Erik’s voice came so quietly, Christine was scarcely certain of what she’d heard. The freshly fallen snow crunching softly under his boots on the cemetery path nearly drowned out his words. She knew he was walking that way on purpose, for her sake, because it had always made her uneasy when he moved without a sound like the spirit he once pretended to be.
Although the wind rattled the bare, gnarled fingers of the tree branches above and tugged at the furs wrapped around Christine’s shoulders, making the creamy strands tickle her cheeks beneath the edge of her hat’s veil, Erik’s cloak was too heavy to be affected by it, and he moved like a black blot of night at her side as they strolled idly through the narrows between the graves. They had the park to themselves today, no more patches of grassy lawns to attract picnickers, no one else willing to leave their cozy hearths on a day such as this.
Christine’s breath made delicate white puffs in the gray afternoon light, but no such emmination came from Erik, perhaps blocked by the black mask beneath his black hood, or perhaps none would have ever come from lips such as his. She repressed a little shiver at the thought of those cool lips, telling herself it was the brisk December air and nothing else that caused the reaction.
“Who is dead?” she asked before he could notice, her voice a reverent whisper.
“Madame Giry.” His words came in one of his ethereal sighs, making a prayer of the name.
Christine’s fair brow puckered in thought. That name sounded familiar. She was certain she’d heard M. Mercier mention a Giry on staff. “She worked at the Opera, didn’t she?” So many hundreds of people employed there, and Christine had never met half of them in her short years before the death of her career.
“She did.”
Although the snow had stopped an hour ago, the stony clouds above threatened to release another torrent at any minute. The cunning wind seemed to be doing more to gather the weighty dark mounds over their heads than to dispel them. Surely that was why the streets had been so empty when Christine slipped out to meet Erik, no one else as brave as she to take advantage of the lull in the weather. But she would have gone out even if it had snowed all day. She never missed her stroll with Erik. Never.
How might it have been if she’d arrived at the cemetery gate in the weather of two hours ago, when the fat white flakes were driving nearly sideways through the deserted boulevards? Erik would have been there, of course he would. He was always there. But he would have been cross with her for coming. He would have chastised her like the strict teacher he once was to her, more than a year ago.
She would have pointed out that as he was waiting there himself, he ought to have known better. He would have said that didn’t mean he had to like it. And then what would they have done? Surely he would not have consented to the stroll. But neither did she think he would send her home. Would he have taken her somewhere else? It would have been the first time in the months since they had begun this weekly ritual that the routine would have been interrupted. Where would they have gone? What would have happened?
The summer and fall had passed in a blur. Today happened to be the winter solstice. As the season went on and the weather grew less forgiving, would a day like that soon actually come? A day where something might happen?
Another little shiver gripped Christine. Raoul would have called such a feeling ‘exquisite,’ and she surely would have denied it.
She pushed these thoughts away. They were of no consequence in the end, for today the weather had broken after all, and now they were sharing this hour in the park together as planned, and Erik was telling her about a woman who had died.
It seemed bad luck to speak of death in a graveyard, and Christine pulled her furs a little more tightly about her. But she reminded herself of the sin of superstition. The fact that Erik had said anything about this at all meant that it mattered to him, and naturally this fascinated Christine. He never spoke of other people. People never mattered. She peered up at him through her veil, but could only see the stiff cheek and nose of his mask beyond the edge of his hood, no glow from his eyes at all in the daylight, even as paltry and insubstantial as it was.
He must have felt her looking, because he paused and turned toward her, as if her gaze had the power of a puppeteer’s string. Quickly, Christine thought of something to say.
“You knew her?” The question felt silly after she uttered it. Of course Erik knew everyone at the Opera. Or knew of everyone, at least. But none of their lives had ever seemed to mean anything to him. This was different somehow. Christine could see it in the tense set of his sharp shoulders.
His arm unfurled from the folds of his cloak, his hand lifting as if the black-gloved fingertips would touch her hat’s veil, but they did not come quite close enough to its edge. They never did. “In my way,” he answered.
“What does that mean, Erik?” When he hesitated, she pushed on gently, “You needn’t be cryptic with me.” Weren’t they past all judgement now? Nothing he could say could shock her, she was certain of it.
