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“The ringing of your laughter
It sounds like a melody
To once-forbidden places
We'll go for a while“
- “Sounds Like a Melody” by Alphaville
the 24th of December
They were baking pastries. Again. Christmas was fast-approaching, after all, and though rehearsals had been intense and more in number than usual, a certain ghost had made sure that Christine didn’t overwork herself. And for some magical reason, she had enough energy left to participate in culinary activities in the afternoon and evening. In fact, it had been her who had initiated this whole baking marathon, sweetly asking him if he would make biscuits with her. As if Erik could deny her when she looked at him with those pleading eyes! She had been so shocked when she came to know that he had never even tried a Christmas biscuit, the innocent sweetheart.
For the past two days, the two of them had been making all sorts of biscuits from simple sugar cookies to macaroons to pepparkakor to Zimtsterne as well as Spekulatius for the holidays and the smell of spiced buttery goodness had not left their underground home since. Erik had become quite the master confectioner, but he started to grow weary of measuring ingredients, shaping dough with various biscuit cutters - or by hand - and decorating it with icing after it had been baked in the oven.
Luckily, Christine had promised him that today’s batch was the last one they were going to make, not giving him any hints as to which kind of baked good. The only thing he could get out of his wife concerning that matter had been “Very special ones!” (accompanied by a grin and a kiss on the cheek). Determined a woman she was.
Come to think of it, baking wasn’t so terrible after all. And it was definitely worth his while to see her clap her hands in delight, complimenting his sugary decorations and gushing over his artistic skills.
Though they weren’t going to celebrate Christmas, Erik wouldn’t miss an opportunity to give his wife a present. Besides, her enthusiastic cheer made him feel warm inside, so why not gift her his time to show his devotion?
So far, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Christine had mixed soft butter and sugar in a bowl, carefully adding some orange egg yolks. He couldn’t make head nor tail of it. What was so special about this recipe?
Feather-light snowflakes made out of grained wheat particles fell through a sieve into a large bowl, only the teeny-tiniest bit of them missing their goal, gracing the surface of their kitchen table with a thin, white coat. Christine giggled gleefully, which made Erik smile unconsciously. Joy to the world indeed.
“Oh, that looks like snow!” she remarked, suddenly quite melancholic, only not feeling terribly homesick of her fjäll because of Erik at her side. Absentmindedly, she drew a scenery with some hills into the flour that had landed on the counter. How she missed the endless forests and her secret brooks and simply breathing fresh air! Air that told stories of freedom and ancient tales of the North. Oh, and what would she give to taste fresh berries again!
She squealed in delight when she spotted some orange fruits on the ground. “Erik, look!” She waved him nearer. When he kneeled beside her, she carefully picked a berry and held it up so it shone golden in the late summer light. “Hjortron.” Christine said, reverently. “Cloudberry.” She looked up to meet his gaze. “Do you want to try it?” She asked him shyly. He nodded. Handing him the raspberry-shaped fruit, she diffidently added: “I must warn you, though, their taste can be quite different from what you know.”
The cloudberry tasted a bit tart yet had a floral note to it. He liked it.
“It’s good, angel.” Christine’s face lit up. Her eyes matched the sky behind her as she beamed at him.
The elderly woman whose cottage they had rented had only requested that they picked bilberries for payment so she could make jam out of them. Christine had been enthralled.
Equipped with a bärplockare, a comb with a wooden box attached to it to harvest the berries more easily, they had ventured out into the wilderness where bilberries grew in abundance.
Erik smiled. The sunshine made Christine’s hair glow as she eagerly picked some berries by hand – with gloves on, as blåbär were known to stain the skin easily when handled too roughly.
She took a bilberry, inspected it and bit into it. “See? It’s dark on the inside as well!”
Her enthusiasm was endearing, something had been lifted off her shoulders when they had arrived, it seemed, and he would always cherish the first memory of her running through the pristine Swedish scenery in a simple linen dress, her long blonde hair down, not wearing a corset and giggling gleefully.
And how he marvelled at the silvery sounds she produced when they harvested bilberries in a particularly remote area! She laughed joyfully when he asked her what she was doing.
“Kulning, dearest!” She then continued to explain that it was an ancient herding call as well as a communication medium that could be heard far away.
