Chapter 6: The Great Ocean of Truth

Hah.

For a few minutes, there was absolute silence in the room, broken only by my breathing and the relentless ticking of the cuckoo clock in the corner. And then Christine dropped the mask.

It struck my knee and clattered to the floor. My eyes snapped open, and for a moment I stared in almost astonishment at it. It glared back up at me, the empty eye-sockets dark against the floor, the rim of the mouth set in a perpetual frown. I hadn't noticed before quite how angry it looked. Perhaps, I thought dreamily, with the same queer detached feeling, perhaps that's been my problem all along. The mask looks like a pagan god of war, and it frightens people, and all I need to do is take it of and they'll like me, all of them, even my brother and my father and all those people who back away to the other side of the street when they see me coming, it's not me they're afraid of, it's my mask, I should have burned it a long time ago, really I should, why didn't I think of this before...

And Christine started sobbing under her breath, and from the tickling brushing motions of her hair on my forehead I gathered she was shaking her head, slowly, rhythmically, back and forth, back and forth -- or maybe her head was shaking all on its own. I drew my eyes away from the mask, and looked up at her.

She stared at me in horror -- horror I had seen so many times before, on the faces of others, but wasn't she supposed to be different? Wasn't she supposed to... Her eyes were wide, showing the whites like a frightened horse, and her lips writhed without changing the steady sobbing. As I watched, she raised a hand to her mouth, pressing it against her lips and teeth as if she were trying to bite the knuckles. The other hand was engaged in supporting her as she leaned backwards, her sobbing replaced with a low moan.

A queer bubbling sensation rose inside of me, and came out as laughter. Dark, hideous laughter which flowed unstoppably out of me, the sort of tortured sound which sounds like a cross between laughter and shrieks of rage and the deep sobs which leave you gasping for breath in between. God only knows why I laughed -- or maybe He doesn't, I'm not sure. I'm never sure, with Him. The only constants in the world are hate, greed, death, and music; God can do nothing against the first three. Maybe that's why I laughed -- because I could use all four as a weapon, and God could only use music for His purposes?

A small detached part of my mind watched Christine shrink back at this explosion of sound, watched her cringe in fear and stretch out a hand in supplication towards me, watched her face steadily drain of color until she collapsed lifeless on the bed, Her head rolled to one side, suddenly peaceful and slack, and her left arm dangled limply off the side of the bed.

I continued to laugh, and the laughter became darker and darker until it burst through the veil of sanity and left me behind, still heaving with sobs, but quieter now. I regained control over my body at last, and managed to stagger out of the room, trembling all over, gasping for air and feeling warm rivers of tears roam randomly across my face.

Hell, I thought angrily. Bloody hell. Why did I have to laugh like that? A kind word might have converted her, if I could have showed her what I am inside -- I'm not a monster, really I'm not! I ran through the rooms of the lair, not really caring where I went. When I at last stopped, breathless, doubled over and leaning against a wall, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. With a surge of joy, I realized that Christine must have come to me, to apologize or to take me into her arms or to... Grasping some semblance of dignity, I stood up, tugged my waistcoat down, and turned to face--

It was not Christine.

I stared in dismay at the one mirror which could be found in the lair, a full-figure one which I used occasionally to make sure that my clothes were straight and unwrinkled. Not Christine... and in a burst of anger and self-pity I pressed my face close to the glass and forced myself to see what Christine had seen.

It had been a long time since I'd seen myself unmasked. Much was as I remembered it: a face of nightmares. Literally; when I was younger, I often had nightmares about the Face. I gave my brother nightmares, too, but he deserved it.

It was a thin face -- skeletally thin, I thought with a wry grin. No matter how much I ate, my cheeks remained hollow and my eyes remained sunken in the shadow of the two slightly twisted sockets. My cheekbones stuck out as much as ever. And my nose... My nose had never grown beyond a stub with two red-rimmed flaring slits in them, like those of a maddened bull about to charge. All my masks had extra padding shaped like a "normal" nose. (My mother had been the first to do that -- she said that just making a flat-faced mask made me look "unnatural". I'd never seen the point in having a lump there anyway, whether of flesh or not, but I'd continued the "tradition" because I found I attracted fewer stares that way.)

I hadn't been taking terribly good care of my skin, so that in addition to being pale -- I though wryly that were I to go out in the sun occasionally, rather than skulking about underground in a face mask, I might get some color beyond the blue-tinged grey-white I enjoyed currently -- the skin was flaking at several spots, most noticably around the various open patches. (I hesitate to call them "sores", for they did not hurt if touched; they merely looked bad, inflamed moist patches of red and white.) But at least the raw spots on my cheeks and temples, where my mother's hurriedly-made masks had rubbed incessantly, had faded to purplish red bruises.

I scowled; the image in the mirror scowled back at me, bloodless lips twisting bitterly, shiny pale skin around the mouth wrinkling. Webs of blue veins pulsed in my temples. Angrily I slammed a hand against the mirror and turned away. Small wonder Christine had pulled away! I was no man for her; better she go with someone handsome -- like Raoul even...

