The Holiday: Chapter Eleven

“…I do not understand.”

Christine furrowed her brows and cocked her head to the side.

“What do you not understand?” she asked.

I stared down at the flat parcel she had placed in my lap. It felt foreign sitting there, like some strange animal that both baffled and astounded me. It was not particularly heavy, yet it seemed far too…solid.

“What is the purpose of this?”

“There is no purpose,” she laughed, “other than it is Christmas and I love you.”

Those words were blessed, yet I still found a wall between them and common sense. Christine assured me that one day they would reach me entirely, although I failed to see how that was possible. The whole idea was positively ludicrous.

Ludicrous but still blissfully, wonderfully…

I was waiting to wake up. Any second, I knew, this vision would be torn from me. She would be gone; I would be alone. Yet whenever I blinked, she did not dissolve back into a dream. She remained, staring at me, sitting there, alive. Real.

I wondered if I had sampled too much wine.

“Why?” I asked very quietly, shaking my head, “I do not—Christine, you should not have done this. It is entirely unnecessary.”

“No, it most certainly is not,” she replied, “It is Christmas. I know you aren’t terribly fond of the holiday, but I simply thought…that you deserved this.”

Oh, Christine…

“No, my dear,” I corrected her quietly, “I never—“

“Yes.” Her small white hand wrapped itself around mine. “You do. More than you know. You’ve given me a gift—so many, in fact—that I scarcely think this is enough to repay you, but even so…please accept it.”

It was incredibly strange, sitting there, opening gifts, and celebrating something I had never once observed in all of my miserable years. It was so utterly…normal. If someone had told me long ago that I would partake in such activities with a woman like Christine, I would have laughed in their face.

No, that is not true. I would not have laughed. In all probability, I would have simply sneered and choked the life out of them.

The bah-humbug syndrome seemed to have died down somewhat, however. Granted, I had no plans to skip through the main street handing out treats and singing carols, but I found my hostility toward the festivities had lessened a tad. That is what love and kind words will do, I suppose.

How very curious.

My fingers gently tugged at the ribbon laced around the box, pulling it until it fell from its carefully tied bow. I removed the lid and stared at the box’s contents.

“Well?” Christine said eagerly, “What do you think?”

A single rose lay pressed atop a stack of blank sheet music: empty, silent canvases waiting to come to life. Nestled next to the parchment was a beautiful burgundy and black quill pen that looked vaguely familiar.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said hastily as I ran a finger over the feather, “It is a bit old and was used before, but only once or twice. It is still in wonderful condition, and I promise it writes beautifully.”

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a mournful memory stirred.

“This,” I said with dawning comprehension, “was your father’s.”

Christine’s pleased expression slowly morphed into one of stunned astonishment. Her lovely dark eyes surveyed me with an intense curiosity.

“Yes,” she said carefully, “It was. How...how do you know that?”

Her gaze was making me vastly uncomfortable. “Ah…never mind that, my dear.”

“I’ve never shown that to anyone before. Erik, how could you possibly have known?”

“It scarcely matters.”

“On the contrary, it matters a great deal. Please,” she implored, “tell me.”

There was a prolonged pause. I wondered if she knew how impossible it was for me to refuse her.

“Very well, then,” I sighed, “The cigar box…the one you kept beneath your mattress…”

“…How…how do you…?”

“When you first arrived at the opera, I used to spend a healthy amount of time in the back dressing room. It was peaceful there, most likely due to the fact that the entire company thought it haunted and avoided it like the plague. It is rather beneficial, you see, for a ghost to remind everyone of his presence now and then. A mournful wail here and there was quite useful.

“In any case, I used to spend many nights simply sitting in the old loveseat by the hearth that never burned—it would seem suspicious, I felt, for a ghost to light a fire. It hardly mattered. By that time, I paid no heed to darkness, and enjoyed the deafening silence that reigned in that room. So you can imagine my chagrin when it was interrupted by the pitter patter of little feet on the floor.”

Christine’s mouth spread into a smile.

“Naturally,” I continued, “I wondered who could have possibly been awake at such an unreasonable hour. I retreated further into the shadows so as not to be seen, and it was then that I caught sight of the intruder, the wispy little thing that she was.”

“It was you, then!” Christine exclaimed.

“Ah. So you sensed my presence.”

“Well, I had no idea who you were at that particular time, but yes, I did feel as if someone was watching me. It was rather eerie, to be honest.”

“My sincerest apologies, my dear.”

“Oh, think nothing of it! It was a good sort of eerie, I suppose.”

“A good sort of eerie?” I chuckled, “I was not aware that such a thing existed.”

“It does when you are lonely. I was terribly lonely then. Any company was welcome.” She took my hand. “Do go on.”

I stared down at her lily-white fingers, marveling at the simple touch and shaking my head with a faint smile. It was all too surreal.

“As you wish. I found myself no longer alone. I watched was the girl shut the door as quietly as she possibly could. When she was certain she was safe, she let out a long sigh and walked toward the chair where I had previously been sitting. It was then that I noticed she was carrying what appeared to be a small package.”

“The cigar box,” she whispered.

“Yes…you held it close to your chest, I recall. Very reverently. And when you took a seat in the chair, you carefully placed it in your lap and opened it.