“And you’re meant to talk loudly or sing so the bears leave you alone. I hope we won’t meet a bear today, but it’s late July and they do like their blåbär, too, you know! ”
As they harvested more and more bilberries, Christine taught Erik how to do kulning. He was the most avid pupil.
They were so immersed in their activity that they did not notice the mesmerised animal audience, quietly hiding in their surroundings.
At the end of the day, the elderly woman had been more than satisfied with their work and wished them a great stay, leaving the happy couple in the picturesquely situated little cottage where they spent two more lovely, lovely weeks exploring nature and making music.
Oh, how wonderful it had been…
It were his slender arms pulling her into a hug from behind which woke her from her wistful day-dreaming. “Is my Christine well?” She turned around, facing her golden-eyed husband who looked at her inquiringly. He wore an expression of worry, slightly tilting his head to the side – a curious, but particularly sweet mannerism of his. She must have dwelled on the memories of the past summer for longer than she had thought, Christine mused.
“Yes, everything is alright, my dearest.” She happily let him enfold her in his arms and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Both sighed contently, staying in each other’s embrace for just a little longer.
“I’d gladly hold you in my arms forever, but I’m afraid that dough of yours won’t knead itself, mon cœur.” Erik kissed his wife on the forehead.
“Of course.” Christine gently wiped her eyes with her rolled up sleeve, already getting back to work. Always so assiduous.
Erik’s thin-lipped mouth quirked as an idea formed itself in his mind. In a quick motion he gathered a little flour from the tabletop on his right index finger and gently tapped the tip of his wife’s nose. She squealed in surprise. “Erik!” “What is it, love?” he asked innocently. “You are so cheeky!” Christine laughed. “And you are beautiful.” he answered, adoringly stroking a strand of hair out of her face and booping her nose a second time. She responded with a gaze that spoke of her deep love for him. The dilated pupils and the subtle, unconscious smile revealed more of her feelings than any words could ever convey.
Seeing her smile made his heart beat faster. How he loved being the reason for Christine’s happiness! While Erik had plenty of experience amusing a woman, he had learned much healthier ways to do so in his marriage to Christine. The sweet sounding laughter he earned from his wife for innocent reasons was a better reward than any emperor’s power.
Every honest smile was a gift. He loved it when the corners of her mouth he had kissed so often went up and the rosiness of her cheeks became more apparent when he complimented her, or when she could barely regain her composure after he had come up with a very fitting pun for a specific situation or when she had no choice but endure a minute-long laughing fit while he tickled her mercilessly. Or how she beamed at him in anticipation when he entered the music room, ready to begin a lesson. Or how her lips curved into a sweet little smile when he kissed her forehead while she slept, safe and sound in his arms…
Oh, how much his Christine had given him over the past months! Before, he could have never even dreamed of experiencing the pure joy sharing his life with her brought.
How diligently her delicate hands worked on the dough! She was always so eager to please yet incredibly gentle with her surroundings… He was in awe.
“Chéri, could you take this to the basement?” Nodding silently, he carried the bowl with a now perfectly combined mixture of butter, sugar, egg yolks and flour in it to that room below their house to let it cool.
He chuckled to himself. Albeit watching his Christine attentively, he still didn’t have a clue as to what was so extraordinary about this recipe. What had his angel planned?
As Erik was returning to their kitchen, he could make out Christine quietly singing a melody to herself. And how euphoric he was when he recognised her part of the duet he had composed for their wedding day!
As silently as a mischievous cat might wander around in the night, the musician approached his wife. “Not so shy, my love!”, he whispered in her ear, startling her for but a moment. Her voice grew stronger, more confident, so Erik soon joined her as both reminisced on the day or rather the night they were married, singing the most heartfelt love duet that had ever been written.
Just after their musical love confession had culminated in a heavenly vocal firework, Erik pulled Christine into an ardent kiss which only deepened as time went on, him stroking her hair, never getting enough of her. Before that could lead to something spicier than the gingerbread biscuits they had prepared the day before, though, they pulled away, both panting slightly. Their eyes shone brightly as blue met gold. Maybe some other time.
This time it was Christine who went into the basement. She fetched the dough and made her way back through a trapdoor which led to their quaint, tastefully furnished kitchen. As she placed the bowl down onto the table, she delighted in what was already on it. Oh, and what had made her heart jump so jolly high?
