~By Stephanie Piro
Erik looked down into the bowl of the glass of brandy he was holding and swirled it before allowing himself to taste it. “Perfection,” he said aloud. The Opera managers did have exquisite taste, he thought sardonically, especially in their lead sopranos.
He sighed, thinking of Christine. Remembering. The mirror. The dressing room. Her astonishment at hearing his voice for the first time. If only he’d left it at that. But, no. He had to have it all. Bitterly, he set down the glass and stood. It had been almost a year since he let her go. Let her go off to marry that simpering Raoul. And now, now…she was returning.
It was all over town, though he’d known it first. Christine Daae was returning to the opera for one night only, to sing at a special charity performance. Tonight. “Perhaps I won’t even go,” he muttered.
He lit a match and brought the candelabra to life. It was only afternoon in the streets of Paris, but here, in the 5th cellars of the Opera house, it was always night.
“Who am I kidding?” he said aloud, again. “Here I am, talking to myself. A sure sign of madness, but madness has been my friend for years.”
He sat at the organ and ran his long fingers over the keyboard. He had finished his magnificent “Don Juan Triumphant”, which he was pleased received outstanding reviews, though he’d disappeared after Christine left and toyed with never writing again. After all, that took him twenty years to complete. But thinking of Christine inspired him to write an aria, one so light and beautiful, the complete opposite of his Don Juan. It was a thing of great beauty, as she had been, and he knew that only she could bring it to life. He almost called it “Christine”, but that seemed pathetic, so he called it simply “Ascension”, in tribute to her angelic loveliness.
He thought, darkly, of how she had affected him. How she brought his soul, such as it was, to life, in those moments they spent together. He was brought out of his reverie by the chiming of the clock on the mantel. Time to get dressed. He wanted to look his best…even if she never saw him. He replaced his mask and donned his finest cloak and then rolled up the score and tied it daintily with a red ribbon. He tucked it under his arm and disappeared into the night.
Moments later he was making his way through the hidden passageways that led behind the dressing rooms of the cast of performers. He could feel the excitement of the crowd arriving through the walls…it even seemed to affect him, he had to admit. Eventually he came to the back of one particular dressing room. Once, Christine had rested and dressed and sung there, sung and improved and matured as a singer while he, her angel of music, guided her every step of the way.
He stood behind the two-way mirror he had designed, put his hand to it, and entered the darkened dressing room. He lay the libretto on the dressing table. What were the chances of her using her old dressing room for this one night? But whoever did use it would find the score with her name on it and see she received it. He hadn’t been back in ages, not able to bear it sitting empty, or worse, with some untalented wretch taking her place.
Suddenly, he froze. His catlike hearing could sense someone was in the hall. Voices, laughter. He darted back behind the mirror and it swooshed shut behind him just in time as the door opened and…no, it couldn’t be, but yes, it was Christine who entered, turning to wave to whomever she left behind in the hallway. And who now stood alone, looking around her with a small smile on her enchanting lips. She was as beautiful as ever.
She sat at the dressing table and set a small bag on its surface and began to remove her comb and brush and cosmetics, which she only wore on stage, never in real life, because what could ever improve her luminous beauty? Then she saw it. She gasped—he could hear her—as she reached for the manuscript and saw her name written in red ink, and untied the ribbon. Her eyes scanned the notes. Then she looked up.
“Erik,” she spoke his name. “Are you there?” She rose and went to the mirror. She stood facing it, facing him, though she couldn’t see him. She put her hand to it, and he, on his side, reached and put his against it, only a pane of mirrored glass between them.
“Erik, please, this is so beautiful, more beautiful than anything I’ve ever read or sung. Please speak to me. I need to hear your voice. I’ve longed to hear it. It’s been almost a year, a year without hearing it, a year of trials for me, Erik. I learned things. I learned that to be alive I need to sing, and I learned I could never be anyone’s wife locked away on an estate, away from music…and away from you, my heart, my angel.”
Erik couldn’t breathe. Was he hearing correctly? Or was this all an illusion, his madness gaining control. Could the real Christine ever say such things? He had to admit he’d dreamed, he’d hoped she would… He paused, for she was still speaking to the mirror, to him.
“I never married Raoul. He was kind. He gave me his guest house to live in. I begged the managers to take me back, which they were ecstatic to do, but the season was full and the only opening was this charity event tonight, so I jumped at the invitation and will be on the schedule as a lead throughout next season. If you can hear me, Erik, I know you must hate me, but just let me hear you, let me see you at least once more…”
At that, the mirror swung open and Erik stepped through it and into the dressing room.
“My dear,” he breathed, “is it really you?”
“It’s really me,” she replied. He took her in his arms and she reached up and removed his mask to kiss him. “Don Juan has triumphed at last,” she laughed.
“If you say so,” the Phantom replied, and kissed her again.
