Erik and Christine: A Re-Telling

Mister Y was known as one of the city's new tycoons, having come up from seemingly nowhere, to build an empire worth several millions -- at Wall Street's last count -- in just under eight years; he was also known as a ruthless businessman, fair but uncompromising in his dealings. He paid handsomely, but if one did not deliver... the young man shuddered, remembering the contractor who had short changed them on the mass housing contract. The man had hemmed and hawed when his thievery was discovered, sweat trickling down the sides of his round face as he stood in front of the mahogany desk. Mister Y just sat at his desk, impassive, his blue eyes hardly blinking, asking him almost unemotionally where the money had gone. When the man finally admitted to his crime, Mister Y stood, picked up his walking stick on the desk, walked over to the contractor, placed the stick on his shoulder and pushed him to the ground.

"Your company will rectify these mistakes, of course, Mr. Jones, at no additional cost to me, by rebuilding everything," Mr. Y said quietly, the contractor kneeling in front of him.

Mr. Jones tried to get up, but he couldn't, the hand holding the walking stick was like steel.

"Th... that's almost impossible, Mister Y, the cost will break me... it will take years before my business can recover."

"You should have thought of that... before you cheated me. You will rebuild, Mr. Jones or I will make sure you have no business at all to recover."

Mister Y adjusted the fedora then held out his hand to Peter. The young man dug something out of his coat pocket and handed it to his employer.

"Will you really need that tonight, sir? It's not bright at Delmonico's and you'll be alone at your table and it's at the far end of the room, and in the dark they'll hardly be noticed, I mean..." Peter's voice trailed off as cold blue eyes looked at him through the mirror.

Mister Y smiled at Peter's reflection.

"Thank you, Peter, I am flattered, but I know they are there."

He lifted the mask and covered the scars and raised ridges that ran across the right side of his face, and looked at the mirror once more.

"It's a good thing that Miss Daae is at a separate table, we would not want her appetite ruined. I shall see you at the usual time tomorrow, Peter, good night."

And with that, Erik left the room.

---------

"Is the wireless on, Louise?" Christine asked as her secretary worked on the long row of buttons at the back of Christine's gown; the soft strains of a French nursery rhyme were coming from the drawing room.

"Oh no, Miss Christine, that's Gustave on the piano," Louise answered, stepping back to admire Christine's gown, "may I say, Miss Christine, you are so lovely tonight."

Christine smiled and adjusted the bodice of her gown. Its blouse was made of black French lace gathered just above her breasts, affording the on-looker a view of Christine's graceful neck and the merest hint of cleavage, while the long loose amber skirt ended just above her ankles. Sheer tights and a pair of thin-strapped shoes that matched the color of her skirt finished the ensemble.

"Thank you, Louise," Christine remarked, reaching for her pearl earrings, but her hand started to tremble as she suddenly recognized the melody Gustave was now playing; it was the "Adoree," Erik's aria! The song that had brought her running back to his lair the night they had made wild passionate love, the last night she had seen him.

She sat down and closed her eyes; each note Gustave played was a tiny dagger that stabbed her heart, she could remember each kiss, each caress she had shared with him that night, but she also remembered the tears she had shed when she awoke to find herself alone.

Why had he left her?

She gripped the edge of the dresser as the haunting tune faded away. Erik had warned her at the very start that he expected to be paid handsomely if she agreed to be his pupil. Yes, she thought sadly, he had certainly exacted a high price.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Emile came in.

"James has arrived, Miss Christine."

"Thank you, Emile. I'll be down as soon as I put Gustave to bed."

She rose and went to the drawing room to find her son stretched out on the floor, asleep.

"I'll take him, Miss Christine," Emile said softly.

She followed the butler as he picked Gustave up and carried him to the small bedroom adjoining Christine's.

Poor little one, she thought, running her fingers gently through the dark blond curls. No doubt the excitement of being in a new city had tired him out. She bent down and kissed his forehead.

She turned to Louise who was holding up a long black silk tunic.

"Don't wait up for me, Louise. We've all had a long day, I can let myself in."

Christine slipped the tunic over her shoulders, took the evening purse Louise was holding and left.

