Reality Issues
Eight: The Real Story, Part Two
Erik
and Christine were married in May at a small chapel with only Meg, Mme. Giry
and Nadir standing as witnesses. The wedding night was spent together at home
(now officially their home), and the next morning they departed for
Italy. For the next two weeks they traveled the country in complete bliss,
Rome, Florence, Milan, before returning to Paris, spending their final days of
the honeymoon living only off each other and never leaving the house. Christine
returned to the company of the Opera bearing a new name: Madame Ande, which,
translated from Swedish, means Madame Ghost. However, no one in Paris would
suspect that and they would have a terribly difficult time finding a man by the
name of Monsieur Ande. They had gone through many possible names: Geist,
Fantasma, Spoke and Valnad to name a few, but had settled on Ande because it
gave no clear nationality. Erik took great pleasure in listening to the
whisperings of gossips attempting to discern who Christine’s husband. No one
ever realized that the answer was obvious to the world. The managers were the
worst, Erik had said, the smile in his eyes fading into a haunted frown. They
were inquisitive, too inquisitive, like women (no offence, he had said in apology).
They jumped at any mention of Christine’s mysterious husband and questioned the
Girys constantly. No answer satisfied them, but of course, no answer was
correct. Christine and Erik eventually began to play with the entire company’s
curiosity. He sent her roses and presents after every performance and Christine
would leave his attached notes of declarations of love where they could easily
be found. They would let themselves be seen embracing in the corridor outside
her dressing room and then spin into the room before anyone could come close
enough to actually see who the person was.
Then,
one month after Christine had returned to the Opera, their games suddenly
stopped. They decided together that the time for foolish games was over and
that they had to stop behaving like children. After all, it was not right for
adults to act like children if they were expecting their own. Christine was
pregnant; it had only just been confirmed by a doctor. The pair felt an
indescribably joy that only first-time expecting parents know. Unfortunately,
that joy was not long-lived for, two months later, Christine lost the baby.
Erik
and Christine held each other and wept the entire night. Each not only mourned
the loss but was also afraid that they would lose the other’s love as well. Yet
it only made them love each other stronger and more passionately. Christine
consoled her husband as best as she could. Plenty of women had miscarriages,
she had said; it was not uncommon at all. God, she believed, just didn’t think
that it was their time to have a child. Nor must He have thought it four months
later for, one month after the discovery of Christine’s new pregnancy, she once
again had a miscarriage.
Their
hope was bruised slightly, but their spirits remained strong. However, the
physical side effects of the loss took a harsh toll on poor Christine. She
developed a serious fever and was bed-ridden for two weeks, during which she
fell in and out of consciousness. Erik knew how to care for her but did not
care for himself well during those two weeks. He was so concerned for Christine
that he could not think of doing anything but tending to her. Nothing else
mattered except her; he had just lost another child and would not let his wife
be taken away from him as well.
When
the fever broke, Christine awoke with a new light in her eyes.
"Erik," she said, smiling at her husband, who looked back at her
through a thick curtain of tears, "next time will be different. God will
not take another from us." Erik wanted to scream how do you know,
but the look in Christine’s eyes silenced him. She knew, she had utter
confidence in it and Erik believed her. Health flew swiftly to her and she
returned to the Opera within the week. And then, three months after her last
miscarriage, she was pregnant again.
The
first two months passed without incidence and, in the third month, Christine
announced her pregnancy to the management, asking permission to leave as soon
as she began to show. They granted her permission but, just as she was about to
leave, M. Andre asked, "Madam Ande, will you be returning to us?"
Christine
did not know how to answer. She and Erik had not yet discussed anything after
the birth. That night during dinner she brought to subject to her husband.
After some deliberation, they both agreed that Christine should wait and see
how she felt after the birth, but that their unnatural lifestyle permitted her
to do whatever she wanted. It was not as if Erik, like most men, attended work
everyday and left his wife to tend to the children; Erik was almost always home
and it was Christine who left for rehearsals and performances. The discussion
was left open-ended: Christine would do whatever she wanted when the time came.
Yet
that was not the only thing they discussed at this particular dinner; Erik
brought up something that he had been thinking about since Christine’s first
pregnancy. "What would you think," he asked, "about
moving?"
"Moving?"
Christine echoed, confused. "Moving where?"
Erik
shrugged. "Where ever."
"You
mean…leave the house on the lake?"
Erik
laughed. "Well, no, not abandon the place. I find that I’ve formed
somewhat of an attachment to this odd housing structure. It has been good to
me, and it has been rather romantic, if I might say so myself. And I don’t
think I could fit that bloody organ onto the boat, now, could I? But yes, I
mean, live somewhere else. Somewhere above ground, not beneath an Opera House,
somewhere where our child could grow up in as normal a way as possible."
