XI. James
When he had received the letter concerning the New York Metropolitan Opera Annual Fundraising Gala, he took it as apathetically as any business party. His family had promoted the arts for years- painters, writers, singers, musicians, ballet companies, and the Gala was just another business to attend to, more money to donate, and more popularity to gain. His father after all had won three terms as a Senator several years back, and his mother's family owned the most prestigious publishing firm in the Northeast. Wealth, popularity, and politics were the Glidden's business. Social productivity and massive patronage kept the hungry public satisfied and that's where the Metropolitan Opera House came into play.
This would be James Glidden's second year as primary patron to the Metropolitan Opera Company. Beforehand the position belonged to his mother, a great lover of opera, who had passed down the honor to her son with great resentment at the request of James's father. The only glitch in the family's graceful gesture was that he had no interest in opera. Frankly James had no interest in arts what so ever. James Glidden was too busy studying political science at Columbia University, as his father did before him. And it was with faked enthusiasm that he followed tradition, donated the money, and attended the boring galas.
However, this particular gala would turn out to be anything but dull.
She was hovering around the hors d'oeuvres table next to a man whom James recognized as the Opera's old British director, Charles Richards. Her dark blonde hair, rich with brown lowlights, was swept up in a simple chignon of lovely Bologna curls and was wearing a cascading sage gown with a plunging heart shaped neckline. Looking closely with shock, James could see she was no more than seventeen. He continued to watch as Richards proceeded to introduce the girl to the opera's patrons and Opera Company.
But who the hell was she?
"The director and his wife took her in. Like a ward, I suppose," said one of the Italian tenors James had been chatting with. He had met him at last years gala. The singer was on his third martini, and was obnoxiously fumbling with the stir and olive as he spoke. Slightly drunk, he'd be a good source of information without reserve. "She's graduating from high school in the spring. Shocking isn't it?"
"What's shocking?"
"Well, her- voice, age, everything. Richards says she's the best he's heard with her youth. Prodigy it seems. She's coming to sing with us you know- as a choral member. Richards is bent on getting her a mezzo-soprano role one day."
"Here? At the Metropolitan?"
"Yeah, that's what I said. Crazy isn't it? That old coot's lost his marbles." The tenor took the final swig from his glass. "I haven't heard her sing a single note. I suppose she must be decent- 'cause even Rosie's going crazy. But everybody knows mezzo voices don't mature till their late twenties." James nodded. He knew Beth Rosenblatt was the Company's vocal coach from his mother's dinner parties.
"But how did Mr. and Mrs. Richards, ah- acquire the girl?"
"Niece, orphaned very young I believe. Shame, shame. Sent her to live with Mrs. Richards in London. Home schooled, I think." James furrowed his brow. Mr. Richards was in his sixties now, but continued to spend the majority of his time in New York City these days managing the Opera performances, while Mrs. Richards tended to stay in their London home. "Where is Mrs. Richards now?"
"London still. We got bets going that their marriage's on the rocks. Ha-ha! It's loving that niece that keeps them together I reckon. Well, I'm out of a drink and going back to the bar, care for anything?"
James politely declined the inebriated singer's offer and began to make his way to the director and his new protégé. Richards was dressed in a clean cut tuxedo which clashed with his bristly mustached and wrinkled face. He seemed to be trying to tell a story to several guests with little success- the men's eyes were wandering and his niece's lovely face was anxiously staring at the hemline of her stress.
"-And that's when I told them to go get their own bloody diva! Ha! Oh my, James Glidden! I didn't see you there, boy!" The director shoved past his guests, who were quite relieved at the Director's new distraction. Richards elatedly shook James's hand. "Glad you could make it here this evening! Your parents are well I take it?"
"Yes, very much, Sir. I'll tell them you asked."
"What a well mannered gentleman you are, James!" James felt his eyes start to wander towards the girl. Mr. Richards caught his line of sight.
"Ah! I don't think you've the Company's newest student? James, I'd like you to meet my niece. Emmanuelle, this is James Glidden, his family has been our opera's main patron for many years now."
"Emma, Uncle Charlie, have them call me Emma," She daintily grasped James's hand with surprising firmness. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Glidden."
"Emma, the pleasure is all mine."
He stared in awe, melting at the sight of an angelic appearance so near; he could reach out to touch its entrancing grace.
