Tea and Sympathy
by Stine
One
He held my wrist in a deadly grip as I stumbled behind him through endless, dark tunnels. Then, there was a faint glow, and we approached a translucent surface. He pressed a mechanism by the wall, and firmly made me step over the frame of the mirror in my dressing room. I sank to my knees, overwhelmed by despair. I knew I couldn't leave things like this, that I had to do something, to talk to him, but the words stuck in my throat in an impossible knot. And just when I was about to turn around, I heard the click of the mirror closing behind me. I hid my face in my trembling hands. Ripping, terrible sobs erupted in the middle of my chest.
And suddenly, there was a pair of soft but firm hands holding me by the shoulders and I was aware of a kind voice making shushing sounds, comforting. That only redoubled the pain in my chest. I just wanted to be left alone.
But the hands didn't relent, and I was gently urged to my feet, led to the settee and compelled to sit. A blanket was spread on my lap, a shawl across my shoulders, and a cup of warm tea was placed in my hands. I couldn't bring myself to drink from it. The voice, which until then had been gentle, turned stern, commanded me to look up. I did, and found myself pinned by Madame's icy eyes. Those eyes had made me do most of the things in my life. They had forced my body through another series of stretches when it seemed I was about to collapse, had made me concentrate and begin again when my wobbly legs seemed unable to master the spins and my fuzzy head unable to remember the steps. They had made me keep my stitches even when sewing the laces of my pointe shoes… They had made me get out of bed when Papa had just died and the world seemed an empty, cold, grey place. So I drank the tea, breathed deeply, and blew my nose, just like she commanded. But when she asked what had happened to me, I couldn't bring myself to relive the terrible moments that had just passed. I tried, but soon the tears blinded me and the sobs stopped my words.
And then the door burst open and Raoul was suddenly kneeling by me, taking my hands and saying so horrible, terrible things… And the room filled with people, dancers, singers, managers, seamstresses, stagehands and stern men with handlebar moustaches and blue uniforms. They all were staring at me, and Raoul just kept on ranting on … Until Madame Giry, God bless her soul, cast everybody out of the room, closed the door with a slam and bolted it.
I could not cry anymore, it seemed as if I had come to the end of tears. But as my sobs quieted, I was left aching and hollow. Madame Giry didn't say anything else. She guided me to bed, took my nightgown out of a drawer, silently helped me out of my clothes and tucked me in bed. She silently combed my hair back with her fingers, as she had done so many times when I was a child. As I closed my eyes, I welcomed the oblivion of sleep, and wished it would swallow me forever.
Unfortunately, morning came, and I woke up to the pale rays of a winter sun. The light was strangely cheerful against the white covers, and my eyes filled with tears as I remembered the darkness and dampness of the cellars. I buried my head in the pillow, but the door soon opened, and Madame Giry entered with a pitcher in her hand. She left it by the washstand and told me to get up and get dressed. She would be back shortly. It would be advisable to lock the door and not answer to anyone but her. She closed the door behind her. I sat up in bed, swung the covers to one side and stood up.
The floor was icy and the water was chilly, but not chillier than the basements. Trembling, I donned my clothes, sat on the settee and stared at my numb fingers. There was a knock at the door and Madame Giry entered with a covered plate in her hand. I shuddered when I remembered I had not locked the door. She regarded me sternly, but instead of the reprimand I expected, she only handed me the plate. I uncovered it to find steaming porridge. As I gobbled it down, I realised how hungry I was. I scraped the bottom of the plate and laid the spoon aside with a sigh. Madame took the plate from my hands and gave me a cup of tea from the kettle she had been preparing while I ate. She sat beside me and had a cup herself. It felt as if we were enjoying a Sunday afternoon together. The only thing missing was Meg's chatter.
"Well, child. Now it is time you told me what happened."
The cup clattered against the saucer as I put it down. I was happy the cup was more than halfway empty, or I would have spilled the tea all over my dress. I felt my bottom lip quiver. Madame's warm, soft hand covered mine, steadying it.
And so, staring at our joined hands, I told her. Everything.
I was crying again as I finished my tale, but now the ripping pain in my chest had subsided. So had the feeling of shame, the wanting to crawl away and hide. I could wipe my eyes with the handkerchief Madame gave me. I could ask questions.
"Who is he, Madame? Where did he come from?"
Madame sighed. Her face was so sad that she looked a decade older.
"He has lived at the Opera most of his life. Just as you have, child."
"But where did he come from?"
Madame looked down. She then drew back and grasped her knees. She took a deep breath. She seemed a swimmer who is about to plunge into deep waters. Then she exhaled quietly.
"It was many years ago, Christine. I was still a dancer at the company. And there was a travelling fair…"
I gaped as Madame told me about the boy in the cage, the escape, their secret meetings in the bowels of the Opera, how he had taught himself to read, to play music, how he had built his home deep underneath. The more she told, the more questions I had. My head was spinning as I thought of my Angel, of our encounter, of Raoul and the terrible things he had said, of the gendarmes. I seemed to be in the centre of a terrible whirlwind. I would need decades to sort it all out. I buried my face in my hands.