His hand brushed through the air as if the subject could be so easily erased, and he resumed their stroll, going up the hill, through the rows of mausoleums. Christine let out an exhalation of disappointment as she followed, ready to let the subject go, but then he surprised her by speaking again.
“I shared a correspondence with her. She…” He trailed off, his hand brushing along the stones of the crypt he passed. The caked snow flaked off in a little glittering shower. “She carried out small tasks for me. I paid her well for these errands.”
Christine’s breath left her without sound, a small ugly feeling she wasn’t proud of coiling just beneath her breast. “Who was she?” she asked, managing to keep her voice soft and curious, betraying nothing. She raked her memory of what M. Mercier might have said. “One of the ushers?”
“A box keeper,” Erik corrected, as if the term made a great deal of difference. “My box keeper.”
“But you don’t still use a box, do you?” Christine asked before she could help herself. She shook her head and caught up to his side in three quick steps. “I’m sorry, Erik. Please forgive me. Her death has struck you. Was…was she young?” Oh, what a selfish question to ask. But it was too late now.
“Too young to die.” He turned away from Christine when she tried to catch his eye, going around behind the mausoleum, becoming one with its shadows.
Picking up her skirts, Christine pushed through the snow that gathered nearly to the tops of her boots in the narrow alley between the walls. “Erik,” she entreated. But he hadn’t gone as far as she’d expected, and she nearly ran into him as she rounded the corner, where he was reading the engraved epithet on the slab.
How she longed to reach for him, to put a comforting hand against his arm. But he always recoiled from her now when she made such attempts. He was talking to her, though. That was enough. If her ear was all he wanted from her now, she would give it freely. She waited.
“She left behind a young daughter,” he said finally. Although his eyes remained up on the carved Latin prayers, Christine could tell he was no longer reading any of it.
“Do…do you know her, too?” Christine asked in a whisper, dreading the answer. How young was this daughter? Would she ever know all of Erik’s secrets?
So much had changed since Christine left the Opera last year. She thought she would spend the rest of her days in Scandinavia, but less than two months later, she had been pulled back to Paris by a force she could not deny, believing it was time to keep her promise and bury Erik. How wrong she had been. How she had never expected they would only months later be sharing such peaceful afternoon walks like old friends. How she had not once ever anticipated the walks would come to not be enough for her.
“No,” Erik answered. “I don’t know her.” His words made Christine’s relief flow over her, throbbing in beat with her ruffled heart.
“But I made promises for her,” he continued. “Promises her mother believed.”
“Did you deceive her, Erik?”
“Frequently.”
Christine’s heart pinched in sympathy. “Erik…”
He turned finally to look down at her, and in the shadow cast by the mausoleum, she could see his eyes, a faint yellow glimmer in the deep dark holes of the black mask. How weary he looked, how heavy.
“It is so much colder here,” Christine said softly, gesturing to the shade which made many degrees of difference. “Come.” And this time, she was the one who led the way back to the path and into the weak light filtering through the billowing cover above. In the distance, thunder rumbled, but it seemed very distant indeed, and she ignored it for now.
“I want to do something for her,” Erik said as he kept silent pace at Christine’s side. He was forgetting now about making sound with his shoes in the snow. This time, Christine found she did not feel uneasy by the spirit silence at all.
“Do something for the daughter?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Does she need money?”
“Perhaps.” Erik’s tone was distant, distracted. He was thinking of something else entirely, she could tell. What could one such as him do for the daughter of a dead box keeper? Spectacular things, Christine was sure.
She did not wish at all to think of it, and she felt that shame again at a sudden longing for this conversation to be over. For Erik to speak to her of anything else at all. What had become of her sense of charity? Why did the low throaty call of thunder drawing nearer make her heart quicken with dread that Erik would turn her away early? What was wrong with her?
“I’m sorry,” she said again, but she could not keep the despair from her tone this time, and it was enough to stop him once more, his full attention turning to her, bathing her with that intensity which once so used to frighten her, yet now somehow, she craved.
He must have seen something of it in her face, for his voice was tremulous as her name passed his lips. “Christine?”