---------

Enrico Casazza was looking at the elegant menu of Delmonico's but his mind was not on the names of the delicacies printed on it. The maitre d' had just handed him a note from Mister Y who was sending his apologies for he would not be able to join them for supper.

Now that was a pity, the director of the Metropolitan Opera House thought. He had wanted to show Christine Daae that America was not populated by 'savages,' there were true art lovers here in the New World and in Mister Y he had finally found one, the man was not only wealthy, but extremely knowledgeable in music and architecture. The two of them had spent many hours discussing what style would best suit the possible additions the board of trustees wanted done on the theater. Mister Y had even invited him to his country home on the last weekend of August to make use of the extensive library he kept there. They both decided that the Rococo period was the best choice.

It was while they were having tea in one of the house's small balconies that Mr. Casazza discovered his host's love of music; there was a pile of musical scores on an end table.

"Do you play an instrument, Mister Y? I see you have some music sheets over there."

His host did not answer immediately, instead, he took out a cigarette from a silver case and lit it.

"Yes, I do, Signor, I play the piano and organ, not well, but enough for most anyone listening to recognize the tune. Would you care to see them?"

Mr. Casazza nodded and followed his host to another room. He saw him adjust the mask that hid half his face as they entered the house, Enrico had wanted to ask about the mask many times; had he been in the terrible civil war that had almost torn the country apart? It was still a very fresh memory and there were thousands of men across the land who were horribly maimed and disfigured and many of them wore masks to hide their injuries but he decided that Mister Y would probably tell him in time; the man never alluded to it nor did he ever draw any attention to its constant presence anyway.

Finally, they stopped at a large door. Mister Y opened it.

"Here we are," he said.

Enrico Casazza was taken aback. There were two grand pianos inside the cavernous room but across them, on the opposite wall was an organ, not the small pedal organ one often found in church, but a huge pipe organ! Rows of metal pipes in varying sizes lined one wall of the room while above the floor was an elevated vestibule which housed the console where the three keyboards lay, two for the hands and beneath those, the pedal board for the feet. Around the console was the multitude of stops that gave the pipe organ its distinct and grand sound.

Mr. Casazza shook his head in disbelief.

"I feel like I'm in a cathedral," he said.

Mister Y smiled.

"Would you like to hear it?" he asked

The director of the Metropolitan Opera House nodded and spent the rest of that weekend listening to Erik play Bach and Buxtehude.

---------

"Hmm, pardon?" Mr. Casazza said.

"Have you decided on the appetizers, sir?" the waiter asked again.

"Oh yes, yes," the older man once again looked at the menu "any caviar tonight?"

"Yes, sir, several boxes arrived this morning, from Eastern Europe, I believe."

"Good, good, I'll have a tin then and," once again Mr. Casazza studied the menu, "a bottle of your best champagne. I'll order the main course once my guest arrives, thank you."

The waiter nodded and left.

A faint murmur rose from the seated guests at the restaurant when Christine arrived. She scanned the tables, a slight look of worry in her eyes, as she looked for Enrico Casazza's table. Christine was used to being looked at, more than half her life had been spent performing, but being stared at off-stage was another matter; a radiant smile suddenly replaced the worried look, the director had stood up and was waving at her. She unclasped the silk tunic and the murmurs increased as the guests, especially the ladies, took note of her attire. So, this was the latest fashion in Europe! Christine gave the tunic to a nearby attendant and crossed the marbled floor of Delmonico's.

Erik crushed his half smoked cigarette, his heart beat faster as he took in the sight of Christine. God! She was even more beautiful now than when he had last seen her; her dress, though loose, accentuated her curves as she walked towards his table. He was unaware that he had crumpled the note she had sent to him earlier that day, thanking him for sending James to the pier. She was so close now!

Grateful that his seat was not under any ceiling light, he looked down, hiding his masked face. He held his breath as she walked by his table; for one mad moment, he wanted to jump up and take her in his arms. She had already passed him when he realized she had stopped.

Christine's smile did not waver as she walked towards the maestro. He had gained a few more pounds, she noticed, and his dark hair was now graying and certainly much thinner. Poor Mr. Casazza! It was not easy being the Metropolitan's Director of Opera, many singers were known to be contentious because of their egos. There had been occasions when she herself had vented her frustrations, often at unprepared partners. Christine was a slave to her art, and the one thing she could not abide by was laziness.

