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Se tu vuoi che t’ami, fa’ che ti brami (If you want me to love you, let me crave you.)
Winters in Rome are a different matter than winters in Vienna. Not so cold during the day but so humid at night that one can feel the dampness seep into one’s bones with no chance to shake it off except in front of a burning fireplace.
Christine has suffered from the change of scenery. Her throat is slightly sore; for the last two mornings a little rasp has shaded her beautiful voice. A good warm-up chases it away, but all the same, Erik wishes they could just go home – they are very near Florence now – but the tour must continue, their schedule is tight.
The last days of the old year and the first few of the new one are spent rehearsing Rossini’s Semiramide from morning till noon at the newly built Costanzi Theatre. The premiere in 1880 was so well received that the manager, Signor Costanzi himself, decided to host another run, inviting Mlle Daaé to play the lead role.
Christine throws her entire soul into the character of Semiramide and Erik throws himself into the care of Christine. Once he would have criticised each note she sang. Now, her performance choices are all her own as he does everything he can to make sure she will not fall prey to any illness before the day of the show– gargles with warm, salty water, constant hydration throughout the day and a spoon of honey before bedtime. Rest whenever she needs it and a warm shawl around her neck at all times.
His efforts are rewarded when on January 5th the crowd at the opera in Rome drowns the theatre in wild applause for the entire cast, and Christine is acclaimed as the new heroine of the city.
He looms in the dark, as he always has; he waits for the moment that she is alone in her dressing room, when the ritual line of adoring fans and less than recommendable but very wealthy patrons has disappeared, and he can claim her again as his own.
She is sparks of joy and rays of light when he sees her at last. Her smile radiates a happiness so deep he cannot but be affected, seldom used muscles at the sides of his twisted mouth curving upwards in a rare display of elation. Her body melts into his when he encloses her in a breath-taking hug, lifts her and makes them both twirl on the spot.
“You were magnificent!”
Erik keeps his arm about her, reluctant to part yet. He needs the connection, needs her happiness to seep into his body, needs to live vicariously through her success. He wants Christine, but that will have to wait until they are back at their hotel. A suggestive kiss on her neck, when she turns to put the earrings she has just removed on her vanity, compels her to meet his eyes. Looking at each other in the mirror, he can read the matching desire in her eyes, and he is about to tell her to hurry up when a knock at the door shatters their moment.
Signor Costanzi, a distinguished gentleman, with hair perfunctorily slicked back and a noble moustache and goatee, gives the impression of a child who has come to confess to his mother he ate all the sweets in the cupboard in secrecy during the night.
“I’m so sorry, Signori, but the Befana brought us bad weather in the city this year. There is a snowstorm going on outside and it is not advisable to venture out. Coaches have been literally assaulted by those who attended the opera tonight. I have tried to bribe a driver into waiting for you, but no amount of money I offered was accepted.”
Mind still clouded by desire and blood rushing south, Erik informs the manager that they will walk to the hotel, if need be, even though he knows that Christine cannot fall ill. Their engagement at the theatre is for a run of twelve performances. The prospect of them spending the night at the opera, though, brings him to a dark place he has tried so hard to put behind him and fills him with dread.
“Signore, if you look out of the window, you will see yourself that what you are suggesting is impossible.”
Erik does and, after moving the heavy curtain aside, his mood sours to the point that a scowl takes up permanent residence on his face.
Christine joins him by the window, peeks outside and places a calming hand on his arm. She turns to the manager. “So, what are you proposing?”
Signor Costanzi perks up at the question. “We have some rooms for guests at the theatre. Your dressing room is attached to one of them, as a matter of fact.” He points to a particular panel on the wall where Erik’s and Christine’s cloaks are hanging. He rushes there and shows them how to open the door. “It’s not the first time that some of our artists have stayed here for one or more nights. We can provide you with a comfortable bed and a warm room. Tomorrow morning, I will make sure to find a coach that brings you back to your hotel.”
The shadows of the past are crawling around Erik. He still wants to say no, but he must think of Christine. He cannot very well have her walk in ankle-deep snow to reach a hotel that is more than half an hour on foot away from the theatre. On the map, everything in Rome seems concentrated in the centre of the city, but when one finds oneself downtown, one gets the idea of just how colossal the buildings are and how very far apart everything is. No, Erik will think of Christine and will fight the sense of anxiety that is thrumming at the edge of his consciousness. This will be just another bed in another room in another place that is not their home. He is not the phantom of the opera anymore. He left that life behind him a long time ago.
Signor Costanzi bids them good night and Erik answers without much conviction. Closing the door behind the manager, he stops to collect a few items from Christine’s vanity – including the honey that she needs to take before bed – then follows her to the adjacent room into which she has vanished.
Finely carved oak panels on the walls, a huge four poster bed centered against the long wall and an upright piano on the left. Someone has been in here to light the fire that is crackling in the white marble fireplace. True to Constanzi’s word, it is a spartan yet cosy environment. Besides the piano there is nothing in here that reminds him they are at the opera, and he is glad for it. He draws a breath and leaves the honey jar on the nightstand. Christine is testing the mattress and seems to be satisfied. Erik tries to relax, but a hard shiver runs down his spine when her voice, sultry and seductive, whispers in his ear.
“So… this is happening. Us spending a night at the theatre again.”
