The Ballerina

If you'd have told me five years ago that I'd end up happily married with two beautiful children I would have laughed a despicable, saddened laugh. Five years ago I was living a quiet life, a relatively reclusive life - save for my legitimate dealings with the opera - a life in acceptance of who I was and what I'd done. I never expected to meet someone who wouldn't be repulsed by me, let alone fall in love with me.

Christine Daaé danced into my life at the point when I'd given up all hope of love. But isn't that always the way? In novels and operas the romantic hero has basically given up all hope when she appears. And so it was for me.

I'd left the manager's office in a huff after they'd decided upon budget cuts and let three members of the orchestra go. This was unacceptable to me, they were artists, why should they starve? Not to mention the fact that their loss changed the sound that the orchestra produced. We'd rowed and I'd decided to take a shortcut through the ballet studio to get home, with the idea that I'd use one of my hidden passageways again to arrive home quicker. It was late, I did not expect the room to be occupied.

"Oh!" came a startled cry from across the room as I burst through the doors. A little ballerina stumbled from her pirouette and fell to the floor. I ran toward her and, without thinking placed one hand upon her shoulder and held the other for her to take. I immediately regretted it of course. She looked up and saw the mask and I nearly pulled away. But then she took my hand! Her dainty little fingers clasped around mine as I pulled her to her feet.

"Mademoiselle, I must apologise for my haste in startling you. Are you hurt?"

"No, Monsieur," she looked up into my eyes and I was nearly pulled under by the deep blues of her eyes. They mesmerised me, they were beautiful. She was beautiful. I suddenly realised that I still held her hand and abruptly released it, stepping back.

"Why are you still rehearsing at such a late hour?"

"Oh, I hope it's all right that I am here? I'm new to the corps de ballet and I don't want to fall behind. I'm afraid I haven't been able to train these recent months..."

"May I ask why?"

"My father...he was ill so I took care of him. When he passed I was alone in the world but Madame Giry was kind enough to take me into the ballet, so that I could earn a living and stay here in the dormitories. Not that I didn't work hard to get here, Monsieur! No, I've been dancing since I can remember."

I smiled. "I'm certain you have, fall aside, you have the grace of a dancer. And, staying late would certainly suggest you are disciplined."

"So, I'm not in trouble for using the rehearsal room after hours?"

"Well of course not! Dedication deserves reward, not chastisement. Though, do make sure you're resting."

"I will, Monsieur."

"It's Erik, I hope you'll feel comfortable enough to call me that?" Oh, how I wanted to hear my name on her lips!

"Erik? That's a Scandinavian name, it means 'eternal ruler'. Were your parents correct in their choice of name, Erik? And are you Scandinavian? I myself am from Sweden. My name's Christine, but my parents just thought the name beautiful..." she chattered on. Normally this would be cause for my temper, and yet she endeared me. She was so friendly. Why was she treating me like a normal human being? It was unnerving, and yet glorious. The painful memories of how I came to be named did not matter in that moment, simply because it was she who voiced them.

"My father died before I was born, my mother - tormented by his loss - simply named me after the doctor who delivered me, as far as I know I am French, although I have visited Scandinavia and I agree with your parents, Christine is a beautiful name," I smiled, imitating her free-flowing dialogue. I of course left out the real reason for my mother not being able to bring herself to name me after my father, because she was utterly repulsed by my appearance.