"And
what of the Opera Ghost? Will he just…retire?"
"Ah,
the Phantom! Well, there really is nothing for him to do anymore. Your position
as reigning diva is secure and I don’t need the money. Well, to be quite
candid, I never actually needed the money. We are very wealthy,
Christine."
"You
are very wealthy."
"We,
we are very wealthy. Although you wouldn’t know it by the fact that we live in
a tomb, but—"
Christine
giggled. "It’s not a tomb."
"But,
we have enough money to treat ourselves to the highest lifestyle for the rest
of our lifetimes and the lifetimes of our children. Why not use that money to
the fullest instead of just sitting on it?"
And
so it was settled. They would move in time for the baby to be born. Within the
week Erik had found an estate just outside of Paris, purchased it, and began to
shop for the furnishings. When he showed Christine the house, she fell in love
with it. They walked through it together, pointing out which room would be used
for what and so on. Yet, unknown to both of them as they dreamed of forever
several miles outside of Paris, their move had caused a great commotion within
the city.
Erik
had sent the managers a note from the Opera Ghost. It stated simply that he was
retiring from haunting the Opera House, that he had found better corridors to
stalk. He thanked the gentlemen for their assistance to him in running his
Opera and wished them the best of luck upon trying to manage it alone. It ended
with this post-script: It is a pity, gentlemen, that your attempts in
finding my identity were so feckless and ignoble. I would have enjoyed a
challenge, but I am not angry, merely disappointed. But that is what one gets
when one sets standards for children too high. Au Revoir! Erik did not know
at the time, but his note had stirred up old feelings within the management.
What took place following the reading of O.G.’s letter was described to
Christine and Erik months later.
"I
cannot believe it! Who does he think he is, calling us children?" Firmin
shouted loudly, pacing back and forth across the office.
M.
Andre tilted his chair back on its heels as he took another puff of his cigar.
"Let it be, Firmin," he said. "He is leaving, do you remember
that part of the letter? Let us wait out his last remaining weeks with us
patiently. Then he will be gone and we won’t have any more ghosts to worry
about."
"No,
not unless one of his friends hears of the vacancy!" He banged his fist
upon his desk forcefully, causing Andre to let his chair slip from beneath him
and fall to the floor. "Why weren’t we ever able to find this character?"
"Well,"
Andre said, helping himself off the floor and picking up his chair, "he is
a ghost. Ghosts, as I have been led to believe, can be either invisible or
visible depending on their mood, have the ability to walk through walls and
are, well, dead. It is very hard to find someone who possesses all these
qualities."
"Well,
damn it, we must at least try!"
"But
no one knows who the Ghost is! No one has ever seen him or talked to him! He
has given us no clues as to his identity at all! We only know that he has
confiscated Box Five, likes the Opera, has some use for footstools, prefers
Christine Ande, has horrible penmanship and—"
"Wait!
What did you just say?"
"His
penmanship? Well, look at this: such uneven, crooked letters! It is a wonder
one can even read this piece of—"
"No,
no! Before that! There’s the key! Christine Ande!"
"She
doesn’t know anything about the Ghost. She’s in her own little world with her
unknown husband and her baby."
"Don’t
you remember all those rumors about her and the Ghost? That he came to her in
her dressing room? He’s the reason she’s become as important in the company as
she is! Without him, she would probably still be in the chorus. And isn’t it
odd that he resigns the week after Mme. Ande tells us that she may never be
returning to l’Opera?"
"It
could be just a coincidence…"
"I
don’t believe in coincidences!"
"Yes
you do."
"No,
I don’t!"
"Yes
you do! Why you told me just yesterday that it was such a coincidence
that—"
"Forget
what I said! I don’t believe in them anymore. What I believe now is that
Christine Ande is somehow connected to our O.G. and that she will lead us to
him!"
Christine
stayed at the Opera throughout her fourth month of pregnancy. Every so often,
she felt as if M. Firmin was staring at her intensely, but thought nothing of
it at the time. Twice during the course of that month she was called into the
manager’s office as they questioned her on any involvement she might have had
with the Ghost. She denied everything, all the rumors she claimed were false,
and Andre believed her. But Firmin didn’t.
At
the beginning for her fifth month, Christine found herself struggling to get
into her costume. It was time for her to leave the Opera. A good time, too, for
Erik and she were ready to move into their new house by the end of the month.
So Christine went to the managers’ office in order to officially announce her
departure. She was let in to find only M. Firmin present.
"Good
afternoon, Monsieur Firmin."
