Masquerade/Epilogue

The Phantom Opera, they named it, after much consideration and debate. Nadir still did not approve and referred to it as "the theater I foolishly gave you children." It was a shame, he told them, to name something that might become an enduring institute of the arts with all the gravity of a Scooby Doo episode or a child's book. But the couple stood firm; it had meaning for them, and the quality of the place would make up for any deficiencies in its title.

Now, sitting comfortably -masklessly- in his finely appointed office, Erik sighed in profound satisfaction. Finely appointed barely covered it: he was surrounded by his own story, told loudly and baldly in Christine's drawings and paintings. Her best work, her magnum opus: once the shock of seeing them wore off, he realized exactly what she'd hung on the walls of his old cell. Christine was a genius, a master of her craft, and these works telling the tragedy-to-triumph story of his life represented an artistic apogee in her career. Even when she declared them his to do with as he wished, even as he closed the door between them, he knew he could not allow her to indulge his ancient penchant for hiding and secrecy.

'Your story ought to be told,' she'd declared confidently, when he shyly suggested a gallery-like display, but added that it might be 'too much' for the public. 'and it's not like you are going to share with a biographer.' Touché, indeed.

Now, that story was revealed for anyone to see, so long as they had the courage to step into the director's office. Director. Head of the company. Months had passed since the wedding, and the theater continued to experience smashing success in ticket sales; still, he found himself wondering when the joke would be unveiled, when everyone would admit it was just a ruse to humiliate him… when the laughter would start. And yet, here he sat. When the phone on his desk rang, it was for him. When a decision must be made, they came for his opinion. When an audition was held (sheaves of requests for hearings arrived daily) he was present, and the final say in welcoming new artists belonged to him.

New artists like the young man shaking in his cheap, second-hand shoes just outside the office door. One of Christine's scouts had found him busking outside a tent city in Atlanta, Georgia. Reportedly, the only thing he could or would read, was music.

It was an idea they hatched together, his angel and him, long before the grand opening. How could they build a worthy company without poaching from Riverside or other established opera houses and orchestras? They had no desire to damage the artform or to make enemies. Still, musicians must be found. Christine suggested a bold and risky strategy:

"Maybe we just start with a mix of knowns and nobodies, then. Lots of places expect the talented ones to come to them." Christine had ventured. "People get passed over and ignored – especially poor kids or kids who don't…" she thought of her own brown skin, "…who don't fit people's idea of a classical musician. We could scout for them. I was a nobody, totally unnoticed, and I worked out okay."

Erik nodded thoughtfully. "True. It was a matter of divine intervention to put you in the limelight, where you belong."

Christine smirked at the memory, then carried on. "We'll train up scouts. We'll hunt them on youtube and through teachers and friends. We'll find them busking on street corners. We can watch audition videos that no one else would even open. It'll be fun!"

"Some will be raw…utterly untaught," Erik spoke doubtfully, but his eyes sparkled with rare excitement, and Christine knew she'd beguiled him. "And much time will be wasted."

"But think of the talented ones. You'll hear their potential…and then we'll refine them. You are an excellent teacher," she encouraged. "Your mom takes a bunch of phone calls a week asking if you have begun taking students."

"And I shall, if they will have me once they see me in person. Not everyone is so besotted with me as you suppose. I have seen the internet chatter. Even the paper publications are…divided." Despite his angel's warnings, vanity and curiosity led him to search for himself online. Heated fights in normally sedate forums segregated the music community in two polarized camps: his defenders and those who thought he should be mercifully euthanized. "They think they want Erik as their teacher, but when they meet him…" he trailed off, lost in the battle of old and new lives.

"But you know that there are people who adore you, and if they don't want to work with you, they are not welcome here anyway. I might be able to teach some as well, if you show me how you did what you did with me. And the experienced people we hire can mentor the newbies who play instruments we don't. Make it a condition of their hire?"

