1The afternoon after the Jammes incident, Meg ran back to the dressing rooms for her silver flower comb, while Erik waited for her by one of the statues at the opera entrance, he swore he heard whispers behind him. Barely audible whispers, close to his ear. He turned around and only faced the unchanging sculpture of The Dance. He sharpened his ear, but they didn't show up. He tried to convince himself that it was air bouncing off the sculpture. Meg came back and they went to dinner together.
The next day every time he was alone, every time he left the choir group and his best friend, he would listen to them again. Whispers. Whispers in a repeated, practiced and continuous rhythm like a prayer. Later, the words made sense; they were prayers in latin. Barely noticeable. He listened to them behind him in the opera chairs, behind the curtains, behind the walls, paintings and doors. He searched for the origin of those whispers, but he did not perceive anything new or something out of place around him.
The whispers split through the rooms and echoed away until they died inaudible. Then he realized that perhaps it was the whisper of a woman, followed by a tenuous sound of bells and harps.
Seeking for indirect advice, he threw a little lie at Meg. "Yesterday in my dream, I didn't stop hearing bells and harps." Meg looked at him and her face lit up, "Really? That's good! That means you will receive a visit from a fairy or an angel. Although it also means wedding." She raised her eyebrows knowingly and he avoided her gaze by taking another sip of hid tea. She nudged him and murmured somethimg about his shyness.
He asked Meg absentmindedly if she heard whispers as well, but he only received a confused look. And when he listened to them, the people around him didn't seem to be listening. It was not until the fourth day that the voice said a word that he could understand "Erik", said the voice in his ear. He got goosebumps and turned to see the source of the voice but only looked at the wooden wall, covered with a gnawed wallpaper that separated the dressing rooms.
The whispers came and went and faded into darkness. The whispers of his name gradually increased and with them his anxiety. In his break hour he slipped into the haunted dressing room and closed the door behind him; he was alone, the whispers had to come for him. And indeed, it did not take long for him to hear bells and harps.
"Erik," the whisper escaped from longing lips "Erik... don't... have..."
"Who are you?"
"don't... fear"
"Where are you?"
"I won't... hurt... you"
"What do you want?"
"I need you... to give me a name... I need... connection with your... plane... to take a shape ... in your... abstraction...," Erik felt dizzy. The voice came from all over the room in circles, going up and down. The temperature in the room dropped abruptly and he found himself clenching his teeth, hugging himself.
A name? The plane of him? "First, I need to know what you are, to give you a name."
"I am... a messenger... sent by... something greater... than you... and me..."
"Who is that person?"
"The creator of everything... of the thread of your spirit... He wants it... to elevate... your art"
The creator of everything... could it be... God? And if this thing was sent by him, that made her-
-"Really? That's good! That means you will receive a visit from a fairy or an angel"-
"Angel. You are an angel." He said with determination. A few bells sounded and little by little the shaking stopped. The room regained its warmth.
There was a laugh, as if caught in a throat. Ah! That laugh! He had not heard such a sound that surpassed that beauty. Finally she spoke again.
"I really appreciate you receiving me. I was having a very bad time floating in the limbo." Her voice nailed his feet to the ground. That voice was divine.
"Angel, where are you?"
"Ah, so I'm an angel to you? Humans don't change! I'm trapped in the largest mirror. Reflective surfaces, like water and crystals, catch us in their sparkles, like the beings of light that we are."
"If you are a being of light, you must be an angel."
The voice took a while to respond "I have been named in many ways. So many that I can no longer even remember them all. Angel, spirit, muse, goddess, fairy, soul, madness, specter-"
"Ghost."
"Ah, that one too," the voice laughed again.
"If they send you, what is your message? What is your purpose?"
"My purpose is to instruct you. Under my tutelage, your success will be guaranteed. The artists I have visited have lived until the last of their days thanking heaven for my help, and for the inspiration I have given them. If you have known, Mozart, Paganini, Vivaldi, Beethoven."
"And what is He asking for in exchange for such a favor? What does he expect me to do?"
"He wants his presence to be manifested through the art of humans. You see, over time he has been represented in many cultures, and in many ways. But it is through art that the spirit rises and reaches him. There, where the soul reaches a state of artistic ecstasy, is the closest human way of knowing him."
The angel continued: "You were born with a gift. A gift that, carried out to perfection, would serve a great cause. A noble cause: a favor to humanity."
