Erik and Christine: A Re-Telling

Christine Daae led a comfortable life and she was far from being penniless, her income from her performances was substantial, but she was also well aware that her career would not last forever, a singer like her could only sing for a limited number of years, especially with the kind of repertoire she was known for. She needed to make sure that should anything happen, Gustave would never have to want for anything, so she kept track of any extra expenses she might incur when she was on tour.

"All your meals have already been taken care of, Miss Daae, as well as the hotel fee for your entire stay," he said smiling.

"Oh, but that can't be," she answered.

"Perhaps your secretary...?" the concierge said.

Christine shook her head, bewildered. She had given Louise and Emile the day off after their late breakfast, they had some relatives in the city they wanted to visit.

"No, I'm sure she hasn't, may I?" she asked, pointing to the ledger.

The young man turned the book towards her and showed her the page where the meals that they had ordered were written on. At the top of the page was the number of her suite -- 18A, and stamped beside that were the words: ACCOUNT SETTLED.

Mister Casazza assured her that the Metropolitan would take care of their accommodations but she was very sure that this did not include their meals; no management would shoulder an artist's personal expenses.

The young concierge saw the puzzled look on Christine's face.

"Would you want me to find out who settled it, Miss Daae?" he said.

"Yes, please, if it's possible."

A few minutes later, the concierge returned, a knowing smile on his lips.

"The bills were settled through Peter Youngston, the personal assistant of Mister Y, Miss Daae, as were the hotel fees. Your account has been marked as carte blanche, any and all expenses will be forwarded to the office of Mister Y."

"Oh, how very generous of him," she said hesitantly, her unknown host's generosity was beginning to unnerve her. She felt a gentle tug on her skirt.

"Let's go, Maman," she looked down at the little boy beside her and smiled, she would work out the mystery of Mister Y later; nothing was going to ruin her afternoon with Gustave.

"Let's go exploring, cherie," she said, sounding cheerful.

Despite the cold weather, Christine and Gustave had a wonderful time at the park. It was big, of course, a whole day would not have been enough to go through everything it offered, but they did manage to see a petting zoo where they fed the young animals bags of bread that one could purchase from the many hawkers milling about. They visited the famous carousel, but Gustave was loathe to get on the rides because the mules that were pulling them looked quite pitiful. They reached Ramble Lake late in the afternoon, with its mazes, gardens, caves and many bridges, there was even a miniature waterfall that flowed down a huge pond.

"They are all man-made, Maman, did you know that?" Gustave informed her, "it looks very wild, of course, but the planners and the engineers built it that way."

"Ah, yes?" Christine said, as she and Gustave climbed up another bridge, "now, how do you know so much about this forest?"

"Emile has a book that's all about this city," he answered, as he reached the top of the bridge where he stopped.

"There is the Plaza Hotel, Maman!" he said excitedly, pointing across the lake, "If you count seventeen levels up, one of those windows on the left is our room!"

"Seventeen? I thought we were in 18A?" she knelt beside her son.

"Maman," the little boy shook his head, "architects and builders always skip the thirteenth floor, it's bad luck for a -- skyscraper -- to have one."

"Of course," she said, cheerfully, "how could I have forgotten that?"

Christine's heart melted at the smile her son gave her, his eyes were so like his father's. She felt the sudden sting of tears. Gustave was now all she had in the entire world, everyone she had ever loved... had left her. Christine shook her head, stood up and took her son's hand.

"It's starting to get darker and colder, cherie, shall we go back to the hotel?"

The little boy nodded and skipped beside his Maman as they headed back to the Plaza.

It was indeed much darker when they reached the gate of the park and it seemed there was now thrice the number of people on the streets, but Christine was not unduly worried, it would just take them a little longer to get back. She held Gustave's hand tighter as hurrying passersby jostled past them.

BEEP! BEEP!

Christine was taken aback when a car horn sounded behind them.

"It's James, Maman!" Gustave said, pulling her to the black car.

James jumped out and hurriedly ushered them inside the automobile.

"How did you find us, James?" Gustave asked.

"Yes, how did you find us?" Christine echoed.