Two distinctive figures walking hand in hand had been added to the scenery painted in the flour covering a part of the tabletop – how had Erik been so fast? She laughed, overjoyed at his inventiveness. The young woman bestowed a kiss upon her husband’s blushing cheek.
Watched by Erik, Christine carefully drew a curved line along one side of the scenery. Lifting her pretty head, she looked expectantly at him. Erik elegantly mirrored her motion in an instant.
Together, they admired the heart they had painted and held each other’s flour-covered hands for a bit before sprinkling the surface of the table with a little more as not to make the dough stick to the table.
The young opera singer incorporated the flour into the dough which helped it achieve the correct consistency. Subsequently, they took turns rolling it out. “May your Erik now learn what these ‘special’ biscuits are?” he inquired, not being able to wait any longer.
Christine chuckled. “Of course, my love,” - she gestured towards a cupboard which he hardly ever opened - “would you give me what is in there, please?”
He unlocked it easily without a key, and to his surprise there were two jam jars inside, labelled either “hjortronsylt” or “blåbärssylt”.
Both of them had small tags tied to them, each one bearing the handwritten designation “1879”, accompanied by a little “E. C.” emblem Christine had lovingly calligraphed. When Erik turned to face his wife, she beamed at him.
“You took these with you this summer?” He barely managed to hide he was deeply moved.
“Yes…” His wife responded shyly. Oh, she believed he didn’t like the surprise!
“Our trip to Sweden was so liberating. In fact, it made me realise my true feelings for you - and you seemed so happy…I thought you might like it.” She almost whispered the last words, bowing her head as if she had done something wrong.
Erik gently put his right index finger under Christine’s chin to make her look at him and kissed her.
“I do.” he assured her. “Very much.” He pulled her into a tight embrace so he could bury his face in her hair.
A few minutes later they were shaping the dough into little balls, softly pressing their knuckles into the biscuits-to-be so that a small amount of bil- or cloudberry jam could fit into the indentation. Magically, Erik and Christine were able to fill a whole baking tray with their tiny pastries.
While they baked in the oven, she prepared a box full of Christmas biscuits for Mamma Valérius, whom she hoped to cheer up because she couldn’t go to the midnight mass.
Together, the couple cleaned up the table. At last, there were only the two jam jars left on it, so Erik and Christine each took a spoon to scoop up some jam and fed it to each other. The immediate smile on their faces told their own story.
The biscuits smelled divine as they came out of the oven. The jam in the middle had baked just right and the crust was firm enough, yet crumbled easily in the mouth as Christine tried one with bilberry filling. She closed her eyes. Delicious. She reached for another, but Erik quickly took her hand and shook his head. “Too much sugar, love.”
“They are still warm! And it’s Christmas!” “You know very well that I only celebrate the birth of Christine, not of Christ, my child.”
She looked at him and tried to pout, which looked adorable since she couldn’t hide her smile.
“Fine. One more.” Those big blue eyes!
Christine rejoiced and flung her arms around his neck, almost causing him to fall on the kitchen floor.
“Well,” Erik said. “Your sweetness must come from somewhere.” He earned a chuckle from his wife.
“May I tempt you to try one for yourself?” She asked in an irresistible, honeyed tone, offering him a biscuit with dark orange cloudberry jam, for she remembered he liked the unique taste of the ripe fruit.
Her husband would do anything for her if she just asked it of him, so he took the biscuit and ate it. It tasted like comfort would if it were a food. “Good?” Christine asked, eagerly awaiting his opinion.
“Excellent.”
the 25th of December
Christine’s performance was magnificent. The crowd practically showered her with compliments, and after a brilliant encore, the audience went home with a warm feeling inside to celebrate Christmas with their families.
However, the ballet girls’ joy inside the Opéra was even greater when they discovered each one got a small bag full of biscuits. And how delighted Madame Giry looked when she not only found her favourite chocolates in box five, but some macaroons as well!
Faces were lighting up with joy everywhere in the opera house, especially of those older, poorer folks who wouldn’t have had such a merry Christmas otherwise. Even the one whose face was always lit discovered a pleasant surprise waiting for him in the cellars.
Everyone who had been good this year, regardless of status or profession in the Opéra, had received some treats. The horses neighed happily as they munched on their favourite carrots.
