The Holiday: Chapter Two

I owned but a single mirror, and ninety percent of the time it could be found forlornly hanging on a wall in the foyer, entirely obscured by an old crimson curtain. The mirror was an antique, having once belonged to my great-grandmother. It was the only physical remnant of my childhood that I had kept, for it truly was a work of art. The frame was entirely crafted out of pure gold; ornate embellishments wound their way around magnificently carved nudes that seemed to dance when caught in the light. The glass was like new, not a crack or scratch marring its immaculate surface. As a boy, my mother had frequently warned me not to come near it, for it was worth “more than you’ll ever hope to make in one lifetime.” She should not have worried: I usually avoided the thing like the plague.

            It was this very mirror that hung before me now, its crimson shield discarded upon the floor. I suddenly felt ten years old again, sticking my jaw out in defiance at the looking glass that had forever mocked me. The child inside of me still held a flickering hope that perhaps, by some brilliant stroke of magic, the face of a gentleman would appear in the mirror. Of course, this was ridiculous: the same horrific visage peered back at me, stirring the same repulsion that would live with me until the end of my days.

            I knew that face well, had grudgingly become familiar with its contours, cracks and crevices over the years. It looked worn, and, though the distorted features rendered it difficult to tell, aged prematurely. Nadir was, as usual, correct in his assumptions that I totally disregarded personal health. I appeared nothing more than a beaten, withered skeleton. There were shadows of deep purple and red ringing the eye sockets, and my eyes themselves looked...deadened. Angry red sores sat atop my cheekbones from habitually (and viciously) tightening the mask. I was quite in need of a haircut: a mass of shaggy black hung to my shoulders in limp, tangled waves. Even my posture, so normally rigid and regal, had bent to an exhausted slouch.

            I laughed—croaked would be more accurate—at the sight. I was so incredibly revolting that it was funny.

            And then again, I doubted I was fully conscious. The night previous had heralded nightmares of the past, memories that I had believed were lost to the diminishing power of time. Unfortunately, nothing in my life has ever lost its shock value: I awoke screaming, remembering why insomnia was such a blessed miracle. The equally blessed miracle stored in the armoire had provided several hours of solace. Gossamer strands of oblivion still clung desperately to my mind, and I futilely attempted to shake them off. My vision was slightly blurred, and a faint pain emanated from my stomach, but discomfort, as always, took second place. I would look my best for her tonight.

            Well, as best someone of my—ah--unique circumstances could look.

            There was only so much of me that I could take: I snatched the black mask off of the mahogany cabinet below the mirror and securely fastened it where it belonged. The red curtain was quickly returned to its proper place, where it would most likely stay for months to come. With a final glance around the hallway, I slipped on gloves, a hat, and my warmest cloak because “it looks as if it may snow.” A grim smile in place, I set out for God knows what.


                                                        xxxXXXxxx


"I brought pastries," Christine said sheepishly. We were standing within the shadows of the stables. She looked absolutely radiant. Her hair tumbled loose about her perfect face and down past ivory shoulders in an immaculate waterfall of curls. She wore a gown of deep blue that flattered her tiny little figure wonderfully, which was barely visible beneath a thick black cloak. A faint blush stained her cheeks, visible even in the darkness, and her sinfully full lips were curved into a lovely smile. She was a goddess, an absolute vision.

I, on the other hand, was, as usual, looking worse for wear. I could not cease the wracking cough that perpetually burst from my throat. It had begun to snow, and the cold was not sitting well with me this year. Every inch of me ached and my bones protested furiously as I walked. I never set much in store for handkerchiefs being without a nose, but I feverishly wished I had indulged in one. It was a sticky, gooey mess beneath the mask and the thought of having all of that mucus freezing in place in this weather was rather nauseating.

"No thank you, my dear," I said between coughs.

Her enormous dark eyes searched mine almost desperately.

"Antoinette made them," she said insistently, "She made this entire plate for you, Erik, what would she think if you didn't eat them?"

"She would think the same as she always does, that I am a naughty little boy that should be--" I hacked for several seconds and gasped "--punished and force-fed."

Antoinette Giry was, I supposed, the mother I never had. She never once let up on her opinion that I was "dreadfully thin" and was constantly sending me plates of food that could easily feed an entire household. I usually passed them onto Nadir or left them in the ballet dormitories. The ballerinas never objected, but their mistress had a fit.

Apparently, Antoinette had gotten to Christine.

