Disclaimer: I own none of PotO, only my modern-day take on it. The songs belong to my friend.
My friends, hello! I seemed to have jumped on the fandom bandwagon a little late, but I am here all the same, with my first fanfiction. This little piece was begun with my friend, who writes ALL the songs used (unless otherwise specified) and, oh, if only you could hear them! I wish I could do them justice. The first four chapters are finished, since we wrote them together, but then we stopped to work on our own respective novels… but I was attacked by a plotbunny and returned to this one. If it's utter crap after chapter four, I am to blame.
But there's a way to solve that, you know: reviews! Yes, constructive criticism is the best, and I hope to get better. I know already that some of you might complain later in this story, simply because…
It's based on Leroux.
Yes, there's more to PotO than a musical. Part of the reason for posting this was a response to all the ALW Movie-based badphics I see on this website. It has disgusted me and so now I'm giving fanwriting a try; hopefully I won't end up like the very people I'm criticizing (which is why reviews help, y'see).
Please excuse any inaccuracies; everything is based on memory and memories blur with the passing days.
And without further ado…
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Roch Robert de Chagny was a patient man, usually. However, with only twenty-five minutes to go before a recital began—which he had to go to for his brother's work—and with his girlfriend making him wait an hour in the living room of the suite they shared, dripping from the rain outside, his serene endurance was beginning to dwindle. Several of Carla's new shopping-friends-turned-entourage passed him, looking at him appraisingly and smiling as he sat there.
"Aren't you ready yet?" He called up the stairs of the suite, checking his gold-plated watch. Good thing it didn't get wet…
His darling's head popped out of her door, carefully concealing anything below the neck behind the door. "Yes, just a minute!"
And with that, he returned to his pacing. For not the first time, he wondered why Philippe couldn't go, instead. The man had enough money to come over and go scouting. Then again, he needed to stay at the office: stocks were dropping, though he swore not to tell Carla. The American public needed a new face and Philippe decided a new "belle française" would be perfect; specifically, if that new someone was not another Celine Dion or Avril Lavigne.
After all, they wanted to salvage pride.
The company needed it, which meant Roch and Philippe needed it even more; if that meant going to a church benefits in all of France, then so be it.
An added plus was that Carla would enjoy it – perhaps, then, he would get to enjoy the night, too.
And, so he stood, sopping wet in their suite after a day of sightseeing, waiting to go to a performance in the Basilisque du Sacré-Coeur atop MontMartre. It was by a stroke of luck that Roch had come across it, and he liked it the more he thought about it. It wouldn't be as crowded with scouts or full of vocally trained musicians as a concert at Sorbonne, but a street performer or chorus girl would be more likely to agree to whatever they had planned than a confident student with a diploma. Whoever was chosen in the next few weeks would be the protagonist in the music world's newest underdog story. And, if Roch found no one, he could tell Philippe that he tried his darnedest and enjoy the rest of his much-deserved vacation. Maybe he would travel to Avignon next—now that was a musical city. Caught in his musings, he barely realized Carla gracefully stepping down the steps in her most elaborate dress while holding a handbag.
"Well?" Her posture seemed to ask, subtly drawing her arms away from the dress, which (for lack of anything else to say) took advantage of her private tailor. She stood out in a simple black evening gown, accented by a red ribbon tied below her chest and then several more behind each shoulder that gave the appearance that her crimson hair was streaming behind her. Carla was surely a goddess when it came to clothes and accessorizing, for her hair flowed seamlessly with the silk ribbons. Her designs had a touch meant to be invisible, except to give it a flair no other woman could pull off. Even so, once Roch could focus on her face, her lips grinned and announced at his approving gaze, "Let's go."
"You do realize it's raining, right?"
"Didn't you bring an umbrella?"
He decided not to point out that he was dripping all over her linoleum. "Well, non, not exactly."
She pouted a little, as she stepped from the front step. "Well, I suppose I'll have to get one of my own."
"At least we'll get to share one this way?" He teased her good-naturedly.
"Yes, at least." Carla answered, tongue-in-cheek. "Would you be so kind, Roch, as to get it from my room?"
His eyes twinkled mischievously. "From your room?"
"I left it on my bed."
"Hm," Roch gave this deliberate consideration before spinning her around. "Well, mademoiselle, if I didn't know that you have been looking forward to some live music, I'd think you'd have an ulterior motive in mind."
She only laughed at this, "Would you? Well, we can discuss this 'ulterior motive' when we get back. My umbrella, please."
After setting her down, he gave an elaborate bow. "As my lady wishes."
She was still smiling as he hurried upstairs. He was such a boy at times, always teasing her. Carla liked that—as a celebrated singer and girlfriend to her manager's brother, no one else ever dared to be so playful.