She raised her hand to return the director's wave, when she caught a familiar fragrance. She stopped and turned, it was the faint odor of cigarettes, the kind that Erik had preferred! She looked at the tables beside her, no one was smoking. She gave a slight nod to the guests around her and continued towards the director's table. Nerves, she thought, just nerves.

Erik finally looked up when he was sure she had reached the maestro. They greeted each other warmly, Casazza kissed her hand and Christine hugged the portly musical director, then she sat, smiling at the waiter who had pulled out her chair. It was sweet torment to look at her, to be in the same room and not be able to touch her.

"How do you find your accommodations, my dear?" Enrico Casazza asked.

"The suite is superb, director, I suppose the Metropolitan must be doing extremely well?"

"Let us say that things have picked up over the past four years. America is coming into her own now, Christine, it is the newest capital of the music world and New York is at the heart of it."

"I am glad," she answered, patting his hand, "this was your dream."

"Yes, but I did not do it alone. I had help. Old money like the Carnegie's and the new tycoons, like Mister Y, have pumped new blood into the music scene."

"Oh yes, speaking of your friend, Mister Y, I do so want to thank him again for sending his chauffeur twice today. What time is he arriving?"

The director cleared his throat.

"Ah, Christine, I'm afraid he won't be here, I just received a note from him, no doubt some business matter that he has to attend to has kept him away, I do apologize for the both of us."

Christine was a little put out. That was certainly inconsiderate of Mister Y, she was already tired; had she turned down this invitation she could have had supper with Gustave and turned in early.

"That is a shame," she said, taking a sip from the glass of champagne the waiter had poured out." She placed the glass down, "Have you had word from the Maestro?"

"Arturo? Well, the last I heard from him was he said he needed more time to think about conducting here again, that was almost four weeks ago. I suppose that means he can't... or won't. I'm sorry again, Christine, I know you would have wanted the great man to lead the orchestra but..."

"Ah," she quickly interjected, "you will be happy to know, Mr. Casazza, that Maestro Toscanini has agreed to conduct at the gala. Our dear friend will be here tomorrow afternoon."

Chapter Three

"I shall see you on Monday, Christine. If you are not too tired, you and Gustave may want to explore the city, there are many more interesting spots now than when you were last here."

Christine adjusted her tunic, the evening had turned considerably colder and they were standing outside Delmonico's, waiting for their automobiles.

"I think I will be spending the next two days preparing for the Maestro. Gustave may want to do a little exploring, though, I shall ask him and send word to you."

"Or you can have your secretary call Mister Y's office, he knows Manhattan better than anyone."

"Mister Y... may not have the time to act as a... tourist guide. From what you have told me, he is far too busy with his varied businesses."

"He can be, at times. But he has been known to take the occasional day off and it is a week end, after all. Ah, I think that is James." Mr. Casazza said as the long imposing black sedan stopped in front of them.

But it was not James at the wheel; instead, he got out of the passenger seat beside the driver's.

He nodded to them.

"I'm sorry, Miss Daae, but there's been a slight change in plans. I can't drive you back to the Plaza, I have to get the boss' other car to drive him back home, but Eddie here," he said, pointing to the man in the driver's seat, "will take you back instead. Don't worry," he quickly added, seeing the slight frown on Christine's face, "I can vouch for him, we're both employed by Mister Y."

"Erm, if you're uncomfortable, my dear, you can ride with me," the director suggested.

Christine was truly tired now and standing out in this cold autumn night was not doing her any good. All she wanted was to get back to the hotel and sleep.

"It's fine, Mr. Casazza," she said, clutching the tunic tighter as a sudden gust of icy wind blew across the street, "I don't want to take you out of your way. What of you, James, how will you manage?"

"Don't you worry about me, Miss Daae, it'll take me just one tram ride. Now, please, you should get in, it's getting cold," the chauffeur opened the door of the automobile.

Christine got in the passenger compartment and waved good-bye to the two men.

"It is the Plaza, isn't it, Madame?" a raspy voice asked.

