Paris, France
October 15, 1884
(7:30 pm)
"Have you heard the rumor of the Austrians performing the entirety of Der Ring des Nibelungen in one night?" A well-made up Henri Dessay whispered as they prepared for the music of their opening to begin. "That had to have been an event! Imagine performing that!"
Ilona was experiencing the fit of agitation that always yelled at her before going on stage. She had been on the stage since she was a little girl and yet each time she walked out into the bright gas lights of the stage she felt as if she were going to faint.
Her anxiety was made worse by this morning's confrontation with her father. Having had to go directly to morning warm-ups and rehearsals she had been left with no time but to eat a late lunch instead of going home to her mother and cry like the little girl she felt she was.
Instead, here she was experiencing a panic attack for her father's rejection.
When she returned home that evening, oh the story she had to tell her mother. And her mother would simply say she was foolish to expect anything out of the madman aside from teaching. If she told Monsieur Khan of what had happened Nadir would surely tell her father that she was upset with him and that would only leave both herself and her father in another awkward conversation.
It was best she just waited patiently for her father to resume their lessons without her igniting anything flammable.
"That's impossible." Ilona giggled in an effort to lighten her mood. "The whole Ring cycle is over 15 hours long! Who told you that? Jurgen? That man believes the ghost story too. Do you honestly think he could be that reliable?"
The moment Henri shut his mouth was evidence he had listened to that fool Jurgen, an Austrian baritone with nothing better to do but run his mouth. Henri was a gullible fool if he truly believed anything that Austrian had to say. Among the group that made up the most rumors about her father, Jurgen and Bouquet were the two most notorious. The fools would do themselves a favor if they kept their mouths shut.
"He was right about the opera ghost!" Henri whispered as the orchestra began their warm-up.
"What did you see the ghost himself?" Ilona asked now concerned for her partner's safety. "Does he have the fire eyes? Or does he have no eyes? I can't keep track of what his eyes look like with so many stories flying around."
"You don't believe me because you're an atheist," Henri muttered as he crossed his arms.
"Yes, I'm quite sure if I was Christian I would surely believe in the foolishness that was Monsieur Bouquet's wild drug induced dreams."
"I saw him, Ilona!"
"Saw who?"
"The opera ghost!"
"Don't shout you fool."
Henri looked out onto the stage as Ilona did, waiting for their queue. It would not be but a few bars away. The chorus was performing their act as the scared villagers whilst the ballet girls danced around them in fright. The whole stage was alight with activity and the brightly colored costumes of the chorus and ballet.
"I saw him, Ilona," Henri said once more, now using the whispers acceptable backstage. "I saw everything Bouquet described. The death's head, the golden eyes like a cat, no nose, the smell of death! I saw him, standing before me as I made my way down to costuming. He was standing in the same distance between you and me!"
Had he truly seen her father? She wouldn't put it past him to scare the foolish bass into performing at his best when he was starring alongside Ilona. Had he calmed down since last night then? To care for her enough to frighten someone before a performance with her. But what if Henri was dreaming, had he had a nightmare in which he had thought he had seen the ghost of him? Or had Henri gone mad?
Ilona opened her mouth to reply, instead of words coming out she heard her queue and quickly rushed onto the stage with her bags. Her gray wig's hair flying as she walked onto the stage. Her character replacing the nervous girl that was there before, now she became an old woman with money and confidence.
Henri and Ilona performed the near fainting scene of the Marquise and her faithful butler with ease. The chorus crowding around them in the choreographed fashion that had been performed so many times. The ballet dancers in the back reflected the uncertain atmosphere of the fearful villagers awaiting invasion by Napoleon and his forces. Instead of the horrors of Napoleon they were met with the news of the French retreat.
Ilona did as Carlotta often did, her styling for the character of the Marquise directly related to the horrid manners of Carlotta. She waltzed around stage preparing herself for her aria that came soon after. She looked to Henri with exaggerated disgust as he attempted to embrace her in joy, instead, she handed him one of her bags.
