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Raoul digs through his suitcase, then again, then a third time, triple-checking that everything was packed. A habit he’s kept since childhood, and one his brother and father had as well. There was no chance in Hell that he’d ever come back here to Coney, so he’d better not forget anything.
Among his packed belongings was a red scarf. That red scarf. It was fraying and much less bright in colour than it had been years ago, but to Raoul it looked the same. Why he kept it, he did not know. Maybe he could present it to Christine and mend their relationship. Maybe he could pass it down to a daughter if they ever had one. Christine seemed to not want it anymore.
Some time ago, perhaps a year, Raoul had messed up badly . Christine, usually so calm and understanding, just could not forgive him. It very nearly ended in a divorce. That’s at least how it felt to Raoul. The scarf was thrown out in a fit of uncharacteristic anger from his wife. He didn’t blame her, though. He simply hung his head in shame and went to get it, keeping it in a drawer in case it would be wanted again.
The Vicomte pets the scarf once more before shutting the case with a deep frown. “Hearts may get broken,” Christine sang tonight, and Raoul’s heart surely was broken. His wife, the Vicomtesse, the little Swedish girl who lost her scarf, was no longer his. She sang for her Angel instead, and now she was bound to him. She and their son were to stay here in New York.
“Damn trickster,” Raoul mumbles to himself as he leaves the suite. “Son of a bitch.” He twists the doorknob thrice— another peculiar ritual— and heads for the stairs, suitcase in hand and cloak draped on his arm.
As he walks in the streets to the docks, he conjures up tens of different outcomes and conversations he could have had. A better apology, or not leaving during the performance, or being more convincing in his pleas to Christine about cancelling the performance.
The December cold bites at his cheeks. It would be a long way home, and the sea wind was never kind this time of year. Weeks of misery planted themself in his future. His birthday was coming up very soon, as well. How unfortunate it will be to spend it alone– no wife, no son.
His ears fill with the sounds of fog horns and the conversations of waiting passengers with their thick American accents that he couldn't understand. Their coats are plain and sometimes ragged; unkempt hair badly covered by torn top hats; a week’s worth of uncut stubble on the men’s faces— they look miserable.
“Isn’t that the Viscount?” One of them whispers to a woman.
“Yeah– ‘Rowel’ I think.”
Oh, how he hated how they said his name. They spoke so differently. Drawn-out vowels and harsh consonants made every word sound foreign to him. Raoul spoke English very well– he learned it as a young boy and continued to speak it as he travelled the world as a sailor. But this was not English he could decipher.
Raoul nods politely as they stare at him. Despite his expensive coat, he really isn’t any better than them.
Somewhere, not far away by the sound of it, a loud crack rings out. A gunshot. Soon after that, a woman screams. The people around don’t seem at all bothered by it. Is this normal here? What kind of country allows this to be normal?
Scoffing at the ignorant people around him, Raoul takes off in a jog towards the sound. The ship won’t be here for quite some time, and even if it were already pulling in, it would be cruel not to at least check on this person. He makes his way out of the dock and near a pier a ways down the shore. The cries turn to quiet sobs, but sound closer, and almost familiar.
Soon enough Raoul spies footprints in the snow. For another few paces, he follows them, calling out, “hello?”
At the end of the snowy pier lay Christine, still in her blue peacock dress from the performance, not even covered in a shawl. She must be freezing.
Around her is red. The snow is wet with a deep crimson stain. It looks black with how dark it is.
"Christine, my God!" Raoul shouts. He sprints to her, his suitcase falling behind him. "Christine, dear, what has happened?!"
The Vicomtesse whimpers as her head turns to look at him, her cheeks bright pink and wet with tears. “Raoul…” she whispers with a quivering lip.
Raoul kneels in the snow, quickly pulling his wife into his lap. That’s when he sees the source of the blood: a bullet wound in her side.
“Oh.. Oh God… Who did this? ”
He shifts to sit cross-legged so Christine may curl up comfortably. One of his hands reaches to press on the leaky wound. Blood seeps through the spaces between his fingers. He has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from vomiting.