"Indeed. Besides, it can hardly be considered poaching if we only contract with them for a brief time." He tapped his thin lips thoughtfully. "We must consider salaries. Our funding…"

"…is ridiculous. Your mom has been running numbers since I started feeding them to her – she's a wizard with money, did you know that? My art quadrupled in value after Lakme. Raoul's company isn't exactly being stingy with the startup funds. And the wedding! Erik, we could turn it into a benefit! You know Nadir would like that, and your mom thinks everything you do is amazing." She looked at him shyly carefully considering whether to continue. With a deep breath, she took the plunge, "We could do this, you know. Imagine what people would pay to hear us both on stage together."

Erik took a breath and waited for the shock of her suggestion to shake him to his core, but the quake never struck. Cold unease trickled through his veins and then… he was warm and calm again. Once, the idea of presenting himself on stage for money would have brought devastation. No more. He would not be mocked on stage, but admired. Maybe some would pay only for the privilege of a long, hard stare, but most would be there for the music: for his music and for Christine's celestial voice. Besides, who else could he bear to hear sing that music with Christine – the music of the dark and light of his own heart?

And the customers would pay dearly for that privilege, either way. A 'benefit', indeed, he chuckled to himself.

"This would please you, Christine?" Erik took his angel's hand and let himself be lost in her sparkling eyes.

Her kiss answered him as clearly as words.

The wedding and its Grand Masquerade reception quickly became the trendiest be-there scene in the western world. Rather than selling prime tickets, Natalie mildly suggested they be auctioned. Even her mouth dropped in slack astonishment as bids soared. With the bothersome question of dollars out of the way, it was a simple matter to put together sufficient staff to plan, decorate and oversee the affair. Even simpler was the finding of a one-and-done orchestra.

Erik shook his head in wonderment. "Sarah Chang? Matt Haimovitz?"

Christine peered over his shoulder at the proposals fanned out before him. "No freakin' way! Jasmine Choi? Can we actually afford these people?"

"It's a benefit, Christine. Many of them are offering to come only for honorariums." He craned his neck to look back at her, his wide eyes mirroring hers. "They love the idea! Your idea, angel."

"Ours, really," she demurred. "After all, you started it."

"I suppose it is time then, to show you…" Erik led her to the bottom shelf where his greatest work waited patiently, placed the first score in her hands, and stepped back. "This is the work with which I wish to open our theater."

"The wedding?"

"Certainly, certainly, the wedding," Erik waved the words away like troublesome gnats. "But look, Christine. Read what you hold."

She did, scanning only a few measures before nodding in recognition. "I know this! This is that violin piece you played way back when I was still sitting outside, drawing."

"It is. It is the first I knew of you. All this," he ran his fingers lovingly over his masterwork, "I have written since then. It is how I loved you. When you were afraid of me, when you were pleased with me, when you were angry with me, when you protected me… it is how I loved you. And it is how I came to see that you loved me." He cupped her cheek in his hand. "You are not the only one who can weave stories, Christine."

"And you want to put it up on stage?" Christine put the score she held back and selected another, drinking it in, smiling in familiarity. "It seems really, I mean…isn't this kind of personal?"

"Well," he mused, "I must come into the world now, and I will bring music with me. Allmy music is personal. What would you have me give them?" He drew a different score from a higher shelf and displayed it beside the one she held. "This? Or that?"

Christine paused to hear the pieces in her mind as she considered her answer. The one piece, an early work, blasted back the vitriol and cruelty he'd been fed most of his life. It chilled her just in the reading; she could only imagine this darkness in the hands of a competent orchestra. The other resounded with all he knew of her, and of love.

For a cold moment all she could think was, 'they don't deserve it!'. Nadir and Natalie did, of course, but the thronging hordes? Heartless crowds who might only be fascinated by the spectacle his face or the miracle of his music and never spare a thought for the man himself? No, she shook her head, I have to let that go. He has. She looked up to find that he was staring intently at her, no doubt reading the thoughts as they flitted across her face. He smiled darkly, with a little hint of the old Erik in the tightness of his eyes and the sharpness of his expression. Maybe he had not fully let it go, after all.

"And what is my angel thinking, hmm?" he asked, with mischievous curiosity. "Her eyes are like thunderclouds. Does she wish to spoil the wedding?"