"Madame
Ande, what can I do for you?"
"I
have come to take my leave, as we discussed."
"Ah
yes, of course, But you will wait for Monsieur Andre to return, won’t you,
madam? I’m sure he would be most displeased to have missed saying goodbye to
you. He is meeting with Monsieur Reyer and should be back shortly. Please sit
down, madam." M. Firmin walked over and shut the door as he guided
Christine to her seat.
"Thank
you most kindly."
"Now,
madam, perhaps you will tell me, now that we are alone, everything that you
know of the Opera Ghost."
Christine
laughed. "Monsieur, I have already told you! I know nothing of the Ghost
save the rumors I have heard from the ballet girls."
"He
knew of you very well, and spoke of you quite often."
"Monsieur,
I do not know all of my admirers."
"He
was your first. Surely that means something to you. If not for him, you would
still be a simple chorus girl."
"Just
because he helped me doesn’t mean I know him. He helped Meg also and she’s
never spoken to him either."
"And
what of the conversations in your dressing room?"
"I
have already denied those. I do not let strange men—or ghosts, for that
matter—into my dressing room."
"Madame,
I wish you would desist with your futile denials! They may convince my partner
but they do not convince me!" He banged his fist against his desk.
Christine
laughed in nervous fear. "Monsieur, I beg you—"
"Do
you laugh at me?" Christine stood up as he approached her. "How dare
you! You are just like him, mocking me. Now, tell me who he is!"
"No!"
Christine pressed her hands against her cheek as the pain seared through her
face. He had struck her. She looked at him for a moment in terror and then
tried to reach the door. He got there first and pushed her fiercely into the
corner of his desk. As she fell to the floor she let out a scream that only a
true soprano could emit. Erik heard it in the cellars below and the cry was
followed by a name: "Erik!" He ran as quickly as he could towards the
source.
"Erik?"
Firmin repeated. "Is that the ghost’s name?"
"No!"
she cried out as he kicked her. "No, Erik is my husband."
"What
is the ghost’s name?" Christine lay silent except for her staggered
breathing. "You won’t tell me? Well then, tell me this: why do you call
for your husband and not the ghost?"
"Because
he’s already here," a male voice said from behind Firmin. He turned to
find an elbow in his face.
Erik
stepped over the fallen manager and knelt down beside his wife. She fainted in
his arms as he whispered her name. He wanted to get her home as fast as
possible, but the quickest way was through her dressing room, and to get there
he had to carry her though the hallway. When he picked her up, her head had
already begun to bleed. Erik peered into the hallway and saw no one, so he
stepped outside the office.
"Madame
Ande!" M. Andre had suddenly turned the corner, catching sight of Erik and
Christine’s limp body. Erik was startled by his appearance and, without
thinking, turned towards him, giving him a glance at the white mask. Andre
gasped, in response to Erik, or Christine, or maybe both, then bowed his head
and motioned with his hand for them to continue. Erik raced down the hall to
Christine’s dressing room without being noticed by anyone else.
Erik
hurried her though the underground labyrinth and into the house, placing her in
bed and immediately tending to the obvious cuts and bruises. When he could do
no more and she still had not awoken, he stepped back and for the first time,
truly let himself think. All of his instincts told him to go find Firmin and
kill him for the harm he had inflicted upon Christine. But he fought the urge,
the familiar tear of rage through his brain, with tight fists and clenched
teach. Christine wouldn’t like it, and he had to be here for her, when she woke
up, if she woke up… Erik slammed his fist against the wall as he let out a moan
of primitive rage; hatred boiled inside him, and he wanted nothing more than to
kill the vile beast who did such a thing to his wife. He looked at her lying on
the bed. Was it not for the still-consuming, discolored bruise upon her forehead.
She would appear to be sleeping as soundly as an angel. If he went after Firmin
he would betray Christine’s trust, for he had told her once, long ago, that he
would give it all up for her. And he could not betray her.
Erik
fell asleep of emotional exhaustion at the foot of the bed. Later that night
(or early the next morning, it was hard to tell) Erik awoke with a start,
Christine’s screams piercing through the air. He jumped up and his eyes found a
trail of blood leading into the bathroom. The screams stopped suddenly as Erik
heard a slight thud. He rushed into the bathroom, where his wife lay on the
floor, unconscious once again. The floor was painted red, as was Christine’s
dress. But this blood had not come from her wounds; those he had tended, they
were all bound tight. No, it was from somewhere else, and in that moment, Erik
knew, and he leaned over and vomited. He hurried back into the bedroom, tears
stinging his eyes, and threw back the bed covers. A large red stain greeted
him. He bellowed in rage as he ripped the sheets from the mattress and threw
them to the floor. Turning rapidly, he caught his reflection in Christine’s
vanity mirror. His hands, his shirt, and even his mask were covered in blood,
Christine’s blood, their baby’s blood. He watched his eyes turn a horrid shade
of red before he bolted out of the house, stopping only to collect his Punjab
lasso, and then he climbed up, up into the very walls of the Opera House,
finding the manager’s office with blind ease.