Again I wandered the lair blindly. The furious emotion had passed, leaving me drained; the small detached part of me realized I was spiraling into a depression I couldn't stop.

If I can't stop it, why even bother trying?

...And my foot caught on something, and I heard a discordantly musical snap...

The violin. I'd left the case open, and without watching where I was going had kicked it over... I stared down at the instrument in dismay. The bridge, which normally held the strings taut and in position, had popped out. When I picked it up, I noticed a slight hairline crack, and with a growl flung it into the corner, behind the organ. It skittered along the floor, raising a light trail of dust behind it.

At first I considered putting the instrument back in the case (and closing it this time), leaving the bridge replacement for tomorrow or later, but I managed to convince myself that doing something so routine, so un-associated with my face, might help calm me. It helped that I had a few spare bridges, that I didn't have to do something as detailed as carving one of the delicate slivers of wood.

The first one was flawed, and snapped when I tried to tighten the strings. The second one took me five minutes simply to put in position to my satisfaction; I was shaking far too hard. I got the strings taut, and was in the process of tuning when the D string snapped.

I stared at the frayed ends of the string in dismay. Why was everything going so wrong tonight? Had I used up all my luck in just getting Christine down here? Why, why?

Choking down tears which unexpectantly rose , I pulled out a fresh D-string and restrung the instrument. When I at last had it tuned, I rested it on my leg like a lute and strummed it gently. The fingers of my left hand roamed over the keyboard, and I started plucking it, creating melodies rather than chords.

It took me a few minutes to realize that my fingers were playing Black Rose, in a slightly distorted form. I shaped the song into its true form -- I would have mutated it into minor, but it was that already -- and sang the words in a light whisper-voice that wouldn't carry beyond my own ears:

"A dead rose-tree stands within the ground
Of a garden deprived of its chance to bloom.
Thorny vines swirl all around,
With rotting leaves the sole perfume.

No birdsong breaks with morning's light,
No soft wind stirs the sullen air;
Forbidding and cold, the fallen night,
Harsh and bitter, the sunlight's glare.

The quiet there is no gentle thing,
But the stagnant stillness of the grave,
The silence of mute suffering,
The silence of outgoing waves.

Its blossoms would be of shining jet,
If ever they grow in that sleeping land--
A sweetness one would never forget--
If tended by a loving hand.

Tenderness might bring to blossom there
Roses of beauty, roses of grace.
Compassionate and gentle care
Would bring sweet life to that dismal place.

I ask this of all that's below and above:
Is there no hand to bring about that change?
Is there no heart so strong that it can love
That which is individual and strange?"

She lay curled in the center of the bed, unmoving and silent. Her back was to the door, and I could not see her face, but due to her gentle rhythmic breathing I guessed she was asleep. Moving quietly to the other side of the bed, I leaned over her and stroked her cheek, much as one would a child.

Oh, Christine, Christine! I can't keep you here, can I? You're a creature of the light, of society. I'm no better than a monster, hiding in the dank depths of his dungeon and kidnapping pretty maids. If I were to follow the formula of myth, I would keep you here with my piles of gold until the brave and valiant prince comes to rescue you. But that prince would be Raoul, wouldn't it, Christine? And much as I don't want to die, I can't bring myself to hurt Raoul; not yet, not when he's done nothing wrong.

"Is there no heart so strong," I whispered, "that it... can... love..." My hand trembled, and my voice faltered. "I love you Christine."

She stirred restlessly, and I jumped back hurriedly. I could not let her see me again yet, especially unmasked. But in jumping back, I saw where she had put the mask -- on a dresser, leaning against the wall, half hidden in shadow. I snatched it up and pressed it on to my face. It took me several minutes to tie it on tight enough that it would not slip. Christine was once more peaceful when I finished, but I did not want to take any chances of her awakening during the journey back. I knew much of Gypsy herbal medicines, having spent time with various clans, so it did not take me long to concoct a small amount of liquid which would keep Christine asleep for several hours at least.

It wasn't until I had gotten the liquid safely down Christine's throat that I realized how tense I'd been, dreading her awakening... and anticipating it.

I swept my cape off and wrapped it around her. I looked down at her, and with the knowledge that I had to take her back to the surface, back to the real world, came a sense of relief and emotionlessness. It's amazing how the acceptance of one's fate can help one lose the emotions which otherwise would tear one apart.

Thanks mainly to the herbs, Christine did not stir. Down to the boat and across the lake we went, she as still as a dead woman and I as silent and cold as Death itself. And I carried her up through the passages, back to ground level. Not the same passages we had used to come down; I was clambering around with a limp body slung over my back, not leading another, self-mobile human. There were places where I could take routes which were faster, but more difficult if you didn't know the tricks and timing; there were other places where it was nearly impossible to maneuver with my burden.

