Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Six—Unmasked Hearts

By Theodora Bruns

It is July 1881 in Paris, France, as a deformed musical savant awakens in a morphine-induced fog and realizes his suicide attempt has been unsuccessful. Although it frightens him to think he has to live again and try to correct his erring ways, Erik begins to formulate a plan that he hopes will provide him with a chance at a new life and the one thing he is craving most of allacceptance.

After he reconnects with his love, Christine, they flee Paris, hopefully without detection. His plan is to escape the authorities and his rival, Raoul, and hide. After the traumatic life he has led, all Erik wants to do is live in peace with Christine. However, it seems the curse that Erik believes is shadowing him is not willing to let him rest. Even as the curse causes one obstacle after another, Erik remarkably finds a way to overcome each challenge. But will he ever be able to truly keep the curse at bay and live a serene life with Christine?

In this continuing historical saga, a musical scholar leaves his old life behind and escapes Paris with a beautiful woman in the hope of shedding a curse and finding inner peace and love.


Bruns is a masterful storyteller who skillfully crafts a world that is vivid and engrossing (Susan Rueppel, PhD).

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532031892

Theodora Bruns

Theodora Bruns earned an AA degree in accounting from Heild Business Collage. She began writing the Through Phantom Eyes series in 2002. Theodora has five daughters, nine grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren and lives with two of her daughters in Sacramento, California. This is the sixth book in her series.

Book preview

Through

Phantom Eyes

Volume Six

Unmasked Hearts

by

Theodora Bruns

45521.png

Through Phantom Eyes

Volume Six—Unmasked Hearts

Copyright © 2018 by Theodora Bruns.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3190-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3191-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3189-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913828

iUniverse rev. date: 12/29/2017

Contents

Dedication

Review

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Dedication

To the gift of music

Review

Written by

Susan Rueppel, Ph.D.

Energetic Wisdom

Intuition for Empowerment

Through Phantom Eyes, Volume Six, takes us further into the fascinating depths of Erik’s life—his thoughts, dreams, and brilliance. Bruns is a masterful storyteller who skillfully crafts a world that is vivid and engrossing. As some of Erik’s greatest desires surprisingly come true, he also faces some of his greatest challenges. Another juicy emotional roller coaster of a can’t-put-it-down read. Eagerly awaiting the next volume.

Cover and Interior Sketch Design

Theodora Bruns

ThroughPhantomEyes.Com

*   *   *

Cover and Interior Artwork

Judy Coppola

*   *   *

Model for Cover Art

Michael Preston

Grandson of Theodora Bruns

*   *   *

Models for Interior Art

Kelli Graves and Joe Cooper

Theodora Bruns’ daughter and her fiancé

Acknowledgments

My eternal gratitude reaches out to those who inspired me and helped me breathe life into this unforeseen work. First, to Erik himself, for, as his lonely existence consumed my thoughts and his mournful pain permeated my heart, my expressions pleaded for a release from their boundaries. Consequently, without his tragic life, so full of love for his music and Christine, my imagination would have remained silent, and I wouldn’t have started on this extraordinary journey. Therefore, merci, Erik.

Next, to Brad Little, whose eloquent voice, along with his incredible musical portrayal of Erik’s love, passion, and pain on the stage, unlocked my barren heart. Because of his extraordinary talent, my desires became aroused in ways previously unknown to me. Brad’s awareness of Erik’s love for that one exceptional woman, Christine, was what enabled me to spread my awakening heart across the printed page for all to see. I’m forever thankful Brad.

Then there is Patti, who came into my life quite unexpectedly because of her fascination with Erik’s life. Among other things, she helped me keep my thoughts on the pulse of those who want to read more about this man who is known as The Phantom of the Opera. Perhaps with trepidation, she courageously spoke her mind and gave me insight. So, thank you, Patti, for your time, tender care, and understanding of my particular needs.

I would also like to thank Susan, who spent the time and energy to read and then to formulate a review. Hopefully, just a quick glance at her words will help those who have an interest in Erik’s life to make a quick decision about reading this book.

Also, there’s my remarkable daughter Debi, who also shares my love for Erik’s story. She committed to working long and tedious hours with me to put the finishing touches on every phrase within my labor of Love. Thanks to her keen eye, diligence, proofing ability, and patience, I believe the finished product is one that anyone can quickly read, understand, and enjoy.

Finally, there’s my eternal friend and daughter Kelli, who, from the beginning, enthusiastically shared my desire to see Erik with a full and satisfying life. She served as my diligent researcher, patient teacher, gentle critic, knowledgeable literary collaborator, and first fan. She has also added her talents in the public relations department by getting Erik’s story in front of those who desire to read more about him. Her self-sacrificing efforts and encouragement over the years stirred my soul and gave me courage—courage that I never knew existed—courage that was an essential element in seeing these novels to their completion. I fear, without her ever-present reassurance, my whimsical ideas about Erik’s life would have eventually retreated in a cowardly fashion back into my imagination. There they would be forced to live with the rest of my happily-ever-after endings, somewhere in the silent and dark recesses of my fanciful mind. Merci! Merci beaucoup, Kelli.

One

Paris France

July 13, 1881

I’d spent a lifetime with my father’s words echoing in my mind, but it took giving total control of my life to a drug before I could sense the meaning of his words in my heart. That evening in July, his guiding words burned like a fire through my soul.

You’re trying to feel with your mind, Erik. Your mind can do beautiful things, but it will never be able to feel for you. When you’re playing your music, you’re not thinking with your mind; you’re feeling with your heart because you let your music into it. When it comes to your contact with people, you need to feel with your heart and don’t try to analyze the situation with your mind. Stop finding fault with their motives.