The chaotic merriment in this strange kingdom of music and art was the reason no one noticed how Christine Daaé disappeared, which wasn’t that unusual of an occurrence anyway. She had probably gone home herself, it must have been an exhausting day for the prima donna after all, the smiths and the seamstresses and the box keepers thought. She was too humble to hear the employees compliment her and had taken a few days off to rest, the managers thought.
The children hoped Christine would have a lovely Christmas.
Christine had indeed gone home, but only after she had visited her Mamma in the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires to wish her a very merry Christmas.
The elderly woman rejoiced when she opened her little present and discovered Swedish gingerbread biscuits.
After an eventful day, Christine was ready to finally retire. She took the entrance in the Rue Scribe, entered their home and was surprised not to find Erik in the living room. When she couldn’t find him after ten minutes of searching every room she knew of, she started to panic. Where was he? Desperately, she called his name.
“So, Erik’s wife decided to come home in the end.” Christine had never thought she would be relieved to hear that from a pillow on the chaiselongue.
“I told you yesterday that I would be home late, chéri.” She heard a quiet intake of breath at the term of endearment from their bedroom - or so she thought, at least. “Of course, of course. But Erik doesn’t like it when Christine is away for so long.” Judging by his tone, her husband was indeed just the tiniest bit sulky about her absence.
“And he couldn’t congratulate you properly.” Suddenly, he stood before her with a deploring gaze, a huge flower bouquet in his arms. Sometimes Christine believed Erik really did walk through the walls in their home, she had felt certain her husband would approach her from the opposite side. And how he had managed to get roses at this time of the year would probably also always be a mystery to her. He never failed to astound her immensely.
“Madame, you have certainly warmed the hearts of Paris tonight.” He handed over the bunch of flowers to his wife. “Your performance was immaculate, dearest.” The way he beheld her with such pride shining in his golden eyes quickened her heartbeat. “Thank you, my love. I owe you so much.” Carefully placing the roses on a table nearby, Christine made her way to Erik to hug him. She affectionately rested her head on his chest, knowing that this was the safest place on Earth, listening to the rhythm of his throbbing heart.
“Erik…has prepared a bath for his angel.” he muttered into her hair, lovingly stroking her long blonde locks cascading down her back. “He thought she must be quite tired after today.”
Never before had Christine been more grateful for her husband’s thoughtfulness. Looking up to him, she smiled thankfully and sweetly kissed his lips. He felt as if he might swoon.
Hot water infused with a floral oil welcomed the young woman as she stepped into the bathtub. With a content sigh she sat down and let herself relax.
After a good hour or so, Christine towelled herself, exited the bath room and put on an especially lovely dress that complimented her figure exceptionally well.
Erik was still in the living room. Just as he turned after he had put back the book he had been reading, Christine took the chance and swiftly pulled him into a hug from behind. Absolutely no startlement.
“I see your sneaking-up-skills have improved.” She could picture the amused smirk forming on his lips as he spoke. “Soon, you will be able to replace your husband.”
“Never. You’re irreplaceable.” She held him closer, embracing him tightly at the waist. Erik gently rubbed his left thumb over her hands which locked in front of his lower abdomen.
“My Erik.” Christine mumbled into the fabric of his dress coat. “Mine.” She planted a kiss on his clothed back.
He quickly turned around and scooped her up to embosom her tenderly. “I love you, Christine! You must love me, too!” he exclaimed, desperate for reassurance.
He sunk down onto his knees and hung on to her waist. Christine, though taken aback from the sudden change of mood, immediately sat down and cradled him without hesitation, pressing him to her breast, softly stroking what little hair he had on his head. Poor guy, sometimes such affectionate gestures were still too much for him.
“I adore you.” She spoke those words sweetly, softly, so that they would reach only his ears. He held on to her as a frightened child would to a trusted mother.
A few moments later he seemed to have calmed down, relishing Christine’s gentle, soothing caresses. “Christine is bound to her Erik forever.” He said, rather to himself than her. ”As he is to her.” She said, taking his hands in hers.
“You are so beautiful.” He ogled her with a slight smile of disbelief as if she were a magical creature of another world. She planted a reverent kiss on his forehead and let go of him so that he could sit upright.
He continued to stare at her, his gaze lingering on her figure.