"Well, I don't blame her, Erik. She means well and she's right: you look so frail!" She placed a hand on my arm and I flinched involuntarily.

"My apologies," I mumbled.

"Are you ill?" Christine asked.

"No," said I, sneezing.

"Then why are you coughing and sneezing like that?"

"I am not," I wheezed, "ill."

"We should go inside," she said, biting her lip, "I'm awfully sorry that I suggested we meet here. I didn't even think, I'm so stupid--"

"Do not say that--"

"--I just thought that it would be nice to take a walk in the snow, but I had no idea you were ill--"

"I am not ill!" I hacked.

"Let's go inside, to Antoinette's chamber. Someone may overhear us if we were to go to my dressing room. Antoinette will not mind, she hasn't seen you for ages and she did mention that she has some baguettes for you--"

"Christine--"

Arguing with Christine was like arguing with a dead cat, and ten minutes later I found myself seated in a plush love seat beneath mounds of blankets and a roaring fire. Christine sat next to me, stirring an herbal tea and patting my hand consolingly. I am ashamed to admit that I quite enjoyed this arrangement, save for--

"Put those blankets back on, you stubborn mule, or I'll do it for you!" Antoinette barked, shoving a fat slice of bread in my face.

        The relationship between Antoinette Giry and myself was a distant one  (I normally contacted her through notes) but she insisted on maintaining it. I once asked her why she chose to associate with a known murderer, and she shrugged and said, "Murderers weren't always murderers, Monsieur. I'm looking for the man behind the murderer."

She drove me mad.

"Eat it," she ordered, pointing to the bread, hand on her hip.

"Madame-"

She shoved it into my mouth, amidst my indistinct protests. Christine snorted.

"Now chew." Her steel gray eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. I chewed to avoid the battle that was sure to come.

"Now swallow it--"

"I swallowed!" I snapped.

She shook her head and several wispy graying strands of hair escaped from her tight chignon.

"We wouldn't even be having this discussion if you did not act like a toddler," she scolded.

"Leave me be, woman," I growled.

She harrumphed and wrinkled her nose.

"Leave me be," she mimicked, and gathered up a tray of teacups. She sauntered out of the room with a grace only a seasoned dancer could have, muttering, "I'll leave you be, you great snot. Nasty, cantankerous fart of a man..."

The door closed gently behind her and I sighed, running a gloved finger along the edge of the mask. Beside me, Christine finished stirring and handed the cup to me.

"Please drink it," she said quietly, "It will help you get better."

I obliged, staring into the muddy drink and grimacing. I could not taste it, but the hot liquid soothed my smarting throat.

"Did you enjoy Perros?" I inquired after a moment of silence.

"Oh, it was lovely, just lovely. I visited the cemetary. I hope you don't mind, but I brought the bouquet of roses you gave me to put on Father's grave."

"Not at all. I am honored," I replied sincerely.

She smiled gratefully.

"How have you been? Besides sick, I mean."

"I am--"

"--not sick," she finished, rolling her eyes to the heavens.

"Rehearsals for Carmen have been a nightmare," I told her, "Forgive me for saying so, but you chose a terrible time to visit Perros. Carlotta was cast in your absence, and the woman is going to be the death of me."

"Carlotta as Carmen?" Christine giggled, tugging on a curl and letting it bounce back in place, "No wonder your health isn't at its best! Did you suggest anyone else?"

"I suggested that the woman be thrown to the dogs, but that did no go over well for some reason."

She laughed, an ethereal, silvery bell-like sound.

"I promise I won't go anywhere for the next production."

"I thank you. But I am sure you did not wish to meet with me to discuss stage disasters...what is it that is on your mind?"

She squirmed in her seat and tucked her feet beneath her, staring into the fire and fidgeting with her hands nervously.

"Well...you obviously received my letter because you're here...and in my letter I told you how I declined Raoul's invitation..."

She paused and her eyes darted to me as if she were waiting for me to insult the boy. For once, I kept blessedly silent.

"This," she continued, "is because I have it in mind that we could...spend the holidays together."

I blinked.

"See, when I was in Perros, I met up with some old friends," she said hurriedly, "They spoke of this darling little village just north of here that rents out log cabins for the holidays! It snows there, as well, and they said the landlady decorates the cabins and makes Christmas dinner. And it's a secluded place, far away from the hustle and bustle of the city, you know, so there won't be...many people."