When you can take and keep that mask off your heart and allow it to feel, not only your music but also the love that others will give you, then and only then will you fill that void in the center of your chest. Accept yourself, and don’t be afraid to let others accept you for who you are. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in that void, you must keep your heart unmasked.

As never before, my mind was alive with my father’s uncluttered words filling it, but my senses felt dead. I could remember my last act—sliding to the floor and fighting to stay conscious, but, with no light, movement, or sound around me, I thought I must surely be dead. Is this what it’s like to be dead? Is death nothing more than a mind full of thoughts?

The darkness and silence pressed in on me, but I still felt empty. Without the sensation of eyes to see with, ears to hear with, or arms and legs to move, I felt helpless. Where was I? Was I still in my home? Was I in a hospital? Was I in Doctor Leglise’s office? Was I buried in my grave? I wasn’t burning, and I didn’t hear harps, so was I in a silent heaven or a cool hell? Perhaps I was in limbo.

I tried to open my eyes, but I either didn’t have any, or my eyelids weighed too much to respond to my wishes. I tried moving something—anything—but there was nothing to move and nothing to feel; I couldn’t even feel my heart beating. The only explanation—I must surely be dead.

An eternity of silence and darkness was sure to be my destiny. With that thought, my fear appeared, and I felt the stirrings of a heart that began to beat. At first, it was barely discernible, but it was undoubtedly there. Since my heart was beating, perhaps I was still on earth.

My vocal cords were the first muscles to respond to my needs but worked only enough for a soft moan. I tried again, and a long groan removed the silence. Another try turned my groan into one whispered word.

Christine.

Little by little, I moved my fingers and felt what I hoped was the Persian rug beneath them. I again moaned and repeated Christine’s name. Once more, I fought to stay awake and not give into my body’s desire to sleep. Eventually, my eyes opened, and I tried to focus on blurry shades of blue and lavender. Gradually, I recognized Christine’s brocade quilt only a meter away, and I sighed, knowing I was alive and in my home.

I blinked again, and then I saw the syringe on the rug close to my outstretched hand. I kept blinking until I saw Christine’s rose petal still on my palm. The minutes ticked away before I could reach for the syringe, but my fingers and arm still felt and acted as if they were melted butter. I kept blinking and straining to focus on the liquid in the syringe. My first deep breath came when I saw it was nearly empty, and I wondered if I might be hallucinating. How could I survive that much morphine?

My body was slow to catch up with my awakening mind, causing me frustration. I tried to reach for my watch, but my ordinarily skilled fingers only flopped around my lapel in a feeble attempt. With such a helpless feeling, I became even more anxious.

Without knowing what time it was, I had no way of knowing if the announcement about my death had appeared in the Epoque, which was intended to signal Raoul and Christine to find me and attend to my burial. Therefore, I listened carefully for any sounds in my home. If I’d had the strength, I would have shivered, realizing I may have scarcely escaped a live burial. Since I barely looked alive when awake, I’m sure I appeared dead while unconscious.

I kept trying to get up, but it felt as if an army of knights in full armor was on top of me, so I tried to do what was nearly impossible for me to do—be patient. I knew I had to wait until enough of the morphine wore off; therefore, I stayed there with my eyes closed and thought about our fragile and precarious human nature. Some people seemed to go through life without any mishaps until old age brings them to their end; others never make it out of the womb alive. What or who determines which ones have what destiny? A question I wished I could answer.

I could say my life was full of hazards. I believe for an ordinary citizen, if that’s what some considered me, my life had hung on the thin thread of life and death more often than most. That is, excluding politicians, military commanders, dictators, and the like, who lived in the public eye and carried the scrutiny of the populous. Their lives are at risk on many occasions, perhaps just waiting for an assassin’s bullet or a goblet of poison to stop their hearts.

But for someone who’d spent nearly his entire life trying to stay out of the public eye and was even in hiding most of that time, my life had had attempts made on it all too often. So it was amazing that I still existed—especially considering I was the last person who’d tried to end my time on earth. All those before me had failed miserably—and, evidently, so had I.

But failure wasn’t my first feeling as the fog began to lift from my mind that day. Heartfelt thankfulness is what I thought about first; second, my beautiful Christine; and then, my faithful father.

It frightened me to think I had to live again and try to correct and control all my erring ways. I felt like a small child trying to tame a wild lion with nothing more than his bare hands. I was something to be feared by many people, but I don’t think anyone feared me more than I did. I knew what I was capable of doing. I knew my thoughts and actions and my struggle to control them. But, then, I also knew what I could do with my mind or what others chose to call my genius. I wanted—no—I needed to use my gifts in a positive way—a constructive way.

I had another chance to change the path I was walking, and I only wanted to create, to teach, and to build, just as that small child told his father. I felt optimistic and refused to listen to that terrifying voice within me that spoke about destruction and ruin everywhere I went. I knew I could master the darker side of my personality, if I used my skills in the right way—the way my one true friend, Oded, believed I could and the way my father had instructed.

As I tried to gain mastery over my limp body, I had to believe Oded’s and my father’s words about never giving up. Therefore, as time moved on, and I struggled against the effects of the morphine, I started to design my new life. I wanted a life that would make my father proud of me, but, more than anything, I wanted a life that could win Christine’s complete love—if it wasn’t too late.