"The boss, I mean, Mister Y, sent me over to the hotel this afternoon, Miss Daae, he said you might need to do some shopping. The concierge told me you'd gone to Central Park, so I drove over here," the chauffeur answered.

'How kind of him," Christine said under her breath, "tell me, James, is Mister Y always this -- solicitous -- with the performers of the Opera House?"

James looked at her through the rear view mirror.

"W-e-l-l," he answered slowly, "to be honest, Miss Daae, this is the first time that he's been involved with an artist, I think it's because he was the one who suggested inviting you for the gala," he smiled, "the other folks on the board weren't so keen, even Mr. Casazza said you'd turn down the invitation, you're too... erm..."

"Go on, James," she encouraged, "I'm too -- what?"

"Way out of our league."

"You mean, too expensive, don't you?"

The chauffeur nodded.

"But you are the best in the business, Miss Daae, and Mister Y said New York City deserved only the best, and that money wasn't a problem and he'd take care of everything."

Christine kept silent. So, all that Mister Y had done was simply because he was protecting his investment, she thought. All the glowing attributes that Maestro Casazza was heaping on Mister Y's head the night before, vanished. All Christine saw was a fat and balding roué -- for what else could "the boss" be -- who thought she was a... commodity!

"We're here!" Gustave said as they reached the Plaza Hotel.

Chapter Four

Monday: The Rehearsal

Christine closed her eyes as she sat in the front row of the Metropolitan Opera House. The conductor, the great Arturo Toscanini, was berating the double bass section for the fifth time that afternoon.

"Imbeciles!" he shouted, "always, you are late. You do not listen, you do not look, you cannot keep the time! What am I to do, throw this at you?" he ranted, shaking his baton at the ten unfortunate gentlemen. Christine's eyebrows rose at the string of choice Italian expletives that followed.

She and Director Casazza agreed that the gala would be divided into two parts: the first would be just her, accompanied by a lone pianist, singing Italian and French lyric folk-songs, while the second part would start with an overture and then Christine in the roles she was most famous for, Butterfly, Tosca and Turandot, with Toscanini conducting the Metropolitan Philharmonic.

Toscanini had resigned his position as principal conductor two years before due to some "personal matter" he had told her, but she was fairly certain it involved a certain lady singer, knowing this, Christine was, at first, reluctant to ask him to perform with her, but in the end, had asked him before leaving for New York if there was any chance he could conduct the gala for her and was elated when he agreed.

"You know I cannot refuse you, Cristina," he had said, using the Italian version of her name while deftly kissing her hand.

A half hour passed before the Maestro was finally satisfied with the double basses; he turned to where she was sitting and held out a hand to her.

"Cristina, if you please, cara, I think they are finally ready for you," he called out to her gently, his dark eyes twinkling.

She smiled back at him and went up the stage, she knew he was up to one of his games again. Toscanini was a dear friend and their partnership became legend when he dared to take a chance with a then unknown French soprano to sing Madame Butterfly; but he was also a well known philanderer and was famous for wooing -- and bedding -- most of the female singers he worked with, except Christine. But he liked to keep people guessing about the true nature of their relationship and she found it amusing to play along, it certainly helped to maintain the public's interest and ticket sales were huge whenever a marquee had their two names on it. (Years later, he admitted that he had never even attempted to seduce Christine Daae because "the greatness of that voice hid an even greater sadness.")

Christine stepped to the front of the stage and as the opening chord of Puccini's tragic masterpiece soared, she began to sing:

"Un bel di, vedremo..."

Thursday: The Gala

The applause did not die down, nor did the cries of "Bravo!" from the audience.

Above the din, the orchestra members themselves were hitting their music stands, some with their bows, others, with their bare hands. For the seventh time that night, Christine bowed gracefully in reverence, one hand on her breast and the other holding yet another bouquet of white roses, to acknowledge the awe and admiration New York was bestowing upon her. Never had they heard such an artist as Christine Daae!

She rose from her bow and held out her free hand to the great man, Toscanini, who had elevated the Philharmonic to near greatness that night. The maestro took her hand and bestowed several kisses on it. The audience clapped even louder, perhaps there was something to the rumors, after all!

