"Come on Buquet! Pull the spot light higher! We haven't got all day." Called a man from the stage upwards to the lights where a man was pulling a rope, hoisting the lamp on the catwalk. "Watch out!" Called Buquet from above.
Suddenly the lamp came falling fast on the other men standing on the stage below. The men expected to hear a crashing sound. Some clasped their ears and closed their eyes; others just closed their eyes. Utter silence; nothing happened. After a few seconds some of the men on the stage dared to look up. The lamp swayed lightly to and fro on the rope. A mocking laughter was heard from above.
"Damn you Buquet!" Called the same man who assured Buquet to pull up the lamp. "Ha ha! Had you guys!" He continued to giggle; nearly breaking in tears of laughter and continued to hoist the spotlight. All the men on the stage continued their work, cursing under their breath or giving a sigh while shaking their heads.
From the left side of the stage staggered a middle-aged man nervously and hurriedly and had a handkerchief at hand. "Is everything ready yet?" He wondered while drying the perspiration from his brow and looking at the props. He was well dressed compared to the other men on the stage working, mending and building.
"Not yet Monsieur André. In a couple of hours, we'd be ready if nothing interferes." Mentioned one of the men fixing on a lamp on the floor of the stage.
"Good to hear for a change." Spat André with a hint of arrogance.
"What troubles have you been facing then?" Asked the man while focusing on screwing a light bulb.
"The same old thing about keeping box five empty for every performance and that of the unpaid salary! It is just ridiculous!" He paused. "Including everything that needed to be done in time has gone today to a disaster with delays. I'm beginning to have second thoughts if I should announce the show with some delays or even cancel! I repeat! It is ridiculous what is going on here!" Answered André furious while pulling out a letter from the inner pocket of his black silk coat. Pointing at times with a firm finger on the words written in red ink.
"Shh, he can hear you." Shushed the man nervously to André.
"I don't care! As long as you can get the lights right before the night's performance."
"My advice to you Monsieur André. Keep that box vacant. If you don't, there will be a lot more trouble than you've faced already today."
André scoffed, balled the piece of paper in his hands angrily and paced off the stage. Muttering under his breath "Superstitious goat."
"It seems he won't take your advice." Noted a man to the electrician who was fixing on a prop. He shrugged his shoulders. "Well at least I warned him." And continued checking further light bulbs on the stage.
Bang!
"What in God's name!" Called the electrician of fright. Placing a hand to his chest with widened eyes.
In the middle of the stage lay a spot light crashed and half shattered at the center of the stage. Many men began to look up. Wondering who or what had caused the lamp to fall. Few muttered different accusations under their breath while looking for the cause of the fall.
"Joseph Buquet! This has gone far enough! A monthly salary will be taken down to replace this." Shouted a man annoyed who assured before to hoist the lamp up. His face flushed in anger while looking up from the stage. There was no response. "You heard me Buquet? Don't make me come up there!" The man warned. There was no response. With an annoyed sigh, he headed towards the ladder and climbed up. "Buquet, you'll be in deep trouble. I can assure you that." He spoke in a normal tone while looking around him and climbing up the ladder. Once he reached the catwalk he walked around. Across the other end of the platform he discovered a small puddle of some red liquid dripping over the edge. Cautiously he walked over to it. With a tip of his finger he dipped and held it up to his nose. "Blood!" He gave surprised. "Buquet! Where are you? Give me an answer!" He called around worried. Searching for him.
Arg!
The man looked up from where he heard the cry of pain. Josef Buquet lay on a platform higher from where the man was. His hands were all covered in blood. "Mon dieu!" Gave the man shocked in a whisper with widened eyes. His face grew pale at the sight of it.
"You're very lucky Buquet or your finger would have been completely off." Noted an elderly man with a long grey beard in a white jacket while binding with white bandages Buquet's right ring finger. "Now my advice would be, no heavy lifting for the next three months and above all avoid getting cut again." He noted in a calm but stern tone while packing all his belongings into his leather kit.
"Thank you doctor." Gave André composed, yet in his sighs and eyes everyone sensed his anger. As the doctor was out of sight, André turned to Buquet angered. His hands were balled into fists and his face flushed red. "Happy now? For now on you will only do cleaning, organising and dusting until that finger is healed and two months salary will be taken from you! One for the lamp and the other for the finger!" He turned to the other people around him and paced off. "Everyone back to work! Everything needs to be ready for tonight!"