My father had told me repeatedly about the dangers of masking my heart. While I believed him and sincerely tried not to live my life that way, I didn’t know how to live without it masked. The most brilliant mind in the world couldn’t help anyone who persisted in living a life hiding behind something, and that included me. I was always hiding behind a façade of some sort; behind my mask, behind my anger, behind my arrogance, and even behind my sarcasm. I hid literally in the darkness and underground, and, even though I hated to admit it, I hid emotionally behind my music, and, yes, behind my love for Christine.

She was the one I’d come the closest to unmasking my heart in front of, but I’d failed there as well. Some of the last words I spoke to her were lies. I didn’t tell her what was in my heart, even though I thought I was. I lied to her about my impending death, thinking I was protecting her. In reality, I was refusing to let her make her own decision based on what was in her beautiful heart.

While I remained crumpled on her bedroom floor, I could see it for the first time. I think I managed to wag my head a bit while thinking about all my failures. I was 45 years old, and I still wasn’t sure I could live a life without hiding, but, at least, I did realize I had been hiding. I can’t speak for others who might have had a similar problem; I can speak only for myself. Perhaps what helped others to come out of hiding was the right word spoken by the right person at the right time, or the right piece of music with the right lyrics, or perhaps an inspirational painting or opera. I didn’t know.

But, for me, it took looking at death; a real death that I believed I’d never wake from, to help me realize how wrong I was in living behind all the masks I’d spent a lifetime creating. I didn’t necessarily see things differently—I felt things differently—deep inside. There was no question or wavering in my thoughts. I knew I had to stop hiding.

That’s what I went through while in Christine’s room, slipping away and waiting for my last breath and then struggling to wake and take a deep breath with a new chance at a real life. It was an incredibly liberating sensation. It was like being free to breathe fresh air for the very first time; free to see the beauty of a new day for the first time since my father’s death. The massive weight pressing on my heart lifted, and I was free to strip off all my masks and experience life to the fullest.

During my life, I desperately strove to stay in control—never allowing anyone to hurt me. It began when I was only five and escalated from there. Not only did I have to control those around me but I also had to control myself. I was an expert in the art of manipulating the actions of others, but it was a bit more difficult for me to govern my actions.

That disposition became a firm wall—a fortress—that I’d formed around myself. My first wall protected me from being hurt by my mother and those in Perros, and my second wall protected my father and others from being hurt by me. The rest of the walls were many but consistent in their design. I was so good at designing and constructing those walls that I didn’t realize I was building them, and I never saw them or the hurt they caused—they simply existed.

After waking from my induced sleep, I finally realized that my father wasn’t ignorant of my actions. He knew what I was doing, and that’s why he tried so desperately to reach my heart. At last, his words made perfect sense as they rushed through my mind, coming in on me all at once. It was as if he’d been speaking a foreign language and I’d just then learned it. Every single word or anecdote he told me was correct, and, at long last, they’d penetrated that cold wall around my heart.

I’d become so unbalanced during my life, just as he said I would if I didn’t pay close attention to the sand being washed away by the waves at my feet. My entire life had been spent trying to control the people around me; my mother, the people in Perros, the spectators across my circus bars, people in my Gypsy tent, the Persian rulers, the opera house managers, and my innocent and unsuspecting Christine.

Just as it was an exhausting and impossible task to try to control the sand being washed away from under my feet, it was an emotionally draining, repetitive, and losing battle to try to control the lives and actions of those around me. Additionally, I had no right to try. With clarity, I could see that my sanity was the main casualty in that ongoing war, and I was missing out on the bigger and more important picture—life.

During those minutes while I lay there alone and perhaps dying, unable to move and then unable to see through the fog surrounding me, I had to let go of my cherished control. For the first time in my life, that I could remember, I had no control over what was happening to me. My future rested in the hands of who knows what—perhaps a god, fate, or destiny; I didn’t know, and, at that moment, I didn’t care.

After surrendering, my walls came crashing down. Then, with that weight of responsibility off my heart, I was able to feel—really feel—the truth about myself. How I wished I could tell my father about my new revelation.

I loved Christine, and I pictured her eyes and what they told me during those last few hours before she left my home that fateful night. They told me a beautiful story about her heart’s desires, and I wanted to be a part of her story.

At that point, I knew for sure that I would fight for her in the right way. I wouldn’t use power plays, or threats, or force her to decide what she wanted before she was ready. I would show her the dignity she deserved as an intelligent and loving person. If I survived the ordeal I was going through; I would allow her to make up her mind and heart as to how she wanted to spend the rest of her life—with Raoul or me. I would lend her support where she needed it, but the decisions had to be hers—if it wasn’t too late. If her decisions hurt me, then I would be hurt by them. It was that simple.

With arms and fingers of little more than a fish flopping around in an empty pail, I pulled my watch from my pocket, but it wasn’t much help. It had stopped, so I still didn’t know what time it was or what day it was. But, considering Christine and Raoul hadn’t shown up to bury me, I felt safe in assuming it hadn’t been more than a day.

Eventually, I managed to push myself into a sitting position against the armoire, but I was unsuccessful when I tried to get to my feet. While glancing around the room, I pictured myself sitting at Christine’s dressing table, taunting her while she sat on the edge of her bed with tears streaming down her cheeks. How horrible I was that last night with her—and many other nights in my life. I felt pain in my chest with that nightmarish picture, and I closed my eyes tightly, squeezing out the tears.

When I opened my eyes again, I looked toward the parlor door and imagined what Christine would do when she learned I was dead. With that thought, I felt a desperate need to reach her before she heard that bit of premature news. I was confident Oded had placed the announcement in the paper by then; the only unknown was if the paper had hit the streets or if Raoul had read it.