Christine looked at the chauffeur, but the glass partition that divided the driver and the passenger sides was closed. All she could see was her reflection.

"Ah, yes," she answered.

"Very well, Madame."

There was silence for several minutes, as the automobile made its way through the streets.

"The Metropolitan Opera House is right after the next corner, Madame, if you want to see it."

"It's not too far off, is it?" she asked.

"Not at all, Madame."

Christine thought for a moment.

"I haven't seen it since... yes, please, uhm, Eddie, I would like to see it, thank you."

"Very well, Madame."

Erik had to remember to keep talking in a hoarse whisper, Christine would have surely recognized his own voice. He had intended to just watch her this evening, to take in the glow of her face and listen to her laugh at Casazza's stories. But when supper was drawing to a close, he knew it was not enough; so he had one of Delmonico's attendants call for James and they had traded places. All he wanted was a few more minutes with her.

"Do you think we can stop, Eddie, so I can have a closer look?" she asked.

Now that was going to be a problem, Erik thought, especially if she wants to get out of the car. He had to think quickly.

"We can, Madame, but you ought to stay inside the car, being out this late and this autumn chill won't be any good for the voice and you're giving a concert next week."

Christine smiled, Eddie seemed to know quite a lot about singing.

"Yes, of course. Just a quick stop then, Eddie, so I can see look at that glorious building."

Though the glass partition was closed, the driver's side of the window allowed the chauffeur to see his passengers but not the other way around. Erik stared at her through the rear view mirror as she gazed at the theatre. A slight smile curved her lips, her eyes bright as she took in the magnificence of the Metropolitan Opera House.

"How beautiful she is," Christine whispered, "she takes one's breath away."

"Yes, she does," Erik answered softly, still looking at her reflection.

It was fortunate that the doormen of the Plaza were well versed in their duties. One of them was at the, curb ready to open the door, even before Erik stopped the automobile in front of the hotel.

"Please send my regards to Mister Y, Eddie, I do hope to meet him one of these days and thank you, for taking me to the Opera House," Christine said as they stopped.

"The pleasure was mine, Madame," he answered

Christine stepped out of the automobile and headed inside the hotel.

It was only much later, when she was finally in bed, did she realize that just like at Delmonico's, Mister Y's automobile had the faintest trace of the cigarettes Eric favored.

---------

Christine was having a late breakfast with Gustave in his room when Louise entered, a large bouquet of white roses in her arms.

"These just came for you, Miss Christine, there is a card in there somewhere," she said, her voice trailing off.

"I see it!" Gustave piped in.

He stood up on the bed and plucked a small white note card from the top of the flowers and handed it to his mother.

PLEASE FORGIVE ME FOR LAST NIGHT.

YOUR MOST ADORING ADMIRER, Y.

Christine's eyebrows rose. Mister Y certainly knew how to placate a woman's bruised ego.

The week end passed pleasantly for mother and son. They did go exploring, but only as far as Central Park which Gustave had seen from the drawing room window.

"Look, Maman, look, look! There is a forest in the middle of the city just like the Bois back home! Can we go see it?" the little boy exclaimed.

Christine stopped playing the piano, and walked over to where Gustave stood. The view was certainly something to behold, the trees were different hues of copper in the late autumn sunshine, the sky was a crisp blue and the many pathways that criss-crossed the park were dotted with people who were enjoying the clear weather.

Christine hesitated, she still had to go through several songs for her concert before Monday's rehearsal and their friendship notwithstanding, Toscanini would not hesitate to berate her if she came unprepared; but one look at her son's eager face was enough for Christine to decide; half an hour later, mother and son descended to the ground floor of the Plaza Hotel, dressed in thick coats, gloves, caps, and their feet in sturdy boots. No one would be exclaiming over her attire today, she happily thought.

She adjusted Gustave's cap and pulled the scarf at her throat tighter. They walked up to reception and the concierge on duty immediately met her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Daae and Master Gustave, may I be of service?"

Christine nodded.

"I would like to settle the meals we have ordered so far," she said.

The concierge smiled and took out a thick ledger from beneath the desk. He took a pen from an inkstand, opened the book and studied it.