"...What are you getting at?"

She bit her lip bashfully and stammered, "Would you...be, ah...interested in accompanying me?"

"To the 'darling little village?'"

"Yes."

"With the darling little landlady that decorates the darling little log cabins?"

Christine took a deep breath. "Yes."

This was all terribly odd.

"Why?" I asked stupidly.

"Why what?"

"Why on earth do you want me there?"

"Because you are a wonderful person and being with you makes me happy," she said simply.

I laughed hoarsely. She pouted and demanded, "What is so funny?"

"Your sense of humor is marvelous, my dear."

"I mean it," she insisted, hurt, "You cannot tell me that you aren't an incredible person!"

"You're right. I am simply unbelievable. It amazes me that the entire country isn't knocking on my door, begging to be graced by my presence."

She pursed her lips and folded her arms.

"When was the last time you left this place, Erik?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"When?"

"A decade or so. I have regrettably lost track. Why?"

"A decade is such a long time. Haven't you ever wished to just get away?"

"Yes," I answered quietly, "It does cross my mind occasionally."

The door opened just then and Antoinette entered with another tray of tea, which she set upon the small table next to the love seat.

"Make sure he drinks that," she said to Christine, "I won't have him coughing all over the new rug."

Christine nodded. "Thank you, Madame. I will be sure to do that."

There was an awkward silence as Antoinette smoothed her skirts and took a seat directly across from us, looking every bit a queen on her throne. She cocked her head to the side and allowed a tight smile to tug at her mouth.

I ran a hand through my hair and said raggedly, "You were listening."

"Yes," she answered simply, "And I think a vacation would do you some good."

I sneezed in reply, shaking my head.

"What shall happen if I leave this opera house? I have work to do!"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Christine said sadly.

I rose an eyebrow under the mask.

"What are you on about now?"

"You cannot go like this!"

"Like what?"

"Why, that's right!" Antoinette said suddenly, "You're so ill."

I rose, sending the blankets tumbling to the floor.

"I. AM. NOT--"

"Oh, but you are!" Giry stood and placed her claw-like hand upon my back and ushering me to the chair like I was an invalid, "So, so ill. I take it back, a vacation will be your undoing."

I swatted her hand away, suppressing a wheeze.

"Do not--"

"Shh, Erik!" Christine tutted, "Don't raise your voice, because you are so very ill and you will strain it. That is what you always told me before a lesson. No, no, you can't possibly take a wonderful, relaxing vacation. You must return to that frigid, damp cellar and work yourself to the bone while coughing up your lung."

"Do not think I am not aware of what the pair of you are doing--"

"Is it working?" Christine asked.

"All right, yes!" I groaned, throwing my hands up in the air, "Christine, I shall count myself lucky to accompany you to that 'darling little village.'"

Antoinette and Christine squealed and clapped their hands as if I were a puppy that had just barked for the first time.

"Finally!" Antoinette said, "You must get out more instead of moping about the theatre like a ghost--"

I cleared my throat pointedly.

"Well, you know what I mean. You're a horrid recluse."

"Goodness, I wonder why," I snapped sarcastically.

"Oh, Erik, I'm so happy!" said Christine, "And I know you don't feel well, but that toasty cabin will heal you in no time. It will be so much better than spending another Christmas underground. Thank you so, so much!"

I nodded wearily. "Anything for you, my dear."

She took my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom, saying, "You need a good night's sleep. Antoinette will not mind if you spend the night here, will you, Madame?"

"Certainly not!" Madame Giry replied gleefully, "I'll make you a lovely breakfast, a big hot breakfast before I leave for practice."

I bit my tongue to prevent a retort.

"This will be so wonderful, Erik!" Christine continued, "Just the two of us. We can sing together, when you've healed of course, and you must bring your violin! Do you have warm winter clothes? Perhaps I should fetch you some more, all of your shirts and trousers are so worn. Oh! I have a pair of mittens that you can have! I knitted them myself! Your fingers are rather long, though, so I cannot be certain that they'll fit. Nightclothes, I've almost forgotten nightclothes! Do you have a warm pair of nightclothes, Erik? Do not fret, I'll get some for you. We should pack tomorrow, shouldn't we? Let us leave the day after that! I'll send word to the managers that I will be absent again and then you can..."

Just the two of us.

I allowed myself a tiny, triumphant grin before collapsing on the bed, Christine's cheerful chatter in the background.