Phantom (51 page)

As I stood looking down on her I was overwhelmed by the dismal futility of my insane impulse. Why had I brought her here? I couldn't keep her in a state of trance for the rest of her days; I didn't want a mindless, mechanical doll, an automaton without choice.

I wanted Christine, all of Christine.

And I could not have her.

Simple! Accept it! When she wakes you have to confess this miserable sham. You've had your dream, you've held her in your arms and tomorrow you have to take her back. Tomorrow it will all be over.

But I didn't want to think about tomorrow now.

I went to my room and tried to occupy myself with the little mundane rituals that persuade us all that life will continue normally. I changed from my dress suit into a full-length kimono of black silk, with satin lapels, and sat down at the organ to stare at the manuscript of
Don Juan Triumphant
.

"
Don't you know people pay good money to see freaks? Don Juan himself could not have drawn more skirts in one afternoon
. …"

Don Juan Triumphant
! What a bitter irony this opera was; what refinement of self-mockery! And yet what incredible music flowed there. It was far and away the best thing that I had ever composed… all the notes in red ink… it really ought to have been written in blood.

I glanced at the most recently completed section and turned the pages hurriedly. Not that, not tonight; I dared not play that with Christine in the house. Turn back to the beginning, to the tenderness that precedes the terrible violence of lust; turn back and remember only the beauty tonight.

I sank into the music as though it were a warm pool of soothing water and let myself drift and float along the staves, improvising subtly and building new melodies. I ceased to be aware of my surroundings and the relentless passage of time that brought morning to this world of eternal darkness; I ceased to think… and to hear… never even seeing the merciless little hand which came up behind me and stripped the mask away.

I spun around on the organ stool with a cry of demented anguish and the look on her face as she backed away with the mask in her nerveless hand—the horror and the utter
disbelief
!—severed my last link with sanity.

Cursing and screaming like a crazy, wounded wild animal I cornered her against the wall, fastened my hands in a murderous grip around her little white neck.

I never got the chance to find out if I truly meant to kill her. The pain struck like a bolt of lightning, exploding in my chest and spreading out down my left arm with paralyzing intensity. With a choking groan I let go of her and staggered back a step, willing the spasm to subside, but it only seemed to increase in severity until it forced me to my knees at her feet.

The world narrowed to a pain beyond tears, a panting fight for breath, and Christine sobbing just beyond the reach of my hand.

Dimly I became aware that she, too, was now on her knees beside me, her fingers clutching tremulously at my sleeve.

"Tell me what to do," she whispered. "Please… tell me what to do?"

I could not speak. My lips moved, but no sound emerged; all I could do was claw out in desperation toward the mask.

Let me cover myself. Let me die with some vestige of human dignity!

She seemed to understand my frantic gesture and slowly pushed the mask across the floor to me. Now that she was free to run from me she made no attempt to do so. She continued to kneel on the floor beside me, and the rhythm of my ragged breathing seemed to match her quiet sobbing in a wicked mockery of harmony.

Ayesha had leapt down from the pipe organ and was now circling around me, spitting and hissing at Christine, swishing her tail with primitive, animal fear. Like a little guard dog she was trying to protect me from this unknown intruder who had caused me harm, and the low, wicked groaning that gathered in her throat warned me that she was about to attack.

I knew I had to get Ayesha away from Christine before the animal ripped her face to pieces in sheer terror.

With a mighty effort I gathered the angry cat into my arms and staggered the half-dozen paces to the black leather couch.

"Don't come any nearer," I gasped.

Then there was silence for a time—silence and blackness.

When Christine swam into my gaze once more she was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the canopied coffin on its dais. Her eyes were fixed and glazed, the eyes of a child waking from a beautiful dream to find herself in a living nightmare; it was as though that final inanimate horror had pushed her right over the edge of sanity.

I realized then that if I died, Christine would die too— slowly, painfully, of starvation and terror, beating her little hands against the unyielding stone walls of her prison. No one would ever hear her screams, no one would ever find her. A poor, demented, foaming wreckage, she would sink down at last upon the floor and share with me in death what she could never share in life. Already I could see madness gathering momentum in that unnatural, gelid stare.

"Christine…"

She turned very slowly in the direction of my voice, but she did not seem to see me.

"I want to go home now," she said hopelessly. "I want to go home to Papa. It's nice at home… not like this… it's not like this at all."

She sounded as though she were eight years old, and I dared not think how much further she would regress if I did not halt this deadly downward spiral into panic. I knew that I must occupy her quickly, give her some simple task on which to fasten her attention.

"Do you know how to make tea?" I asked faintly.

A puzzled frown hovered now on the face which had been so terrifyingly empty of expression.

"Tea?" she echoed vaguely, groping toward reality with slow uncertainty. "You mean English tea… with milk?"

"No, no… Russian tea, with lemon. It's really very easy… All you have to do is… light the samovar."

"The samovar," she repeated, like a dull-witted child try-ing very hard to master a foreign language. "Where is that?"

"Over there." I managed to make a feeble gesture in the direction I wished her to look. "That big brass urn… beside…" We were both staring directly at the coffin now. "Beside… the cat's basket. You see the cat's basket, don't you, under that red canopy…"

Again that black, blank stare born of reeling senses.

"It's a coffin," she said with dull horror.

"No," I insisted steadily, "it's a Persian cat basket… The shah has one just like that… for the royal cats… The high sides keep out the drafts, you see?… Cats don't like to be in a draft. Do you like cats, Christine?"

"It looks like a coffin," she persisted, with all the stubbornness of the feebleminded.

"You must learn not to judge everything by appearances." I sighed. "There is nothing in this room for you to fear, child—nothing at all. Do you believe me?"

She looked back at me and nodded slowly.