I struggled one more time to get to my feet, and if it weren’t such a serious moment, it would have been quite humorous. A baby’s first steps were better than mine. Physically, I felt horrible. My skin was clammy and sticky, my mouth and throat were as dry as a summer dessert, and bombs were exploding in my head. I wanted to soak in a tub, but then I also wanted to get to Christine quickly, so I opted for a quick bath, but not before quenching my thirst.

On my way to the kitchen, I looked at my tall clock in the corner—it had stopped, confirming it had been over 24 hours since I’d left Sari’s box at Oded’s; so there was plenty of time for him to place the announcement and for Raoul to read it. With added urgency, I managed to make it to the sink, after bumping into two doorframes and a few chairs along the way. I drank several glasses of water before staggering into my bath. When I removed my clothing, I noticed another massive bruise where I’d injected the morphine. I leaned on the basin, hung my head, closed my eyes, and groaned over my stupidity.

I bathed quickly and thought about one of my father’s favorite sayings: You never know what tomorrow will bring. For me, that had never been truer than that day. The prior day, I was prepared to die, but, right then, I was ready to live my life to the fullest.

While I dressed, I readied what I’d say to Christine. There would be no trickery, no trying to control her mind with persuasive and cunning words. I’d open up my remorseful heart to her and beg for her forgiveness—using only honest words. If she’d give me just enough time to explain everything to her, that’s all I’d ask.

In a short time, I was dressed in my second-finest evening attire, since my finest one was damp and crumpled in the corner as a silent witness to my horrible experience. Once complete with mask, cloak, and hat, I unsteadily hurried through the music room passage. Then, with tools in hand, I made myself keep moving and started repairing the latches I’d dismantled. Once done, I headed for the dock to see if my boat was still there or if Raoul and Christine were at that time in it and on their way to my home.

With delight, I found it right where I’d left it, so I turned around and headed for Christine’s dressing room. With a restless heart, I approached the dark mirror to her room, which meant she wasn’t in the house. As I stormed back through the passageway heading for the stage, I feared she hadn’t kept her word and had already left with Raoul.

My fears were partially relieved when I found the stage without lights as well, meaning it was a dark day for the theater, and none of the performers were in the house. Once I stepped outside, and into the dark, I didn’t even think about sliding through the night shadows as I usually would. My only thoughts were on finding Christine quickly.

I whistled for a carriage and gave the driver Madame Valerius’ address, instructing him to be quick about his job. While he obeyed my instructions, the jostled ride didn’t help my ill stomach or throbbing head. But my trepidation was the worst part, as I realized that just because I’d expected Christine to keep her word and not marry until I was dead, that didn’t mean she had. That last night in my home she’d been so distraught, confused, and vulnerable. I knew Raoul loved her terribly, and I knew she loved him as well. It wouldn’t be hard for him to convince her not to wait. I guess I couldn’t blame either of them if they hadn’t.

My stomach started to turn even more as we headed down Madame Valerius’ street and then stopped in front of her residence.

Monsieur, I got you here by 9:30 as requested, the driver said as he opened the carriage door and moved aside.

I looked at his tall, thin frame, made even taller by the black, top hat perched on his head. I took a deep breath and froze, staring at the dim light in the entry for a few moments before I stepped down.

With another deep breath, I faintly replied, Please, wait.

The tap on the door met with no response, but my heartbeat responded with a faster beat. I tapped a bit harder. Finally, I recognized the harried elderly maid coming down the hall. She looked through the windowpane, and, with a quick breath, her hand covered her open mouth.

What do you want? she asked, without opening the door.

Not caring about her reaction to me, I almost pleaded, I need to speak with Mam’selle Daaé. Is she here?

No, Monsieur. Go away! she rebuked while backing toward the hallway.

With a frown, I questioned, Madame, please. When will she be back?

Continuing her backward retreat, she snapped, I don’t know. She’s gone away. Now, you go away!

With that, she waved her hand at me as if she was dismissing a servant; then, she turned and left. Usually, that action would have infuriated me, but I was too intent on finding Christine to care about her rudeness, so I ran down the steps toward the coach.

As I approached, the coachman opened the door and asked, Where to now, Monsieur?

Quick! To the Chagny estate! I ordered as I jumped inside.

The ride there was torturous, physically as well as emotionally, especially considering the hour. I could have told the driver to take me to Raoul’s favorite restaurants, but, if they were in his home, I had to talk to Christine before anything happened that couldn’t be undone—namely, him taking her to his bed.

The evening had been reminiscent of the night Raoul shot me. I was once again hastening through the city in search of Christine, but my motives were entirely different. Jealousy, suspicion, or murderous hatred wasn’t driving me. I was being driven by love and hope that it wasn’t too late to talk to the woman I treasured. But, I no longer practiced my words for her, since I feared that while I lie unconscious, someone had altered the script.

Again the brougham stopped, and before the driver could get down, I’d told him to wait and was halfway to the front door. I wasn’t about to sneak around and look in windows as I’d done in my past; instead, I walked up the path with determination and a purpose in my steps. My heart was anxious when I knocked on the well-lit door. Within a minute, it was opened by a short, dark-haired man, wearing a small mustache and evening attire. He lost all color once he looked up at me.

Trying to sound polite and not nervous, I glanced around the foyer. Is the Vicomte at home?

Then, right before he told me no, I spotted Christine’s tapestry bag at the foot of the stairs. My thoughts began bouncing off the trembling walls of my heart. Why was her bag there? Had she spent the night? Was she planning to spend the night? Was she preparing to leave with Raoul and get married? Had they already married?

Fearful of the answer, I questioned, May I ask when he’ll return?