"Pour une femme de mon nom," Ilona began with the music change. "Quel temps hélas! le temps de guerre! Aux grandeurs on ne pense guère. Rien n'est sacré pour le canon!"
With her dip into Bb2 on the word "canon", she was awarded applause from those in attendance, as she should. She longed to hear the crowd's approval. She needed their approval truly for her career to continue. She needed the crowd's approval to earn the approval of her father. He would often say the audience had no idea what the true beauty of music is, and in fact, they are just blind followers of what the critics tell them to enjoy. And yet, his approval was tied to the uneducated audience's approval. The hypocrite.
"No respect!" Ilona and ended with the chorus's accompaniment a cadenza reaching to her near limits of F5 with an E5 held out long and proud.
The cheers from the crowd were loud and clear of their approval of her. Now if only their praise could drown her to avoid a confrontation with her father for longer.
(10:00 pm)
"Mademoiselle Roche!" A patron or admirer called out welding a bouquet flower in his arms. "Mademoiselle Roche!"
Ilona simply smiled and accepted the flowers from the eager admirer. Turning away from her admirers Ilona unlocked her dressing room door and quickly made her way inside. She had had a long day. The performance of Un Fille du Regiment had gone off without a hitch. She was sure though her father would have many notes for her on what she could improve, Monsieur Reyer would hardly have but a few pages, her father may very well have a novel written just for the first scene.
Locking the door back, she threw off the horrid gray wig she had to wear for the past week. She hated the damned thing, she hated wearing wigs. Not only was the costume hot and uncomfortable, the wigs were itchy and too tight on her scalp. There were times backstage where she would take a finger and quickly go beneath the wig and scratch the unnerving itch.
The stage lights were nothing better. Parading around in hot, but beautifully intricate, costumes was a living hell. Not to mention how often she felt her dress slipping off of her body during the performance. The character of the marquise was supposed to be an older, heavier set woman, the costuming was therefore made to look as though Ilona weighed one-hundred pounds more and aged another 40 years.
Ilona wasted no time in undressing herself from her costume. She was not going to wait for the costume department to send her usual dresser, heaven knew if that woman would actually show up before midnight. The costume off meant for this moment Ilona was free for her skin to breath and her body temperature to venture back into the normal range.
Without bothering to put on a robe Ilona went to her washing area to begin the process of removing the greasepaint and rouge applied to her face. She enjoyed putting the make-up on, she did not like taking it off. She understood now why make-up had fallen out of fashion for the women of the society. It was far too complicated for those hard working ladies to clean off themselves.
Rubbing her face and neck with a towel dried her of the water and leftover soap from her cleaning. She would take an actual bath tomorrow morning when she was home with her mother, instead of doing the usual bathing small places while standing technique.
A knock sounded at her door before she could even set her towel down. It was probably an admirer that had no business being this far into the backstage area. Or was it a fellow company member inviting her to celebrate opening night? She had never been to the Opera House's notorious opening night parties, she had heard three ballet rats had ended up in the family way from the last party.
Wrapping the white robe around herself to preserve her modesty as best she could, she went to the door to open it. She was the daughter of a whore, yes, but that did not mean that she should retain a certain level of modesty within the theatre.
"Leon," Ilona muttered as she saw her friend standing before her in a fine evening suit.
He must have attended the show! Oh, he shouldn't be wasting his time on frivolous things like the opera. He had work to be done, not only for his education but for his career. She supposed everyone needed a true break from time to time. She herself would enjoy a few days off from the hard work of strutting around the stage.
Waving him inside, Ilona shut the door behind him and directed him to take a seat on her small velvet couch. She went to sit across from him on her vanity's seat.
"You were amazing Ilona," Leon said as she sat before him, his smile evidence enough of his approval of her performance. "I can't believe they have you playing an old woman with a voice as pure as yours."
Ilona smiled and shook her head. "They never do have any good roles for girls with deep voices."
"I suppose I'll just have to learn to compose." Leon chuckled. "I believe you'll just need to help me learn everything about music theory first."
