"Some people born into this world live their lives without feeling their own worth. They linger behind the curtains of a stage, they control the backdrops during a musical, and they paint the scenes that all sincerely enjoy. They pin and stitch each costume with everything they can to please others. They watch from behind the scenes with a lust for just five minutes in the spotlight."
Alison looked from her paint-spotted shirt to the elderly woman in front of her. She had to say, the elderly woman known as Madame Petit was incredibly terrifying for someone so short. She had an almost comical look with half-moon glasses and patterned clothing from some foreign country. Alison knew, however, that this woman was not someone to toy with judging by the nervous glances several of the stagehands sent the older woman's way.
"There's different - many different - roles that people play in the theater and most of those include the roles very sparsely recognized by the consumers. But, without them, there would be no show." Alison couldn't help but agree with the statement - living with an old actress for most of her life had taught her to appreciate those who worked behind the scenes. She had watched her mother perform almost every night until she was the brightest star she could be.
"The logic stood true in 1870, and stands true still in 2017. Times have changed but some things haven't, madame." Madame Petit looked deep into Alison's bright blue eyes to check if her newest employee was truly listening to what she was saying. At the focused look, she knew her answer and turned to open her arms to the opera house.
"The Opera Populaire had been the place to be in its heyday, before the mysterious events of 1870 took place. The night where the chandelier collapsed from the ceiling during Don Juan, killing several, the theater was abandoned by its former owners. There was an auction in 1919 where several items within the opera house were sold to private investors. By the 1920's, the theater was in complete ruins and the city of Paris threatened to demolish the old building. That's when another investor - a rich composer named Louis Duchesneau - bought the opera house with the intentions of restoring it to its former glory. During renovations, however, the opera house faced several mysterious events that included curtains falling without people nearby, statues falling from cranes that had been precisely strapped, and other such events." Alison tilted her head to the side in curiosity and Madame Petit raised her perfectly pencilled-in eyebrow.
"But today, the opera house still stands strong and part of Paris. However, this building is said to be the most haunted of this city. Do not let that deter you. At least five of my painters come to me every year with complaints, but they never amount to anything. I expect I will not hear foolish complaints?" She was a woman Alison (once again) hoped to never make angry, because the single glare she sent her way was enough to make Alison want to look away.
"Of course not, Madame Petit," Alison responded with the kindest voice she could muster. "I know that my mom used to perform here, and she mentioned strange phenomenon, but what exactly causes this place to be so haunted?"
"Put two and two together, mademoiselle. What famous novella has come from our beautiful city?" Madame Petit looked at Alison expectantly as she thought back to the French literature course she had taken the previous year during her first year of college. She thought of the books she had read to prepare for leaving America with the opportunity of working for a real opera house in the heart of Paris.
"Well, I know of a book called Phantom of-" She was cut short by Madame Petit raising a hand, a satisfied smile on her face.
"He is known as the Phantom of the Opera. I am sure you have read the book, no?" Alison nodded and so did she. "Of course, of course."
"But, Madame Petit," Alison said, following the shorter woman backstage. "That story was fiction. It wasn't real. My professor said-"
"Ah, young lady, that is where you are mistaken. It was based off the sightings of a young man the night the theater lost its prized chandelier," she said, wagging a finger her way. "The Phantom may not be real, but his inspiration for the character is. Many here come to believe he is real after a few days."
Alison could've laughed at the thought, but said nothing in fear of losing the job she had worked towards since her teenage years.
"Of course, the phenomenon of this opera house has been pinned to the Phantom, but his true identity and the truth behind if he is real remains a mystery." She paused, clapped her hands together, and turned to face the younger girl. "In your time at this opera house, you will learn the basics of working behind the scenes, while some of you will pursue lives on the stage. You will leave a strong, independent woman with knowledge on proper set-painting."
"How long have you worked here?" she asked, and Madame Petit turned with a soft glare.
"Over 30 years. I have loved each minute of my work," she replied. She glanced behind Alison, tightened her face, and slicked back a loose hair from her otherwise tight bun. She beckoned for Alison to follow and turned without waiting for a reaction. Alison turned to look behind her where Madame Petit's gaze had been. At seeing nothing, she shrugged it off and ran to catch up with the woman.
As they passed, many of the dancers, singers, and stagehands moved for them to pass. Some whispered to their neighbors with their eyes placed on the new girl. As soon as the elder glanced their way, however, they stopped to get back to work. Madame Petit had obviously made her mark on them, and Alison made a note to ask others why that would be. They walked towards tall boards lined against the walls that had one coat of paint and a few landscapes outlined as well.
"These are the boards you will paint on with the others," she said, a hand placed against the surface. "Your resume said that you had experience with painting sets, so I expect your work to be neat and clean as well as artistic."
