Page 6 of Angel's Flight
He began to play.Bach, of course, because it only felt natural, and it comforted him in times of turmoil to return to the precision and near scientific complexities of the organ’s greatest master.He heard Jack give a slight intake of breath and it made something new flare in his heart.
How long had it been since he’d played for someone other than Christine?He used to make money on the streets with his music, reveling in the attention and money from the crowd, but that felt like that was another life.To play for a fellow musician, but also an unknown, was new and thrilling in its way.Erik didn’t need to impress this young man, but the showman in him wanted to.In truth, he just wanted to play.He wanted to be home.
Music carried him to a secret paradise, as it always had.A place of sound and feeling without vision and judgement.It was safe there, a place where his fear and guilt could pass like so much dissonance, where things made sense and feeling was pure.It was where he was most himself, even when it was another man’s work.It was a balm and a joy, and he had missed it.
He wished he could tell the one person that mattered how it felt, how he needed this, but he didn’t want her to worry.He hoped she was still sleeping soundly, where he had left her, and when he returned, the music would stay with him.
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Just seeing a billof fare in French (next to the Italian one) displayed proudly at the door of Les Halles put Christine at ease.She wasn’t even hungry after her croissant from Patricia, but she ordered at the counter nonetheless just to speak her own tongue.
“Achausson au pommes, please,” she said in French, and the man behind the case smiled broadly at her.
“You’re French?”
“French enough,” Christine replied.She didn’t need to tell this man that while her mother had been French, her father had been Swedish and Romani, or that she had spoken three languages as a child before moving back to France after her mother’s death.
“Of course, welcome to a piece of home,” the baker replied warmly.“Where are you from?”
“Paris most recently.”Christine took her flaky pastry filled with apples and cinnamon.
“I have just been to Paris,” a voice in French cut in and Christine turned to see another man behind her.He looked to be in his twenties and had the same sort of cheerfully vacant expression that Christine had known upon the face of another young man of the same age.
“It’s a wonderful city,” Christine replied carefully.Despite what Patricia said, she didn’t need or want male attention.
“In fact, you look familiar,” the man went on.Awkwardly, Christine turned and paid the baker, her pulse speeding up.“Might we know each other?”
“We do not.”Christine would certainly have recognized such a face.She turned to go, and the man stepped in front of her.
“Wait, did you perform?An actress or—” Christine gulped as recognition flared in the man’s face.“At the Opéra!”
“I don’t sing anymore.”Christine tried to pass, her spirit falling as she realized she would not be spending a pleasant morning in conversation with her (almost) countrymen in this café.
“Oh, that’s a tragedy – what was your name again?”The man demanded, again blocking Christine’s exit.“I know I’ve seen you!”
“She does not wish to see you.”The voice that interrupted was female – measured and calm.Christine looked to see that her savior was a woman slightly smaller than her with mouse brown hair.She wore a dress made to look something like a man’s suit, with a high collar and a tie, and she wore delicate spectacles.“Please leave the lady alone.”
“I was only trying to be friendly,” the man grumbled as he sulked away, leaving Christine to smile gratefully at her savior.
“Thank you.That was very kind.”
“Men can be so entitled when they think they deserve our attention,” the woman replied, flexing her brows behind her round, brass glasses.“Were you staying or going?I was about to walk around the piazza if you would like some company.”
“I would like that very much,” Christine said.The woman opened the door and they returned to the rising morning heat, but it, at least, was less lonely with another woman by her side.“My name is Christine,” she offered, almost tripping over the words when it occurred to her that she had just almost been recognized and might want to keep things to herself.
“Pauline,” her new companion replied, offering a hand to Christine.Her grip was strong and confident.Reassuring, even.“I have come to Florence only recently from Rouen, where I was a student.I’m studying art.”
Christine could not help but smile at that.“I was a student in Rouen too.At the conservatory of music.”
“So you are a singer, like he said?Are you in Florence to perform?”
Pauline surely meant it well, but the question cut deep.Christine had chosen to leave the stage.The applause had been empty, and the backstage politics were too cutthroat for her.Even so, she missed it lately.Not just the music, but the community of the Opéra; the camaraderie that grew when you spent days and nights together in rehearsals and hidden in the dark backstage.
“I...No.I’m just travelling.”
“Alone?”Pauline asked, her expression more impressed than scandalized at the possibility.
“No.I’ve come here with my husband.”It was still such a strange thing to say.Even though she wore Erik’s ring and had taken his name, it still felt like such a secret, intimate thing to confess.It didn’t help that her husband preferred to disappear so often.
