Heavenly, tender, captivating voice, swung by some beautiful song, filled my ears and my heart, when I felt lonely and lost in that semi-darkness. And in that moment, I believed in the existence of the Angel of Music, too.
The voice first came from behind the walls, and soon was inside my bedroom, in front of me. It was extremely sweet, nevertheless it still held a masculine and powerful pitch. The voice was so close to me that I opened my arms instinctively, longing for holding that Angel against me.
But my embrace met his painful absence, and that brought me to my senses. Whose beautiful voice was that? The familiarity of it made it even more bewitching, and all I wanted was to give myself to this voice, to lose myself in its caressing sound and forget any thoughts I had in my mind.
No, this voice was too controlling and hypnotic to belong to an Angel. Angels were supposed to bring light and joy to people, and this voice brought submission, an invincible desire of surrendering to it. It was almost sinful, this voice.
The song, I didn't recognize. The voice, I not only identified with, but I also welcomed it with my whole being. He was never able to control me, not in the sense of the word, for I would follow and obey him by my own choice before he attempted a command.
"It's the first time I heard you sing. Why did I have to wait for so long?" I asked in a faint voice as he finished his song. Without answering me, he sang another one. They were both in some foreign language that I didn't recognize - and I had a good knowledge of various tongues.
Why was he doing it? Why was he offering his music to me? Maybe he knew what had fallen upon me, and decided to sing a lullaby to console me. Or maybe...maybe his music was the best he thought he could offer me?
I didn't fight the hypnotic effect it had on me. I could only compare his singing to some opiotics I'd inhaled once with some of Claude's friends; and it was a dull comparison, for the drug never brought so much warm into my heart.
"If you were really an Angel, do you know what I would ask you for? I would ask you to look over me, to keep me company all the time," I said, without giving a thought about my words.
"I always regretted not being one, my child."
I didn't understand his answer, nor did I try. As he kept singing, images passed before my eyes. Peaceful memories, dear people and places... How could a voice, a simple instrument, restrain such an immense beauty? And how could this voice build, stir, so much beauty inside of those who heard it?
Beauty. Why was it so important, and so dangerously seductive? So pleasant to look at, to wallow in? Surely there were other ways for pleasure to reach us. But who can be blamed for allowing themselves to be deceived, controlled by it? It was instinctive.
How much can one fight against one's own instincts?
"Erik, were you around when the doctor visited me, this morning?"
"No, I'm afraid I was busy at the time."
"Oh." I sighed, disappointed.
"Why do you ask?" He questioned me, good naturedly.
I thought for a while: did I want to tell him about it? Was I trying to conquer him by inspiring him to pity me? What did I want him to do, to intercede for me and make a Prima Donna of me?
"Nothing important..."
I sat on the bed, leaning my body against the wall, feeling my long hair brushing on my legs. My head was spinning again, and I felt like everything in my life was utterly uncontrollable. Things were running wild, happening without logic or sequence. I sighed again.
"What is troubling you, Meg Giry?"
His voice didn't come from the wall, as one would expect. He somehow managed to put his voice right inside of the room, as if he was looking straight at me. At least we could pretend...
I felt immensely sad, without knowing exactly why. Was it the because of the Ballet? No, I knew it was not. It was the exasperation this bodyless voice provoked in me, coming from a man that I couldn't see, that I couldn't touch, and that I couldn't help but love.
And as the time passed by, I had to admit to myself, in admiration, that I was walking toward this certainty, that I was almost ready to grasp this love and forget the obstacles that surrounded it.
But how real was that dream? Listening to his marvellous voice, it was easy to say that I could accept his face. What if I was looking at him directly? I recalled the dance, when I had the opportunity of scanning his deformity without offending him: it's true, there were moments when I felt repulsed. But there were some other moments when I felt a great urge of feeling him intimately close to me, when I longed for his touch, as I always had...
"Tell me, Erik, being the Phantom of this theater, don't you feel tired of living here sometimes?" I tried to make my question sound light.
"Why would I?" he asked, without showing much conviction in what he was answering. "I have everything I could ask for. I have a comfortable house, I have music, and I have some amusement when I feel like it, pestering the Theater. That's more than a man like me could expect achieving," he added practically.
"I still think that a man like you could have more, much more than this," I replied with vehemence.
Silence fell upon us. How would I tell him that I knew what I was talking about? And how would he tell me that he did, too?
Desperately looking for something that would smooth that sudden uncomfortable atmosphere, I said enthusiastically, "And so could I! Com'on, Erik, you must be as tired as I am of being trapped in this Opera House. Let's go out for a walk!"
I only noticed what I was saying when the last word slipped out of my mouth. It's true that I'd been wanting to suggest that for a long time, but I knew it shouldn't be as blunt as this! "Stupid me," I thought, hitting my hand against my forehead, hoping I could fix it by punishing myself.
"Go for a walk?" He repeated incredulously, imitating every accent I had added to my suggestion in my excitement. It sounded like he was enjoying mocking me.
"Well, if you think it is too late, or if you just don't feel like..."
"I would think it would be somewhat inappropriate for a lady like you to walk around Paris on this cold night..." he said, without listening to me "but... I'm sure I could provide a carriage if that would please you."
I, who was desperately trying to take my words back, quieted in total astonishment. Had I heard it well?
"I...I suppose."
"So it's set. Please take your time to dress as you feel like, and I'll be waiting for you with the carriage in front of the Rue Scribe entrance."
"Alright," I muttered.
God almighty, what had I done?
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