Chapter One:
I paused, the tip of my pen grazing my malformed lip, and stared down at the collection of graceful notes, I'd hurriedly scrawled on the fine, thick sheet of manuscript paper. Funny, I thought; whereas my copperplate handwriting was usually a barely legible mess, my musical notation was a symphony in itself-elegant, curvy, and grandly ornate. Most printers could not have done a better job. Well, music was my blood and the center of my genius, so I should not have been surprised that I was capable of skillfully writing it out. Music, along with my other talents, was the only source of pride for me. I would be doing myself a great injustice to think otherwise.
Enough with my ramblings. I put the sharp pip of the pen down to the sheet once more, forming the artful notes that would correspond with the next, contrapuntal phrase of the melody cavorting through my active mind. I liked the faint scratch of the ink to the paper. It had a certain, purposeful progress to it. Perhaps, a humble, natural music. Everything had music to me, whether it be good or abhorrent. Each time I heard one of those childish, little operas blaring thirteen floors above me, on the magnificent stage of the Palais Garnier, I took to analyzing it from two points of view. One: from the perspective of the pleasure seeking listener, and Two: the inescapable critique of the knowledgeable music scholar. Sometimes, One would be satisfied with some, sweet, uncomplicated, rip-off of a Mozart aria (they all tried to emulate the maestro these days with their ornamentation and scale-based motifs), while Two would cringe and dissect each ordinary, over played chord, clenching white-knuckled fists. See, that was the problem with knowing so much about what I loved, the scholar in me would analyze whatever my fine-tuned ears absorbed, instead of simply enjoying it for what it was, like a normal person. But, then, I was anything but normal and needed no reminder of that fact. I crossed my right leg over my left knee, scribbling off another ten bars, the invisible orchestra carrying me off to such a perfect oblivion, that I hardly noticed when a pair of tiny, pink-slippered, feet planted themselves in front of my armless chair.
"Angel . . .Erik?" To form the syllables of my name must have been strange to her-so accustomed was she to calling me 'Angel', that she stuttered and corrected herself. The sweet murmur of her voice caused me to abandon my notation and peer up into the cherished face of my dear Mademoiselle Daae'. It seemed, due to her apparent drowsiness, the awkward, timidity of her behavior towards me present before she slept had evaporated. This effect made it a little bit more bearable for me to bear her obvious disappointment that I was indeed no angel of music. Just a man.
"Yes?" Tenderness consumed me, as I gazed at her, her precious head lolling sleepily to the side, her chestnut hair piling on her narrow shoulder as she clutched the lapels of her silk robe in modesty and to fend off the drafty chill.
"I can't sleep . . . I've had a bad dream." Still such a child-a china doll, really-too fragile to touch for fear that I might break her. If I were but to caress her ivory, smooth skin, too grasp her of her own volition, without having to seduce her with my voice...No, better not to allow the tantalizing idea. Not now, not ever. She wasn't mine, and never would be. It was time I come to terms with the truth. Still, sometimes, whenever I'd sing to her, it almost seemed possible there might be a future for us, that we might, one day, have one another. But, only when I sang to her, when I swept her into a swooning ecstasy with the mere power of my voice-my one beauty. Perhaps, in music she was mine, that we were united, that I was hers. I had always been hers . . .Shouldn't that be enough then, that I was allowed to caress her in melody, that I simply had the pleasure of her company? I was lucky enough to have a woman talking to me, but to be allowed to serenade her! "Erik, you must find contentment with your lot." I scolded myself inwardly.
I must have wandered away in my musings, for she repeated herself. "I'm scared, I can't fall asleep in such a strange, new place . . .It's so dark, so cold . . ."
'Strange'; not necessarily a negative term, but not exactly a compliment, now was it?
"I'm sorry, mon chere, what can I do to set you at ease?" It was only natural that she be frightened and uneasy down here in my home on the lake. After all, I'd whisked her out of her dressing room and finally, swept her off into my 'strange' subterranean world below the Paris Opera. I'd sung to her until she fell asleep, and I'd had to carry her into her bedroom-her new chambers-and tucked her under my mother's quilt. I moved a taper candle beside the bed and stood over her for an hour, savoring the sight of her tiny form resting near me. Feeling amazingly inspired, I left for the study to compose. That had been hours past, and now she'd risen from a nightmare.