With a bit more composure and staunch demeanor that befit a butler of his station, he responded, He didn’t say. He’s on his honeymoon.

Those words pierced through what remained of my heart, and it fell at my feet in pieces. I lowered my head and shook it slightly.

No, I whispered. Then I took a deep breath and sighed, No.

I raised my eyes once I sensed the door was closing, and then I quickly placed my foot in its path. My first thought was to question him further to make sure I’d heard him correctly, but, then, my sight fell on the small entry table by the door and an envelope with Oded’s unmistakable handwriting across it. Without thinking, I put my palm on the butler’s chest and pushed him out of my way. At the same time, I reached for the note addressed to Raoul.

As I picked up the opened envelope, the butler’s words about getting the police were hardly noticed by me. I quickly took the letter out of its cover, with the butler still trying to dissuade me.

You have no right to read such personal correspondence. Put it down! the butler demanded while grabbing my arm.

Waving the letter in his face, I glared at him. I have more right than anyone else has to read this. I’m certain it’s about me. Now let go of my arm—before I break yours.

Two

He didn’t let go until I encouraged him with enough pressure against his wrist, and then his words about getting the police followed me down the steps. The coachman left his place at his horses’ head and opened the coach door, preparing to ask me a question. I shook my hand at him and told him to drive. I no longer cared where I went; I just needed to think. It couldn’t be true. They couldn’t have married already. I refused to believe it, but my fears mounted as I unfolded the letter, lit the gas lamp behind my shoulder, and began to read.

Dear Vicomte de Chagny,

It’s done. Erik is dead. His poor and tortured soul can finally rest. You’re now free to take Christine for your wife.

Typically, it wouldn’t be my place to speak about this private matter, but I feel I must, especially after the time the three of us have spent together during this past week. I’ve given this much thought, and I keep coming back to the same conclusion. If Christine were mine, I would take her far away right now. Don’t take her back to Erik’s home. I fear for her in her delicate emotional state. She’s gone through much more than anyone should have to go through, and I believe it will inflict needless pain and suffering on her to go back there and see Erik in that condition.

I’ll go to Erik and take care of his needs. He’s been my friend for a long time, and I count it an honor to lay him in his final resting place. So, take Christine away from all the tribulation of the months past and comfort her.

I do have two requests though. The first, I’ll need instructions from you on how to get inside Erik’s home. You can send them by letter, or we could meet, whichever you prefer.

The second, please don’t think or speak poorly about Erik. He wasn’t the monster he was made out to be. He was a genius in every respect, but he was also just a man, with needs, hopes, and desires just like you and me. If it weren’t for his deformity, I know he would have been an excellent husband and father, and he would have contributed amazing inventions for the advancement of humankind’s comforts.

During the time you knew him, he wasn’t as mad as he appeared; that is unless you want to count him being madly in love with Christine. She was the only woman Erik ever loved, and I know he loved her right up to his last breath. He gave the most significant sacrifice a man can give a woman—his life.

So, please, don’t think poorly of him. He was a remarkable man. The world may not miss him, but I will—immensely.

Respectfully,

Oded

I turned out the lamp, put the letter on my lap, and my head back against the seat. I watched the lampposts and trees pass the window, and I didn’t know if I wanted to tear up his letter and throw it out in the gutter in anger or frame it and put it on my wall. I wondered how many men had had the chance to read their eulogy.

Oded! That meddlesome fool. He destroyed my chances once more. I started to give the driver Oded’s address with the intention of rebuking him. But, I didn’t. I was tired of arguments and pain. What was done was done and couldn’t be undone. Wrapping my fingers around his neck would accomplish nothing. I felt drained of all will to do anything.

With Oded’s words added to the butler’s words and Raoul’s desire, tears formed in my eyes, causing the trees passing the window to blur, and I sighed. I’ve lost her for good. She’s married, and she thinks I’m dead. There’s no getting her back now. I pictured her beautiful body wrapped in Raoul’s embrace, and what remained of my heart crumbled.

I rode around the city for a while, listening to the sounds of the night and the staccato hoof beats of the horses, wondering if this was the end of it all. I thought about what I’d told Raoul and Oded about my death being best for Christine. Perhaps it still was. I didn’t know, and I couldn’t think, so I told the driver to take me back to the opera house.

I entered the side door, alone and in the dark, just as I had hundreds of time before, but that particular night I felt so forlorn and empty. Everything was different—even the air I breathed. I approached the wharf and my boat that waited faithfully—like a guidepost directing me home. I knelt on one knee, lit the lantern, and prepared to untie my boat, but I dropped my face into my hands instead.

I’ve lost her. In my senselessness and arrogance, I’d lost her for good. How universally stupid of me. What was I going to do without her? Ah, Christine, my heart moaned. I would have loved you with a passion beyond all imagination. I would have spoiled you in ways you couldn’t even dream of if given one last opportunity. If I had a chance, that flicker I saw in your eyes would have turned into a blazing fire that never would go out. Just one last chance and your Angel of Music would have become the man you truly loved. Just one last chance; that’s all I needed—but it was gone.

Choices. I’d made so many wrong choices in my life, and the decision to end my life was indeed one of the biggest, if not the biggest.

I stood up, wrapped my arms around my chest and looked out over the light blue mist moving in eerie waves across the lake. I’d been there on that wharf more times than I cared to count. Secure in my private sanctuary, I carried on my life for 16 years all alone, and never before had I felt the way I did right then—hollow inside.

