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Do I Dream Again?	By : LaurieBaker Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 10050 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Holiday Gala, King’s Theatre, three months later...

As the curtain fell upon the premiere production of Wuthering Heights, the opera patrons applauded with gusto. Even the wealthy upper class socialites, so in love with their traditional classic operas, had been enthralled with the new and exciting work, even though it was a bit dark and morbid for the Yuletide
Season. Everyone was agog to learn more about the composer of the piece, a Mr. Howard Tomkins. A spritely elderly gentleman sitting in the front row claimed to be the man. Yet the elite looked upon them man with the garish top hat with skepticism. He seemed horribly common and did not appear to know the first thing about music. Most mysterious, indeed.

And what of the sensational Christine Daaë? Everyone in the opera world had heard of the unfortunate affair of the Phantom of the Opera, even here in London; and now all of England seemed to take the notorious soprano to its bosom. With her voice capable of reaching impossible celestial heights, she was often referred to in the notices of the day as the “Fallen Angel of Paris”. Indeed, the scandal of her past only heightened her celebrity. She was regarded as a creature of passion and intrigue, capable of drawing hideous monsters out from their foul catacombs. Yet despite all of the melodramatic descriptions of her life story, no one could deny her true talent and ability as a reigning artist of the stage.

In the shadows of the theater, Erik somberly observed his triumph. All in all, the evening had been a complete success. As he watched his wife curtsy prettily on the stage, he tried to smile. He wanted so much to revel in her glory just like he used to in the past. However he had been scowling with rage and frustration so much for the last four months that he felt as if his face had hardened into a marble bust of misery. The days of his strained marriage wore upon him so that he was incapable of gloating.

Ha! if one could even call what he shared with Christine a marriage...

Gone was the intimacy and passion that had meant so much to him. Now, anytime that he dared to so much as touch Christine’s hand, she would shy away from him, trembling. How his heart ached when she did so! Yet he did not force the issue nor complain. The rejection in her eyes was painful enough. He did not want to hear the hurtful words as well. Still he would have dreams of her joining him in her naked loveliness at night. He would have nightmares of kicking down the bedroom door and forcing his attentions upon her, manipulating her body into unwanted pleasure as she screamed with tears rolling down her cheeks. He would awaken unfulfilled and miserable, wishing that he were dead and then spend the rest of the day and night yearning for her from a distance. He might as well still be a wretch living in the catacombs.

Erik wanted to rage at Christine for being so foolish as to cast aside their love. He wanted to throw himself at her feet in horrified sobs. He wanted to tell her that he would do anything, anything for her at all, if she would only come back to him as the loving woman that she had been during those two months of Eden. If she wanted children, she could have them...dozens of them...if she would only forgive him. Yet fear and pride were overwhelming forces; therefore, he did and said nothing.

Ever since Christine revealed to him that she had not been with child after all, they simply went through the motions of life. They would sit in the dining room and eat in silence. They spent much of their time apart. Christine would sit in the library and read. Erik would usually mope about in misery, working feverishly at everything and accomplishing nothing.

The only thing that seemed to bind them at all was their operatic love child, Wuthering Heights.

So like the fiendish slave he was, Erik devoted himself to the music and finishing up the score. Often he would work several days at a time with minimal food and rest. He had even been more manic than his usual wont. Perhaps because when he lost himself in the opera, he did not have to think about how he had lost Christine’s love. And he still had the foolish hope that by pleasing her with his masterpiece, she would forgive him and take him back.

As for Christine, she had drowned herself in the part of Catherine Earnshaw. She seemed to live for rehearsal sessions, both at the cottage and later on when they moved to London. He had never seen her work so hard, not even when she was just a little chorus girl. Often she would wander around the cottage like a little ghost, but when she began to sing as Cathy, the color arose in her cheeks. She was tempestuous and vibrant, completely transforming herself into the role. Erik marveled at the actress she had become. Sometimes, she was virtually unrecognizable.

Their townhouse in London was cozy and elegant, simply furnished in the appropriate Victorian style. If Christine was pleased or displeased with his choice for their new abode, she gave no indication of either. But it was close to the opera house in London and on a remote side street. At night time, he could come and go as he pleased in the foggy streets and no one would take any notice of him, give or take a few slatterns walking the street.

Once they had been settled in their new home, Erik quickly put his plans in motion as there was no time to waste. The sooner he could mount the production, the sooner Christine would be involved in her life’s work again. She would forget all of the nonsense about babies and return back to the stage where she belonged.

Beyond the artistic obstacles of mounting such an ambitious production, Erik also had to contend with all sorts of animosity on the practical level of getting the piece put on. He was all too aware that he was no longer in Paris. He could not rely on a reputation as a spectre working behind the scenes. Thus, he had to accomplish his goals through the rather mundane measures of bribery and blackmail. First, he had to contend with the managers of the Opera House who had proven themselves to be even greater fools than those of the Paris Opera House. Then he had a rather unpleasant quarrel with some members of the Brontë family over the rights to the novel. On that score, he regrettably had to get nasty, making a few death threats and playing a few pranks to keep the Brontë clan under control. During this time, he located his erstwhile acquaintance, Mr. Tomkins, and gave him another small fortune to pose as the composer of the opera. True, he was not the most qualified man for the part; but that was of little consequence. In fact, Mr. Tomkins’ ignorance might be a convenience in an odd sort of way.