I should have expected it.
Tonight, she'd learned I was not an angel, but a mortal man who loved her, worshipped her even more than his music. To her naive and innocent mind, that knowledge had been hard to digest. Christine had sobbed and almost fled, when I'd bowed on one knee, begging her accept the truth . . .accept me . . . The girl was silent for a time, swallowing over and over as if she were fighting to keep her moans of disappointment from reaching my ears. To be led to the musical kingdom of an angel was a fantastically enticing thrill, but to be in the home of a madman was quite another experience.
We didn't speak for a time.
After an hour or two of silent supper, in which she'd hardly touched her soup-only stared at it as if she expected something to jump out of it, then retreating to her room to read a book, or brush through her hair, I'd decided I would have to take action. I'd had to save us from her fallen dreams, from her retracting body. So, I'd done the only thing I knew, the only thing that I had courage in, faith that it would work. I approached her closed door, and began to sing. And, it had worked. For the time. Yes, I could be the temporary angel of her father's stories as long as I played the dark-cloaked canary. She wouldn't have to think of the man, just the voice. And, she didn't recoil from the voice. Wouldn't that do for now?
At least, I still held my most important secret from her. She could never know about my face. But, she'd asked about the mask. I'd told her that I must wear it to protect my identity, for God knows what reason. Whatever reason I'd given to her, she'd simply nodded and shrugged her shoulders in relief that, even if I were no celestial body, I could still sing finer than God himself.
And, I'd issued a threat, the only threat: "Remove my mask, and you must stay with me
forever."
I could only hope the dear ingenue was wise enough to heed the warning.
"Would you sing me to sleep, please? I think it is the only thing that may calm me . . ."
'It' was my voice, and how I loved the importance she bestowed upon it. She loved it, and that was the closest I would come to having her.
"Yes, of course, my child, you didn't even have to ask." I rose, and smiled the best I could underneath the prison of my mask, gesturing her forward with the unfurling of my long fingers, glad that she'd not asked to be returned to the world above and never to see me again. After all, I had lied to her. But, no, she'd asked me to sing! And, I would joyfully beseech her, happy to revert back to the comfortability of a formal teacher, student relationship.
Christine shuffled her feet forward, the train of her white dressing gown trailing the cold, stone floor, eager eyes trapping my own. At the opening of my mouth, at the sudden flawless thread of music, she outstretched her arms to me, still approaching. To her, I became a heavenly being! Christine could be so shy and introverted when surrounded by her daylight companions, hardly even speaking, but she was unabashedly forward on the promise of my song, acting as if there was no other place she would rather be than with me. Or, my voice. It enslaved her, seduced her into a trancelike swoon! She was my willing Trilby, pleading to be captivated! It was only when I created music for her, that she was able to succumb to whatever desires lay hidden inside, that whatever feelings she denied or regretted to acknowledge, might surface. I smiled with my eyes. I don't know if she meant to embrace me with those extended arms, if she wished me to hold her as I did earlier when I'd serenaded her. I did not give that question the opportunity to be resolved; for fear that my interpretation of her gestures would be far different than her true intentions. So, not trusting in what I saw, I curled my fingers about her own, and led her to the lake.
"Mon coeur s'ouvre 'a ta voix, comme s'ouvrent les fleurs, aux baisers, de l'aurore..."
Oh, how she beamed at my lyric, how she followed my gait to the languid, tender rhythm of the aria! What other man could make her perfect, porcelain face radiate so-and, only by the mere spreading of his lips? Surely, not that little, rogue Vicomte de Chagny I'd seen milling about her dressing room after her debut as Marguerite! No, he might bring an irksome giggle to her girlish heart with the mention of some childhood memory, but he could not enthrall her in my effortless ways.
"Mais o, mon bien amie', pour mes secher mes pleurs! Que ta voix, parle encore!"