“One by one,” I continued, “you took out its contents. There was, if I remember correctly, a pocket watch, a pair of eyeglasses, a piece of fabric of some sort, and—“

“—the quill,” she finished, “Erik. Did you hear--?”

“You speaking to him? Faintly. You spoke barely above a whisper, but yes. I could hear.”

Christine nodded solemnly.

“I spoke to him often after he passed,” she sighed, “It…helped, if only a little. Father was gone so suddenly, and I simply had no idea what was going to happen to me next. I was so frightened, Erik. I felt so very alone.”

Her hand, instead of pulling away as I had expected, tightened its grip on mine. I shuddered involuntarily. Her comments had resonated deep within me.

So very alone…

Yes. I knew her feelings. I knew them too well for comfort.

“The cigar box was his,” she continued, a faraway look on her face, “He smelled like them; like cigars and wood and pine. He kept the watch in his jacket pocket because he could never afford a waistcoat. It stopped working after awhile, but he still carried it with him. Silly man…he would pretend to be an aristocrat, raise his eyebrows, pull out the watch, and say something like, ‘By jove, look at the time! I do believe we are running late!’”

“Were you running late?” I asked.

“Always,” she replied with a chuckle, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear.

I allowed myself a small smile. “And what of the eyeglasses?”

“They belonged to his father. He kept them after Grandfather died. Dreadful things, really…they were cracked something terrible. He did not care in the slightest. Every once in a while, we would stop by an inn to perform, and the innkeeper would have a book. Father would read to me from behind those old glasses, and even if the books were about the most mundane subject in the world, I would enjoy myself. He was a marvelous storyteller.”

“The fabric,” she said, a hint of sadness now tainting her voice, “was from his traveling jacket. He was buried in it. It was his favorite. I…I tore a piece of it off at the…funeral. I knew he would not have minded.

“He wore it when we were going from place to place…those are some of my fondest memories, you know. Of walking on empty country roads, just the two of us, laughing and loving and…and alone in the world…but a wonderful sort of alone. The kind where it is simply you and nature. No one to judge you, no criticisms. Just you. Yourself. And the one you are with. The one you love.”

Silence hung low and heavy over us for several moments. She was wrapped in the past, her eyes glossy and distant. I watched the light play on her face, as gentle as the memories that were enveloping her in their warm embrace. Her hand never released mine. I felt the weight of her fingers, delicate and alive…

“Christine…I cannot possibly accept this,” I told her at last, taking the quill and placing it safely back inside the parcel, “It is far too precious—“

“That is precisely why I wish for you to keep it. I would not trust it with anyone else.”

“You must be logical, my dear. Do you really suppose your father would have wanted it in the possession of someone such as myself?” I paused and then asked, “Do you suppose he would have wanted you associating with—?“

“My father,” she said resolutely, “Told me to be with the one I love. Well, I have found the one I love and I am with him. Exactly as Father wished.”

“Had your father but known what I was, he would have never—“

“Erik.” She leaned in closer and placed her hands upon the cold porcelain surface of the mask. “I love you. I wish to share everything with you: memories, laughter, sadness…what is mine is now yours. Always. Is that not what a father would want for his daughter?”

“Not if he knew—Christine, this is not—I—“

“What further proof do you need?” she sighed, “Do you not see this love? Do you not understand?”

“I cannot.”

Her eyes searched mine, brimming with unspeakable warmth.

“Then I shall simply have to make you understand.”

Tremulously, as if hesitant to realize it was all a fleeting dream, she drew me closer until her lips breathed life into mine.

And while I cannot say I understood, something stirred within me, and I found myself asking…

Is this love?

I never felt anything like those strange array of emotions—indeed, there was never a time when so many feelings took it upon themselves to suddenly assault me. I felt every bit a victim of a clever assassination plot. The creature of the past has been murdered and replaced. That lifeless, hard shell was slowly being filled with promises of something far greater than I could have ever imagined.

She feeds my being. Every cell in my body, every waking moment I am alive tolls with the bell of her name. It is maddening at times, never to cease hearing that name in my mind, never to cease hearing a prayer falling from reverent lips…never to cease hearing that voice. She haunts me, torments me with that siren song which has irrevocably wrapped its alluring tendrils around what is left of a heart. A heart that beats once more. A heart that lives.

I am sensing things that had for so long been enshrouded in a disfiguring fog. The ugliness had spread beyond myself until the entire world seemed a misshapen, hideous monster. Yet now I notice…I feel…

Every bird that calls out to its mate is her song unfurling into ethereal echoes. Every brook and stream that dances and stumbles over rocks plays with the melody of her laughter. The sunlight seems to be her soul, her very radiance cast up to the heavens and illuminating the world with its brilliance. The moon glows with a newfound luminosity and the stars wink with a mischievous air.

She is, I have realized, what was missing. I have endured and suffered and survived for her.

It is scarcely fathomable. She is perfection personified, and I am…

Well, slightly less.

Yet perhaps that is enough for her, foolish girl. No, I do not understand Christine’s choice, yet she assures me that she wishes for nothing more than this. And perhaps she is sincere. Perhaps I have, for once, taken the right course.

Perhaps…I am at last where I belong.