“I don’t know; I didn’t see them.” Christine leans against Raoul’s chest, shuddering from the pain and the cold as he squeezes her side. It burns to have him touching an open wound, but his hands are warm. He always has warm hands.
“I was chasing Gustave,” Christine explains further. “He was dragged off by… by Erik. I caught up to them here, then a– a shot came out of nowhere. It wasn’t him who shot me. I know that much. I don’t think the shot was meant for me either. I think…” She trails off, trying and failing to take a deep breath. “I think it was meant for Gus.”
Raoul furrows his brows as she recounts the events. At first he’s angry. So, so angry. Not at her– he could never be angry with her for such a thing. Angry at Erik, at this mystery gunman, at everything and everyone in the world.
Then the anger morphs into something else. Something he cannot name.
“I’m sorry,” Christine lets out, burying her face in her husband’s chest, feeling the warmth radiating from him. “I couldn’t do anything to stop him. I tried, I really did!” Her body shakes as she sobs.
“Hush.” Raoul rocks her back and forth like a child– like he would with Gustave when he would wake from a nightmare.
The blood on his hand is hot. Impossible to ignore. He’s seen wounds like hers before, and he knows deep in his bones that she’s not going to make it. Some organ must have been hit with the way it’s positioned. If blood loss doesn’t take her, poisoning or failure will.
The more he thinks on it, the faster he rocks the two of them. Trying to will it out of existence.
“I read your note,” Christine whispers. “I forgive you. Truly.”
Raoul frowns and shakes his head. “You needn’t.”
“But I do. I did not love you as I should have.”
“Do not say such things, Christine. I will not hear it; certainly not now.”
The woman sighs and places her hand over Raoul’s. “I forgive you,” she repeats.
Raoul weeps at that. “I was terrible to you. To Gustave. To everyone .”
“ I forgive you ,” Christine says a third time.
“You are a foolish girl, then,” the Vicomte says with a sad smile. Christine gives a small huff, almost a laugh, blowing out a cloud of air in front of her.
“Oh, I’m cold…”
Raoul reaches for his cloak, lying atop his discarded suitcase, and spreads it over Christine’s shaking body like a blanket, tucking it around her. He swipes a thumb over Christine’s cheek, smearing blood. The sight makes him choke out a sob.
“I’m so sorry,” he shudders. “I knew you had no control over your heart. As much as I detested him, your Angel gave you more than I ever could. Loved you in a way I never could. I was the one who failed you, and I should not have been angry with you for my failures.”
“How many times must I tell you that I forgive you?” Christine kisses his chin. “Do not dwell on it any more, please. I should not like for your last memory of me to be of us arguing. We’ve done that enough for a thousand lifetimes.”
“This isn’t…” Raoul objects, then bites his tongue. There’s no use lying to her. “Yes, dear.”
The Vicomtesse takes a deep breath– the first in several minutes– and cries as pain floods her body. “You will remember me, right?”
Raoul holds her closer. “Always. Not in a hundred years would I ever forget you.”
He looks up to the inky sky. Another wave of snow is beginning to fall. It’s quiet. He’d rather it be raining, so he could at least hear the pitter patter of water against the rooftops. The snow sounds lonely. As if it doesn’t dare to interrupt them, or perhaps it relishes in making them feel alone.
Such thoughts are silly. It is snow; it doesn’t relish anything.
“What am I to do about Gustave?” Raoul wonders aloud. “Where could he be? And what am I to do once I find him? I’ve been so awful to him; I do not think he’d like to stay with me no matter how hard I try to mend the bridges between us.”
“He loves you,” Christine whispers softly. She looks up at her husband– at his sandy hair, the snowflakes on his pink nose, his steel blue eyes that know what she wants to say.
“I’m not his father, am I?” It’s not a question. “He told me. Erik.”