I stopped walking at the shore of the peaceful lake and stared out over the water, still weaving a vocal fantasy for my lovely lady. Darkness everywhere, behind me, in front of me-the ebony water-myself. . . The only light was Christine, in her smile, the brightness of her luminous eyes, the golden texture of her bell-like soprano. Yes, unknown to the rest of the world, darkness and light, night and day, merged hundreds of feet below the Paris Opera. The girl squeezed my hand more firmly, a shudder running through me at the intensity of her subtle touch. Luckily, I had an unfaltering control over my instrument, and my voice did not waver.
"Ah! Reponds 'a ma tendresse! Verse-moi, Verse-moi, l'ivresse!"
Her fingers sought my unmasked skin, cupping my cheek with her palm. The sudden shock of her caress silenced me, brought my soul back to Earth.
"Erik?" She stroked my flesh with the smooth pad of her thumb, her other hand still joined with my own. I am certain I shook at her affection, such desires and forbidden longings coursing uncontrollably through my body.
"Erik, are you all right?" She continued to touch me, momentarily glancing at her careening fingers before taking my eyes again.
Oh, how I would have savored her touch would it have been for Erik and not the music! She was caressing the Angel, the music, not me. We both knew it. In an almost paternal manner, I covered her hand with my own, guiding it to rest at her side, and unlinked my other from hers. "Yes, mon chere, I'm perfectly fine." Lie number one of the evening, and I wanted to strike myself for it. I was anything but all right, my damned longings trying to possess me! Why this irresistible torture?! Retreating into the mode of concerned teacher, I formulated my excuse. "Christine, I know realize, that if you stay up 'til this late hour, you will have no energy in the morning. And, with no energy, how do you expect to sing? I must apologize for keeping you up. I seem to forget myself, sometimes, when I am around you . . ."
"But, Erik, there's nothing to apolo-"
I silenced her with a caring finger near her lips, extending my arm in the direction of her bedroom. "Shh," I whispered sweetly, escorting her to her new chambers. "I trust you will have no more nightmares?"
"No, I don't think that I shall." She stopped on the threshold, staring up at me as I leaned my imposing, lanky form against the wooden doorframe. "Merci, mon ange."
"Goodnight, my child." All the love and sheer worship for her in those three words!
"Goodnight, Erik." She advanced a foot or two towards me, so close that I could feel her pleasant, warm breath washing over the pale skin of my cheek. It was an intoxicating sensation, to say the least. The faint candlelight issuing from inside the room framed her face majestically, outlining the sculpted shape of her cheekbones and the bow of her full mouth. It was as if she were waiting for something, for she did not yet enter the room. Instead, she rose on the tips of her toes, her palms coming to rest on my tensing shoulders. I quaked, not wanting to break the contact, but, also, not wanting her to make a grave mistake. I tried to back away, to create some distance between us, but the relentless doorframe prevented it. She tilted her head slightly, pursing her lips.
Clearly, her actions were due to the enticing spell of my voice. What did she mean to do? I could not allow myself to find out. She had no idea what lay beneath my mask. As long as she believed me handsome, for she must have, then what would halt her from her actions? No, I couldn't permit her to do this, not with my secret still undiscovered beneath the loathed mask.
With the grace and rapid agility of a feline, I slid from the unabiding doorframe, taking a place to her right. Confused, she turned to me, her lids drooping, cheeks flushed red. Was it disappointment registering on her face, sadness? I dare not delve deeper. I must have enjoyed taunting myself-I could not help but to reach out my long fingers and trace the shape of her features. No, not actually caressing her skin, only the moist air hanging right above it.
"Erik-"
"Goodnight, my dear." Before she could respond, whether physically or with words, I pivoted on my heel, heading away from her.
She lingered, hand clenching the door, gazing at me with some unrecognizable emotion playing across her sullen face. We both stood, as statues in some fallen, neglected garden, not speaking, just offering the other heart-wrenching expressions-We understood. We knew. The truth. Why did God torment me with what I could not have? Why make me aware of such a creature as she? Why create her, if not for me? I saw her lips move; perhaps, saying 'Goodnight'. I don't know. Then, she solemnly bowed her head and reluctantly made her way into the comfort of her bedroom, closing the door on me, and my yearnings.