Do I return to my original plan and what’s left of the vial? I shook my head in disagreement. What original plan? It wasn’t my original plan to end my life; I’d always wanted to live and learn endlessly. Venice? Whatever happened to Venice and all the splendid things I’d planned to accomplish there? A life spent on a lighted stage—not a life spent in darkness beneath it.

While quarreling with myself, I began pacing on the small wharf, putting off my trip back to my vacant and silent home. Venice was nothing more than a foolish childhood fantasy fed by an overly proud father. Venice! No! I’m too old to start over—too old and too tired. There’s no more strength or desire left in me to try again.

With Christine by my side, I wasn’t a deformed old man. I was just a man in love. She gave me strength and hope beyond compare, and I could have accomplished anything with her in my life. But it was simply too late. She was gone forever. Gone somewhere far away and married for a certainty. That young, handsome face had won her and taken her away from me—taken the angel’s voice far away to never sing for me again. Oh, how that thought sliced me through to my core, worse than a thousand swords.

I closed my eyes tightly against the picture forming in my mind and stopped pacing, and then I covered my masked face with my hands, forcing back the tears. That repetitive conversation with myself was tiring my weary soul.

Just then, I heard my father’s reassuring voice: You can’t turn back the clock, Erik, but you can wind it up again. Thirty-five years later and his words still gave me what I needed to go on. So I lifted my head, knowing I could still do something with my life, even though I didn’t know what.

Perhaps I could become like Jacob and travel the world. I enjoyed the time I’d spent with the gypsies and traveling. That thought appealed to me. But, if I did, I wouldn’t have a piano at my disposal. That thought saddened me. I needed a home where I could have a piano. A piano was an absolute for my happiness. Again, my thoughts focused on Venice.

With the thoughts of what could be ahead of me, instead of the treasure I was leaving behind, I prepared my mind to go home and start packing. But, I feared my fractured heart might be a bit harder to put back together than my brain.

When I again knelt and started to untie my boat, I heard faint steps on the stairs. Then years of instinctive training took over, and I quickly and quietly moved back into the shadow of the closest pillar. There I waited to see who the intruder into my sanctuary might be.

That was something else I’d be glad to be rid of—that same scenario over and over again—me hiding in the shadows with a coil wrapped around my fingers. It had happened so often that the lasso might as well have been an extension of my fingers. It took no forethought whatsoever to have it ready and waiting. It was as much a part of my life as breathing, and that was a sad realization to admit.

Once I got rid of the fool invading my painful privacy, I was going to leave Paris just as quickly as I could to prevent that repetitive scenario from ever happening again. So, with my lasso at the ready, I secretly willed that the trespasser be Oded or just someone lost in my dark world and not someone I’d have to battle.

Hoping it was only my friend coming to bury me, I waited with conflicting emotions. It would be nice to see the expression on his face when he realized I was still alive, but, then, I wanted to strangle him for writing that note and perhaps altering my destiny. If he hadn’t, I might have caught the couple in love before they married. So what was the stronger of those two feelings? Sad to say, wanting to strangle him came off the winner of that debate.

As the sound got closer, I recognized the familiar rustle of a skirt and petticoats. Therefore, I thought it could be Christine and Raoul coming to bury me. Perhaps they didn’t take Oded up on his offer to do the ghastly deed. I looked around the pillar, hoping above all hope that it was the woman I loved so I could see her one last time. Then, there she was—in a mint-green evening gown with her golden hair swept up on top of her head. Since she appeared to be alone, I glanced toward the stairs to see if Raoul was following her. When I saw no one, I looked back at her graceful figure approaching my empty boat. Confusion, glee, fear, and hope surged through me all at the same time, and my heart leaped.

Christine?

My voice reverberated across the lake, and, as I stepped out from behind the pillar, she turned.

Erik! she exclaimed and began running toward me.

With her arms spread out from her sides and her gown billowing behind her, she resembled a radiant angel in flight. Her voice kept repeating my name until she slammed against my body, almost knocking me off my feet. She then buried her face in my chest, causing her words to muffle.

Erik! Oh! Erik!

At first, I was so stunned I could only stand there, but, then, I gladly wrapped my arms around her small soft frame, engulfing her. I closed my eyes, lowered my head, and smothered my face in the fragrance of her silky hair.

Christine! Ah, Christine, I whispered. I thought I would never see you again.

I felt light-headed, my knees became weak, and I could hardly breathe. I felt for sure I must be dreaming; otherwise, why would my angel be in my embrace? What I was experiencing couldn’t be happening, and, for a moment, I again thought I might be hallucinating. If I was, I didn’t want it to stop. The feeling of her being back in my arms, basking in her sweet scent, was all too wonderful to end. It couldn’t be real—could it?

Erik. Oh, Erik, she whispered.

I struggled to open my eyes, although I didn’t want to. I didn’t want that feeling to stop. I pulled her body so close to mine that our hearts could feel each other’s beats. Her hands were moving up and down my back and shoulders as were mine over hers. Oh, please don’t let this end, my heart pleaded loudly.

She pulled her head away from my chest, looked up into my eyes, and murmured, You’re alive. I was afraid—afraid I would be too late. Thank God you’re still alive.

So am I, I responded softly. Then, not wanting to for fear I’d spoil the precious moments but knowing I needed to, I asked, Why are you here? Where’s Raoul?

Her eyes appeared almost black in the soft light coming from my boat, and her lips so inviting as she answered, I don’t want to talk about Raoul right now. There’s only you—only you and me. I need you to hold me, Erik.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and started to pull her close to my chest again, but she resisted me and pushed back away from me. I searched her eyes for answers to explain her curious actions, but all I saw were expressions of passion and love in those eyes as they moved across my masked face and lips.