Not letting herself think about it this time, she caught his hand between her own, the buff leather of her gloves trying in vain to cover the expanse of black that was his. “I am,” she breathed. “Sorry. For your…your friend. For her poor dear daughter. For you.”
He tried to pull his hand from hers, but she would not let him, and so he went still, his eyes burning down at her. “I will do something,” he murmured after a pensive moment.
“I am sure she will be grateful,” Christine managed. Beneath her skirts, her stockinged knees locked, keeping herself from taking the half step closer to him her feet yearned to do. She took a breath, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. “How terrible. To lose her mother at Christmastime.”
“Is it Christmas?” Erik’s hood twitched as if he meant to look about for signs of the holiday, as if the graveyard ought to be festooned in evergreen garlands and sleigh bells. But his eyes never left Christine’s.
“Nearly.” She gave him a small, sad smile, her hands folding further around his. “It will be past by next we meet.” How ridiculous, this sudden flower of pain at the thought of Erik being alone on Christmas. He had been alone every Christmas of his life. The holiday meant nothing to him, she knew. He would never attend a Christmas mass. His miracles of salvation lay elsewhere.
The wind picked up hungrily, and the thunder growled its threats as it crept ever nearer, but the silence stretched between them as they simply regarded each other, the sorrow of the moment settling over them like a fresh blanket of snow, not so very different from the one that was surely about to manifest.
Erik’s hand turned between Christine’s. He was not trying to pull away this time, merely touching her in a new way. “Isn’t it time you were getting home to your husband?” he asked, but the question was not cold. On the contrary, there was a tremble of hope beneath it that made Christine’s heart flutter.
She smiled up at him through her veil. Raoul knew of their meetings, of course. Every time she went out for them, she could see it in his eyes that he feared she would not return, but Raoul never said a word against them. Not now, not after everything.
With a whisper, the snow began to fall. Christine might not have even noticed if it didn’t stand out like white tears against the black of Erik’s cloak, reminding her of the velvet hangings in his room under the opera, refusing to melt as the crystals did on her own garments. But still, she did not want to go home. A minute later, or perhaps two, or perhaps ten, the thunder sounded directly overhead, and the snowflakes were sticking to each other.
“I suppose it is time,” she said. Raoul was waiting. Raoul was worried. Every week, that seemed to matter to her less and less. Poor, unhappy Raoul…
With an infinitely soft sigh, she finally let Erik’s hand slip out of her own. They spoke of nothing else as he walked her back to the cemetery gate, his tall form shielding her from the nip and bite of the ice on the wind, but she enjoyed this too, this silence. The music of the sky provided all they needed.
“Enjoy your Christmas.” Erik made her a small bow, as he always did when they parted, as if the growing tempest did not surround them, as if it were still one of the balmy afternoons of September and the park was full of people in love. Would the weather be better next week? What would he do if it wasn’t? What would happen?
“Until next Sunday, Christine,” he said, as if reading her mind.
“Yes,” she said on the edge of her breath. Next Sunday, yes. “Until then.”
today we are opening the nineteenth door, and also lamenting JK Rowling and her awful awful politics. drop dead terf.
politics aside, i really like today’s build --
a cute little fireplace (complete with wreath) with a gorgeous glowing orange fire to lob any particular undeserving authors into, no names (although i’ll give you a hint: it rhymes with KJ Bowling).
whoever designed this particular set is nothing short of a genius! at first i didn’t like the fire congifuration -- two small transculent orange wedge pieces that stick at a funny angle to each other. i thought, well, this looks a little like a fire but a bit more like a cheese accident. a few hours later i was moving across my bedroom when a fantastic glint caught my eye and i realised that this particular configuration was chosen because it refracts the light in a spectacular way from the right angle. i tried to no avail to catch a picture or video of this, so you’ll have to take my word, but it was trully stunning.
a fantastic addition to the diorama; a fireplace and mantle for our minifigures to gather round, warm their stubby little claw hands, and perhaps a place for Hermione to discard literature from an author she read from her childhood that she no longer trusts or feels represented by.
