” She reached out, laying a hand upon the cold porcelain of his mask. “Let me see you. Please. There is no need for you to hide here.”
At her touch he stiffened, his head drawing back a fraction. While he was ill he had allowed her to see his deformity, to stroke and caress it, but since his recovery he retreated behind his shield as though afraid that too much exposure to his true self might somehow drive her away. Saddened, she let her hand drop to her side. There was sorrow in Erik’s odd eyes, too, and with another sigh, heavier than the last, he traced a finger down her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I am trying, but this is not... easy for me. Just... just give me time.”
Christine’s response was to wrap her arms around his neck and hold him close.
________________________________________
Their conversation resulted in her mood being rather subdued as she made her way around the shops and the market.
After thumbing furiously through her recipe books she had eventually decided that a casserole would be sensible; she could leave it to cook slowly while she was at rehearsal and Erik would not find it too difficult to manage with his mask. Picking up the small package of beef from the butcher’s counter and putting it in her basket Christine reflected that, now he was ensconced once more in his twilight world beneath the theatre, he seemed to be reverting to all his old habits, shunning the daylight and spending his nights stalking the hallways. He had been doing so well, or so she had thought, but now they seemed to be going backwards, any progress he had made evaporating as the Phantom began to return.
She tried not to feel despondent as she passed the plate glass window of the Cafe de l’Opera, glancing at the happy couples within and knowing that there was a real chance she might never be able to sit there with the man she loved, sharing a meal and a bottle of wine and just indulging in each other’s company while the rest of the world went about its business, completely disregarding them because they were no different from anyone else. For a while she stood there, just watching the scene inside the cafe, seeing Maurice expertly weaving his way amongst the tables, exchanging a word or a joke with regular customers; Christine felt like a small child outside a toyshop, nose pressed against the glass.
Eventually she tore herself away; she had things to do before returning to the theatre and another chaotic Rigoletto rehearsal. Monsieur Pevitt, the conductor, had walked out after a particularly explosive row with Monsieur Reyer and the musical director was tearing his hair out trying to cope with both musicians and singers at the same time. The first bassoon and third trombone were both making trouble and it was getting very difficult to concentrate. Erik was just itching to interfere, but she begged him not to, counselling against revealing his continued presence in the building. He had acquiesced for the moment, but Christine knew that if the difficulties continued she would not be able to stop him taking a hand in proceedings.
Turning away from the cafe she barely noticed someone walking close to her in order to avoid other pedestrians until she had crashed into them. Her basket fell to the floor, the onion and carrots she had bought rolling this way and that; with a cry she dropped to her knees, desperately trying to recover them. A strong male hand swiftly retrieved the basket and held it out to her as a familiar voice said,
“My sincere apologies, Mademoiselle; I’ll make good any damage. Are you – Good God. Christine!”
She looked up quickly to find herself meeting a pair of wide blue eyes, the sandy brows which framed them raised in surprise. The boyish face was just the same, of course, there was no reason why he should have changed at all in three months, but he was wearing a navy blue uniform, its gold lacing restrained compared to the Hussar costume he had worn for the Bal Masque, and his fair fringe had been cut quite short. His expression was a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “Hello, Raoul,” she said, taking back her basket.
With a shaky smile, he handed her the errant onion. “You’re the last person I expected to see, out here on the street,” he confessed.
“I am allowed out sometimes,” Christine said, a little nettled by the implied assumption that Erik kept her locked up underground. “We do have to eat, after all.” She softened when he winced at her tone. “I didn’t expect to see you, either.”
“I have a few days’ leave before I transfer to a training ship. How are you?” he asked, blue gaze searching her face. “I heard that the Opera was to reopen.”
She blinked, her turn to be surprised. “I wasn’t aware that it was common knowledge.”
Raoul shrugged. “Word gets around. Actually, Philippe told me; he might have thrown over Sorelli but he still hears things. He tells me that the Marquis de Borges has eagerly taken his place as patron.”
“He would know more about that than me,” Christine said, distracted as she heard a nearby clock chime twelve. “I’m sorry, Raoul; I have some errands to run before rehearsal.”
“May I walk with you?” When she didn’t object he fell into step beside her. “He’s a good man to have on side, old de Borges,” he remarked lightly. “A bit of a roué who’s too fond of ballerinas for his own good, but he’s a decent enough sort. Dandled me on his knee once when Mama insisted that we children be paraded at one of her parties.”
“He must have taken a shine to you.”
“Hardly. I was all golden curls and petticoats back then; he thought I was a girl.” Raoul smiled when she giggled at the image. “How are you, Christine? Really?”
“I’m well,” she told him truthfully. “My life at present suits me.”
“And your Phantom - ” She shushed him, glancing around lest someone overhear “ – oh very well, your Erik – is he - ?”
“He is recovering nicely, thank you. The doctor believes that the bullet did no permanent damage.”
Raoul lifted an eyebrow. “Then why did you look so sad just now, before I bumped into you? If that - ”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she assured him quickly.
“If you say so,” he allowed, but did not look convinced. She knew that however hard she tried she would never be able to persuade him that, despite what he had done, Erik was intrinsically a good man; there were far too many shades of grey for a more simple soul like Raoul to understand. “You do know that you can tell me, don’t you, if he ever... if things get too - ”
“I know, and I am grateful to you for still caring.” Christine forced a smile and decided it was time to change the subject. “You’re looking very dashing in that uniform. I was surprised to hear that Philippe had permitted you to join the Navy; are you not his heir?”
