Needing to please rather than be pleased was an odd feeling, but for the first time in my life, I was happy. I felt accepted, and that meant more to me than all the power and terror in my life. It's true that she had never seen my face, for if she ever did see that horrible fearsome death's head she would die of fright; and she still considered me her Angel of Music, a fantasy which I hadn't the heart to deny her. But she accepted me, and I, in turn, sheltered her, taught her, comforted her...
Loved her...
It took me a while to admit, even to myself, that I did love her. At first I denied it, telling myself that it was only her voice which kept me at her side, that I was birthing an angel and once that was done, I could leave; I could leave any time, really, but it was my duty to see her through; duty, honor -- human ideas, I was not a human, I was superhuman, I was subhuman, I was a genius, I was a tyrant, I loved her -- it all came back to that. My emotions were so turbulent that I couldn't tell what was going on, but the cold unhuman part of me which had surfaced because of society's prejudice, the part of me which had kept me alive for so long, forced me to see the truth. I could not live without her.
Why was I in love, I who had been denied humanity and who had in turn denied the human race? I was a killer, a monster, a freak, and they do not love, they do not succumb to that which is the downfall of so many. Would this be my downfall as well? I didn't know. I just knew that I, even though it went against my better judgement, loved someone, for the first time in my life.
Half the time I felt drunk, giddy with excitement -- she loved me back, she would devote her life to me as I would mine to her, and oh ye gods I was happy! -- and the rest of the time I was depressed, despairing -- she didn't know me, once she knew who I was she would hate me forever, I wasn't good enough for her, couldn't I just crawl off and shoot myself and save everyone the trouble?
But at the blackest moments, I would see her again, and she would talk with me, laughing, blissfully unaware of my horrible mood, and my spirits would raise again. She never knew anything was wrong, and I don't think she ever even realized that I loved her.
Her voice continued to improve, and with it came a confidence which, among other things, led her one day to ask:
"Angel, please come where I can see you!"
I was rather startled by the request, to say the least. It is true that when I had first 'appeared', she had asked me that same question, but once I had said 'no' she had accepted my invisibility. I didn't want her to know who -- what -- I was, not just yet, because I was afraid of her reaction. But now she wanted it, and I would do almost anything to please her... The only problem was, I didn't think this time she would be as willing to accept a negative answer, but I knew she wouldn't be happy with the truth, either.
"Please," she pleaded, seeming to sense my internal struggle. "I know you're out there, somewhere; I just want to see what you look like, that's all. I don't mean any harm!"
No, of course you don't, no one does. A memory surfaced: a group of children, mostly heirs or second-born children of rich families, making jokes about "no-face, mask-face" when they thought I, the rat-catcher at their school, couldn't hear them; and all the while a voice inside of me tried unsuccessfully to convince myself that it wasn't me they were talking about. No, they hadn't meant any harm either, they were just having fun, they were children, they couldn't know any better... My hands curled into fists, as the old anger welled up in me.
"Oh, why won't you let me see you?" Christine whispered, although the slump of her shoulders told me she wasn't expecting an answer.
Because, my dear Christine, I am not an angel, never have been, and never will be. But she looked so lonely and despairing, sitting there alone in the dressing-room, that I capitulated. "All right," I said with a slight sigh of resignation, "all right."
It was a simple illusory trick to 'dissolve' the mirror and step 'through' it, but it was impressive to those who didn't understand the feat. Christine's eyes widened, and she approached with fear and awe. She put one hand on the mirror -- but of course, by that point, the illusion was complete, and the mirror was perfectly normal. She looked at me thoughtfully, curiously, without saying anything.
I could imagine what was going through her head. I looked nothing like an angel. No halo -- not that I deserved one, really. No wings, no shining golden hair, and most importantly no remarkably handsome face. But then, I didn't really look like a ghost, either, despite my reputation. I was flesh and blood, not some translucent specter, and I didn't even have the courtesy to wear a flapping white sheet and run around moaning and gibbering and rattling chains at people.
Christine stepped closer, and I silently shuddered at her nearness. She was not by any means repulsive; in fact, she was quite beautiful. But I had for as long as I can remember been isolated from human contact, except for punishment, and it was hard convincing my reflexes that I was not in danger.
