Paris, France -- 2005
The Opera House was gorgeous, everything the pamphlet had said it would be. It was like living in the nineteenth century just walking into the foyer, everything in gold and marble, the grand staircase nothing like the novel, the musical, or even the movie had shown. L'Populaire was a beautiful to say the least, fully restored to how it had once been in its glorious days.
Aminta Mendelssohn, though her name suggested otherwise, was not Spanish at all. No, her name had been chosen by her father from the work of Don Juan Triumphant, the rather risqué opera by a composer rumored to be the legendary Opera Ghost himself. Her mother was 'American', her father French, and purely so one could tell by looking at the girl. The scoundrel had left early on in Aminta's life, moving to Paris with his mistress where he married her and started a whole new family, leaving his daughter with her mother.
And so here she was, in the foyer of the Opera Populaire in France. David Mendelssohn had a nasty habit of disappearing whenever his daughter was due for a visit, and true to tradition he had done so again, receiving a phone call just before he was to take his daughter sight-seeing. Well, Aminta had always been a curious thing, and so here she was on her own, father be damned. She was determined to have a bit of fun even if her father didn't wish to share it with her.
Ever since she was a little girl, Aminta had been fascinated by the story of the Phantom of the Opera. It was an easy thing to do, as her father had close ties to the Opera of the legend (being the current highest-donating patron) and her mother a costume designer for various shows that featured on Broadway, the Phantom of the Opera one among them. Aminta's mother had been reciting the story since she was a little girl, and the New Yorker had first read it in fifth grade. By then she was hooked. Anything and everything that had to do with her beloved story was read, listened to, or watched eagerly. Aminta had even written an essay on the infamous Opera Ghost once, and how she supposed his past must have been to cause him to behave so. She had failed of course, for the Phantom was simply a factious character. He had no past, only what was written of him.
Naturally, the Opera Populaire was the first place she wished to visit in Paris. Luckily enough it was also the first place the tour bus had taken her. It was a royal pain to have to follow a tour guide (patience was not something Aminta possessed a lot of), but there was really no other choice; it was either stay with the group or be thrown out, so Aminta had stayed.
"This way, this way." Came the heavily accented voice of the kindly (if rather portly) tour guide, but it was not until Antar gripped her arm she began to follow reluctantly.
Even being the rather anti-social person Aminta was, it was hard not to like Antar and his fraternal twin sister Erika. He was a great brute of a thing, but dim as a post with a disposition rather like a lapdog; friendly and always willing to please. Erika was quite the opposite. She was of slightly less than average height for a Persian her age, thin and limber with wit and brains in excess. Though being the good Muslim she was, she hardly ever acted on her threats. Aminta had taken a liking to both immediately, and was thrilled to find they were staying near where she was.
"Alright ladies and gentlemen, through these doors now, don't push. Are we all in then? Good." The old man spoke again in his thick Parisian accent. "May I present to you, Madames et Monsieurs, the Opera Ghost's private box: the Grand Tier's Box Five…" The man went on about how the profits had greatly declined during the nineteenth century because of the Ghost's demands the box be reserved for himself. Aminta however, was not listening.
"If I had an Opera at my feet, I'd request this box too!" She breathed, and Erika mumbled her agreement. "The view is…"
"Breathtaking, I believe you were going to say." The tour guide smiled joyfully. "I'm glad you like it, Mme Mendelssohn. Your father reserved it for you for this night's production of Don Giovanni. Said you had some sort of interest in the legend…"
"Interest would be an understatement, Monsieur." Aminta spoke in flawless French, receiving a jolly smile from the gentleman. "Wait a moment, how do you know my father?"
"He is the leading subscriber here, is he not? I doubt you'll find a man or woman in this place who does not know of him. And you look almost exactly like him. I simply guessed from there, Mam'zelle."
Aminta laughed a bit. "Well, there aren't many Frenchmen with brown curls and green eyes." She mumbled sarcastically. The man had begun talking again, filtering people from the room. Aminta was still quite reluctant to leave the awe-inspiring view, Erika and Antar trying to get her to come again.
"Ammie!" the young man nearly whined. "They're going to leave without us and we'll be thrown out…"
The New Yorker couldn't hear him though. Another sound had caught her ear.
Sing, my Angel of Music!
"Shut up Antar, listen!" And there the voice was again, hardly a whisper above the wind.
'I must be going mad…'
"Mme Mendelssohn, your father would be quite angry with me if I lost you." The tour guide stepped back into the room just as she straightened her posture and let out that first pure note, almost against her will.
Angel of Music; Guide and GuardianGrant to me your glory!
Angel of Music, hide no longer
Come to me
Strange Angel...
That last eerie note lingered in the air a fraction of a second before the ground began to shake and the lights flickered. Erika screamed and clung to her brother, the tour guide pulling Aminta away from the railing and into the relative safety of the Box. There was the odd sensation rather like the drop on a rollercoaster, and when the lights went out completely the New Yorker was certain the building had collapsed.
It had not though. Hardly thirty seconds after the lights went out the came back on again, still flickering a bit, gas lamps now instead of electric ones.
Even as Erika's scream of fear died, new ones of panic and confusion came from below them in the theatre itself. Aminta looked out, horrified to find a man hanging from the rafters over the stage, his eyes glazed and lifeless.
An unfamiliar voice called out below them. "He's back! Oh God, somebody fetch the managers, and quickly!"
Buahaha! I know, it's crap. Inspired by an RP where I played Erik, anything and everything that has to do with Aminta is awkward for me to write. This is going to be a loooooong phic, so stay tuned for the next chapter.