Christine took a rose from the bouquet, kissed it and gave it to the conductor, Toscanini clasped the flower and held it to his breast... more rapturous applause and cries of delight, the audience could not get enough of them.

Toscanini sidled closer to Christine and placed a hand around her waist.

"Have we given them enough fodder for tomorrow's newspapers, cara?" he whispered in her ear.

The maestro and his games, she thought.

"More than enough, I think," she whispered back. She faced the crowd once more, smiled and waved. She had already given three encores and taken seven curtain calls, anything more would be suicidal, Christine was already feeling a little light-headed.

"Please lead me out, Maestro," she whispered, holding the hand on her waist.

Toscanini heard the slight tremor in her voice and felt her hand on his, it was cold as ice; with his arm around her, he steered her offstage and into the wings. The audience roared louder and the applause did not abate while a lone masked figure in a box above them observed the events quietly.

Her dressing room at the Metropolitan looked like a florist's when Christine finally made her way back to it. At last, more than thirty minutes after the final curtain call, she was able to sit down and breathe. The small room was fragrant with the scent of roses, carnations and tulips. A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

"Enter," she called out softly. Louise and Gustave came in.

Christine held out her arms to her son who ran into them. She closed her eyes and held the little boy close.

"Did I do well, cherie?" she asked.

"You were stupendous, Maman!" he exclaimed, trying out the new word James had taught him.

She heard a deep chuckle from the door and looked up to see Mr. Casazza.

"I have to agree," he said, smiling from ear to ear, "you were that and so much more, my dear, I cannot think of any more words, you... you made me and everyone in the theater... feel so... alive! And Arturo! I cannot believe he managed to make the Philharmonic sound this magnificent in only a few days of rehearsal."

"So, you finally remembered my name!" the Maestro said, appearing behind Mr. Casazza, "for four days you have only called me Signor or Mister, but because I have performed a miracolo with your orchestra, I am Arturo again."

Toscanini saw Mr. Casazza turn slightly red.

"Ah, Enrico, can you not see I am joking?" the great conductor relented, "of course, you had to call me Mister, this evening I was working for you!"

The two men laughed and embraced then started chatting in Italian.

Louise removed the pins that held Christine's thick dark hair in the up-swept bun she had worn for the gala.

"I shall have to go ahead, Christine, we shall wait for you and the Maestro at Delmonico's where we can wait for the reviews in the newspapers, everyone will be there," Mr. Casazza chuckled, "you know, I cannot recall looking forward to the critics' comments before," he said and left.

Toscanini looked at Christine's reflection on the large mirror as Louise brushed her hair. Despite their triumph, there was a sadness in her eyes. She could often mask it well, Christine Daae was a great singer and a superb actress, but there were a few times when even the actress was too tired to put on a face. He sat on the chair beside her and turned his attention to Gustave, who was drawing on a sheet of paper spread out on the floor.

"You are quite the artist, Gustavo, if I am not mistaken, that is the Metropolitan stage you have just drawn."

"One day, I shall build a theater just like this one, Maestro," the little boy answered, "only it will be bigger... and grander."

"And shall your mother sing in this theater?"

"Of course, she will be the star at opening night!"

"Bravo! Of course, she will be."

Christine smiled at the exchange between the conductor and her son. The maestro was now the nearest thing Gustave had to a father figure and she was eternally grateful to him for his patience and willingness to listen to her little boy's stories.

"Thank you, Louise, I can manage from here, just make sure all these flowers are

sent to St. Patrick's Church."

"And the white roses, Miss Christine? Shall I send them along, too?"

She looked at the bouquet, white roses were her favorite.

"No-o, let's bring them back to the hotel."

She rose as Louise left the room and knelt beside her son.

"I will be too old to sing by then, cherie, you would do better to cast someone younger," she said gently, ruffling the little boy's hair, "now, if Maestro will not mind leaving, Maman can finally change and we can go return to the hotel," she looked pointedly at Toscanini.

"Are you not joining the party at Delmonico's?"

She shook her head.