Bewildered, I frowned, as I continued to search her eyes and silent lips. I desperately wanted to touch them with my own, but, again, I feared to do anything that would spoil the moment. Therefore, with our lips silent and our eyes locked on each other’s, our bodies remained motionless, resembling two lifeless marble statues powerless under the sculpture’s hands.

She stood on her toes and moved her face up close to mine, causing my heart to beat faster. I tightened my jaw, resisting the temptation to close the gap between our lips. Then, with just a few soft words, I nearly lost all control.

Erik, please, kiss me.

Ah, Christine, I whispered and came close to succumbing to our mutual desires, but I couldn’t. I took her shoulders in my hands and moved her back. Christine, wait! This isn’t right. Where’s Raoul? I thought you were on your honeymoon.

What? No! Oh, no! There’s no Raoul right now and certainly no honeymoon, she responded with a shake of her head. I don’t care how much time you have left; I want to spend it all with you. I don’t care if it’s a month, week, day, or hour. I want to make memories with you that I’ll have for as long as I live. Now, Erik, will you please kiss me?

I was confused but something, somewhere deep inside me, took complete control of my actions, and I gave into my unprepared desires. Without giving any further thought about the boundaries of propriety or impropriety—or Raoul—I embraced her waiting lips with my famished ones. Then five months of restraints were quickly broken through with the first feel of her lips pressed against mine—our first real kiss.

All the floodgates opened, and the dam crumbled completely. The world started turning around me, causing the lone light in my boat to move in strange streams around us. I’d thought the feel of her lips on my forehead was exquisite, but the sensation of her lips on mine sent me far beyond my expectations. There aren’t words to describe the difference between the two feelings—there aren’t words.

I felt as if an explosion had gone off in my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. Feelings I couldn’t even dream of began to stir in me—feelings as old as time and, yet, like the first sunrise to me. My lifetime of wild fantasies couldn’t come close to comparing with the reality of our first real kiss. Everything in the world ceased to exist, and we alone were on the world’s stage—sharing the first expressions of our mutual love.

Her body again melted against mine, and lightning bolts flashed through every nerve in my being. I was alive on an entirely different and wonderful new plain, swirling in a sea of passion. Our lips parted long enough for mine to move across her cheek and down her soft and sensuous neck. Then they moved to her tender décolletage that I’d only been able to admire from afar, and there they soaked up every tender morsel of her femininity. As the world turned around us, only the sound of our breathing could we hear in the blue mist surrounding the lake.

I once more looked down into her dark eyes that were telling me she wanted all the same things I desired. She was giving herself to me without question, and I was thoroughly prepared to take her for my own. I kissed her again and again, and I could feel every movement of her fingers as they traveled up and down the tense muscles in my back.

One last time, I searched for that look of acceptance in her eyes, and it was there—just as bright as a cloudless sky. She smiled seductively, and, with anticipation surging through my veins, any questions or doubts about what we were doing evaporated completely.

My lips explored every inch of her face, neck, and shoulders, only taking a few seconds here and there from their feast to express my verbal love for her. Then, with my lips on her neck, she whispered in my ear the words that released any restraints I might have had left.

I’m yours, Erik. Take me.

The endless might of the stars and the relentless tides of the sea were powerless to halt my expressions of love. My hands and arms couldn’t hold enough of her. And if my actions weren’t enough to carry me away, her hands moving all over my body backed up her request.

If there was ever a time in my life when someone could have put a bullet in my brain or a knife in my back it would have been right then. I was entirely under the control of the woman in my arms. I was lost with her touch—lost and yet found as never before in Christine’s warm and loving embrace.

I grasped her waist and lowered us both gently to the ground while repeating how much I loved her. The mist moved between us at the same time that her bare shoulders and back pressed against the cold stones, causing her to shiver and gasp. That visual of what was taking place helped what small amount of decency I had remaining in me to speak, and I knew I didn’t want the joining of our souls to take place on that cold and filthy ground. Thankfully, my love for her spoke louder than my passion for her.

If she were going to give herself to me, I wanted our union to be an honorable one in her eyes, with a ring and priest and all that went with it. It couldn’t be a few moments of hungry passion in that musty cellar. I had no use for a priest, I never had, but I knew she did, so I kissed her gently, rose up away from her, and tried to explain.

Not like this, Christine. I can’t treat you, my precious angel, like a common whore in a dark and foul alley. You deserve better than this. Our love deserves better than this.

She took a deep breath and nodded, and I put my arms completely around her and lifted us up to our feet. She shivered again, and I wrapped my cloak around us both; then, once more, she melted against my body.

Christine, I whispered in her hair. I love you and want you in more ways than words can express. Then, as I looked at my waiting boat and thought about where it could take us, the butler’s words entered my thoughts, and, even though I didn’t want to, I had to question her. What about Raoul?

She looked up at me, smiled, shut her eyes and sighed, I don’t want to think or speak about him right now. I only want to be with you while I can. I want to be yours, Erik, for as long as I’m permitted. I know now that I love you with a love that defies description.

With her words of love caressing my ears, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She said she loved me. I cradled the back of her head, pressing her cheek against my chest. She said she loved me. I lowered my face into her hair while still thinking: she said she loved me. My heart swelled beyond recognition. I held her close once more, while the thought of taking her to my home mixed with the butler’s words, causing another battle to rage inside me that I wasn’t prepared to fight.

I listened to the silence around us, only being disturbed by our breathing, and waited for her to stop shivering. It didn’t take long for my overheated body to warm hers; then she relaxed.