He gulped. "What if I refuse?"
"Of course you can always say no. Then I will go, and you will have lost the opportunity of your life. Those who have rejected me, those who have insulted me or ignored me, aren't remembered even by their own families. They descend into madness, feeling sorry for their decision."
"If I don't accept your instruction, will you harm me?"
A silence. He looked at his own reflection in the full-length mirror; he had a nervous sweat beaded his pristine forehead. "Erik," she whispered, and he could feel that angel in his ear; her blessed voice cascading down his soul. Breathing longing. "I cannot harm you. We cannot harm you. The harm you suffer is done by yourself. Your thoughts, your actions, your decisions, are all created on your own. That is why we gave you free will in this world. So fear not, and trust this Angel. "
"The angel of music," when the angel laughed again, Erik almost lost his mind. "Can I get a prove of your... divinity?"
Christine's shattered lips curved into a sinister smile. The knots in her mask snapped by her hand, and she let her angel voice escape her throat. She had been born monstrous, cursed, and rotten, but her voice was the opposite: sweet, beautiful, and heavenly. There was something supernatural in her voice and she knew it; since she drew men to her with her siren song at the back of the opera to drown them in the lake. If she hadn't, her lair would have been discovered.
Under her voice the crystals vibrated and she poured the heaven on earth with her song in her room. She watched as Erik paled and his eyes crystallized. Ah! Was that movement a tremor on his beautiful hands? That look, those upturned eyebrows, were they adoration? She finished and he struggled not to fall to his knees.
"Is that enought prove?" Erik didn't turn to the mirror; that was the most perfect song he had ever heard. Her angel voice had touched his heartstrings, and throughout his time at the conservatory and at the opera, no song made him exalt and elevate him in the same way. Her voice laughed.
"So it's a yes, you didn't say no. I'm glad of your decision." He frowned, she hadn't really let him choose but if he refuse, that didn't promise better.
"Before our classes, there are certain rules that you should know. One: I need your total concentration and dedication in each of our lessons, without exception. Two: You cannot fall in love. Love is such a great and demanding force, that it opaque and It distracts attention from anything but love. Three, and the most important: Never, under any circumstances, should you tell people about my presence, our lessons or our encounters. If you break any of these rules, I will leave and never I'll be back. These are rules we must follow."
He gulped; his throat felt dry and his limbs limp "I understand."
"See you tomorrow then, Erik. If you need me, call your angel in this mirror." A few bells rang and he fled the dressing room with a slam of the door.
He fell heavily on the bed, without changing his clothes. His shoes thrown at the back of the room. His mind assimilating what had happened like in a dream. Before falling asleep, he recalled his conversation with Joseph Buquet a few days ago, when he searched for him under the stage.
"She doesn't belong in this world, boy. I've seen her, several times actually. Sometimes I think she's hunting me; I see her figure in that long black dress strolling in the reflection of mirrors, polished marble, crystals and porcelain. Several times I was about to fall off the scaffolding and fall right where the ropes would encircle my neck. As if she wanted to make it look like an accident." Joseph took his cup of tea and took an anguished sip. Erik suppressed a sour grimace. Could that be hallucinatory paranoia? Like those suffered by his housemate? He put that thought aside, and asked curiously, picking up on what Buquet said at the beginning.
"How does she look? The bride from the opera?" The porcelain between Joseph's hands began to shake with a slight groan.
"She is tall. Very thin. Dressed in black as in a funeral, she has long golden hair, which is covered with a veil of black lace, along with... her face, if what she has can be called a face."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Under her black lace veil, where a face should go, is a white mask that covers it. It only has red lips painted. Like the red of spilled blood or rose petals when they fade. I saw in the hollow of his eyes, Erik ... And there were no eyes."
A week ago, Christine found a white envelope on the wall shelf, under a box wrapped in a tight red bow. "I'm sorry. The flowers were not for Sorelli, it was an accident that was out of my hands. I am very grateful and very sorry for it; accept this gift as a token of my regret. Whoever you are, please refrain from sending me flowers, I would rather you congratulate me face to face. -Erik ". She said the note. She untied the red bow and in the box were a handful of beautiful colored candies, with bright white stripes, similar to beautiful stones. Her heart clenched in her chest and she did the same with the note in her hand. Her mind hatching a plan to catch him little by little.