Still, she wished he would hurry up. She adjusted her gloves and calculated the time in her head. What was he doing up there? He better not think I'm following him up in these high heels. "Roch, we have twenty minutes!"
"Right, right, right." He hurried down with her umbrella, taking the steps two at a time. "You sure this concert is that important?"
"Of course, it is." She smiled lightheartedly. "After all, one must get a feel for the competition!"
With that, she stepped out and toward the exit of the hotel with the umbrella resting lightly on her shoulder; her back turned at the moment Roch's face broke into a grimace as the innocent irony of her statement was not lost on him. Curse you, Phil… However, he only replied, "Very well, let us go and get soaked… I mean, listen to music."
"We won't get soaked." Carla answered with the utmost confidence.
He only looked at the petite umbrella and shrugged, "If you say so. Come, I have the taxi waiting."
They hurried down the hallway, out of the glass doors, under the umbrella, and to the taxi Roch had just called. Much to Roch's dismay, he was only able to stay half under the umbrella. Not that that mattered, especially since she got in before he did, taking the white canopy on a stick with her. Luckily, he had many tuxes at home, even though it meant he would be very uncomfortable—not to mention squeaky—for the entirety of the concert.
Carla sat with him in the back, adjusting her gloves idly and feeling all around like princess, while Roch desperately tried to tell their driver just how fast they needed to find MontMartre and no, they were not riding the funicular, so they needed to find an alternative route. Annoyed at the low visibility, milling tourists, and his cargo's empty death threats, the driver asked sarcastically if Roch knew a better way. The boy knew he had made a mistake the moment he tried. He ended up forcing the taxi to travel in circles while he prayed Carla wouldn't notice or miraculously pick up French, before they slowly began their ascent past the hurrying artists and waiters. It seemed like an eternity before they were parked in front of the basilica in all of its domed glory. Roch paid their irate driver with a handful of 20-euro bills, figuring the poor man deserved it, as he was to drive them home two hours later.
Several people of the district had enough foresight to arrive early and take shelter in the musical warm-ups. Regardless, the two Americans were still able to enter, only two minutes late: one serene and the other soaked to the bone. It felt like it had been forever and a day since Roch had returned to his homeland and even longer since he had practiced his religion, but he still wet his fingers even more in the basin so he could cross himself.
The lights had already dimmed by the time he and Carla were ushered into the nearest pew. The audience clapped politely as the Master of Ceremonies thanked them for coming this evening. As it turned out, it didn't matter that they had been seated in the back. The dais had been raised high enough that all had a nice view of the proceedings, though, soon enough, Roch lost interest in that entirely.
It started out innocently enough. After careful examination of the program during the welcome speech (which she couldn't understand), Carla began betting who would triumph and who would merely be a disgrace to the kingdom of music. Though it distracted Roch from choosing potential vocalists to bear the D.C. name, he joined in gamely. Next, Carla—again, being from les États-Unis and knowing only a little French—took far too much pleasure in trying to pronounce the foreign names. The night continued on and they became increasingly drunk on each other's delight, and playful giggling became light kisses and then into more serious, passionate ones.
They ignored a promising rendition of "Petit Enfant," as well as a few Catholic hymnals in difficult Latin. Ballads added to the background as he focused his attentions on the stunning girl before him. Clapping was soon beyond him, as he soon couldn't tell one note from the others.
He was careful not to ruin her make-up or her hair. That was one thing he had learned over the years of knowing her – Don't Touch the Hair. The ribbons on her shoulders, however, were delightful—like a Superman's cape he could string his fingers through. She returned the favor, though less careful with her hands, successfully mussing his ponytail.
Not that he minded, of course.
Though he was a bit disappointed when she pulled her tongue out of his mouth to look out at the utter silence, and even more so when she seemed disinclined to just catch her breath and return to her ministrations. It took him a while to figure out why, too.
A thin young woman, who looked like she'd just been pulled on stage against her will, was quietly speaking to the pianist. The audience was a confused as he, as he slowly stepped away from the instrument and off-stage. Onstage and now alone, she looked even more frightened as she stubbornly sat down in front of the ebony and ivory keys, and slowly began tinkling out a melody.
It was certainly not the "Kyrie" that the program had promised.
"Summon to thee," she began slowly and in English, though everyone there had had enough of an education to understand, even the littlest ones. "My heart and my desire."
"Qu'est-ce qu'elle fait?" the audience began to whisper, just as Carla leaned toward him and asked, "Who is she? What's she doing?"
"Beg me to come with open arms…"
No, this certainly wasn't a song that belonged in such an event. Roch looked at the program, searching for the name in order to answer Carla. "Christine Tanaré." Though Carla nodded at this information and went back to watching the girl sing, Roch took a double take. Surely not…
"…To hold until your soul catches fire.
Never again will you, lonely, cry.