Immediately every man began to move onward on their work, some ran and others lifted an object to transport further. Amongst the men one stepped up to Buquet and helped him stand up. "What happened? What made you nearly lose your finger?" He asked curiously to Buquet. His glance wandered between Buquet's finger and his eyes.
"You know clearly who it was; it was him!" Buquet answered nearly deliriously with widened eyes in a soft tone.
"Enough with that Buquet! Remember he is everywhere." Spoke the man, who found him wounded on the platform, softly.
"You're sure? Didn't you have too much to drink?" Wondered the other who helped him up.
"I saw him! That bastard came out of nowhere and was about kill me!" Explained Buquet holding gently his right-bandaged hand.
"No wonder if you speak of him like that." Noted the curious man and began to walk away from Buquet. Buquet stood and stared at the man with widened eyes in disbelief.
"Why on earth does my wig make my head itch so badly? Thomas! Quickly take it off from me! Now! Hurry! Hurry!" Whispered a young woman with an Italian accent dressed in 18th century costume to a man with spectacles standing next to her holding a leather box containing make-ups and perfumes.
"Yes, mademoiselle Carlotta." Gave the man. Quickly and gently placing the box on the ground.
"Hurry! It drives me crazy! Is it off?" She wondered while scratching feverishly round her bare neck und slight under the wig.
"Not yet."
"Well get on with it!" She demanded annoyed and impatient.
Silently scurried an elderly man to Carlotta. "You're on in 10 minutes." He spoke softly and left the same fashion as he came.
"What! So soon? That damn wig! I'll curse the wigmaker after this show. Leave it Thomas! It will have to wait."
"Oui, mademoiselle." Gave Thomas and let immediately his hands go from the wig that still rested on Carlotta's head.
"Oil for my voice, Thomas." Demanded Carlotta.
Quickly Thomas drew out of the box that was placed on the floor a flacon and held it up to Carlotta's mouth.
"Don't spray my chin. Why do you always spray my chin, huh?" She noted sternly.
Thomas did his best in aiming the spray where she wanted it. With one press the vapor floated into her mouth. To Carlotta's satisfaction she toned a few notes for singing. Quickly she gave a cough and cleared her throat.
The old man appeared again. "In a minuet the curtains call up."
"Well I'm ready." Noted Carlotta very confidently. Rapidly scratching at her neck for the last time before appearing before the audience. Giving a short curse in Italian under her breath.
The orchestra began to play the overture and soon the following applause from the audience. Within minutes the curtains began to draw up. Bright spotlights were focused upon Carlotta. With a short bow and a broad smile, she let the show start. She took a deep breath and began to sing. Letting her voice waver like a damp flag in a storm across the audience, loud enough for everyone to hear. Yet her words were unclearly spoken and pronounced. Her eyes wandered over the audience and stopped for a brief moment at one box; box five. She blinked and glanced away but soon her eyes met on that box again. Behind a wine-red curtain with golden fringes sat a dark shadow there; its black gloved fingertips met together as point of a mountain while the dark elbows rested upon the arms of the chair. The shadow was dressed in total black including wearing a hat. Actually, that box was supposed to be filled with more than just one person for tonight's performance. Apparently not, maybe they left because the performance was not to their taste or rather something made them feel uncomfortable, being watched and cause to act strange. Including hearing a voice out of nowhere.
Suddenly Carlotta felt a scratching down her throat and the voice began to fail even more than before. A great itching overcame her head and neck. "Damn this wig!" She cried out in Italian and tore off her wig, scratching every inch of her head and neck while her voice had been completely gone. In the audience, few people began to laugh and others gasped in shock. Before the curtains were drawn down she heard a soft evil chuckling coming from box five.
Rapidly, nervously Firmin and André stepped up from their chairs. Looking down from their box to the audience. Firmin announced on edge. "Mesdames and Messieurs! We apologize for this inconvenience. Err, we beg you for your indulgence for a few moments." He could barely believe what just happened. "While-while preparing the main role with Mademoiselle Daaé!"
André interrupted spontaneously. "Tonight we would like to show the act three of tonight's opera!"
The Maestro gave a confused look up towards the two men in their boxes. "What?" He wondered softly while narrowing his grey eyebrows. Trying his best to follow what these two men suggest to the audience. "The, the, the ballet! Now please!" Stuttered André nervously down to Maestro as their eyes met. Hoping to continue tonight's performance somewhat soothingly. Rapidly the Maestro knew what was meant and turned the pages rapidly before him. Announcing shortly which page to turn for the musicians. Soon Maestro conducted the overture of the ballet.