I paused, the tip of my pen grazing my malformed lip, and stared down at the collection of graceful notes, I'd hurriedly scrawled on the fine, thick sheet of manuscript paper. Funny, I thought; whereas my copperplate handwriting was usually a barely legible mess, my musical notation was a symphony in itself-elegant, curvy, and grandly ornate. Most printers could not have done a better job. Well, music was my blood and the center of my genius, so I should not have been surprised that I was capable of skillfully writing it out. Music, along with my other talents, was the only source of pride for me. I would be doing myself a great injustice to think otherwise.
Enough with my ramblings. I put the sharp pip of the pen down to the sheet once more, forming the artful notes that would correspond with the next, contrapuntal phrase of the melody cavorting through my active mind. I liked the faint scratch of the ink to the paper. It had a certain, purposeful progress to it. Perhaps, a humble, natural music. Everything had music to me, whether it be good or abhorrent. Each time I heard one of those childish, little operas blaring thirteen floors above me, on the magnificent stage of the Palais Garnier, I took to analyzing it from two points of view. One: from the perspective of the pleasure seeking listener, and Two: the inescapable critique of the knowledgeable music scholar. Sometimes, One would be satisfied with some, sweet, uncomplicated, rip-off of a Mozart aria (they all tried to emulate the maestro these days with their ornamentation and scale-based motifs), while Two would cringe and dissect each ordinary, over played chord, clenching white-knuckled fists. See, that was the problem with knowing so much about what I loved, the scholar in me would analyze whatever my fine-tuned ears absorbed, instead of simply enjoying it for what it was, like a normal person. But, then, I was anything but normal and needed no reminder of that fact. I crossed my right leg over my left knee, scribbling off another ten bars, the invisible orchestra carrying me off to such a perfect oblivion, that I hardly noticed when a pair of tiny, pink-slippered, feet planted themselves in front of my armless chair.
"Angel . . .Erik?" To form the syllables of my name must have been strange to her-so accustomed was she to calling me 'Angel', that she stuttered and corrected herself. The sweet murmur of her voice caused me to abandon my notation and peer up into the cherished face of my dear Mademoiselle Daae'. It seemed, due to her apparent drowsiness, the awkward, timidity of her behavior towards me present before she slept had evaporated. This effect made it a little bit more bearable for me to bear her obvious disappointment that I was indeed no angel of music. Just a man.
"Yes?" Tenderness consumed me, as I gazed at her, her precious head lolling sleepily to the side, her chestnut hair piling on her narrow shoulder as she clutched the lapels of her silk robe in modesty and to fend off the drafty chill.
"I can't sleep . . . I've had a bad dream." Still such a child-a china doll, really-too fragile to touch for fear that I might break her. If I were but to caress her ivory, smooth skin, too grasp her of her own volition, without having to seduce her with my voice...No, better not to allow the tantalizing idea. Not now, not ever. She wasn't mine, and never would be. It was time I come to terms with the truth. Still, sometimes, whenever I'd sing to her, it almost seemed possible there might be a future for us, that we might, one day, have one another. But, only when I sang to her, when I swept her into a swooning ecstasy with the mere power of my voice-my one beauty. Perhaps, in music she was mine, that we were united, that I was hers. I had always been hers . . .Shouldn't that be enough then, that I was allowed to caress her in melody, that I simply had the pleasure of her company? I was lucky enough to have a woman talking to me, but to be allowed to serenade her! "Erik, you must find contentment with your lot." I scolded myself inwardly.
I must have wandered away in my musings, for she repeated herself. "I'm scared, I can't fall asleep in such a strange, new place . . .It's so dark, so cold . . ."
'Strange'; not necessarily a negative term, but not exactly a compliment, now was it?
"I'm sorry, mon chere, what can I do to set you at ease?" It was only natural that she be frightened and uneasy down here in my home on the lake. After all, I'd whisked her out of her dressing room and finally, swept her off into my 'strange' subterranean world below the Paris Opera. I'd sung to her until she fell asleep, and I'd had to carry her into her bedroom-her new chambers-and tucked her under my mother's quilt. I moved a taper candle beside the bed and stood over her for an hour, savoring the sight of her tiny form resting near me. Feeling amazingly inspired, I left for the study to compose. That had been hours past, and now she'd risen from a nightmare.