She began walking again and reached a large room full of women sewing costumes.
"Ah, Madame Durand, come meet my newest painter!" Madame Petit said, resting a hand against Alison's arm. A middle-aged woman looked up from work, smiled, and walked over.
"Bonjour, young mademoiselle. Who might you be?"
"Oh, I'm Alison. Alison Monahan." She lifted a hand, but Madame Durand had other ideas. She pulled Alison forward and kissed her twice on both cheeks. Alison blushed as she realized she had already forgotten French customs. "I must look stupid for raising my hand."
"Ah, of course not!" Madame Durand took Alison's hand in both of hers and smiled kindly at the girl. "Americans have their customs, we have ours. I've heard that you're the daughter of Sara Monahan, correct? My daughter, she loves her movies."
Alison forced a smile to show she meant not to be rude. At the mention of her mom, however, she felt bitter to the bone and tried not to glare at the woman. She was only trying to be nice, Alison figured, even though she didn't want to think about that woman. "I am sorry to hear of her death, of course. Rest her soul."
"Thank you," Alison replied, although she felt like running away. She didn't.
Madame Petit began to walk away again, and she was forced to follow. She brought them to an office at the back, where an older gentleman sat in a leather chair on his computer. Once they had walked in, he brought his eyes from the screen and looked us over.
"Madame Petit, how may I help?" he asked, or what Alison assumed he asked as her French still wasn't the best it could be.
"This is Ms. Monahan. The painter you insisted would be perfect for my team," she said, and looked at Alison accusingly. I feel at home already. "I trust your opinion, of course, but I do expect her to give her best effort and nothing short."
"Of course. Ms. Monahan, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. When I saw your resume and your portfolio, I knew you would be perfect for the opera house," he said, standing to take her hand in his. He smiled and planted a kiss on it. "I believe Madame Petit has given you a tour?"
"She has," Alison replied, looking over his face. He had round brown eyes, graying hair, and a scruffy beard. He wore a suit with a red tie and big glasses.
"I am Mr. Agen, but I request that you call me Charles." He smiled at her and she smiled back. He sat back at his desk, then pulled out a white envelope. Within, Alison could see something protruding through the middle that looked like a stack of papers. "Madame Petit, please take this. You know where it goes, of course."
"Of course." She ducked out of the room as soon as the envelope was in her hand, and Mr. Agen beckoned to a chair.
"Please, sit." She did, and Mr. Agen looked over her face. "I knew your mother at the beginning of her career. She performed here once or twice."
Alison looked down at her hands as she realized that these people knew her mother, knew her heritage, and would rather discuss that than anything else. She refused to show her true feelings to the subject, however, and nodded along with a soft smile.
"She mentioned it," Alison said.
"She wanted you to have a job here. You love painting, she told me. You'd enjoy it here." Alison and her mom had talked about this place before she died, and Alison had decided she would pursue a career here. She was thrilled at the news, but the fact that she was helping Alison with it didn't change the way she felt.
"I suppose that's another thing I have to thank her for," Alison said, and Mr. Agen laughed.
"Yes, yes. Now, remind me - you chose residential living, correct?"
"Yes. Madame Petit told me my room was in a different wing of the opera house?"
"Correct." As soon as Alison opened her mouth to respond, Madame Petit walked into the room with her face looking tighter than usual. "I have business to attend to. I do hope you enjoy working here."
"I'm sure I will. Thank you," Alison said, then smiled and followed Madame Petit from the room. She was walking fast for someone of her stature, and Alison once again struggled to keep up. It was hard to follow her and take in the beauty of the theater at once, but she managed to catch glimpses here and there.
It was a beautiful building with red velvet curtains, golden statues, and a crystal chandelier. While looking at the balconies overhead where stagehands were adjusting ropes, she happened to notice something strange higher than any of the men. Before she could take a closer look, however, Madame Petit scolded her for falling behind and pulled her away.
He had been pocketing the envelope Madame Petit had brought when he noticed her shrill voice scolding once again. The Phantom sighed to himself - thirty years, he thought. Thirty years of her screaming, and it still never gets old. Who could be her victim this time?
Of course, he appreciated her company at times and knew she was a perfect asset for the theater. She also delivered his monthly paychecks, and ensured box 5 left empty for his use.
"Already falling behind, foolish girl! I expect better for someone working in such an elite building!" Her scolding shook him from his thoughts and he looked down to see the older woman pulling a young girl towards the back of the building. He hadn't seen her before and assumed she was a new stagehand. She certainly didn't look like any performer he had seen before.
The Phantom smiled to himself as he watched the two retreat from the backstage area. New victims to terrorize. How convenient for me.