"Angel?" Her voice quavered slightly.
I nodded, but doubt flashed across her face. To reassure her -- although how she could doubt that someone who appeared to walk through mirrors was an angel or ghost, I'm not sure -- I sang a phrase from "Black Rose". Because I had composed it, I knew that no one else could possibly duplicate it, and she appeared to accept it as my trademark.
She moved a fraction closer, gazing into my eyes with a benign curiosity which was far different from the hostile stares I was used to. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. One slender hand reached for my face, and for the smooth white mask which covered it --
My reflexes took over. That mask was my only safety; she seemed to trust me, as I was, as her Angel, but once she saw me for the ugly creature I was, her dream -- and mine -- would be shattered. And besides, I'd had a lifetime to create and condition my reflexes to prevent anyone from discovering what was beneath the mask. Anyone -- even Christine.
I barely realized that I had moved, but suddenly my hand was tightly circling her wrist, keeping her away from the mask. My jaw was clenched tightly, another result of my reflexes, and my heart hammered. We stood, frozen in tableau for a long moment; then her face twisted in pain, and she gasped, "Angel! Stop, please, you're hurting me."
Hurt... hurt... Oh Christine, I never wanted to hurt you! I released her wrist, which she rubbed, as she stared at me in puzzlement. I stared in horror at my gloved hand, which had clenched of its own accord into a fist. "What have I done?" I muttered, more to myself than to her.
"Angel, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she cried, "I didn't mean... Oh please, don't be angry with me, I promise, I'll do anything you want, anything!"
I was amused in a dark sort of way. This was my fault, but she was under the impression that it was hers... I am angry, Christine, but with myself, not with you. I suppose that if I were to beg for forgiveness, you would be utterly confused, wouldn't you?
"Just don't leave me," she continued breathlessly, almost babbling, "please don't leave me, not now, I couldn't live without you! You've done so much for me, I owe everything to you, you're my whole life -- so help me, Angel, as little as I know about you, I think I love you."
Revelation. She loved me? My emotion level, already unstable, suddenly rocketed up. I loved her, true, but I had never seriously expected any return. But she... I had never expected her to even consider loving... "Sing with me, Christine," I said impulsively.
She looked up, uncomprehending; but then disappointment flashed across her face. I suddenly realized what she must be thinking. She wasn't a mind reader, and she didn't know that I loved her. Or that the only way I could express that love was through music. And that imperative, Sing!, was, from her point of view, a stern warning to stop the emotional catharsis and continue the lesson. The lesson which had been interrupted by her request to see me.
A lesson which both of us were slightly too distracted to hope to resume.
She bowed her head, submitting to my authority. There was no doubt that she had heard in my voice the emotion which threatened to rip me apart; even after a lifetime of dispassionate separation from the world, I knew that something of the turmoil I felt had leaked through. But the same instinctive retreat in emotionlessness had lent a sharp, almost angry edge to anything which showed through. To her, I must have sounded disapproving -- although I doubt that she thought that I loved her, except in her wildest fantasies.
Suddenly I thought of the duet from the third scene of Act One of The Nightingale, a modern opera about the daughter of a noble, who falls in love with a common soldier. (Of course, when that noble goes to war with another noble, the soldier is on the enemy side... he eventually dies, as does she; such is the nature of opera.) The Opera Populaire had performed it recently. I had not enjoyed Carlotta's presentation of the noble's daughter, Adele, and had only barely tolerated the lead tenor, a slightly overweight Italian named Piangi, as Enrique. (I must admit, however, that hearing an Italian try to duplicate the accent of a French native proved rather amusing.)
But despite what I thought of the Opera's actors, or the improbably flowery language employed, the music was beautiful -- and remarkably apt for my situation. Adele had just confessed her love to Enrique, who, sharing the same love, was lamenting that he could never touch her. For the male, it was an admission of love: something that neither I nor Enrique could admit directly. It also conveyed appropriate, if subtler, feelings of unworthiness -- for indeed Christine did not deserve me. She deserved a real husband, one who could take her to dances and parties, who could sit in the Opera Populaire's best seats and applaud her successes, but not a deformed monster who hid in darkness.