He
peered in through a spy hole; blood was every where in the office, but there
was no sign of anyone. Erik was just about to leave to find M. Firmin, wherever
he may be, when M. Andre entered the room, clad in blood himself. An officer
followed.
"Thank
you, monsieur, that is all we will need for now. You did a fine job." The
officer said to Andre.
"Yes…
thank you… you’re welcome…" the manager replied with vague acknowledgement
of the other man.
"Go
home and get some rest, monsieur. It has been quite a night." To this,
Andre did not respond, but merely nodded, and the young man left the office
quietly. Erik saw his chance then and took it.
"Where
is he?" his voice boomed around the room, seemingly from no actual
location.
Andre
did not look surprised at the question. "O. G.," he said, calmly,
"I have been expecting you for some time now. How is she?"
"Where
is he?" Erik repeated. He did not want to talk; he just wanted to find
Firmin.
"He
is dead," was the stifled reply. Erik sat still, half of him confused and
half still in rage. Andre turned around in a full circle before he said,
"Please, monsieur, if flesh you are, come out and speak to me in person. I
will not give you away."
Erik
thought for a minute before taking him up on his offer. "Is there anyone
in the hallway?"
A
moment passed as Andre went to check. "No one, monsieur. Everyone has
left; we are entirely alone."
"Good."
Andre turned quickly to find his ghost in front of him. There was O. G.,
standing no more than six feet away, covered in blood and wearing a mask. The
manager began to lose some of his nerve and began to tremble. He closed the
door behind him and sat down, folding his hands to temper his shaking. Erik
remained standing. "He is dead. So, did you kill him?"
"Yes,"
Andre said, turning away from Erik. "I found him unconscious after I saw
you in the hall, and waited until he woke up. He began to laugh and told me
that he had found your weakness, and that he had a plan to catch you. He told
me what he had… done to… and I chided him, and he began to get aggressive with
me. I told him that he needed to stop and that I was going to call the police
and inform them that he had just beaten a woman when he pulled a knife on me.
He yelled that I stood in his way before absolute greatness, and then he attacked
me. We struggled, but I managed to reach the gun that we kept in the drawer
there and… well, you can assume the rest. Yes, he is dead, and I killed him,
but it was self-defense… I assume that you are her husband."
"Yes,"
Erik said softly, his mind drifting. Firmin was dead, and not by his hand. He
did not need to break his word to Christine after all… and now he had to get
back to her. He had left her lying on the bathroom floor…
"You’re
secret is safe with me. I won’t tell anyone. Is she…"
"I
don’t know. We lost the baby." Why was he saying this, he thought. He
needed to leave, to get back to his wife, to—
"You
probably need to go back to her now, but I would like to talk to you, if you
wouldn’t mind. I swear I won’t tell a soul I’ve seen you."
"Yes,
good, I must go now." Erik hurried to the door. "Thank you," he
said softly, before disappearing into the hallway.
And
that led them up to now basically. Christine recuperated, slowly, but she
continued to fall into spells of unconsciousness. They wouldn’t last long,
usually no more than half an hour, but she usually hurt herself in the fall,
often banging her head on the floor. Erik feared for her safety and never let
her alone, so that he might catch her when she fainted. But still she hurt
herself, for her spells came on quickly and she usually did not have enough
notice to shout or even gasp a warning.
Both
their spirits were broken from that final loss of their child. They slept on
opposite sides of the bed, each afraid to touch the other. He only kissed her
on the forehead now, and holding hands was as close as they got to intimacy.
Only when they sang did their passion return, and eventually, Christine
convinced Erik to let her return to the Opera and he agreed, but only with the
provision that he be in a position to be with her at every moment. So, he spoke
with Andre, with whom he had been communicating with over the past two months.
Andre offered Erik a managerial position, as he knew so much about the Opera
already and was in need of a new partner, and Erik accepted. Slowly they
introduced him to the Opera staff as Erik Ande, Christine’s husband and the new
manager, who wore a mask to hide old war wounds. Their plan worked, and the two
settled semi-happily back into the lifestyle of the Opera, when Christine
fainted on opening night. That was where Christine’s memory began, and that was
where Erik’s story stopped.
Chapter Nine,
SOON TO COME
Chapter Seven, The Real
Story Part One