“Not for much longer,” Raoul said gloomily, adding when she looked confused, “He’s finally getting married. Said he can’t afford to have me dragging the family name into disrepute any more.”
Recognising that the Comte’s barb was directed at her, Christine rested a sympathetic hand on his arm. The de Chagnys had never approved of their relationship, had done their best to show her barely veiled contempt and disapproval during the months she lived with them as Raoul’s fiancée; though he was old enough to make his own decisions, it was made quite clear that they thought a penniless chorus girl, however much he loved her, utterly beneath him. “I’m sorry, Raoul,” she said, and meant it.
“I’m not. It relieves the pressure enormously,” he declared, and this time it was her turn to look sceptical. “No, really, it does. It means I can finally live my own life, instead of being continually in his shadow. I can actually do something, and you remember how much ships always fascinated me.”
“I do.” A memory, long pushed to the back of her mind, of him sailing model boats on the pond behind the house in Perros where he was staying with his governess, blossomed in her mind’s eye. He tried to teach her all the nautical terms, to make her his first mate, but she got easily confused, much to his frustration. She had to swallow against the lump that had appeared in her throat. They had been such good days. “As long as you’re happy,” she told him.
“I think I can be,” he said, and it was a noncommittal answer which would have to do.
They had crossed the Place de l’Opera and reached the grand facade of the theatre. Christine glanced up at the imposing white stone, the gilded statues on the rooftop just visible from this angle, reaching up into the cold, cloudless sky. “Well, here we are.”
“Indeed. I suppose I should be getting along; I may be escaping his influence but my brother does not appreciate it if I am late.” Raoul grimaced, and hesitated as if not sure how to take his leave of her. After a few moments he held out a hand. “It was lovely to see you, Lotte.”
It was her old nickname, falling so easily from his tongue in another reminder of all that they had shared. She took the offered hand and he shook it, his grip firm and lingering just slightly as they both pulled away. They looked at each other, suddenly unable to speak, and so Raoul took the initiative, striding back across the square and throwing her a jaunty salute before he was swallowed up in the press of people on its fringes.
Christine felt a tear trickle down her cheek and she dashed it away furiously, turning towards the Rue Scribe and the entrance to Erik’s home.
________________________________________
After preparing the food and banking up the fire in the range so that she could leave it to slowly cook, she made her way to the auditorium and another difficult rehearsal.
This time Monsieur Reyer was threatening to walk out, claiming that the managers were not listening to him and it was beyond even his means to deal with so many performers all at once. Alphonse Renard was complaining about the false hump he was being made to wear as the crook-backed jester, one of the sopranos in the chorus, relegated to a mezzo role, told everyone loudly that such disorganisation would never have happened under Monsieur Lefevre, and the wardrobe mistress, Madame Michon, ran around in increasingly tired circles, pinning here and adjusting there, trying to make something of costumes from storage which were more than twenty years old. It seemed that Marigny and Fontaine were reluctant to spend much money until everything, including new leading players, was in place.
“Your teacher, Mademoiselle,” Reyer said to Christine at one point, when he stood to one side mopping his brow and watching an argument between Renard and Marius DuPre, who was playing the Duke, threaten to break into a fight, “I am told by Madame Giry that he is her cousin and a remarkably talented man. Do you think he might consent to assist us if I suggest it to the managers? The way things presently stand there is no other chance of us being ready in a month’s time without some kind of divine intervention; it was so much easier when everyone was in the thrall of the Phantom!”
It was so unusual for the musical director, a tartar and a perfectionist, to ask for help, and from one of the singers to boot, that Christine was momentarily speechless. When she registered exactly what he had said she replied guardedly, “I will ask him, Monsieur, but he is very shy, almost reclusive. He does not care for crowds.”
“If you do so, and he agrees, I shall be forever in your debt. He created something of true beauty with your voice, Mademoiselle, and we are in need of a man who can work miracles!” Reyer declared, hurrying off to stop his principal artists coming to blows.
Christine considered his request as she descended to the fifth cellar once more, wondering how she would put it to Erik. She knew that he would be reluctant, but seeing the company in such a shambles might convince him that his guiding hand was needed.
There had been no sign of him while she was making the casserole earlier, and for the first time since his return he was not waiting by the boat. His absence surprised her, but by now she did not really mind punting herself across the lake, practise making her ever more adept at guiding the gondola through the currents. She jumped out when it bumped against the jetty on the opposite short and carefully tied it up, making her way towards the hidden door in the rock.
“Erik?” she called as she entered the gas-lit hallway, hanging up the cloak she had worn against the cold of his labyrinth. “Erik, are you there?”
The door to the music room opened and his shadow fell across the Persian carpet. “Would you care for a glass of wine, Mademoiselle?” he enquired, offering one as she approached.
Christine barely even noticed the proffered drink. She was too busy gazing up into his face, his unmasked face. He stood quite still, eyes averted, allowing her to see him in all his glory, the light playing over the crevices in his twisted cheek and sending strange shadows from the irregular lumps and bumps which dragged down his eye and distorted what should have been the left side of his nose. His teeth gnawed at his bloated lower lip; beneath the fine linen of his shirt his thin chest rose and fell quickly as he obviously struggled to restrain panic, his long fingers clenched around the delicate stem of the wine glass.
Silently, Christine walked up to him. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then she stood on her tiptoes, reaching up to kiss the mangled flesh, stroking the thinning hair at his temple. She moved her lips to meet his, and a long, stuttering sigh escaped him. Drawing away slightly, she met his mismatched gaze with a steady one of her own.
“I think dinner should be just about ready,” she said quietly, and he nodded, closing the door behind them.