Ilona laughed. She would be willing to teach him of course, though his interests were more in the realm of law and order rather than harmony. He shared with her common favorite composers, though Leon would often refer to them as "the Russian composer" or "the mad German man." He could do with learning more about the music of the upper class if he is to truly mingle with them in talks of reform.
Reforming the minds of the influential when it came to child labor was simple... however, prostitution was something that they pretended didn't exist even if half the men sought the services of a prostitute at least once in their lifetimes. The temptation of the flesh was something no mortal man or woman could resist, no matter how strict society was against anything relating to sex.
She could just see the looks on the faces of some of the older patrons that came to the opera upon learning of what their sons' were doing outside of being out with friends or at work. Their little perfect world of etiquette ruined by the natural cravings of young men and women. If she did not see it in her life, she hoped that in the next people would be more open towards the idea of their sexuality.
"Law school has been very interesting as of late." Leon began. "I sat in on a case involving a wealthy Englishman accused of kidnapping, rape, and murder of three French prostitutes. It was the saddest thing in the world, the judge hardly gave the case a second glance when he ruled in favor of the Englishman."
"It's to be expected," Ilona sighed imagining her mother's face upon hearing the ruling. "They don't believe prostitutes exist, and those that do prefer to not think of them as human beings. They are but the causes of social ills, not true women."
"I know," Leon said taking a look around her dressing room. "Do you think they'll give you a bigger one of these? Less drafty?"
Ilona went along with the change of subject. In truth, she would rather not discuss prostitutes on a night of success for her career. She had hoped to just go home now it seemed she were on a set course for supper at Leon's favorite restaurant. The little cafe, that catered to many of the performers of the Palais Garner, had become a recent success with the patrons of the opera house as well as the cast. The little cafe that had once been a go to shop for a coffee and pastry, had become a full-scale restaurant within less than a year.
"Where does the blasted draft even come from?" Leon asked standing and began looking around the room. "The mirror?"
Ilona laughed a nervous laugh. The mirror was held shut by a locking mechanism that prevents those on the outside getting in, of course, there was a way to get in, but you had to be in the know to open it. She had learned of her father's little mirror trick in her dressing room shortly after she had been granted the dressing room. Nadir had said to her once when she remarked on how there was a two-way mirror in her room that her father had many of them positioned throughout the opera house.
Nadir did not even truly know how many mirrors there are, how many entrances into the actual sewers there were, to begin with. She knew very well to not go looking for them. She had heard enough stories from Monsieur Khan of the poor souls that had accidentally wandered into the sewers... It was best she leave those thoughts of horror alone.
"Why are there shards of glass on the floor?" Leon asked upon reaching the mirror. Bending down he took a shard of the former perfume bottle she had thrown at the wall in anger that morning. He looked at her with slight concern, he had nothing to be concerned for. She had been an angry girl and had taken that anger out on the nearest breakable object, the perfume bottle.
Leon didn't bother waiting for a reply from Ilona, instead probably talking himself into a fit of how much of a diva Ilona was becoming to throw things when she didn't get her way. He would have no idea why she had thrown it but would be able to guess it was a little tantrum.
His gaze locked on the mirror. "There's something behind the mirror!" He exclaimed.
"Of course there is," Ilona said with a giggle, now walking towards her friend. "The wall."
"No," Leon said looking admittedly at the mirror. "I saw something... A figure."
Ilona kept a smile on her face as she acted as if her friend was playing a game with her. "Is it a handsome young ladies figure?" Ilona said.
Ilona saw nothing in the mirror as she approached it. She had not much done anything to train herself to see behind the two-way glass, but she knew that if her father was that foolish to come to the mirror he would stay back far enough for Leon to not see. Her father was always a fool of course, now came the moment where she back Leon away from the mirror and got him to discuss dinner.
"How can you not see it?" Leon asserted pointing to where he thought the figure was located. "It's right there!"