11/10 for a fantastic mind-boggling trick of the light, and 0/7 for books i can read with a clean conscience
stay tuned for Door 20!
door 1 / door 2 / door 3 / door 4 / door 5 / door 6 / door 7 / door 8 / door 9 / door 10 / door 11 / door 12 / door 13/ door 14 / door 15 / door 16 / door 17 / door 18
"Ok Jumin, sit down and close your eyes please." "Mhm..." He did as he was told and sat down on the couch. With his eyes closed he felt something soft brushing against his hand. When the thing started purring softly he knew what it was, or who it was. "Hi Elizabeth, i bet you look wonderful today, even though I can't see you right now." Jumin said while getting louder in the end of sentence, playfully teasing his wife. The young man heard her chuckling and smiled to himself. "Whilst thou provoke me?", She answered cheekily, which made him laugh loudly. "Well, then i won't give you your bag, Romeo." "Oh no, my sweetJuliet! I was just taken by surprise, i did not expect a Shakespeare quote." With his eyes still closed, he reached out for her hand and kissed it softly like a gentleman when he found it. "You're trying to bribe me right?" "Does it work?" The kisses continued "Hmm..." Mc took a step back to free her hand from his own and crossed her arms to keep them save from him. He totally caught her, Jumin knew all her soft spots, so persuading her was a piece of cake for him. Mc was glad he couldn't see her red face at the moment and turned around to grab the bag she prepared. "Well then, open your eyes again, Jumin."
Some of his raven black bangs fell into his face when he tried to unwrap the gift carefully and he blew them out of his face. Mc smiled at the sight of this scene, she always thought it was pretty handsome when he did this. The thing her husband unwrapped turned out to be a notebook, but it wasn't an empty one. It was filled with all kinds of words, some small pictures of them too. Each page stood for another thing she loved about him. One described his laugh, another his kind heart, the next his ability to make her knees feel like pudding whenever he hugged her. It was a notebook full of love, something Jumin never really got to know before he met her. His wife noticed his eyes were filled with tears and sat down next to him. She wasn't prepared for the tight hug and the soft kiss, it stunned her. "Thank you Mc,...I... I don't know what to say, my love, you just made me speechless. Just answer me: how do i deserve you?" His voice broke and was nothing more but a soft whisper, he felt tears rolling down his face. Mc cupped his cheeks, kissing them away with each little peck. "I love you, Jumin, and I wanted you to know how much I love you... I think this makes it quite clear. You don't have to read it all at once, just take your time." "I will, my love, i definetely will."
On the first day of Christmas, my true friend gave to me, a beautiful chocolate peppermint tree...
“Oh my goodness, this is so gorgeous and so creative!” Christine gasped as she turned the small candy tree on the table top. The peppermint candies swirled in a mesmerizing pattern, the aromatic fragrance of milk chocolate filled her senses. “I don't know how you do it! You spent too much time on this.”
“My darling friend, to see this smile is more than worth the effort. Besides, I wanted to show just how much I cherish our friendship. And this is just the beginning!” Nadir chuckled.
* * *
It was astounding how fast this year had gone and how quickly these two became friends. It was just a few days into the New Year when Christine stumbled upon this hidden treasure of a delicatessen in an unfamiliar part of Paris called Le Persan Parisien (The Parisian Persian). The previous year had been difficult for them both. Christine had not only buried her dear father but had also ended an extended engagement. So when the bell to the main entrance ting-tinged on that blustery January day, Christine had come to terms that she was bound to wander life alone. It wasn’t until she was greeted by this strange foreigner with perfectly salt and peppered hair upon her arrival that her heart just might have lurched ever so slightly and a shy grin graced her face.
Nadir had come to Paris on a dying request from his friend, Erik. “Come to Paris, dear old friend. Do this for me. My life has been cut unfairly short. You know this was my dream,” Nadir recalled the conversation years ago, as he placed a large pan of hazelnuts into a brick oven to roast. Nadir was a perpetual bachelor, and at 53 years old he figured his days of chasing the young ladies were long gone. He, much like Christine, had settled on his fate of living out the rest of his days a single man. He arrived in Paris almost 10 years ago from Persia on the promise to Erik to open a true Parisian delicatessen. Nadir had then discovered his passion for the art of a chocolatier. The sound of the ting ting from the delicatessen’s bell broke him from his thoughts. Grabbing a towel, he wiped his hands and began to greet this customer when he stopped suddenly at the young woman before him.
