Rose of Grief

He stared at me for a long while in silence and I held still. I couldn’t read his expression but I was going to be patient. Finally he spoke, “Rose you may stay awhile longer.” Then I heard him mutter to himself, as he turned away from me, “Je crois que je rêve.” When he finished looking around the place near where he had been sleeping, he turned to me and I saw that he’d put a mask over his face.
“Is that truly your name?” he asked me.
“Oui.”
“And you meant what you said about getting lost in your artistry?”
“Yes.”
“Je dois rêver.”
“Why do you think you must be dreaming Erik?” I asked having heard what he’d muttered to himself. He ignored my question.
“Describe it to me,” he commanded, “Your feeling of artistry, your need to do it.”
I was afraid to tell him but his eyes were piercing me even from behind that mask. So, I obeyed, “Sometimes something comes over me that I cannot escape. I must put down what inspiration comes to me. Sometimes it’s a place or a view, sometimes it’s a person, sometimes it’s a combination of both… But mostly it is the way something looks in a given moment. I must capture it with the talents I have or I will go mad if I don’t put down what I see in my head.”
“Who are you mademoiselle?” he asked with a sense of awe in his tone. I hadn’t yet heard this from him and so I was slightly taken aback. I didn’t know exactly how to answer him.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand…”
“You have just described my feeling and passion for music Mademoiselle Deuil.”
I was surprised and moved. “You mean: there are two of us who feel this way? Have a passion for an art?”
“It seems so,” he muttered absently. “Tell me the truth. Your name: It’s Rose Deuil. Yes?”
I nodded.
“Rose…” He tried my name on his tongue.
I liked the way he said it. It sounded like a song from his lips.
“Are you aware that the rose is my favorite plant?”
“No,” I murmured shyly.
“Deuil is truly your last name?”
“Yes why?”
“Because of what it means. That is why I believe I am dreaming.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand…” I put forward.
“Do you know who Christine Daae is?” he questioned softly.
“The soprano? Oui monsieur. Her name has become widespread after her successes at the opera house. Everyone in high society knows her name and those who don’t can read it off the posters for the productions they put on…”
“What else do you know of her?”
“That’s all I know myself… I’ve not ever seen her perform but I’ve heard she is rather good.”
“She is not good she’s magnificent,” Erik muttered under his breath. “You do not know then of the events that occurred last evening at the production of Don Juan?”
“I cannot say that I do… What happened?” I asked with interest.
He took a moment to consider me before answering with the most serious tone, “I lost my angel… I let her go and she flew away. The love of my life is gone; never to return.”
“Oh.” I felt terribly sorry for this man with such a sadness in his eyes which the mask could not hide from me.
“And now I am dreaming of you; a woman whose name is literally grief. I do hope I wake soon from this… Je n’aime pas ça.” He examined my face and shook his head. “Vous êtes comme un fantôme.”
“Erik you aren’t dreaming. For if you are dreaming then so am I… I don’t find it possible to both dream this at the same time. I am here monsieur. I am no ghost. Truly. I simply came across you sleeping and… I had no idea that my name would inspire such an emotion. I was named for my father’s sister. And as for my surname… I do not know what to say. But you cannot tell me that my feelings for art and yours for music being so passionate and the same are merely coincidence…”
He took steps towards me and suddenly I was afraid. “You truly are here?” he murmured. “This isn’t a dream. It can’t be.” He was now right in front of me and I was trembling as he slowly raised his hands to touch my arms. “You are real.”
“Yes,” I whispered, resisting the urge to touch his chest.
“When you paint, does it feel as though your soul is soaring from your body? That you cannot do anything else; be anywhere else but there in that moment?”
“Yes,” I affirmed, feeling anxious over his extremely accurate statements. How did he know?
“And once it is complete you feel whole in that moment?”
“Oui,” I whispered; trembling. “How do you know all this?”
“Because this is how my music comes; haunting me and freeing my soul.”
I searched his eyes for some jest but he was utterly sincere.
“You are the rose of grief. Perhaps then you are meant to be my rose of grief.” He touched my hair with a delicate caress. “Rose. My Rose…”
“Yes?” I murmured, putting my hands to his chest.
And suddenly we were kissing; our lips embracing and it felt as though the world would come to a close. I had never felt such a strong tug on my emotions before; at least not by anything but my drawings and paintings.
I could suddenly feel Erik crying as his hands moved to cradle my face. But he continued to kiss me –and I didn’t want him to stop.
I could feel his pent up emotions releasing as the two of us embraced. I felt and heard his sobs as our lips connected again and again, I felt the passion and the rage and the longing in his kissing and I couldn’t help but feel that this emotion was meant for his lost love.
But neither of us stopped. “You are not a monster,” I breathed and this brought on a passionate burst.
“Ne mentez pas…” he uttered angrily.
“Je dis la vérité… C’est vrai…C’est vrai… Vous n’êtes pas un monstre,” I managed to say between breaths. I felt his tears hot against my face but I didn’t care. I wanted to know this man; I wanted to help him.
Perhaps both of us needed this. Perhaps both of us had found each other for a reason.
I was all too excited to explore that reason as I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him kiss me over and over again in the dark, dank underground of Paris.