“Is there a reason you’re dressed like that? You always turn Erik’s head anyway, are you trying to make him lose his mind completely?” “You flatter me, but I could ask you the same! Why are you wearing your full evening attire?”
“Well, Erik has something planned for his wife.” “Oh, a surprise?” Christine’s face lit up. Erik merely nodded affirmatively. “It will be a little cold though, so she has to put on a warm coat, else he cannot allow her to see it.”
She had never dressed faster in her life, quickly returning to find her husband holding a picnic basket. An invisible brush painted a small smile on her lips.
As Erik turned to face her, he bore a questioning look in his golden eyes. “Hat, do you think?” He revealed a top hat matching his elegant outfit. “Formal touch?”
“Definitively.” The young woman pecked her surprised husband’s thin lips. Kissing him was so easy for her. No nose to bump, after all.
“Madame, you’ve decided. Hat it is.”
And so they headed upstairs…and upstairs…and further upstairs.
They only made a slight detour to visit a certain white stallion in the stables, managing to slip stable master Lachenal’s attention who had decided to check on the horses one last time this evening. Christine briefly searched her pockets, found what she was looking for and fed some sugar to the horse who had already nickered quietly, recognising her.
“Merry Christmas, César.” Christine whispered softly as she pet the horse’s velvet nostrils. César nudged her in a friendly manner, as if he wanted to reciprocate her good wishes.
Then, the steed heard another familiar, extraordinary pleasant voice saying: “You have served well, César. You are a good horse.” César had a sudden, strange feeling of pride in his big theatrical horse heart and solemnly neighed the two cloaked figures goodbye as they disappeared into one of many secret passageways in the Opéra.
Erik and Christine continued ascending stairs and explored shortcuts even she had never seen before until they came to a stop beneath a well-hidden trapdoor. It sprung open without him touching it (she uttered a sound of surprise) and he placed a foldable ladder below it. Albeit the darkness and the black mask he had donned for their little trip, she could feel the content smile on his face, him having impressed her so.
Christine was the first to climb the ladder. She did so fearlessly, having spent enough time up in the rafters not to be scared of such things. As she pulled her hooded head through the opening, a brisk December breeze welcomed her to the rooftop of the Opéra.
She gasped in amazement. “Erik, this is wonderful!” Christine pulled herself up to stand on top of their world. He followed her quickly, and shut the trapdoor and put the ladder, which had folded itself, into the picnic basket. She beamed at him, sharing the delight her heart felt.
“Oh, this is the loveliest surprise!” Excited as a child on Christmas day, she ran to her husband and embraced him, peppering his masked face with lots of sweet pecks.
“Careful, or you’ll leave me no choice but to kiss you!” he warned, taking off her hood.
“Oh, I truly am being quite risky,” she gave him a dramatic smooch on the cheek, “don’t you thiiiink?”
With that the mask was gone and his mouth was on hers, kissing her luscious lips as if there were no tomorrow. Her eyelids fluttered shut. His long fingers lightly caressed her jawline and throat. Tracing back the line, they found her cheek and stroked it gently, while he continued to kiss Christine passionately.
Erik pulled his wife closer, pressing his form against hers. Oh, it almost took her breath away when he was this bold! He only stopped when he felt her gasping for air. Seeing her love-drunk smile however, he kissed her forehead once more and scolded her playfully: “You should know by now not to tease Erik, sweet child.”
Erik gestured towards the space behind the statue portraying Apollo.
“I thought this would be a good place to enjoy those biscuits we made yesterday. A rooftop picnic, so to speak.” he explained.
“Yes…of course…” Christine’s head was still spinning from her husband’s love attack. Sensing she was not quite steady on her legs, Erik held out a gloved hand. She gladly accepted, and he helped her up the narrow stairs before laying out a blanket on the floor so she would be comfortable.
After she had calmed down, he joined her, having taken off the top hat.
“Beautiful!” Christine looked around. With a wink, she added “Handsome.”
“Not too bad a view, eh?” “It’s incredible.” She rested her head on his shoulder affectionately and he put his left arm around her waist protectively as they watched the stunning night sky tuck the city into darkness.
“Would you care for something sweet to eat, Madame?” Erik liked to address her with the title indicating she was married (to him, of course).