I should have expected it.
Tonight, she'd learned I was not an angel, but a mortal man who loved her, worshipped her even more than his music. To her naive and innocent mind, that knowledge had been hard to digest. Christine had sobbed and almost fled, when I'd bowed on one knee, begging her accept the truth . . .accept me . . . The girl was silent for a time, swallowing over and over as if she were fighting to keep her moans of disappointment from reaching my ears. To be led to the musical kingdom of an angel was a fantastically enticing thrill, but to be in the home of a madman was quite another experience.
We didn't speak for a time.
After an hour or two of silent supper, in which she'd hardly touched her soup-only stared at it as if she expected something to jump out of it, then retreating to her room to read a book, or brush through her hair, I'd decided I would have to take action. I'd had to save us from her fallen dreams, from her retracting body. So, I'd done the only thing I knew, the only thing that I had courage in, faith that it would work. I approached her closed door, and began to sing. And, it had worked. For the time. Yes, I could be the temporary angel of her father's stories as long as I played the dark-cloaked canary. She wouldn't have to think of the man, just the voice. And, she didn't recoil from the voice. Wouldn't that do for now?
At least, I still held my most important secret from her. She could never know about my face. But, she'd asked about the mask. I'd told her that I must wear it to protect my identity, for God knows what reason. Whatever reason I'd given to her, she'd simply nodded and shrugged her shoulders in relief that, even if I were no celestial body, I could still sing finer than God himself.
And, I'd issued a threat, the only threat: "Remove my mask, and you must stay with me
forever."
I could only hope the dear ingenue was wise enough to heed the warning.
"Would you sing me to sleep, please? I think it is the only thing that may calm me . . ."
'It' was my voice, and how I loved the importance she bestowed upon it. She loved it, and that was the closest I would come to having her.
"Yes, of course, my child, you didn't even have to ask." I rose, and smiled the best I could underneath the prison of my mask, gesturing her forward with the unfurling of my long fingers, glad that she'd not asked to be returned to the world above and never to see me again. After all, I had lied to her. But, no, she'd asked me to sing! And, I would joyfully beseech her, happy to revert back to the comfortability of a formal teacher, student relationship.
Christine shuffled her feet forward, the train of her white dressing gown trailing the cold, stone floor, eager eyes trapping my own. At the opening of my mouth, at the sudden flawless thread of music, she outstretched her arms to me, still approaching. To her, I became a heavenly being! Christine could be so shy and introverted when surrounded by her daylight companions, hardly even speaking, but she was unabashedly forward on the promise of my song, acting as if there was no other place she would rather be than with me. Or, my voice. It enslaved her, seduced her into a trancelike swoon! She was my willing Trilby, pleading to be captivated! It was only when I created music for her, that she was able to succumb to whatever desires lay hidden inside, that whatever feelings she denied or regretted to acknowledge, might surface. I smiled with my eyes. I don't know if she meant to embrace me with those extended arms, if she wished me to hold her as I did earlier when I'd serenaded her. I did not give that question the opportunity to be resolved; for fear that my interpretation of her gestures would be far different than her true intentions. So, not trusting in what I saw, I curled my fingers about her own, and led her to the lake.
"Mon coeur s'ouvre 'a ta voix, comme s'ouvrent les fleurs, aux baisers, de l'aurore..."
Oh, how she beamed at my lyric, how she followed my gait to the languid, tender rhythm of the aria! What other man could make her perfect, porcelain face radiate so-and, only by the mere spreading of his lips? Surely, not that little, rogue Vicomte de Chagny I'd seen milling about her dressing room after her debut as Marguerite! No, he might bring an irksome giggle to her girlish heart with the mention of some childhood memory, but he could not enthrall her in my effortless ways.
"Mais o, mon bien amie', pour mes secher mes pleurs! Que ta voix, parle encore!"