Before she can explain, Raoul kisses her forehead and sighs. “I am not mad. Yesterday I would be, but today I am not. And I swear by all that is holy I will do everything for him that a father should.” He squeezes his eyes shut and shifts Christine in his lap so she is cradled with her head in the crook of his arm and his other hand supporting her waist.
“Tell him the truth.” Christine settles into Raoul’s arms with a small smile. He’s so warm. Always warm. “Not tomorrow, maybe not for weeks. But one day. When I am in the ground and you are back in France and the blood under your nails has been washed out. Tell him.”
“I will.”
“And tell him I love him.”
“I will.” Again, he kisses her forehead. “I will tell him that his mother, the Vicomtesse de Chagny, famous soprano, and my very heart, loved him dearly.”
“Do not forget that I love you as well.” Christine coughs, a small spurt of blood dotting her lips and chin. “Do not forget.”
“Never.”
All this red and white snow makes Raoul think of Christmas time. The elaborate dresses Christine would wear to dinners and parties. How, no matter what she received, she would squeal with joy after opening each present. How the gifts she gave were so personalized. How she would shower little Gustave with everything she could, so he would never have to know how it felt to have as little as she had when she was young like him.
To celebrate Christmas this year feels cruel.
“I love you,” Raoul whispers with a sob. “I do not say it enough. I cannot say it enough. I love nothing in this world as I love you. From when I first saw you in Perros to when we met again in Paris to now, I love you.”
Christine lets out another shaky breath, another small cough making her body shake. She's exhausted, and each breath hurts more than the last, her side throbbing with a pain she can't describe. Her body is dead, but her mind hasn’t caught on yet.
There’s little left to say. Raoul begins to softly rock the two of them again, tracing up and down Christine's shoulder with his fingers and peppering kisses everywhere he can reach. Should they both live to be a hundred there would still not be enough time for Raoul to make up all the kisses she deserves. Nevertheless, Christine leans into each kiss, letting it spark fires across her cold skin. Her body begs her to give up, to let her eyes fall shut for the last time.
Her eyes begin to roll back as she fights. Oh, how tired she is.
“Rest, dear.” Raoul leans down to press a long, final kiss to her lips. Beneath the coppery blood and burning cold, she tastes like the tea she drinks before performances. “Rest. I’ve got you. I will hold you until my arms crumble to dust.”
Christine manages one final shaky exhale, her body relaxing against him, the tenseness seeping out of her muscles, her heart taking one last beat before it is still.
It feels as if Raoul were drowning. He cries out, but no noise escapes him. Nothing more than a meek whimper from deep in his throat. The snow stops falling. The moon grows dimmer. The air goes still and cold.
Raoul does not let go of her. He stares at her face, ignoring the way his tears seem to freeze to his skin. She looks so peaceful. No different than how she looks when she’s sleeping in on a Saturday morning, or when she drifts off in her rocking chair. It's nearly maddening. Her face is so calm . One might look at her and assume she died quietly, with little struggle. Lies, all of it. He'd almost feel better if she died with a deep frown or a crease between her eyebrows, so that people could see her face and imagine the horror of what she felt. What Raoul felt just watching.
The rational part of him urges him to take her somewhere to prepare for the trip home so she may be buried next to her dear father. But the irrational part of him wants to sit here. To hold her cold, blue body until dawn. To stew over how he could have fixed this. Was it bad luck? Perhaps his compulsive rituals had a part in it. Maybe, just maybe, if he had twisted a doorknob thrice more, she would be alive.
Letting go of her waist, he reaches for his suitcase, fumbling with the clamps so he may open it and retrieve the scarf. She may not want it anymore, but Raoul needs it. He pulls it out from under a folded pair of trousers and hangs it over his shoulders. He looks out at the frozen water and, shutting his eyes, thinks of finding that scarf in the sea at Perros. How the water soaked through his clothes and gave him a terrible cold. The lecture his father gave him when he returned home that nearly brought him to tears.
But most of all, the wide grin from young Christine as he handed the soggy scarf back to her and she repaid him with a kiss.