~by Stephanie Piro
It was summertime. The normal hustle and bustle of the Opera House and all its routines were on hiatus for the month of August as the staff and performers who made their home there were traveling to see family, or to vacation at points around the country, and some even farther.
Erik had no friends or family, save Nadir, who had taken the train to the countryside to visit a winery and bring back some bottles for the coming year’s holidays. He had asked Erik to accompany him, but Erik was loath to put himself on such a public form of transportation where he might be ogled or stared at or worse. Instead, he wandered the almost empty halls and secret passages of the Opera House until he found himself at a familiar place. How often had his feet brought him here? The passage behind the dressing room of his pupil, Christine Daee. Only now, he expected it to be bathed in shadow, as he knew Christine, Antoinette Giry and Meg had traveled to the seaside for a brief summer break. It killed him to have learned that the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny had transported them in his private carriage.
Erik had taken Christine on as a student when he found her weeping and alone as a girl, and even though she had never actually seen him, they had a very warm relationship as he taught her to use her voice as the angelic instrument that it was. She referred to him as her Angel of Music. He had grown so fond of Christine that teaching her from behind the mirror was the highlight of his day and it seemed to be hers, as well. She rushed back from rehearsals to her dressing room, locked the door, and anxiously awaited his silky, seductive voice which seemed to emanate from the mirror itself.
As she had gotten older and more talented and even more beautiful, Erik could finally not keep himself from admitting that he loved her. He had not allowed himself to even think along those lines. And then, one day, he lay in his vast bed, unable to sleep even the little he was usually able to. “Christine,” he had breathed, “I love you. I love you with all my black heart and cursed soul.” And he allowed himself the sweet torture of imagining taking her in his arms. “Damn you, Erik,” he had muttered. “Stop this nonsense. She will never be yours. A monster such as you are can never hope for an angel to descend from heaven and love you back.” And he let a bitter tear stream down his deformed cheek.
Now, standing behind the mirror, a cloud of misery enveloping him as he imagined Christine laughing on the arm of that blasted Raoul, he glanced glumly into the seemingly empty room. But wait, the room wasn’t quite empty. A figure seemed to be moving within. He stepped closer and peered through the glass. It was Christine! She was sitting on the bed, holding a small framed portrait, which he knew was a likeness of her father, the great violinist, Gustave Daaé.
What was she doing back here, alone? His heart seemed to come alive again at the sight of her. He watched, quietly, holding his breath. She was wearing a lovely summer dress of pale blue silk. Her lovely chestnut curls tumbled down over her shoulders and she stood in front of the mirror, placing the portrait down and picking up several ivory hair pins which she held between her lips as she lifted her hair into an upswept style and removed the pins, one at a time to hold it in place. He stood, fascinated by her femininity. She was unpretentious. An angel come to earth.
She turned, went to the door and left the room, locking it behind her, startling Erik into action. Swiftly, he followed her through the passageways and found himself now outside. Uncaring if anyone stared at his mask, he followed her, his cloak swirling around him, staying to the shadows as she made her way down the boulevard.
After several blocks, she arrived at her destination. The old cemetery. And he knew why she had come here. It was the anniversary of her father’s death. But to return from a holiday, alone? Where was Raoul? He knew, in ordinary circumstances, that annoying viscount seemed to be always available for his Little Lotte as he called her, making Erik gag at that pet name, even though he knew its derivation.
She must have wanted to be alone. Well, she would not go unprotected. He hid himself behind a huge statue of a weeping figure and cautiously watched. His eyes riveted to her movements as she knelt beside the grave of her father beneath a statue of a marble angel holding a violin.
His ears strained to hear the words she murmured and realized she was softly singing a Swedish lullaby. And as she sang, Erik became aware that the wind had picked up, and glancing above, he saw dark clouds gathering. Suddenly, the skies opened and it began to pour. Christine turned, surprised, and was looking for someplace to shelter when a figure stepped out and said, “Christine, come with me…” and reached out a gloved hand as she, looking to where that hand led, saw that it ended above with the half-masked face of a man shrouded in black. But that voice…
She took the hand and allowed him to lead her into the shelter of an old broken crypt. There, the two took refuge from the storm.
She was unafraid and she stood looking into Erik’s eyes, questions contained in her own, and finally she said, “Angel?”
“Yes,” Erik breathed. “It is I. Your angel. Watching over you, always.”
“Are you? I wondered. I hoped.” She paused, moving even closer to Erik in the small, dark space.
Erik stood, unmoving. Fearing that she would soon run away, screaming, were she to see what was hidden beneath that half mask.
“You are real?” she asked. He could only nod.
She reached out a hand to touch him, placing it on his chest. He stood as still as the marble angels that surrounded the cemetery. Her small hand caressed him, gently, her eyes on his face. He was breathtakingly handsome. Understanding that he was sensitive over whatever the mask might reveal, instead, she reached up and placed her hand on his uncovered cheek.
“Tell me who are you, really?” she asked.
Looking down into her beseeching face, he could answer only, “I am Erik.”
“And my angel.” And with that, she threw her arms about him, embracing him and startling him even more as he found his own arms returning that embrace as he held her close, breathing in the damp, rain scent of her hair.
It seemed the intimacy of the dark, enclosed space somehow gave them the courage to respond to one another. “Erik, my angel, I have known you most of my life. I have prayed that one day I would be allowed to see you in person.” Erik listened. Hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. “I have lived to hear your voice. I have loved you, my tutor. I have loved you in so many ways…but now, I can love you as a man. A man who lives and breathes and whose heart I can hear beating in tune with mine.”
Softly he spoke, “I thought it was the Viscount you loved.”
“Why would you think that? He is my friend from childhood. I may be fond of him for all his kindness, but I could never love him. Not the way I have loved you. That I do love you.”
Erik held her away at arm’s length for a moment. “You do not know what you are saying,” he said almost harshly. “I am not an angel. I am the blackest sort of devil. A man unworthy of your affections. Go back to your Raoul. He is what you deserve.”
Christine blinked in the gloom. “You cannot tell my heart whom to love, Erik,” she said tenderly. “It chose you years ago. I thought I loved a dream. A ghost. But you are real. I love you, Erik, with all that is in my heart and soul.”
Silently, he reached up and removed the mask. Reaching for a kerosene lantern and matches that had lain untouched for who knew how many years, he lit the lantern and held it above his head so she could see the ruin of his face. “I will not hold your words to heart if you were to change your mind now,” he said.
Christine stepped closer. Tears formed in her beautiful eyes. Not tears of fear or pity, but tears of love. “I can only love you more, for you are so dear to me and your face even more precious.”
Placing the mask beside the lantern, he reached out and pulled Christine into his arms and kissed her passionately, which she returned with equal fervor, both unaware that the storm had ended and a rainbow had spread itself across the sky of Paris.