I stopped walking at the shore of the peaceful lake and stared out over the water, still weaving a vocal fantasy for my lovely lady. Darkness everywhere, behind me, in front of me-the ebony water-myself. . . The only light was Christine, in her smile, the brightness of her luminous eyes, the golden texture of her bell-like soprano. Yes, unknown to the rest of the world, darkness and light, night and day, merged hundreds of feet below the Paris Opera. The girl squeezed my hand more firmly, a shudder running through me at the intensity of her subtle touch. Luckily, I had an unfaltering control over my instrument, and my voice did not waver.
"Ah! Reponds 'a ma tendresse! Verse-moi, Verse-moi, l'ivresse!"
Her fingers sought my unmasked skin, cupping my cheek with her palm. The sudden shock of her caress silenced me, brought my soul back to Earth.
"Erik?" She stroked my flesh with the smooth pad of her thumb, her other hand still joined with my own. I am certain I shook at her affection, such desires and forbidden longings coursing uncontrollably through my body.
"Erik, are you all right?" She continued to touch me, momentarily glancing at her careening fingers before taking my eyes again.
Oh, how I would have savored her touch would it have been for Erik and not the music! She was caressing the Angel, the music, not me. We both knew it. In an almost paternal manner, I covered her hand with my own, guiding it to rest at her side, and unlinked my other from hers. "Yes, mon chere, I'm perfectly fine." Lie number one of the evening, and I wanted to strike myself for it. I was anything but all right, my damned longings trying to possess me! Why this irresistible torture?! Retreating into the mode of concerned teacher, I formulated my excuse. "Christine, I know realize, that if you stay up 'til this late hour, you will have no energy in the morning. And, with no energy, how do you expect to sing? I must apologize for keeping you up. I seem to forget myself, sometimes, when I am around you . . ."
"But, Erik, there's nothing to apolo-"
I silenced her with a caring finger near her lips, extending my arm in the direction of her bedroom. "Shh," I whispered sweetly, escorting her to her new chambers. "I trust you will have no more nightmares?"
"No, I don't think that I shall." She stopped on the threshold, staring up at me as I leaned my imposing, lanky form against the wooden doorframe. "Merci, mon ange."
"Goodnight, my child." All the love and sheer worship for her in those three words!
"Goodnight, Erik." She advanced a foot or two towards me, so close that I could feel her pleasant, warm breath washing over the pale skin of my cheek. It was an intoxicating sensation, to say the least. The faint candlelight issuing from inside the room framed her face majestically, outlining the sculpted shape of her cheekbones and the bow of her full mouth. It was as if she were waiting for something, for she did not yet enter the room. Instead, she rose on the tips of her toes, her palms coming to rest on my tensing shoulders. I quaked, not wanting to break the contact, but, also, not wanting her to make a grave mistake. I tried to back away, to create some distance between us, but the relentless doorframe prevented it. She tilted her head slightly, pursing her lips.
Clearly, her actions were due to the enticing spell of my voice. What did she mean to do? I could not allow myself to find out. She had no idea what lay beneath my mask. As long as she believed me handsome, for she must have, then what would halt her from her actions? No, I couldn't permit her to do this, not with my secret still undiscovered beneath the loathed mask.
With the grace and rapid agility of a feline, I slid from the unabiding doorframe, taking a place to her right. Confused, she turned to me, her lids drooping, cheeks flushed red. Was it disappointment registering on her face, sadness? I dare not delve deeper. I must have enjoyed taunting myself-I could not help but to reach out my long fingers and trace the shape of her features. No, not actually caressing her skin, only the moist air hanging right above it.
"Erik-"
"Goodnight, my dear." Before she could respond, whether physically or with words, I pivoted on my heel, heading away from her.
She lingered, hand clenching the door, gazing at me with some unrecognizable emotion playing across her sullen face. We both stood, as statues in some fallen, neglected garden, not speaking, just offering the other heart-wrenching expressions-We understood. We knew. The truth. Why did God torment me with what I could not have? Why make me aware of such a creature as she? Why create her, if not for me? I saw her lips move; perhaps, saying 'Goodnight'. I don't know. Then, she solemnly bowed her head and reluctantly made her way into the comfort of her bedroom, closing the door on me, and my yearnings.