Angels shall sing, when we are one, forever,
And our music graces Heaven high!"
Her eyes closed, her growing confident hands flew across the piano keys as she vocalized. She was bliss incarnate as her notes enveloped the hall, her passion and her dreams and her love evident to anyone and everyone who would open themselves up to them. The world was at her feet, enraptured, though she cared only for the vibrations and quarter notes passing through her silver throat.
"If you should find you cannot fight your fears,
Summon me now, to call you back again.
Together, we shall dry your tears,
So you might live once more.
Angels must sometimes fold their wings
And drift to Earth to die…"
She almost stopped there, as if some unknown emotion shuddered through her. Her eyes shut swiftly before she looked back up the audience, unseeing and misty-eyed with passionate tears.
"But I shall lift you up again," she smiled lightly, hopefully, "and teach you how to fly!" Her lilting voice resonated through the auditorium as her song ended, her last note echoing still when her hands rested on the piano, exhaustedly.
She stood to silence. She bowed and curtsied, as all performers were to do, looking resigned and almost apologetic before turning to leave the stage. Though miserable, she seemed ready to get it done and disappear into the anonymity of the impromptu backstage. Then…
One clap,
Another…
And another…
Soon, the Parisians were on their feet, shell-shocked, but giving a thunderous standing ovation to her hidden genius. Those who didn't know her wondered at the misprint; those who did wondered why she hid that voice or that talent, for they knew they had never heard her sing like that, and they had never, in their lives, heard such a song. It was original, and they wondered what had prompted her.
As for Christine, she was frozen on the spot. Tears poured down her face as she looked passed the blinding stage lights. She sobbed with the largest grin on her face, her entire body shaking with the intensity of her own shock, excitement, and exhaustion. They had noticed her! She held her head in reverence, whispering "J'appelle à vous!" to something unseen, even by her. Christine was led offstage before her mascara began to run, and even still, she wept and laughed giddily. She was seated on a chair while other girls ran to get her tissues, and others still congratulated, complimented, and questioned her. She could only nod numbly, running off adrenaline and her musical high.
The rest of the program passed like a blur for both Christine and Roch, who, still in his back pew with Carla, couldn't wait to until it was over and ask her himself what had happened. He started to fidget in his chair, something he never did (De Chagny's do not fidget), in his impatience.
Carla took notice, and, though curious, tactfully said nothing. She would find out soon, though she already had a sneaking suspicion of what was going on. There was a gleam of recognition in his eye at that name: Tanaré. Roch had tried to cover it up and tried to act natural for the hour following the girl's performance, but he was a poor actor. Still, she trusted her lover, and patiently waited for the benefit to end.
A priest ended the ceremony on a prayer, praising the young adults for coming and baring their souls in song, as well as asking God (and their audience) to not forget the church in her monetary crisis and to bless her people in the days forthcoming—and with the rain tonight, they might need it on the drive home. "Amens" and crosses rustled through the crowd.
No one seemed too ready to go back out into the rain; everybody instead went to the stage to meet and greet the delighted performers. Flowers were given by rightfully proud parents as paramours presented roses. The mood was light and infectious, and the couple separated to meet and mingle. Carla knew enough French to pass by, so she went to congratulate the singers she thought were acceptable before she had been otherwise preoccupied.
Roch, however, went straight for the mysterious blonde Tanaré. She wasn't as noticeable as she had been with the lights shining down on her face, so there wasn't much of a crowd surrounding her, only a few young adults.
"Merci, merci," she was saying, her voice barely above a whisper. Christine was sitting exhaustedly, looking up at two of them as a girl spoke about how the song touched her so. She smiled, though she looked like she was ready to faint in her chair.
"Did you write that song?" One eagerly asked. "I've never heard it before."
She hesitated, looking flustered. "I… Well, a… maestro of mine wrote it, long ago. It seemed appropriate to put words to it… I mean…"
"You made that entire song up within seconds?"
A few stammers and beginnings of half-answers hardly satisfied them, so one piped up that it was "her secret," with a conspiratorial wink and Christine eagerly agreed. After a few minutes of idle chatter—through which Roch quietly sat through behind them—the group excused themselves, saying that they were off to the discotheque and offered an invitation, which she refused. They moved off, leaving her alone so Roch could approach her. Other people were leaving and he had hoped to talk with her for a few minutes before Carla found him again. Christine looked up expectantly at him and his obvious unease. He kneeled down to be face-level with her, and she smiled gently in confusion.
"Pardon me, monsieur," she asked him, while searching his face, "But do I know you?"
"Mademoiselle," he began, readying himself with a deep inhale. "You must remember me. It is I, the little boy who rescued your red scarf from the pool!"
She stared at him for what seemed like forever, though Roch knew it could only be for a few moments… and then, she laughed.