On the fourth day of Christmas my true friend gave to me, four pralines, three bottles of homemade sirops, two creme brulees…
“Nadir, I will be 200 pounds before Christmas Eve in eight days! I can’t believe you’ve made everything from scratch. You have a true gift.”
“Again, my darling Christine, it’s the best way I know how to show you how much I adore you… your friendship.” He caught himself thankfully before she could notice the slip of his tongue.
* * *
It was late spring and these two were inseparable. Christine found herself coming to visit Nadir every evening on her way home from work. She purposefully adjusted her work schedule so she could have extra time with him. “Tell me, Nadir, about where you grew up.” Nadir grew nostalgic as they walked arm in arm around the blossoming trees along the old cobblestone streets. He spoke fondly of his parents, his siblings. “Do you miss your homeland?”
“At times I do but present company has been refreshing and a much welcome distraction.” He felt her arm squeeze into his more closely. He felt warm.
“What do you miss the most?” she inquired. Her favorite part of their conversations was how he described what things smelled like, the foods, the air, the warm hearths of the homes. His words were descriptive and his accent practically made the aromas waft from his body. She breathed him in.
“Saffron,” he stated almost immediately.
“I would like to try that someday,” she confessed. The very next morning, Nadir placed a special order for saffron to be delivered from Persia. It would take a few months, but hopefully it would arrive in enough time for Christmas.
On the ninth day of Christmas my true friend gave to me nine miniature Baba au rhums, eight chocolate hazelnut eclairs, seven red velvet chocolate macarons, six chocolate madeleines, five chocolate croissants…
“You seem a little melancholy tonight, my dear. Is everything alright?”
“I just feel a little contemplative, I guess.”
“What’s on your mind this evening?” Nadir inquired as he brought a hot carafe of water, tea leaves, and two tea cups. He sat down and watched Christine spoon the tea leaves into the steeper. She seemed sad tonight.
She sighed rather forlornly, “Have you ever been in love?”
“Maybe, but clearly I’m not an expert since I’m now an old man and still not married nor a lover,” Nadir responded with a chuckle trying to lighten the mood. “Tell me, darling, what does your heart need?”
* * *
When Christine couldn’t come in the mornings, she would send a courier to the shop with a note to see if Nadir would accompany her for a walk in the evening. He always obliged. One evening, Christine blurted out as they walked hand in hand, “There is no possible way you are 53 years old! You don’t look a day over 40!”
Nadir laughed. “Surely, dear lady, I may have to kiss you should you choose to flatter me further!” He noticed how deeply her face flushed crimson. After bidding each other a pleasant evening, Christine thought to herself, “Surely this feeling is… it’s nothing. He didn’t really mean he’d kiss me.”
On the eleventh day of Christmas my true friend gave to me, an eleven-cheese charcuterie and pinot noir, ten chocolate meringues…
“I hope you enjoy the pinot noir, it’s one of my favorites,” Nadir explained as the cold liquid splashed into their wine glasses.
“Mmm, this is delicious!” she said after the crisp, cold wine wet her palette. “I think I owe you an apology for the other night.”
“An apology, Christine? Whatever for?”
“It’s not my place to speak of love and relationships. I feel I overstepped,” Christine said shyly. What she wanted to confess was that her feelings for him had gone beyond those of an endearing friendship.
* * *
Christine invited Nadir to her flat for Thanksgiving. Since neither of them had family, Christine wanted to prepare a special meal for him. They had a splendid evening together, and after dinner, the pair sat in front of a small fire burning in the fireplace, enjoying a lovely port Nadir had brought. Snow had begun to fall lightly when Nadir offered a walk along the Seine.
As they walked, the cold seeped through and Christine shivered. She felt Nadir’s arm snake around her back and pulled her close to keep her warm. They walked in silence, until Nadir heard a beautiful sound coming from Christine. “Darling! I didn’t know you sang!” he said rather startled.