A round face with angular yet finely chiseled features stared, smiling innocently back. She had a strong chin and nose, and deep blue seductive doe eyes set off by thick lashes. A Victorian beauty that James expected himself to find in one of his mother's many Sargent or Degas paintings. Tightly clutching her small waist and shaping her curves, her viridian dress encouraged her strikingly mature goddess look.
Their eyes met, crashing into each other with forceful allure. By now James had forgotten Richard's presence. He could hear him saying something, probably meaningless in the background.
Emmanuelle
Somehow Aphrodite was only seventeen, and he, James Glidden; determined university student and business extraordinaire, had fallen completely in love with her.
XII. Dialogue D
"What do you mean 'he won't see me'?!"
"Yessir, that's what he said."
"Harley, you're a bloody useless idiot. Tell Beth to send up the understudy just in case and call an emergency fifteen minute intermission."
"Yessir- and James called an ambulance."
"Paramedics? That boy has no damned right. The last thing I need is paramedics in my bloody Opera House to set off a panic. Out of the way, Harley, I'm going to get Emma."
XIII. Reverie
He shoved open the door with the paramedic in tow. There she was just as he left her- a fallen angel crumpled in the billows of her dressing room couch. He ordered the stagehands to keep her costume on until she had a proper medical examination in case she had injured anything. Her hair had fallen in disarray and was clinging to her face in sweaty clumps. Her eye makeup was also a mess- teary streaks of black and purple powder was frosted around her eyes as if she were wearing the midnight mask of a Venetian princess, hiding her beauty with a dark secret.
James angrily swore under his breath. Her white gown was smudged with black grease- it would cost a fortune to replace that dress.
XIV. Tension
The paramedic walked over to the girl, set his case of medical paraphernalia down, and began to examine the girl. James paced the room- maybe it was too soon for Emma to sing regardless of the Dame's absence, maybe he had pushed her too hard, maybe he hadn't pushed her hard enough..
"She's conscious, sleeping it looks like, normal pulse and temperature of 97. I'd say you should let her rest. Looks like exhaustion," drawled the paramedic. James flinched at his Southern accent.
Thump.
The door blasted open and smashed into the wall with such force the neat frames covering Emma's walls swung and stuck crooked.
"What the bloody hell is going on here, where is my Emma?" It was Richards, of course. James rolled his eyes.
"Emma seems to be fine, exhaustion actually-"
"James!" roared Richards interrupting the paramedic's quiet response, "You made her practice extra hours didn't you? Damn you-"
"Blaming me? I'm not the one who still wants her to go on tonight."
"-Bloody bastard, I know you make her practice extra hours. I've had Harley-"
"Harley? That useless snitch of yours? He interrupts Emma's singing sessions that's why she has to go fucking overtime," James shot the old director a venomous look.
"I'm her guardian, boy, not you. I'm responsible for managing this girl's health."
"And I'm responsible for making sure her career doesn't go down the damn tubes."
"She would've been able to continue tonight if you hadn't blown out all her energy- sex, practice hours! Now look what you've done, we're sending out an understudy to replace her. How does that look for publicity, Moneybags?"
"I think, my services here are not needed anymore." The paramedic was looking at the two quarreling men with shock and fright. "Have a good afternoon!" He bolted for the door. James had never seen anyone exit a room as quickly as that poor man.
The men stared angrily at each other and began to open their mouths in protest.
And then: a sigh.
XV. Awakening
My screams for help against the darkness melt into the frustrated shouts of others. They are so familiar, yet so far. I struggle against the creature binding me, and shut my eyes. I feel the dressing room melt away- every rose, candle, crimson drapery. Suddenly, I want to cry. Somehow I know I will miss this place of terrible beauty and horror. My desires to escape this room leave me; I want to feel this cool rush of midnight against my skin, this tragic fear of being trapped forever. I want to hold onto the darkness, grasp it tightly, and never leave its binding arms. Somehow I have become seduced by this world of nightmares by hearing the distant noise of others- screaming men. I drift through space as everything blurs.
I don't want to hear these men; I don't want to go back to them.
I want the roses, the vanity, the mirror, the creature. I want darkness.
And then, I begin to understand.
I am regaining consciousness, I am waking up.
I feel myself sigh with disappointment as my eyes blink into clear focus.