"No…" but there was little conviction in the word. "It is a wedding, and of course you should open the theater with your opus. But, Erik," and her eyes truly did resemble thunderclouds filled with lightning and threatening rain, "Both of these are true and the brutal one deserves to be played just as much as the sweet one. Not now. Not for the wedding, you know? But you've worked so hard to be here; all of it is the truth and we're not going to bury your past to keep people happy. No more hiding."

He nodded, his sharp smile softening. "No more hiding."

"Then we have a mere eight months," she declared, "Let's get going."

Thus began the whirl of theater, this time under Erik's exacting supervision. Artists arrived, settled in, and were carefully introduced to their odd employer. These introductions were cushioned by the grace and charm of his resident angel, which made it all the more surprising when those who reacted 'poorly' found out that Erik was the one with grace, while Christine took on the aspect of a Fury in his defense.

Christine's connections led her to bail a purple-haired, tattooed, and pierced young woman out of jail. Formerly known for her exploits in guerilla street art, she could create other worlds from a few sparse words or the ghost of an idea. This visionary took up residence behind the stage (Miranda claimed she must 'live the space' in order to do it justice) and brought a collection of her rag-tag friends to do the heavy lifting. Erik watched in awe as the stage disappeared and a perfect replica of his unearthly imaginings grew, as though the woman could see through his mind's eye.

"May as well open an apartment for her on the top floor." Christine remarked, whistling lowly in admiration of a fellow artist's work. "We need to keep her happy."

"And let her keep her crew intact. I've heard not a peep of dissention, no matter their…ruffianly…appearance," Erik agreed, making a mental note to ask his mother whether a higher salary could be arranged to retain her.

Then came rehearsals (endless, repetitive rehearsals) in which brilliant new-found musicians and world-class professionals gradually surrendered to a body of work that entered their minds and hearts and settled there like a consuming fever. M. Reyer was to conduct the event itself, but when he faltered in interpretation, they looked to Erik for clarification…

And Erik, for the first time in his life, became a student. Decades of watching conductors had served only to teach him the form, not the function, of the art. One failed attempt at conducting revealed an embarrassing truth: he could mimic the motions, but found himself unable to effectively guide his orchestra. For the first time in the entirety of his existence, something musical did not come to him with ease. M. Reyer patiently taught him the things he would have learned in a Masters program: the baton, the distinctions between motions for different time signatures, and most of all connecting with his musicians - not in spite of his face, but using its unique qualities to hold their rapt attention.

In the midst of it all, they lived in peace. In their little house in the woods, Christine and Erik spent the fragments of their free time resting and eating and dreaming. The played light music, lay quietly in bed reading or talking about nothing in particular, and absolutely avoided all reference to the theater. One quiet evening, Erik broke this unspoken agreement to announce his costume for the Grand Masquerade Ball that would serve as wedding reception after the performance. Christine quirked an eyebrow, but had to grin at his audacity.

The grand opening of the Phantom Opera arrived with glitz and glamour. Erik, Christine, Natalie, and Nadir hunkered down in Christine's massive dressing room, safely watching the beautiful people swarm the box office on the security camera feed.

Natalie shook her head and nervously adjusted her veil. "That's a lot of people," she whispered, her normally mellifluous voice hoarse with tension.

Her wedding gown reflected her personality in its sweet simplicity. She had shown it to Erik almost apologetically, saying it was not nearly fine enough for his big night and she would be happy to wear whatever the costume department chose, but he would have none of it. The gown was perfect, he insisted. Let the fancy people glitter like cheap costume jewelry. She would glow, he promised, and put them all to shame. At the time, it sounded perfectly reasonable. Now, she wished there was a little more pomp to her circumstance and a little less gray in her hair.

"It is," Christine answered reassuringly. "And once the music starts, every woman in that audience is going to wish she were you."

"I…I don't think I can do this. I'm going to be sick or faint or something. Erik, honey, I'm sorry…I just…" but when she turned to look beseechingly at him, he was already up and hovering by the door, his hands tightly fisted at his abdomen and his frantic eyes a thousand miles away. "Are you okay?"