“I only sing when happy and content,” she said, their steps began to slow and the snow fell harder.
Nadir turned Christine in his arms and smiled. “Oh Christine, you’re a stunning woman. You offer this old man such happiness. If you’d permit me, I would like to do something special for you for Christmas.”
“You’re not that old,” she responded giggling. Nadir pressed a light kiss upon her rosy cheeks.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me twelve small pieces of saffron-infused salted dark chocolate…. And a declaration…
It was finally Christmas Eve, the final night of Nadir’s 12 nights of chocolate gift giving to Christine. With each treat, Christine certainly noticed the extra effort he put forth, knowing that each treat was increasingly more complex and difficult to craft. Tonight, Nadir prepared for them a private dinner at Le Persan Parisien, a special meal before presenting Christine with her final gift.
They sampled and sipped multiple wines of all colors: robust and earthy reds, crisp and dry whites, and finally towards the end of the meal sweet and cold roses. “I have something for you,” Christine said, riffling through her bag. “I know you don’t celebrate Christmas, but for all the trouble you’ve gone through, I simply could not get you something in return.”
“My dear, you are more than enough of a gift to me,” he said, gently kissing her hand. Christine smiled as she placed the wrapped parcel on the table. Nadir unwrapped it and smiled. She had commissioned a street artist to hand draw a portrait of them after giving him a picture to draw to their likenesses. “Oh darling, it’s beautiful!”
“That’s not all,” Christine said quietly and began to sing to him. Nadir leaned thoughtfully back in the cushioned bistro chair, the white Christmas lights warmly embracing them as he listened ever so intently to her voice. “You have the voice of an angel. Thank you, Christine, for the gift of your voice.” He leaned closely and kissed her cheek, but unlike before, this one was so much closer to her lips than her actual cheek. Biting at her bottom lip, her face flushed at the words she wanted to say. “And now, for your final gift,” Nadir said as he got up from the table and went to the back.
Christine watched bashfully as her eyes swept over Nadir’s figure. His perfectly tailored suit hugged his body in all the right places. His wavy salt- and pepper-colored hair was combed back, his spectacles resting astutely upon his olive-tinted face. He was charming, polite, soft spoken, witty, and a well-aged gentleman. He was like a fine, rare wine, and when opened up, smooth and rich, leaving one feeling warm and satisfied. The plate clanked onto the table, a small paper doily covering the treasure underneath.
“Remember earlier this spring you ask what I missed the most about Persia?” Nadir asked as he moved the tea cups and saucers off to the side.
“Saffron,” she replied, their eyes meeting as she watched Nadir’s face light up.
“Tonight, Christine, on this Christmas Eve, my gift to you… 12 pieces of saffron salted dark chocolate.” He undercovered the plate and picked up a small square of the chocolate. “Close your eyes,” he quietly spoke. Nadir watched as her eyes slid closed, her long lashes fanned out like soft feather. “And open…” his heart raced as Christine opened her mouth to welcome the morsel onto her tongue. Nadir swallowed down the hard knot clogging his throat. Her lips gently closed around the tip of his finger. A thrill shot through him.
The saffron infused dark chocolate melted slowly and the small granules of salt mingled with the heat from the foreign spice and bittersweet dark chocolate. Christine lazily opened her eyes to find Nadir studying her reaction with a smile. “May I have another taste?” she whispered, her palette sleek and wet with craving.
“Hmm,” he acknowledged, “Of course.” Carefully he picked up another piece of the chocolate, waiting for her eyes to slid close again. But she surprised him.
“Nadir,” she whispered, “another taste if you please.” He again fed her the saffron dark chocolate and this time her lips and tongue linger longer upon his fingertips. “Mmmm,” she murmured, “for the love of sweets I do believe this is the most decadent chocolate I have ever tasted.” She blushed as Nadir eyeing her thoughtfully clinging to her words. “I do believe...”
“Yes darling?”
“I do believe I crave even more.” Leaning over the small cafe table, Christine brought her hands to caress Nadir’s face, searching for something, either doubt or apprehension or perhaps permission. Her lips gracefully fall onto his. He can taste the saffron on her tongue.