“I’d rather we didn’t. This is no place for you. But I am not taking you out in that weather.”
His bitter tone washes all enthusiasm from Christine’s face, but she still soothes his worries with a light touch on his back. “Erik, this is fine. The room is clean, the bed is comfortable enough and the fireplace has already been lit. Compared to some of the places where I’ve slept in the past, this looks like the queen’s room at Versailles.”
Great, make her feel miserable on such an incredible day, you idiot!
Thankfully Christine is not one to dwell on depressing thoughts as he is wont to do. “Enough sad thoughts! I am happy and I want to celebrate. It was a great success tonight!” She wraps her arms tightly around his body and kisses his jaw.
This is how he wanted to see her tonight; this is how he wanted to spend their time together. He tries to shake off the gloom that had settled on him like a cloak and whispers a shy confession: “I had champagne waiting for us at the hotel…”
“You did, did you?” Her arms release their hold but do not stray, her hands start painting random patterns on his arms until they splay on his chest and insinuate themselves under his coat and remove it from his shoulders in a smooth gesture. “I don’t really need champagne to celebrate.”
Her smile, oh god, her ravishing smile breaks him into a thousand pieces. The fire looked harmless enough, so why does it feel as if the room is several degrees warmer? Erik’s heart is beating faster, his palms sweat, and his mouth is parched.
More than champagne he needs a glass of water – several indeed – to quench a sudden acute thirst. He knows where to find relief from his current predicament though and searches for her lips. Christine welcomes him with open arms and an open heart. As her dressing gown follows his coat on the floor, Erik is overwhelmed at the warm expanse of skin on her shoulders. He devises a plan to reacquaint himself with it, but Christine is quicker and hungrier, and he fails to anticipate her movements.
Her hands dispatch his waistcoat and shirt quickly, and move to his chest warm, small and just everywhere. She pushes her whole body against his – “Make love to me”, she tells him – how can he refuse such a heartfelt request?
He backtracks to the bed, prey cornered by his hunter, and she pushes him lightly enough that, unbalanced, he falls on it, legs left dangling at the knees.
There is an aura around her, a tremendous energy flowing off of her that leaves him powerless. She straddles him and he lets her. He knows she likes the liberty the position gives her to do whatever she pleases with his body. He will not lie. He likes it too.
A flash of memory invades his mind, tangible in every detail: the hot breeze, the prickly grass of a field under him, a view of Florence in the distance, the warmth of her body above his and her little gasps in his ear. Something about it excited but also frustrated him back then.
His right hand reaches high and this time he will not be denied the pleasure of seeing her breasts unbound. At first, his fingers seem content to play with the top of her corset, running along the edge, soon enough they become greedy, and the hand splays as much as it can over her chest. His touch is soft, enticing as it follows the contour of her body to rest lower on her stomach. His thumb strains towards her sacred place.
“Take this off.”
Erik prays his voice sounds commanding – to hide the need and desperation that have settled in his core. His sight is glued to her body as she releases the ties on the back of the corset enough to open every single hook in the front. Every snap is a stab to his poor heart.
A feast for a king appears before his eyes after she removes the chemise in a smooth move. Erik grunts as he lifts his upper body from the bed to embrace her. The contact of skin against skin is shockingly brief as Christine allows only a quick kiss then pushes him back to the mattress – not so gently this time, she is in a hurry – and gets rid of any other lingering pieces of clothes that are in the way – hers and his.
When she comes back and welcomes him inside, Erik closes his eyes and just surrenders to pleasure, surrenders to Christine. No tactics, no conditions, just a plain capitulation of body and soul to the woman who has changed his life. He whispers professions of love long into the night, well after they are spent in a strange bed at the opera in Rome.
The next morning, he wakes up with a distinct sensation of cold, but hearing – when all senses come back to him in the effort of regaining consciousness – tells him that the fire is still burning. He opens his eyes to find his naked body on display, covers bunched around his ankles and an equally naked Christine frozen in the act of straddling him once more. She has an adorable, startled look and she is so surprised to see him awake that she misses her target completely and lands with her right leg between his. Erik is far from complaining about the new impromptu arrangement.
A sock – one of his – appears in front of his face. Beyond that, Christine’s pout almost makes him burst out laughing. However, he will not. He has an image and a reputation to uphold.
“Have I been a bad girl, Erik? The Befana didn’t bring me anything.”
Leave it to Christine to learn all about the strangest traditions of the places they visit. Apparently, on the 6th of January every child in Rome receives a visit from an old witchy lady who rides a broomstick and who leaves sweets if they have been good or coal if they have behaved badly.
Christine certainly deserves a prize on this day. She has been far more than good to him. Last night, the past year, ever since she met him at the Parisian opera.
Erik remembers something then and turns towards the nightstand. He hopes his back is hiding his gift from Christine’s view. When he is done, he settles against the headboard then extends his arm towards her. On his index fingertip a large dollop of honey waits for her and Christine scrambles nearer.
He never had known what goosebumps were before her, he had never figured out that a human being could stop another’s heart with just a touch. The little licks and kisses and then her mouth bring him closer to heaven. When Christine sits on his lap, and trades his finger for his mouth, Erik knows, he is completely undone. Nothing matters but the woman in his arms and that is the best gift the Befana could bring to him.