"I see nothing Leon," She reassured him as she took his arm within hers and lead him back to the vanity. "I do believe you have spent far too long indoors. Fresh air will do you some good, we'll walk to the White Horse then."
Leon just stared at her as if she had been the one to go mad not him. He would have to think her mad if it meant protecting him from whatever could happen to him if he kept being noisy, it was worth it.
Ilona went behind the dressing divider to begin dressing in an appropriate dinner dress for the White Horse. It was a "casual" restaurant, which meant not full evening wear, but you should come dressed in your best anyway. No one knew who could be there. The Prime Minister himself could be dining at the establishment tonight.
As selected she donned a maroon gown with black tassels as intrigue designs. It was not in fashion at the moment, but it was hardly expected of an opera star to don this year's latest trends. The diva could truly wear what she wanted out if she were not in fear of her career tanking. Carlotta often went out with her mother in intrigue pigeon-like gowns or wear gowns with trains of cathedral length to tea.
Stepping out from behind the divider she found Leon looking intently at the mirror. His reaction judging by his reflection was a pure fright. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. Had he been so foolish as to go up to the mirror once more? Had her father been foolish enough to scare the law student? Her father had his ways with alluding the ears of others and only communicating with one individual whilst a room full of people hear nothing.
Taking a deep breath, Ilona made her way to her vanity. Taking the down the ballet bun that held her hair in place while wearing the wig, Ilona focused for that moment on thinking of what to say to any of his possible questions. He said nothing, even when she called his name he didn't respond. It didn't even look as though he could hear her.
Not bothering with her hair for that moment she got up from the vanity and approached Leon from behind. Hoping not to frighten him she lightly tapped his shoulder; there was no response.
"Léon?" Ilona said stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the mirror. "Leon!"
He shouted at her suddenly, frightening her so much she thought she nearly shattered the mirror with the force of her jump back. The fool had been playing a joke on her. The dumb man had thought her to be one of the superstitious fools of the opera house that believed the phantom of the opera was real. She was hardly amused as he began to laugh at her whilst begging for her apology.
"You scared the living hell out of me." Ilona managed to do her best to keep her eyes straight as she looked nervously back to the still intact mirror. "Don't you ever do that again!"
Léon said nothing in return and just stepped back laughing, retaking a seat on her small couch whilst she went about lecturing him on the horrors of scaring a lady. She had truly believed that he was seeing her father in the mirror threatening him with death if he so much as hurt her. Not only had she been stupid to think that her father would be that protective of her, she was also foolish to think her father would have bothered to talk to her after her performance.
He was probably still sulking in his lair over what he had done this morning. He would not have bothered to go above ground to watch her, he would have remained in that damned cellar and not give a damn if she succeeded or not.
Dividing and braiding her hair into fourths and tying it back in a braided bun took her longer with her added frustration not only towards Leon and her father but to herself for being foolish enough to believe her father would have bothered. That damned man what better things did he have to do than to be there for her? His music? She was his muse. He had said so on many an occasion to Nadir in her childhood and into her adolescence, he needed her to write music. He should do nothing but praises her for her willingness to obey to his teachings.
Did he have another daughter somewhere dividing his attention? No, she was becoming just as paranoid as her father. She was better than him. She was not mad like him, she was sane and beautiful.
"You are paying for anything I order this evening," Ilona said at last standing from her vanity. "That includes caviar and whatever pastry I choose."
"I'm sorry Ilona," He professed, hardly being sincere about it. "You theatre folk are all so superstitious, all I've heard from the rumor mill here is the opera ghost."
"The opera ghost isn't real." Ilona retorted harsher than she had meant to. "If he did I doubt he would care for any of us here."
(11:30 pm)
"You are Ilona Roche?" A young woman with broken French asked approaching the table where she and Léon sat. "I have a big fan. I see you tonight and you so good. So better than my cousin Agnes says."
Ilona had just taken a bit of her second course of roasted duck with assorted vegetables when the blonde teenager came up to her looking wide-eyed and friendly. The girl seemed to be Nordic or at least German by the looks of her and her accent. Ilona had smiled at her of course and been as friendly as she could with the girl.
