Many thanks to chasten.
This is a re-telling of Frederick Forsyth's "The Phantom of Manhattan" which, in turn, was his sequel to Gaston Leroux's "The Phantom of the Opera."
It has a few erotic scenes and all of the characters involved in those are over eighteen.
Why a re-write? I figured, after all the trials and tribulations, someone needed a happier ending.
Be warned that this is a "longish" work, so it may not be your cup of tea. But if it is, I do hope you will enjoy it.
For John.


PROLOGUE
Christine turned the boat slowly across the lake. How many times had she done the same thing so many months ago, and how many times had she promised herself she would not return? And she had almost succeeded, she had not even ventured near the vaulted doorway under the Paris Opera House, the doorway that led to this secret lake, to his lair; the last time she had been here was when he had let her leave almost a year ago -- with Raoul.
"I shall never see him again, I shall never see him again," that was the only thought she had as she and Raoul escaped on the very same boat she was in tonight. She was glad Raoul had found her, glad that Erik had allowed the two of them to escape, but there was a heaviness in her heart that she could not explain when she saw his bent figure in the lair, defeated and hopeless and alone. She had not seen him since.
The weeks and months that followed their escape flashed through her mind; she had immersed herself in work, long lessons with Maestro Vigor, the only teacher she found who could compare, almost, to... Erik. Rehearsals and small appearances with a vocal chamber group followed and these led to individual invitations. And finally, the only one that mattered... a request to return to the Opera House... for a solo recital! Maestro Vigor, Raoul, most everyone was ecstatic, it was after all the culmination of her hard work and sacrifice, but Christine had felt almost... empty.
She knew why, of course, perhaps, she had always known... he was not there to share it with her; for one mad moment, after a particularly trying rehearsal had left her lost and exhausted, she wanted to dash to the underbelly of the Opera House, through the vaulted doorway and down to this lake, back to his lair, back to... him, to ask him, beg him to lead her through the notes of the score and past them, into the purity and essence of the music. He would, though, in all probability, would not have been there anymore. The rumors of the ghostly presence in the Opera House had not been whispered about in a year, the sightings of the black clad phantom were now only a dim memory; until this afternoon... when Raoul, Maestro Vigor and Monsieur Albrecht Destain, the conductor, approached her with a new score.
"It is an incredibly beautiful aria, Christine, and as yet unpublished," the conductor said, "Vigor and I went through it and we believe you should include it for your recital."
"It was left at my doorstop the other evening," the Maestro said, "and I only looked at it last night."
Raoul saw the uncertainty in her eyes.
"Play it for her, Albrecht," Raoul said.
Christine shook her head slightly, another aria to learn and her concert was but a week away, but she gave the three men a kind smile. They were only looking after her and wanted nothing but for her to be a success. She pulled a chair and set it closer to the grand piano at the center of the stage and sat down.
"Let me hear it, M'sieur," she said softly.
The conductor opened the score and placed it on the piano. He sat down and started to play.
Christine felt her heart skip a beat, her hands gripped the armrests of the chair.
It was Erik's music!
So here she was now, beneath the Opera House, in the small boat that would take her back to the lair. Christine craned her neck, recalling the number of candles she had to pass before she would turn the boat next. At last, after counting and twisting her way through the dark waters, she heard the faint strains of organ music... was she dreaming? A small flicker of hope gave her strength, she pushed the long boat pole harder and saw the brightness of the lair, lit by the many candles that surrounded it, the music was louder now, a sob escaped her, tears started to stream down her cheeks... he was still here!
Erik heard her soft cry and stopped playing. He rose at once and strode to the edge of his lair, the boat was approaching, even in the darkness, he knew it was her... Christine! He leapt into the waters and swam towards her.
Christine let go of the pole, and tore away the heavy muslin skirt she was wearing, and she, too, jumped into the lake.
No words were spoken as they met in the middle of the dark waters, they clung to each other like children, their arms clasped tightly around each other. He lifted her face and kissed her on the forehead, but drew away quickly, suddenly aware of how cold and wet they both were. They made their way through the water, back to the brightness of the lair. He carried her once their feet touched dry ground and set her down at the hearth.
