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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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“Oh!” The pretty young russet-haired girl stamped her foot with disgust. “I shall never get that high note, Miss Daae! Never!”

“Do not be so hard on yourself, Geraldine,” Christine advised. “You must concentrate. That is all.”

Christine believed that encouragement was the best policy with teaching. She did not wish to be disagreeable to her students. Indeed, since she was being paid to be a private tutor, it was impractical to discourage her pupils with too many harsh criticisms. Too often, she had burgeoning talents fizzle out from cruelty. Often, the school of thought was that such treatment toughened these singers up for the hardships of a career on the stage. She did not wish to engage in such methods. These people were trusting her to help them learn, not to feel badly about themselves. They needed a safe environment where they could make mistakes. Her only demand was that her students practice their lessons and make an effort to progress. Otherwise, she felt like she was wasting their time and stealing their money.

As it was, Geraldine Chapman was one of her best students. Christine had no doubt that she would make headway in her career soon. She just needed to stop pacing a hole through her already beaten up rug on the living room floor and develop a little confidence in herself.

Once more, Geraldine went through the song as Christine accompanied her on the piano, but this attempt was even more of a hopeless cause.

“Pardon me for cursing, Miss Daae, but it is that blasted violin!” the girl raged. “Whoever is upstairs has been playing it incessantly ever since I arrived, making it very hard to focus. Can’t you make that person stop?”

Christine knew Geraldine was right. Her neighbor upstairs, Mr. Tomkins, had been playing the violin for hours on end several days in a row now. She had no idea he was so musically inclined. Truth be told, she rather liked being surrounded by the music all of the time, but she could see how her pupils were getting frustrated. She would have to speak to him about it, but she did not want to risk a confrontation with the man while she was teaching. She would do it after the next appointment was through.

“Consider this a good exercise for concentration, Geraldine,” she advised. “When you are on stage, there are a million things that could go wrong. Rarely will a production go seamlessly every night. You must be able to focus with all of the sharpness of a needle, even if you are in a duet with a drunkard or the stage lights are too bright. The stronger your ability to drive distraction out of your mind, the better off you are. Now let us try again...”

The rest of the lesson went exceedingly well.

Christine’s pleasure was short lived when her next appointment, Mr. Robert Jamison, arrived. Although she prided herself on her patience, she had to admit that he was perhaps the hardest student she had to teach. Although he always tried hard, he was hopelessly inadequate vocally. Also, it had been foolish of her to give him the particular piece that he was working on. The song had been one which her Angel used to sing to her frequently. Whenever Robert would sing, she would hear another voice inside her mind, one of such purity and strength that it took her breath away. She supposed that she would never be able to truly forget that voice. Trying not to give in to remorse, she tried to follow her own advice and concentrate on Robert’s lesson until it was mercifully over.

For a while, she rested back on the settee, covering her hands with her eyes. Ever since Meg had left to go back to Paris, Christine had been driving herself nonstop, taking as many pupils as she could. She needed the extra fees to enable her to go to Perros to make a visit to her father’s grave. Even with all of the changes in her life, she did not intend to miss her annual sojourn to the cemetery on the anniversary of his death.

As the music flowed about her, she suddenly remembered her mission regarding her neighbor upstairs. She moaned in annoyance. She really did not care to have to ask him to stop playing as she was in no mood to get into a tense conversation of any kind. Unfortunately, she had no choice. Resolutely, she climbed up the stairs to the hallway on the fourth floor.

“Mr. Tomkins?” she asked, softly knocking on his door.

The violin playing abruptly stopped.

“Mr. Tomkins, it is Miss Daae. Remember me? I live underneath you on the third floor.”

A gruff low voice answered her.

“Yes, child. What is it that you want?”

Well, really, the man could be polite enough to open his own door like a gentleman!

“I hate to ask this of you, but...”

Oh, this was maddening!

“Sir, do you think you could open the door? I feel like a silly fool talking to the doorknob!”

Christine heard some scuffling about and even some profanities behind Mr. Tomkin’s door before it cracked open by a hair. She could see no sign of a person in the room through the slight opening.

“I am so sorry, my dear,” the voice rasped. “But I am very ill and quite contagious. I would hate to infect such a comely young girl with my horrid disease.”

“Oh,” Christine started with dismay. Mr. Tomkins was elderly and such a horrid illness could prove quite fatal. The neighbor had always kept to himself a lot and probably would not even fetch a doctor, no matter how badly he might need one. “Should I fetch a doctor for you, sir? Should I send for Miss Hobbes?”

“No, no...heavens, no. It is not as bad as all that. What did you wish to ask of me, my dear?”

“It is a matter of your violin playing, sir,” Christine continued, feeling rather petty making her request when the man was so sick. “You see, I teach opera singers for a living. And I am afraid that your violin is throwing off their pitch and rhythm. I hate to ask this of you, but would it be possible for you to refrain from playing while I teach? If you like, I could furnish you with my schedule of appointments and...”

“I SHALL PLAY WHENEVER I WISH!” the man bellowed.

The violence of the voice caused Christine to nearly jump out of her skin. She had no idea that Mr. Tomkins had such a surly temperament. Odd that he could roar so when he had been so hoarse just a few seconds earlier. And there was something about the timbre of that voice which reminded her of something...but she couldn’t quite place it.

“Please, Mr. Tomkins,” Christine begged. “You mustn’t distress yourself so when you are ill. Your playing is quite lovely. In fact, when I am alone, I love to listen to your violin playing. It reminds me a bit of my father.”

“Indeed?” The voice softened.

“Oh, yes. He too was a very talented violinist. He passed away when I was a young girl, you see, and whenever I think of him, I...but I am rambling on. Forgive me.”

“It is quite all right, my dear.”