Christine gestured for Nadir, who was ashen in his own struggle with stage fright, to look after Natalie. "Just remind her that you don't come on until the very end and that's hours away. Miranda will come get you. We rehearsed it a million times. You'll both be fine." Then she joined Erik at the door.

"Most beloved?" she hooked his elbow with her arm to stop his pacing. "Are you all right?"

His eyes snapped down to hers and his gaze unclouded, tightening to a laser focus. "This is real. This is all real," he breathed. "Fifteen minutes to curtain, Christine. Only fifteen minutes."

She slid her hand down to take his. "Then I suppose we should hurry, don't you think? You'll want to be settled before the curtain opens. I remember how hard it was with Lakme, to walk into the lights."

"And if they scream…" but he could no longer summon a horror of their horror.

"…you instructed the symphony to play on. No matter what happens, no matter if the chandelier falls from the ceiling, we play on." Through the crackly walkie-talkie on the counter, they heard Miranda calling places.

Erik stilled, his breathing smoothing into a deep and easy rhythm. If not for the cursed of his damnable face, he would have been here years before. It was the culmination of his life's work and a gift to the people he had learned to love. Finally. Without another word he led his angel onto the stage and took his place, and the performance proceeded like a dream. He did not notice, and would never know, when the audience gasped at his ugliness or when they finally forgot his face under the spell of his music.

Erik did not come fully to earth until he put on his costume for the ball. Across from him sat an angel, straight from the heavens. Erik had not asked, but she knew what would delight him and hold his attention. There would be truly beautiful people, celebrities, in the ballroom. She wanted his eyes on no one else. The wings were a awkward and heavy with real down feathers adorning them, but they framed her face perfectly. Her dark eyes, accentuated by a feathered and jeweled mask, were mesmerizing.

On her arm was Death.

Clad in scarlet from head to toe, a dramatically feathered hat on his head, Erik was a terrifyingly precise embodiment of the Red Death. Alone among the revelers, he would be maskless. After all, he reasoned, what mask could possibly top the face nature gave him?

"An Angel, and Death," he commented with great satisfaction as they proceeded sedately down the stairs together. "See how they stand, transfixed!"

"It's 'cause you're too damn pretty," Christine whispered in his ear, prompting a skeletal smile. "But it's supposed to be Angel of Death, you know? Not and."

They paused on the landing, halfway down, with hundreds of eyes trained upward at them. The crowd, transfixed indeed, held its collective breath as Erik lifted Christine's hand and kissed it. They could not care less about faces, now. A romance for the ages unfolded before them, and they were held in its spell: Beauty and the Beast, heartbreaking and sweet.

"Once upon a time," he whispered back, "but no more…and never again."

They led the crowd into the ballroom, where a select chamber orchestra waited. Their guests lined the walls, leaving a clearing in the middle: the dance floor. The hosts of the party were supposed to lead the first dance, Miranda had smirkingly informed them, since Nadir and Natalie had politely declined the honor.

Christine stepped close to Erik, guiding his hand around her waist to the small of her back, maneuvering him into position. The orchestra began a sweet, slow strain of music.

Erik looked into her eyes and said, "Christine, I have never danced a step."

"Me either," she shrugged, "but I've seen it done."

"As have I." The opening note was in a lovely decrescendo; soon it would be time to begin moving. "Shall we pretend?"

She grinned up at him. "Let's," she said, mimicking Reyer's pompous style. "You lead, you know…"

"Indeed," he grumbled, and they began to move: slowly, awkwardly and without direction.

Soon, the glittering, gleaming hordes moved onto the floor and the swaying couple were lost amongst them. Erik gradually relaxed, his movements becoming more fluid and graceful, if not skilled.

He studied the crowd as they danced, considered Nadir and Natalie now having their own dance in a quiet corner.

"This is what I wanted so long ago, remember?" Christine laughed softly and rested her head on his chest. "I wanted nothing more than to dance badly with you in the ballroom we made."

"And the rest? Do you wish this for us, Christine? To be wed until I am a true corpse, rather than the gruesome parody of one?" Through the self-deprecation, she heard his pride, and his love.

"I do," she said.

And so it was.