They looked into each other's eyes. Erik raised his hand and ran his fingers across her cheek, down her neck and lower still until he reached her heaving bosom. He brought the other hand up and cupped her breasts through her wet blouse and ripped it off her, leaving her naked except for the thin muslin underskirt that fell to her knees. Turning quickly, he grabbed a blanket from his bed and wrapped it around her. He pulled her into his arms, gently rubbing her back and arms through the thick material.
"Why are you here, Christine?" he asked softly, "we said our good-byes months ago. Why have you come back?"
She looked up at him.
"You sent the score of "Adoree" to Maestro Vigor, did you think I could stay away after hearing it again, Erik?"
He did not answer, instead he bent his head and stared at her face, time stilled until finally, unable to stop himself, he kissed her lips. It began hesitantly, like the whisper of a butterfly's wings, but it started to fan the flames of their hunger; it grew and deepened, their lips parted, eager for each other's taste. Their tongues swirled and danced together, savoring the soft recesses of their mouths. At last, Erik pulled away, realizing he had to end this madness.
"You must leave, Christine," he said, his voice almost harsh, "you must leave now, before we do something we both will regret."
Christine slid the blanket off her shoulders, she put her arms around his neck and pressed her nakedness against him.
"It is you I love and I will never regret that," she reached up and touched his mask, "I want to see your face, Erik, when I give myself to you," she whispered, gently pulling it away from his face.
He closed his eyes, waiting for the gasp of revulsion. But there was only... silence. He opened his eyes, slowly, afraid that all he would see in her eyes would be terror. But -- there was only tenderness in them, tenderness, desire and... love! She stood on tiptoe, and kissed the scars and ridges that marked the right side of his face.
Erik was lost. He lifted her and carried her to the bed.
They gave themselves to each other that night, making love again and again, passion building upon passion, promising each other in breathless whispers that never again would they be parted, until sleep claimed their spent bodies.
When Christine awoke, he was gone.
Chapter One
"Over here, Miss Daae, over here!"
"One smile, Miss Christine, look here!"
The reporters jostled each other, their shouting almost as loud as the boat whistles on the dock as Christine Daae made her way down the gangplank of Pier No.7 in New York Harbor. It was not her first trip to America. She had sung at the Metropolitan Theater almost eight years before, for its tenth year gala when she was still known as Madame de Chagny, the celebrated diva of the Paris opera and wife of Raoul, Viscount de Chagny.
Today, though, it was different; true, she was still a diva, perhaps even more so now then eight years ago with all the notoriety such a title carried, but she was no longer Madame de Chagny, it was four years since she and Raoul had divorced. The divorce had been more a sad affair than a difficult one; they were not embittered "lovers once" when they parted, but neither were they "good friends," in the end, they were more strangers to each other then ex-partners.
The sudden flash of a camera interrupted her thoughts. She stopped halfway down the plank and posed, with one hand on the rail. She straightened her back and flashed a winning smile. These poor souls were just making a living, after all. There was more jostling amongst the reporters and photographers as they inched closer to the gangplank.
"That's it, that's it! Get back there!" a porter shouted, "unless you want to end up swimmin' in New York harbor... in October!"
"Let the lady get down, boys!" another porter shouted.
Christine felt soft fingers clutching her hand. She looked down and smiled into Gustave's wide blue eyes.
"Qui sont-ils, Maman?" he asked.
"Ce sont des journalistes, Gustave. But you must remember to speak in English, cherie, we are in America," she gently brushed an errant lock of hair from her son's forehead. Holding his small hand tighter, she led him down the plank; behind them, Louise, her maid and secretary followed and behind her, Emile, Louise's husband and Christine's butler, carrying two large cases.
"You're here for the Met gala, right, Miss Daae? Tell me, what songs will you be singing?" a reporter asked, pen and note paper in hand.
"It's been some time since you last sang here, Miss Daae. How much did the Met offer you to make you return?" another one said.
"I heard that you've managed to convince Mr. Toscanini to conduct the gala. How did you manage that?"