“I would not dream of asking you to cease playing for myself. I am horribly sorry to be a nuisance, but my students are my only source of income that I have and...”

“Very well, Chr...Miss Daae. If you would be so kind as to place your schedule underneath the door, I shall do my best to oblige you.”

“Oh, thank you so much for your understanding, Mr. Tomkins!” Christine enthused. “Is there anything I can do for you to make up for such an inconvenience? Shall I make you some hot tea? Perhaps it would soothe your throat.”

“No, that will not be...actually, yes, yes, I would love some tea.”

“I shall put the kettle on straight away,” Christine answered. “Oh, and when you feel up to it, Mr. Tomkins, I should so love to hear that requiem again.”

“That morbid piece?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Even in its melancholy, it is so beautiful. And it reminds me...”

“...of your father?”

“Yes,” she answered, holding back a nervous chuckle. “You’re so understanding, Mr. Tomkins. I shall go make that tea now.”

As Christine made the tea, she could hear Mr. Tomkins playing her requested requiem though the thin walls. He must not have been too irritated with her for he played the music so eloquently that she wanted to weep. Even her father would have been impressed with Mr. Tomkins. Today she seemed to especially miss his calm presence in her life. How she wished that she could once more see the man and not just the cold family crypt...

At least, her visit to his grave this year would be less eventful than it had been the last time...

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

Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing...her father promised her that he would send her the Angel of Music...her father promised her...her father promised her...

In the early chill of the winter morning, Christine crept out of her dormitory at the Paris Opera House to make her visit to her father’s grave. She needed him more than ever for her heart felt wrenched into pieces. Raoul was pressuring her to help him entrap the Phantom in his own opera. At first, she refused strongly, but he appealed to her conscience. The man was a murderer, a tragic figure, but a killer nonetheless. She had to help the police arrest him. Did she not want to be happy with him? Did she not want to be free of her tormentor?

Yet, at night, Christine was tormented with images of her masked Angel shot and bleeding at her feet on the stage of the Opera Populaire. She envisioned him chained up and cursing at her as the police dragged him away. He would escape his prison (for what jail could ever hold him?) and he would find her and kill her for her betrayal. She could even imagine him singing to her, once again leading her senses to that strange passionate state, even as the life was choked out of her body by his lasso. She prayed every day for a miracle to happen that would prevent her from having to take part in the plot. But the time was ever approaching nearer. As of yet, there had been no miracle. Desperately, she escaped to her father’s grave, hopelessly seeking comfort from the cold stone in the cemetery. If only she could find an answer...if only she could stop grieving for what she could never have...if only she could make peace with the past...

Wandering child, so lost, so helpless...yearning for my guidance...

Of course, the mysterious man was here. She had blindly trusted him so much when he had been her teacher, confiding in him about her visits to her father, even telling him the date of his death. How obsessed he must have been with her even then to remember that date to this day! She shivered, not from the cold, but from fear. Even so, his unearthly voice was such a comfort to her in her time of confusion and grief. Beyond all reason, she needed more of him...more of that voice...as she pleaded with her Angel to keep singing to her.

Too long you’ve wandered in winter, far from my far reaching gaze...

Christine felt herself melting once more under his spell, just like she had on the night when he first took her down to his home underground. This time, she almost physically felt her control being wrested away from her. Not only had her mind been swept clean of all of her doubts and fears, but her body was so languid that she was almost paralyzed. Yet again, her senses reacted in the mysterious fashion that she did not understand. Her breasts throbbed while she felt soaked with that embarrassing wetness between her legs. And all she could think of was how much she wanted to be near her Angel. She wanted to be as close to him as two people could possibly be. No matter that he was a murderer. No matter that he was insane. No matter that he had lied to her, claiming to be a heavenly being. All that mattered was this primal need so intense that it was torture.

Singing her worship of him, she began to walk towards the presence. This was true beauty. This was right. She trembled no longer from the cold but from the powerful desire overtaking her.

“Christine!” Raoul’s voice broke her trance like a bucket of ice water.

As her body adjusted to normal existence, she was shocked to see the Phantom hurling what seemed to be balls of fire at her fiancé. Shielding Raoul with her body, she convinced him to leave for her sake.

DON’T GO! So be it! Now let it be war upon you both!

The Phantom’s threats echoed in Christine’s head as she made her escape with Raoul. As her fiancé swept her upon his steed, racing like a demon back to Paris, Christine felt more mournful than ever. Of course, she had to help to entrap him. If she did not, how would she live with herself? How many more people would be his victims?

Yet her heart broke with the cold knowledge...

Why must her Angel kill? Why must he make her hate him?

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

The tears flowed freely down Christine’s cheeks as she set the tea kettle and a tea cup upon the copper tray. Would it ever stop hurting? Would the pain of the past never go away?

“Here you are, Mr. Tomkins...” She could hear the tears in her voice as she placed the tray down on the floor beside the closed door. Dear Lord, she sounded as wretched as she felt.

“Miss Daae?” the deep voice rasped. “You sound rather upset. Are you ill?”

“I shall be all right, Mr. Tomkins,” she answered with a small sniffle, touched as he sounded sincerely concerned for her. “I suppose I am just a bit blue today. It is sweet of you to ask.”

“No doubt it was that mournful tune I played for you. How about something sweeter? Would you like a lullaby, perhaps?”

“I am a bit old for that now,” she giggled through her tears. “But if you wish to play such, I shall listen.”

As the strains of London Bridge seeped through the walls of the dark corridors, Christine smiled. Mr. Tomkins actually seemed rather nice. Perhaps they could have tea together once he had recovered from his illness. It would be a comfort to have at least one friend in this new lonely life that she had made for herself.
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Do I Dream Again?