In the end, all had gone well.

The opera had come off as every bit as brooding and romantic as he had intended. With sweeping painted canvases of the lonely English moors and a set piece of the house which Erik had constructed himself, the world of Heathcliff and Cathy had been successfully created. The orchestra had played the music to his satisfaction. While he was not impressed with the rather guttural sounding voice of the tenor playing Heathcliff, Erik knew that sheer jealousy was the cause of his dissatisfaction for he would have loved to play that part for himself had he a handsome face. Little Geraldine Chapman, Christine’s former voice student, had been quite promising as the tragic Isabella, unrequitedly in love with a man who would never be able to give her his heart. Add to that Christine’s return to the stage, and he should have been bellowing with glee.

But setting the world on fire no longer met as much to him anymore. He just wanted his wife back.

----------------------------------

After the performance, Christine was besieged by admirers and congratulations. She had forgotten the euphoric rush of life in the opera. On stage, there had been no room for giddiness. She had been too deep in concentration as she portrayed Cathy, torn between her wild lover and the life of wealth and respectability which she craved. But now her head spun with all of the chaos and excitement backstage. And she could not help but feel like a little girl lost in a crowd. Of course, Erik was nowhere in sight. And while she was pleased to receive compliments from the audience, cast and crew, she felt as if she did not really know any of them. She would have given anything to see the stern but pleased countenance of Madame Giry accompanied by a few playful pirouettes from Meg. Even Carlotta would have been a welcome sight in this land of strangers.

“Christine!” Geraldine Chapman cried out, making her way through the crowd. “They all loved us! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Christine hugged her former student fondly. Thank God for Geraldine. She had been Christine’s only joy and hope for sanity in these turbulent day. And she had been perfect as Isabella.

“You were so magical on stage, Christine! And so beautiful!”

“Thank you, my dear. You were magnificent as well. But be sure and mind those flat A’s!”

“Oh!” Geraldine gasped in dismay. “Ever the stern taskmaster!”

“Should you wish to excel, there is much more to learn,” Christine advised. Then the memory hit her of another time when Erik had said the same thing to her.

“What is wrong, Christine? You look rather sad all of a sudden...and on tonight of all nights...”

“Just tired, dear. Run along now.”

With some effort, Christine managed to beg off the well-wishers, pleading that she needed to take off her stage makeup and get dressed. Finally, she had managed to be alone. She gazed solemnly in the mirror as she took off her wig and rubbed the makeup off of her face.

Bravi, bravi, bravissimi...

Nervously, she looked at the mirror. He wouldn’t dare! Not again!

No, it was simply her mind playing tricks on her. But she would have loved to hear his voice right now. Why did she have such an irrational desire for his approval, even now after everything that had happened? He would be waiting to greet her in a coach outside of the opera house to take her back to their home. Yet she knew that she would not find the comfort that she sought from him. Not while there was this impenetrable wall between them.

Time and again, she could have escaped. She could have run away from the opera house during a rehearsal. She could have pleaded help from the managers. She could have simply sold her clothing and jewels and run back to Paris. Yet she did none of those things.

Even with her heart breaking, she knew that trying to run away from Erik was just repeating the mistakes of the past. He would always be there singing songs in her head. He would always follow her wherever she would run to. Technically, she was not a prisoner for he had allowed her more freedom than ever since they had moved to London. But yet she was captive to him in a different way now. He owned her heart and her soul and her body. If only it did not mean such sacrifice...

In the dark city streets, Christine hurriedly rushed along until the black coach with the crest of a wolf’s head stopped at her side.

“Hurry, dear, before you catch cold,” Erik warned. “It is miserably damp out here.”

He helped her into the carriage.

During the short ride to the townhouse, Christine looked out the window in distraction. She should be pleased that Wuthering Heights had gone so well. It was the best role she had ever played. The songs she had sung fit her like a glove. Perhaps she could not bring herself to be happy because she knew that Erik had tailored everything for her as he had always done. To the outside world, this opera had proven that Christine Daae was a talent in her own right, that she did not need the influence of a mad genius to be successful. But of course it was all a sham. Her career was more carefully constructed by Erik than ever before. And she was so dependent upon him now.

And she was so miserable...

Everything was so complicated now. Not a day would pass when she did not yearn to make love with Erik again. Yet she was afraid of possibly becoming pregnant, especially now that she knew how he felt about such matters. Always he would look upon her with his pleading eyes, yearning for her. Always she would want to reach out and hold him, stroking away all of the hurt. But how could she now when everything was so awkward and horrible between them?

“Roses for a beautiful star...”

The words jolted her back to the present. They were back home.

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the bouquet of the blood red roses.

As Erik reached out to help her out of the coach, his eyes burned with passion and anticipation. Yes, he had expected that tonight she would forget the past and return to him. If only it were so easy...
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Do I Dream Again?