I shook the dark thoughts from my head. Christine was watching me silently; I had not given her any directives, and she was waiting patiently for me to say something. I smiled inwardly, and began to sing.
"'Nightingale of the light, flower of my desiring, how fate has conspired against us! You and I, of two different spheres--" How true that was! "--light and dark--" ...not that there's any doubt that I'm the darkness and she's the light... "--in a world of shadows, never to meet. Yet love will triumph--"
Please please please let her understand, I thought desperately. I never doubted that she would sing in the right places; she knew the part well. When the Populaire had performed it, I had her learn Adele's part for her lesson, and she had complied willingly. This was not the first time we had sung together from this opera.
But it was the first time I was trying to send her a message through it...
Her voice, slightly tentative, joined mine in the duet, and that sweet angelic voice was enough to drive away even the blackest of my moods. But I was nowhere near depression -- I felt like soaring, now, for in that moment she had lifted her head, and her eyes had met mine. Eyes which accepted me, which showed her understanding of my message. And she smiled, even through song.
"...Candles kiss the stars by night, joined by a love which is fire and flame, and that love joins us two in a bond which cannot be broken, not by distance or by death..."
They were foreboding words for Adele and Enrique, for indeed he did die; and it can be said that the bond of love followed them through death, as evidenced by Adele's suicide. Such is the nature of opera. I simply hoped, with all my heart, that neither of us would die. Not yet. Not now.
"...Every morning the sun rises to welcome the land in its warm embrace, and so shall we two rise, embracing each other, the dawn of a new love... forever..."
Our voices died away. The lyrics were a little sappy for my tastes, but that did not matter at the time. It was an affirmation of our love, not a celebration of the writing talents of the particular composer.
There was silence for a moment, and then Christine looked up at me almost fearfully. "Angel, would you mind if I asked a question?"
"Go ahead."
Still she hesitated. "Promise... you will not be angry..."
"I will not," I said soothingly, trying to stifle my impatience. I will not, I added silently, fiercely, unless you continue to evade like this... Say what you have to say!
"Yes, Angel," she whispered. It was obvious she was terrified. For music's sake, girl! I love you, I thought you understood that... what do you fear of me? I would not hurt you.
"Angel... What is... beneath... the mask?"
My body tensed involuntarily, and I understood her terror. My first reaction to her curiosity, however innocent it was, had been swift and almost brutal. She had no reason not to expect the same from me this time. My breath hissed out between clenched teeth, but I forced myself to relax.
I knew well that I could not stay silent on the issue forever, nor could I ignore the question. But I could not tell her the truth; it would be too painful for both of us. "It is not the right time for you to know," I said simply. I could not say more without destroying the dream. "Never ask me to show you my face; it is more terrible than you could ever imagine." Let her take that how she will; it was the truth, but I had carefully phrased it in a way that belied truth. And I could almost see her misinterpret what I said; it was as if I had told her Thou shalt never see the face of your Angel, for his glory and beauty are too terrible for you to see and survive seeing.
She nodded, silent awe in her face, and I cursed myself for the lie I had to let her keep. And someday she would find out the truth, and I dreaded that day. Perhaps that was the death to which I, as her Enrique, was consigned...
From that day on, many of our lessons took place face-to-face, or face-to-mask as it happened to be. The full power of her love strengthened her voice even more, until it made me cry just listening to it. I did not bawl, as a child, or sniffle as a woman does; instead I wept silent tears, which lay trapped between the mask and my skin until they threatened to smother me.
I judged it was time for someone other than myself to recognize Christine's talent -- but how? M. Montcharmin was set on starring Carlotta in every production, which was only natural given his knowledge. If Christine had not been there I would have done the same. But as it was, Christine never had a chance to shine.
Yet I could not force her into a production, for while I could cause both Carlotta and her understudy to become sick -- coincidentally, of course -- it would raise suspicion that both she and her understudy would be sick at the same time. And even if it did somehow happen, there was no guarantee that Christine would be picked as replacement. And if even that hurdle were crossed, I would still have to deal with Montcharmin, for he would want Carlotta back as soon as possible -- for he felt that it was a singer's name, more than her voice, which attracted the crowds.
Then something almost inconceivable happened.
Montcharmin retired.
Go to Chapter 3