Léon seemed hardly bothered by the young woman that had approached their table. He was always patient when they were out with those that would approach her out of recognition. She often wondered if he were scouting for potential wives to advance his position into the uppercuts of society. She knew very well that if he got a wife with an influential, and open-minded, father he could do well to influence the rest of the upper class to accept uncomfortable ideas.
Truly she didn't think he could get married to a woman above a middle-class position. Perhaps he could get a wife, the daughter of an influential captain or policeman? She doubted the police chief would have his daughter married to a lawyer that defended prostitutes.
"Thank you very much," Ilona said smiling after swallowing her hardly chewed duck. "It is always so nice to see my fans outside of the opera house."
The girl looked as though she barely understood a word that came out of Ilona's mouth. She just smiled and practically skipped back to her table somewhere on the other side of the restaurant by the looks of the walk she took. Cute little thing, she hoped she got her father to donate some money to the opera before heading back to whatever Nordic froze wasteland she had come from.
"Do you know who that was?" Léon asked looking in the direction of where the girl had run off to.
"No," Ilona said. "She seems to be a fan of mine."
"That would be the Norwegian Ambassador's youngest daughter." He said with a smile on his face suddenly. "Her father is well known around Paris as a frequent of many brothels."
Ilona thought back to some of her mother's johns. Her mother no longer slept with any of the men, she was strictly in the business of being a madam now. Thinking back to some of the men that had come to the whore house for the girls, she did not recognize him. She was very rarely allowed downstairs, only in cases when she was little and a few of the whores would babysit her or when she took care of the children of the whores.
"I don't believe I've seen him at my mother's establishment," Ilona said imagining a stereotypical Norseman with a long blond beard and beefy exterior. "Then again, I don't believe I've ever heard of the Norwegian ambassador."
Léon looked up at her from his plate with a smile, reaching out for his glass of wine. He took a slow sip of the fine French red before opening his mouth to speak.
"My mother believes him to be my father." Léon laughed, making Ilona smile.
"You don't look very Viking-like," Ilona said with a smile encouraging him to be open with her about his mother, he hardly ever was outside of speaking of the few fond memories he had of her.
"I said the same thing." He said making a show of grabbing a lock of his dirty blond hair. "I don't believe the Viking genes have set in yet. I will be sure to call on you when the full beard finally grows."
Ilona laughed, imagining him with a full Viking beard like she had seen in the many operas describing Norse legends. She knew they were inaccurate but it was more fun to think that every man from Scandinavia was a bearded, blond haired brute. Besides, there was a certain level of romance when thinking of a handsome Viking taking a capture of the beautiful French maidens and making them their wives.
She didn't really want to imagine Léon with anything more than the goatee he had grown many months ago. He would look ridiculous like one of those older gentlemen that were often handed with Carlotta after a performance.
"I'm sure your mother has entertained you with stories of your conception as well," Léon said leaving his intention of getting her to tell him who she thought her father was.
Unlike with many whore's children, she knew who her father was. Was it a good or a bad thing that she knew was the question? She was glad she knew him now, but perhaps her life would have turned out for the best if he had never come forward. Her mother had seemed content enough without him, she had told her when she was old enough for the "special talk" that the only reason she had even bothered staying with him for a week was because she thought she could convince him to marry her.
As her mother was a beautiful woman willing to sleep with a man as revoltingly ugly as her father, she had guessed he would. She had not known of course she'd end up knocked up with the madman's child for a while later. And when she had managed to track him down, via a rather adamant Nadir she had decided she was not going to deal with the madness of the opera ghost and raise their child on her own. But of course, Nadir had stepped in to remedy relations enough to where she knew her father.
"Oh yes," Ilona laughed. "The Phantom of the opera is my father."
Léon chuckled at her telling of the truth. "Your mother would have your tongue cut out for that."
"I doubt that," Ilona said taking a sip of her wine. "Besides, who else is going to bring in the francs for her wardrobe?"