The questions came non-stop as Christine's small entourage inched its way through the crowd. Here and there, she could hear soft exclamations of "oh's" and "ah's," as people who were not reporters began to recognize her.
At last, they were inside the huge building that housed immigration, where the reporters could not follow. Their passports were quickly inspected and stamped, and with the rest of their luggage collected, the four of them made their way out into the cold sunshine of a New York autumn.
True to the Metropolitan director's word, a tall man dressed in a chauffeur's uniform stood just outside the building, holding a large sign that read:
MADAMOISELLE CHRISTINE DAAE, WELCOME BACK!
He tipped his cap as they approached.
"Miss Daae? Good morning, I'm James and I'll be bringing you to your hotel."
"Thank you, James."
"Is this our automobile?" an excited Gustave asked, pointing to a very large black vehicle parked on the curb. James nodded.
"How grand!" the little boy exclaimed, "we can all fit in it, Maman! The cars in Paris are not even half this size."
Christine smiled at her son and ushered him into the luxurious interior of the automobile, as James and Emile stowed their cases in the boot. Louise followed and sat across them.
"James, please thank Director Casazza for sending you to fetch us."
"I shall, Miss Daae, but it was my boss who told me to fetch you. I think he did it as a favor to Mr. Casazza."
"What is a boss?" Gustave asked
James smiled at the little boy through the rear view mirror.
"My employer," he said.
Gustave nodded his head and looked out the car window at the sights of the new city. His eyes were wide as he took in the sidewalks full of people, the trams and other vehicles on the streets, the shops and tall buildings that were so different from Paris. Christine tenderly ran two fingers down the little boy's cheek, she knew that tonight, Gustave would be asking her a million questions before he went to bed. The little boy's cap tumbled off his head, revealing thick dark blond curls. Christine bit her lip as a flood of memories swept through her.
"Here we are, Miss Daae, the Plaza, your home in New York City," James pulled up in front of the historic building.
"Magnifique!" Gustave whispered in awe, "how many floors does it have?"
"Hmm, twenty, I think," James answered.
After signing the hotel registry at the reception desk, Christine opened her purse and took out a dollar note, handing it to James.
"Oh no, Miss Daae, I can't take that. The boss won't like it, if he ever found out."
"Well then, please can you wait?" she pulled out a note sheet from her purse and started writing on it.
"Please give him this note, a small thank you for having sent you. That was, by far, the most pleasant automobile ride I have had and it has certainly impressed my son. What was his name again?" Christine asked.
"They address him as just Mister Y, Miss Daae."
The suite where they stayed was opulent. It was on the eighteenth floor and it had three bedrooms, two full baths and a magnificent drawing room with a full sized grand piano near the balcony windows which afforded one a breath-taking view of the city. A large vase of tulips stood in the middle of the center table, while scattered around this were a divan and two chaise-lounges. Louise, who could be quite critical at times, had nothing but praise for the Metropolitan Opera House and its director, Mister Enrico Casazza.
"The opera managers back in Europe could learn a thing or two from these Americans," she said, as she arranged Christine's musical scores on the piano, "they're always harping on the 'savages' over here, well look at this!"
"Nothing savage about this at all," her husband answered. He was standing by the window, looking out at the city skyline, "did you know people back home have started calling America the land of opportunity?"
"Really? Well, judging from what I've seen, it's got every right to be called that, but if you're not willing to work hard enough, opportunity won't count for much."
Just then, a soft knock interrupted their conversation.
Emile opened the door. The young porter, who had helped him carry the cases earlier, stood outside.
"Good afternoon, sir," he held out two cards, "a telegram from Milan and a note from Mr. Casazza, both for Miss Daae."
Louise approached, took the cards, read them and carefully folded them again.
"Please wait, I shall ask Miss Daae for her answer."
She left the drawing room, and went to the largest bedroom of the suite where Christine was reading a storybook to her son.
"Miss Christine, you have two letters, the first one is a telegram from Maestro Toscanini; he sends you his deepest love and will be arriving by boat tomorrow afternoon."
Christine laughed, Toscanini and his games, she thought.
"I wonder if he also sent his deepest love to Mr. Casazza," she said.