“I would like that very much, though I am sure it will be not as sweet as you, Monsieur de la Musique.” She warbled, imitating his tone. Chuckling, he reached into the picnic basket and produced a box from it.
“I brought two.” He put off the lid and placed it next to him as Christine watched him.
He brought only two biscuits?
“…of each.” Erik continued. “I made sure there were enough for us left before my generous queen gave everything to her subjects.” He caressed her cheek and opened the box with lots of pastries inside.
Laughing, she took one of their “special” biscuits with home-made jam in the middle.
“Do you know why these are so special now?” Christine held it in the air so that the dark filling (she had picked one with bilberry jam) shone in the moonlight.
“I believe I do.” They smiled at each other. “They were made with love.”
“Mhm.” She nodded affirmatively, ate the biscuit and rested her pretty head on his shoulder. “No one else got them as a gift today. These are just for us.”
He planted a little kiss on her forehead.
Her tranquillity was slightly disturbed as he rummaged through the basket. “Whatever are you doing, love?” Christine inquired.
“My sweet girl, you’re not the only one who brought something here from our trip to Sweden.” He smiled fondly at her as he revealed a bottle of bilberry wine. Her eyes went open wide.
“How?” She could not even find words to properly form a sentence at this point.
“Well, I believe you have more expertise in preparing dishes with these berries, ma chouchoute, but I made it this summer. That elderly woman was kind enough to, ah, lend me the recipe.
I combined the juice of the bilberries we had collected that day with some sugar and raisins in a bottle, put a cloth on it and let it sit on the windowsill. There’s a lot of sunshine in this bottle, chérie, though not as much as in your laugh. When the day of our departure came, I just snuck it past you and carefully placed it into a bag. Since then it has been maturing in our basement.”
Christine sat there, disbelievingly. “You made fönstervin and I did not notice?”
“So it would seem.” Erik gave her a warm smile that made her forget it was winter.
She embraced him, holding him close so she would never lose him.
“Maybe horses do like biscuits.” Somehow, the conversation had drifted off-topic after they had sampled the wine, reviewing it in silly, posh accents.
“We should find out.” Erik got up, determined to solve this mystery and climbed onto the railing.
“What are you doing so close to the edge?” Christine sounded worried as her husband continued to advance towards one of Lequesne’s statues adorning the corners of the upper part of the roof.
“It’s pretty high, eh?” When he saw her worried expression, his tone grew softer. “Don’t be scared. Erik knows what he is doing.” He said as he balanced on the admittedly quite narrow wall.
Confidently, he strutted down the steep railing and came to a stop beneath the winged horse.
As he was looking up, a chuckle escaped his thin lips. “He’s quite a large fellow, isn’t he!”
Christine didn’t understand what he meant, but her eyes widened in shock as she perceived him climbing onto the back of the statue. He produced a biscuit from his pocket and, balancing on the fabulous creature, he tried to put it into the statue’s wide opened mouth.
“Tastes good, eh, Pegasus?” Pegasus did not respond. Erik descended from it, which looked both ludicrous and elegant at the same time. “The cockiness of a Pegasus. He’s not a mere common horse, after all.” He joined Christine again and put his arm around her and considered.
“Maybe we should just ask César.” Together, they snorted with laughter.
“We could make carrot biscuits!” Christine suggested. “Not until I’ve slept for at least a fortnight!” Erik embraced his pulchritudinous wife. “In your arms.”
“Gladly!” Christine responded, nuzzling his chest. A sweet smile played around her lips.
“I can’t believe you just climbed onto Pegasus.”
He caressed her blonde hair and whispered into her left ear:
“Do you think Apollo might be more appreciative of some biscuits?”
Her silvery laughter rang more beautifully across the rooftop of the Opéra than Papageno’s magic glockenspiel could ever have sounded like.
Listening to Christine’s entheal laughter was one of the most wonderful things on Earth. She was so very gorgeous, especially when she smiled, Erik thought – pure, contagious joy on her face. He could not help but join her. Astonishment filled Christine’s eyes and soul as he did.
No drunken demon cackle, true Erik laughter. It was the most mellifluous music she had ever heard.
A magnificent duet resounded as the two most beautiful voices ever to exist embraced, forming a sacred bond, making the nocturnal souls of Paris wandering the streets down below wonder what joke had made two angels from heaven laugh so melodiously at this time of night.