"It's not really a Persian cat basket, is it?" she said after a moment.

"No… but after all, it's just a wooden box, isn't it? To a flea it would be a palace… a beautiful silk-lined palace. Can you imagine how big the world must seem to a flea?"

She laughed and then put her hand over her mouth, as though she could not quite believe the sound had issued from her lips.

"Don't be afraid to laugh here in my house, Christine… your father used to make you laugh, didn't he?"

"My father is dead," she said quietly, "but, yes… he used to tell me silly stories too… especially if I was afraid."

She came closer to my couch and gazed down at me steadily; at my side Ayesha stirred aggressively, but the pressure of my hand held her still.

"You're very ill, aren't you?" Christine said sadly. "What shall I do if you die?"

I closed my eyes for a moment. I had never guessed that speech could be such terrible physical toil, never dreamed that one day I should be laboring to quarry words while an awesome block of travertine lay in a crushing weight upon my chest. But she was clinging to my voice as though it were a reassuring hand, trusting it to guide her past the yawning void which had gaped at her feet.

"What shall I do if you die?" she repeated, her voice rising once more on a note of growing fear. "
What shall I do
?"

I opened my eyes and smiled up at her calmly.

"I suppose you would have to put me in the cat basket eventually," I said. "But first I really would be far more grateful if you simply went and made that tea."

There is no Angel of Music.

There is only Erik!

Here in his house upon the lake, five levels below the surface of the earth, I am a prisoner, not of lock and key, but of wrenching pity and strangely lingering fascination.

His face! Dear God… shall I ever forget the moment that he swung around upon me, the awesome grief and rage which almost cost him his life?

What can I say about that face? It alters everything and yet… changes nothing. I can't explain that contradiction; it's not possible for me to stand back and make neat, rational judgments. This is an entirely different world from the one in which I normally exist; there are no judgments here. Only… feelings!

In a curious way his illness has saved us from utter ruin,

made it possible to make a transition from fantasy to reality that would have been unthinkable to me only days before. In many ways it seems the most natural thing in the world for me to be here with him now, to think of him as Erik and not as some nameless, faceless angel. He's so real! No longer an illusion or a vision, but someone I could reach out and embrace, if only I dared. Somehow, in spite of the shock of discovery, it's a tremendous relief to be able to do something so utterly normal as make him a drink. Though, to be honest, I don't think I've quite mastered that samovar yet; he accepts my efforts with a quiet ironical patience that makes me feel he would laugh if he did not fear to hurt my feelings.

My existence here is curiously cozy. In my room I have found all that I need, a wardrobe full of clothes, shoes, hats, and cloaks
—
even a little writing desk with an ample supply of expensive notepaper. Tears sting at the back of my eyes when I consider the effort and thought he has evidently put into preparing for my comfort. I am filled with the strangest sense of homecoming, of suddenly belonging; and yet whenever I remember what lies behind that mask I think of Raoul with sudden, shameful yearning. The comparison is quite unavoidable, the contrast so cruel, so very nearly unbearable, that it seems the only way to retain my sanity is not to dwell on Raoul at all
.

I know that this state of affairs can't continue indefinitely, and yet I don't want it to end. I don't want to think about the world above, think about Raoul, face all the conflicts and terrible decisions that are going to be inevitable in the end.

I just want to stay here with Erik and pretend that nothing's ever going to change, that he's always going to lie

wearily on that couch and never ask for anything more terrifying than a glass of my truly abysmal tea.

There is no Angel of Music.

And yet he continues to live in my mind… in my voice… and in my soul.

I appear to have acquired a nurse!

Not the lover I craved beyond all reason but a gentle, attentive little nurse! Frankly I'm not convinced that being cared for as though I were her sick father is better than nothing. I'd like to take my heart out of my body and beat it to pulp for betraying me in this truly undignified manner. Rude health is one thing I've always been blessed with… infernal irony that it should desert me now!

I'm perfectly well aware that she likes me here on this couch, that it makes her feel safe. As long as she thinks I'm too ill to get up she can tell herself she has nothing to worry about. I'm beginning to realize just how much of a child she really is, how terrifyingly immature and vulnerable— even unstable. There's a fatal flaw running through her, like a hairline crack in a Ming dynasty vase, but that very imperfection makes me love her with even greater tenderness. I don't suppose for one moment that that boy is aware of the never-ending care she'll need. Whoever marries Christine is going to have to be prepared to play the father as well as the lover; if she lives to be eighty, she may never be more than a child at heart, a lost and frightened little girl bewildered by the demands of reality.

I haven't the least idea where to go from here, but I can't lie on this wretched couch for the rest of my natural existence, which happily begins to look as if it won't too long. It's two weeks now since I saw Nadir and if I don't meet him soon I know the suspicious devil is going to start looking for me with serious determination.

That is a complication I could very well do without at the moment! So I really don't have any choice.

Tomorrow I shall have to leave her alone while I row across the lake to face his inevitable questions.

I've just had a shock!

When I carried a tray into Erik's room this morning I found him standing by the pipe organ in full evening dress, wearing the mask, a wide brimmed felt hat, and the most beautiful black cloak. He looked suddenly so strong, so incredibly powerful, that I felt my hands begin to tremble against the tray. I've never seen him on his feet before, I didn't realize he was so tall… and yet I seemed to recognize the inherent authority
—
the awesome mystery
!—
with which he was now invested. It was like a half-forgotten dream returning to me, and I suddenly understood that this was how he must have looked the evening that he brought me down here. I had no conscious recollection of that strange journey, but some deep-buried memory stirred now, sufficient to make me clutch the tray against my breast in an effort to still the sudden trembling in my heart
.

"I've brought your breakfast," I said stupidly.

He turned to look at me, and the movement caused the cloak to swirl gracefully around him.