Louise smiled, she was well aware of the special friendship Christine had with the Maestro.
"The second one is an invitation to dine with Director Casazza at eight tonight at a place called...," she looked at the note, "Delmonico's."
Christine sighed and placed a finger between the pages she was reading. The farce certainly started early, she thought. As Europe's most celebrated dramatic soprano, Christine commanded one of the highest fees in the business, but many of the musical directors and impresarios she had had to deal with over the years, did not realize how she had achieved her success; some thought that it had just been "good luck" that she had somehow climbed to the top of the opera world, a case of being in the right time at the right place, while others thought that she was only fortunate to have been born with a voice that, one critic wrote, "is the voice that every female singer wishes she possessed but can only aspire to."
Artists treasured such reviews, but Christine lamented the fact that they had failed to mention the years of training and sacrifice one had to go through to achieve recognition. Even worse, there were others who believed that they were entitled to more than just an outstanding performance once they were able to meet her fee.
She sighed, remembering the countless times she sat at dinner with aging grand dames and boring businessmen who considered themselves connoisseurs of music because of their fat checkbooks. She did not mind the old ladies, many of them were pitiful, holding on to their long gone youth by dressing themselves in the latest styles, their ears, arms, necks and fingers bedecked in glittering gems. Arturo Toscanini, who had often endured the suppers with her, taught her to figure out if the jewelry was real or paste.
"It will make the evening a lot less boring, cara," he assured her.
Besides, the ladies were often more interested in the great conductor than in her. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of the businessmen.
Christine shuddered; all of them were uncouth, balding, and often obese men. It had been different when she was married, but when she became a divorcee, these same men began to see her as some sort of prize -- a beautiful young soprano, husbandless, with a little boy to raise alone -- why, she was fair game and an easy conquest! They were surprised when she turned down their "propositions," of course, and she had been mostly polite, but there were two who were unforgivably obtuse: a German car maker and a Hungarian baron; she had spilled a bottle of their host's most expensive champagne down the German's trousers while the Hungarian went home smelling of caviar.
"Miss Christine, the porter is outside waiting for your reply."
"Oh, Louise, forgive me. I suppose the invitation includes some of the Metropolitan's most illustrious... sponsors?" she opened the book again, she would find a reason to decline.
Louise smiled at the dig and looked at the card again.
"Well, I'm not so sure, but it seems there is only one other person who will be joining you... Mister Y. He's even sending James and the car again should you accept."
Christine chewed on her bottom lip, she could not refuse, not after the note she had sent through the chauffeur.
"Very well, I accept but please tell Director Casazza that I am expecting champagne and caviar tonight."
The two women exchanged knowing glances.
"Oh, I shall, Miss Christine," Louise said.
Chapter Two
Mister Y stood, unmoving, in front of the glass window that spanned almost one whole wall of his office, a half-smoked cigarette in one hand. He had been looking down at Manhattan for almost an hour. His hand shook a little as he lifted the cigarette to his lips, he took one long drag then he crushed the butt in the tall decorative ashtray beside him. Soon, he would see her again.
The door across the large room opened and a young man, dressed in a dark blue suit entered, a black overcoat across one arm and a black fedora in hand.
"It's fifteen to eight, sir."
Peter Youngston watched, waiting, as the figure by the window turned to face him. Mister Y nodded and went to the beautiful mahogany desk fronting the window, he picked up a silver cigarette case and placed it in the inner pocket of his tuxedo. Then he did what Peter had seen him do every day for the three years he had been his assistant, he ran his fingers over the gilt edged photograph of Christine Daae on the desk.
Peter helped his employer with the overcoat and handed him the hat.
"James has gone to fetch Miss Daae, sir."
"Oh, yes, very good. And the reservations at Delmonico's are in order, I presume?"
"Yes, Mister Y, two tables, your favorite and another one across."
Peter could not quite hide his puzzlement at reserving two tables for dinner that night. But he stood quietly as his employer walked to the mirror beside the double doors of his office and gazed at his reflection, something he seldom did, Peter reflected.r"
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Pub: 22 Jul 2021 12:16 UTC
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