Alessandro and the Opera Ghost
Chapter 1: Farewell
I sat huddled in the innermost corner of the carriage taxi, my feet resting on top of my trunk, reading my grandmother's letter as the horse plods along the 9th arrondissament of Paris. I smile to myself, noting how, even at the age of 65, she still stains the stationary with her handsweat, a trait that I inherited. The ink had faded a little bit, but the message was the same;
"Margalit,
Si vous avez ouvert cette lettre avant votre arriv`ee a` Paris, vous ^etes un enfant m`echant et d`esob`eissant, mais je t'aime quand m^eme. J'esp`ere que Paris es excitant pour toi. Il vaut mieux, puisque vous ne rentrez pas a` la maison avant la fin de la saison (ou a` moins que votre audition soit rejet`ee). Je ne comprends toujours pas porquoi on ne pouvait pas rester avec l'Op`era de Toulouse, c'est un bon `establissament et c'est tout pr`es! Ah, mais t'inqui`ete pas pour mon, mon cher. Je peux ^etre vieux, ma je suis toujours en bonne sante` et fort. Je peux survivre par moi-m^eme. En plus, tu trouveras peux-^etre un gentil gar~con a` Paris pour ramener chez toi ta grandm`ere. Juste une pens`ee. Quoi qu'il en soit, reste en s`ecurit`e, et dis a` ton Oncle Isaac et a` son femme que je les aime, et que s'ils ne reviennent pas a` Pessa'h, je vais les hanter d'outre-tombe.
Avec amour, Grand-m`ere Esther"
l fold the letter into quarters and stick it in my hat, keeping it safe. The taxi stops at an apartment, my uncle Isaac beaming under his mustache at me from the porch steps, his pregnant wife Reina beside him. "Little Margot!", he says to me, his arms wide open. Neglecting my trunk, I run to him, and he catches me in a tight embrace, or at least as tight as an embrace as my hat would allow. "Uncle Isaac, hello!" I turn to greet Reina, shaking her hand. I then stop, realizing that the carriage driver is dragging my trunk out of the cab. I rush over to him, offering to help, but he shrugs away my assistance, insisting that he has everything under control. Uncle Isaac then goes over to him, taking the trunk and paying for my fare. "Thank you, Mr. Cohen", the driver says, and away he goes. As the cab pulls away, the Palais Garnier looms into view, beckoning me. Reina taps me on the shoulder, and in her Moroccan accented French, invites me in. "You must be tired from your journey, Margot", she lilts, and then I am suddenly struck by how glamorous she is in comparison to me, with her shining black hair perfectly coiffed and her large tawny eyes sparkling in the gas lamps that dot the parlor. She shows me to the guest bedroom, a rather Spartan area boasting only a bed with white cotton sheets, a vanity across from it on the left wall, and a window on the north side overlooking the 9th arrondissament, with the Palais Garnier in direct view . "I'm sorry that there isn't more to this room, but we don't entertain guests that often" she mourns. I nod and smile, letting her know that I don't mind the sparse accomodations. Uncle Isaac comes into the room, planting a kiss on Reina's cheek, and then sets the trunk at the foot of the bed. "Is this everything, Margot?" he asks. "Yes, that's it", I reply. He grins, and scratches the back of his neck. "I have to say, you're the first woman I've ever met that packs light." His grin fades. "Are you still feeling alright?". I nod solemnly, knowing that he's talking about my parents. "I'm alright, Uncle Isaac. How are you?" He shrugs. "I miss Sara, but she's not my only sister. Your Aunt Miriam and me still write letters to each other, so at least I'm not completely out of touch with the family." "Speaking of family", I said, "Grandma Esther says that if you and Reina don't come back down to Toulouse for Pesach, she's going to haunt you from beyond the grave". He laughs heartily, and sinks down to the other side of the bed. "That's Mom for you". Uncle Isaac runs his fingers through his cropped brown curls, looking every bit like my mother, right down to the cowlick at the right temple. His eyes meet with mine, green as a cat's eye, just like hers. "I think you'll like it here, Margot. It's like Toulouse, but more vibrant!" He smiles and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I unpin my hat from my top-knotted chignon and place it on the vanity bench seat, Grandma Esther's letter safely tucked within. I cross to the window to gaze at the the Opera house, admiring its columns and domes and its statue of Apollo with his lyre. The audition is tomorrow. Oh god, I hope I make it!
Author's Notes: The French passages are used to represent the Shuadit language, a now extinct Judeo-Occitan language that was already in decline in the 19th century, with few people speaking the language after French Jews were allowed to emigrate back to the country.