Christine, you’re such a child. Why are you out tonight without a wrap? You know it’s not good for your voice.

From inside the folds of my cloak, she responded, I left in a hurry. I needed to get here quickly. I guess I forgot. She pulled her head back and looked up at me. I need to talk to you about something important.

I searched her eyes much the same as I had on many occasions, but, right then, I was so fearful of what I might find. My mind flashed back quickly to the butler’s words about a honeymoon; however, with the way she’d just responded to my advances, I felt she couldn’t be married to Raoul. In either case, her eyes and tone of voice were telling me that something threatening, something I may not want to know about, was on our horizon.

I motioned toward my waiting boat. There’s much I need to talk with you about also. We can go to my home. I suspect a nice glass of brandy will warm you sufficiently while we talk.

She once more smiled with those sensuous lips, and I had to taste them again before we left. So, with my palms on her cheeks, I guided her lips to mine for a soft and gentle kiss. When our lips parted, we gazed into each other’s eyes for a few beautiful, expressive moments.

We must go, Christine, before you get cold again, and before I lose my ability to resist you.

I swung my cloak off my shoulders and wrapped it around hers, again pressing her body close to mine. I ran my hands over her shoulders and down her arms, which were still clinging around my waist. I grasped her wrists and pulled them up close to my chest, enclosing her hands inside mine and watched the expression on her face—that beautiful face. Again, I saw that look of love that I’d seen the last time we were in my house on that fateful night. How I loved that face.

I squeezed her hands, turned, and started leading her toward the boat, but, before I got very far, I realized something didn’t feel right. I swung back around and lifted her fingers to the dim light. At first, I was dumbfounded, and I’m sure my mouth dropped open as I stared at the enormous diamond surrounded by a myriad of other diamonds on her ring finger—where my gold band should have been. I was scowling when I looked at her and then at the large stones again. The butler’s words shouted in my confused mind, and I shook my head, thinking, he was right—she was married!

Confusion, anger, disbelief, hurt, frustration, were all emotions that rushed in on me, mixing and forming one mass of unrestrained power. Since I was still alive, I considered her finger should hold only my ring, especially after what had just taken place. It wasn’t possible, I told myself. Then the lights and sounds on the rooftop surrounded me—along with all the pain of that horrifying night. I saw my gold band under the bench, sparkling in the moonlight, and I could feel my tears as they stung my eyes.

It was happening again! But it couldn’t be! I couldn’t have been deceived by her yet another time. It wasn’t possible for her to leave her honeymoon just to taunt me. It simply wasn’t possible. With rapid breaths, I looked into her wide eyes, with disbelief and growing anger, I’m sure, emanating from mine.

Erik, it’s not what it…

But with wrenching pain in my heart and my temper multiplying, replacing my passion, I silenced her words.

It looks like a huge wedding ring is what it looks like, Christine! It looks like something that young man of yours would give you! Something he might give you on your wedding day.

Well, yes, but, no… she tried to say.

Quiet! I screamed while throwing her hand down violently. I can’t bear to hear any more of your twisted words and excuses. Just be quiet!

I paced away from her and clasped my fingers around my arms—instead of around her neck. I lowered my head and clenched my teeth, attempting to control my temper. I knew it, I muttered. I knew she was married. I knew it was simply too good to be true; it always is. I entwined my fingers to make one giant fist and slammed it against the stone wall, followed by my forearms, and then my forehead.

I pushed harder and harder to force the anger away that was beginning to rage in my heart. My body felt as if it was being consumed in a swirl of volcanic flames. I was trying desperately to prevent yet another scar from forming on my already callused heart. Harder and harder I pushed, but it didn’t stop my anger from growing or her traitorous voice and pleas from penetrating my senses.

Please, Erik, let me explain.

Go! I growled from deep in my throat and heart.

My emotions had always been a struggle to keep in balance. But, right then, with the added fuel of my sexual frustration thrown into the mix, I feared the pressure within me was beyond my ability to control. I glanced over at her and then quickly back again as all the memories of her vacillating back and forth between Raoul and me became a vivid reality one more time. The sight of her and the sound of her voice trying to calm me was like pouring lamp oil on an already raging fire and caused my anger to mount—much too reminiscent of our last night in my home.

Just go! I bellowed.

Erik!

No, Christine! Leave me while you still can!

She hesitated and then took a step back from me. Erik, you don’t understand.

Don’t try to tell me I don’t understand, I growled as I turned and faced her. I’ve had a lifetime of having understanding forced on me. I know only too well human nature and, more importantly, your weakness and needs—I know them only too well.

I raised my fist at her and shook my head. "I have needs also you know, Christine. Did you ever give any thought to how hard it’s been to keep from taking you to my bed all these months? I have an intense and passionate need for you, my dear."

I turned away from her, trying to gain control. You know I love you. God knows I’ve told you that enough times. You made me love you more than life itself. How could you come here now and torture me this way? Why, Christine, why?

Erik, please let me…

I turned back toward her and roared, "I’m warning you, woman, leave here if you value your life. No more of your lying tongue and vacillating heart, just leave—now!"

Erik, please listen. This isn’t…

Listen to what? I shrieked hideously. "More of your falsehoods? That you’re married to Raoul but love me anyway? That you made a mistake? That you’re so confused? Is that it? You want me to feel sorry for your plight? Oh, poor Christine. She has two men who love her, and she just can’t make up her mind between the rich Raoul and the pitiful Erik. Poor Christine."

I turned my back to her again and crossed my arms in front of me, clenching my fingers around my arms to keep them from doing something I’d regret.

"You’re married, aren’t you, Christine? You married Raoul,