"I am far too tired, Arturo, and you know how I dread dining with... sponsors."

Toscanini nodded and stood up.

"I shall take a taxi cab to Delmonico's, cara, so you can be driven back to your hotel."

"I've already asked Emile to hire a taxi cab, Arturo. Please have Mister Y's chauffeur drive you to the party."

"Very well. Buona notte, Gustavo." he moved towards the door and stopped.

"It is a shame that you will not meet Mister Y, Cristina, he came to my dressing room this evening before the gala started, to wish me luck, as if I had need of it, and we had quite an interesting... chat. He is your devoted admirer."

Christine stood up and walked to the large Chinese screen at the other end of the room.

"Really? How fortunate for you," she said, a little too coldly, "I have been here for a week and all I've met are his chauffeurs. Now, I do have to change, so if you please...?" she said.

How interesting, the Maestro thought, Christine was not too tired to show a little anger. He smiled, his dark eyes twinkling.

"I shall send him your apologies. Ciao, cara."

---------

The After Party, Thursday

Erik entered Delmonico's determined to reveal himself to Christine. He had languished without her for far too long and that, he knew, was his fault. He clung to the memory of the last night they were together, when she had given herself to him freely and passionately, clung to it as a child would to a beloved toy, a talisman he could conjure up at will, it helped him get through the empty nights but little else.

He had been a fool that last night, a fool and a coward. He had woken with her in his arms, he remembered how his heart melted at the sight of her face, but then came the doubts and the fear. Would she feel the same way when she saw his face lit by more than just candlelight? And did he have the right to expect her to live in the shadows with him? The answers then, were all no, of course. He loved her far too much to ask her to throw away her life, her career, her gifts, to live with him like an animal... hiding beneath the Paris Opera House.

He still thought he had decided rightly eight years ago when Christine came to sing in New York the first time, with her husband and a new born baby. Her voice was sublime that night, too, and she and Raoul seemed happy; but when he read about their divorce in the newspapers a few years later, hope was re-kindled anew.

Surely, fate and the gods were giving him -- them -- a second chance! Why had he slaved all these years, it not for this... the smallest possibility that he and Christine would somehow be together again?

When he arrived in America, all he owned was in a small leather suitcase and a few gold coins in his pocket. The escape from Paris afforded him little else; but he quickly put the coins to use. He was able to rent a decent room in a small hotel near the business sector of New York. Luckily, the mask he wore did not raise questions, far too many men, most of them soldiers in the great Civil War that had threatened to tear the country apart, wore the same, these were the fortunate ones, though, for there were those who had even more severe injuries, the ones with limbs missing, with worthless stumps of barely recognizable flesh where arms and legs should have been. Many of these poor souls wound up begging on the streets, some ashamed to go back to homes and families, others without any family at all to return to; and all of them with that empty, hollow look in their eyes that bespoke the loss of all hope.

With the remaining coins, he set up a small carpentry business, working with wood, steel and iron, making windows, doors, porticos even lattices that were all the rage with the new rich in the city. Soon word got around about his superb workmanship and attention to detail that the more important builders came to him to do business.

The first two years, Erik did everything by himself, from the third year onwards, he began to hire workers, many of them former soldiers. By the fifth year, Erik's company was one of the largest in the state.

Somehow, he had to find a way to be alone with Christine, before she'd even set eyes upon him. He could make his way to Delmonico's outside terrace and tell Casazza to ask her to meet him there; but what reason would he give? That he was a shy, introverted man? No, Christine would not believe that. That he had a dislike for crowds? Erik snorted, then why throw a party for almost fifty people, if that were the case?

Erik stopped. Why not just have Casazza tell her the truth, he was maimed and disfigured and did not like being stared at? And what would he do, if she agreed to meet him at the outdoor terrace? What would he say? She would know right away it was he, even before he'd uttered a word. Would she run away? Would she strike him? Would she cry? He knew he could catch her if she did run, but Christine was not the sort to flee. And he deserved to be struck after deserting her. And if she cried...her tears were always his undoing, he could not stand to see her cry. He started walking again, but soon faltered, what if she refused to come out to meet him, what then?