But they led to the same place, and within ten minutes I stood once more behind her dressing-room mirror, watching her. I could not take her back home -- even if I knew where she lived, I could not risk detection taking her back. Nor did I think she would want to risk being seen with a strange man; although contact between the two genders was allowed, her being carried home by a strange caped man would easily start rumors. I wouldn't mind if the rumors caused her to break off her relationship with Raoul, but I doubted that would happen. More likely the rumors would damage her career. I could not allow that to happen. So, I did not take her home

Instead, I had brought several of the pillows from the boat and from the lair, and piled them on the floor, forming a makeshift bed. Christine I laid on top of the pillows, and covered her with the cloak. She still slept peacefully, and most likely would until morning. I left her a note, hastily written, and placed it on a bureau along with a single, jet-black rose.

Artificially black, of course. Even I had not yet learned how to grow a pure black rose. But I could grow dark red blossoms, and dip them in black ink. I had used it as my signature before. Christine would hopefully know what it meant, for I had sung Black Rose to her many times before.

And so I watched her from behind the mirror, sitting cross-legged on the floor for most of the night. She awoke early, stirring with the relaxed slowness of one with nothing troubling the mind, and then froze at the touch of my cloak. She sat up and looked around, absently stroking the velvety black of the cloak. Her gaze rested on the mirror; fear flickered across her face, followed by sadness.

"Angel," she whispered. "Ang... Erik? Are you there?"

I remained silent. My explanation rested in the note; I wanted her to think she was alone, for now.

"Erik, I... I'm sorry..." She stood up and pulled the cloak around her shoulders and rubbed the collar against her cheek. "Erik, are you out there? Erik?"

And then she saw the note and rose, and stiffened. The note she picked up at arm's length, as if afraid it would bite her, and read silently.

It was not an emotional note. I simply apologized -- for what, I did not say -- and stated that if she wished me to continue as her tutor, I would be more than willing, but the choice was purely hers. And this time when I signed it as her obedient servant, I meant it. Mostly.

She touched the petals of the rose gently, and glanced again at the mirror. I could not read her expression. She then put both the note and rose in one of the drawers, and took the cloak off. Clumsily, but she had not had the practice with it I had.

We were both startled by a rattling of the doorknob, followed by an almost frantic pounding at the door. "Christine?" called a male voice slightly muffled by the door. "Christine, are you in there?" And then, more muffledly, as if speaking to someone outside of the room, "I could have sworn I left the door unlocked; come, do you have a key?"

Damn you, Chagny! What remarkable timing you have, as usual. I shrank back against the far wall of the tunnel, although he would not be able to see me anyway, and glowered at the closed door. Christine stood frozen, and then stuffed the cloak in the back of her wardrobe, smoothed her rather rumpled dress down in front, and reached for the door just as the Vicomte got it unlocked.

"Christine!" he cried, and grasped her in a tight embrace. "Thank God you're all right! What happened? Oh Christine, I was so worried about you!"

"I'm fine." Her voice was strangely calm, and both the Vicomte and I leaned forward in puzzlement as she pulled away. "I'm sorry I seemed to disappear like that. It's just that..." We both waited, with equal anticipation but for different reasons. Raoul knew nothing, but all I lacked was what was going through her head. How much would she tell him?

"My voice tutor wished to celebrate with me. We had arranged it beforehand, that we would have dinner together. She turned back to him and smiled. "I tried to tell you, Raoul, but you wouldn't let me!"

His forehead creased. "A male tutor?"

"Oh, Raoul, don't be so suspicious! Yes, a male tutor, but we did nothing wrong. We'd spent several years of hard work waiting for this, and until you came, it was only right that he be the person I drink champagne with. I'm sorry that I frightened you."

"You were out all night, then?"

"I felt somewhat ill after dinner, and he was kind enough to allow me to rest in his home. He did nothing improper, I promise you that."

I stared at her in puzzlement. She was covering for me totally, saying nothing of what happened last night? I could still see the echoes of terror in her face -- or perhaps I was imagining them, seeing them because I expected to.

Or perhaps she was covering for me not because she still wished a relationship, of whatever sort, with me, but because she was ashamed to admit she had fallen asleep in the home of another man.

Raoul put an arm protectively around her shoulders. "I see," he said, slightly belligerently. "Well, now that you've had a night of cavorting with this handsome young voice tutor of yours, will you allow me to escort you home?"

Handsome young tutor? Would that I were!

Christine must have protested too quietly for me to hear, for the Vicomte laughed. "I'm sorry, Christine, I didn't mean to... I mean, I believe you. Every word. Come, let's get you home." He led her out of the dressing room; they disappeared around the corner, followed at some distance by M. Andre, who had followed the Vicomte to the dressing room but had discreetly stayed outside.

I made no attempt to follow them, but continued to stand behind the mirror, staring at the empty room. After last night, Christine needed some time to think, some time alone before she resumed her relationship with me.

If she chose to.

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