Chapter Two

The nauseating sound of my alarm clock woke me at five in the morning with a roaring hangover. I cursed as I reached groggily for the off switch. My head felt like it had one of those aliens Sigourney Weaver fought crawling around inside it, clawing to get out. I was next to fainting from the throbbing.

"Damned thing," I cursed, "Shaddup!" Once the nuisance was silenced, I tumbled out of bed and wobbled into the bathroom, blindly waving my hand across the wall in search of the light switch. With an hour and a half to spare, I started the hot water running. The soothing heat immediately worked its magic and I found my pounding headache gradually disintegrating. After that, I got dressed into a jean and sweater outfit and slipped on my knee high boots. I grabbed my suitcase and turned the knob on the front door. The cab made it to JFK airport with forty five minutes to spare. I hauled my way through the lines and lines of other passengers waiting for their security check. Finally, after a half an hour of patiently waiting to step through the puffer and have my carry on x-rayed, I managed to find a seat at my departure gate. I had fifteen minutes or more to wait.

Zoning out from ibuprofen, I stared at one of those quaint, "pass your time" bookstore kiosks through my dark sunglasses watching as people read the blurbs on the back covers. My eye was drawn to a particular title. Rising to my feet I entered the shop and stared at the cover with curiosity.

The Essential Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux was embossed over a photo of a masked man and a blonde haired woman sitting in a boat. At the bottom of the book it said Leonard Wolf, Editor. I knew that the Broadway musical was based on the book, but that was the extent of my knowledge about it. I liked Andrew Lloyd Webber's music, and had seen the show a few times with family from out of state. Of course, I loved the show. I figured that it might be insightful to read what inspired the longest running show in current Broadway history, since I was going to the place where it was set.

"It could be interesting." I mused, flipping the pages like a pack of cards. I carried the volume to the register and placed it on the glass top counter. Ten minutes and nine dollars later, I sat in the plane next to the window and turned to the first page.

"The Phantom of the opera existed. He was not, as was believed for a long time, a creature imagined by artists; a superstition of directors; a droll creation of the excitable minds of the young women of the corps de ballet, their mothers, or the box attendants, the cloak room employees, or the doorkeeper.

Yes, he existed, in flesh and blood, despite the fact that, he appeared to everyone to be a veritable Phantom- That is to say, a ghost…,"

Oooh, a mystery, I loved those kinds of books.

Fast forward twelve hours and I reluctantly closed the book to begin disembarking the plane. The book was getting good too. The Phantom was stalking Raoul and the Vicomt had just shot at what he thought were the Phantom's eyes. As I passed through the gangplank, all of the attendants waved while shouting "Bonjour et Bienvenu a Paris!" Jet lag began to hit and hit hard as a jaw cracking yawn escaped from me. I squeezed my way through the crowd and made my way to the baggage claim. After breezing my way through customs I headed to the Taxi stand, and found, to my surprise, that a chauffer was holding a white board with my name scrawled across it in neat handwriting.

"I'm Christine Daniels." I stated, pulling out my Press pass. The chauffer glanced at it and, with a nod, gestured for me to follow him to his car. Once I was comfortably situated in the back seat of an infinity, I took in the sights of Paris. We crossed the sine on our way to the famous Opera house. As it loomed into view, I completely understood why people considered this an architectural wonder of the world. The car stopped in front of a huge sweeping stair case. As I exited the vehicle an older man approached.

"The reporter from the New York Times, I presume? I am Gerard DeBataille, the Manager of the Paris Opera." His deep voice was warm with welcome, a hint of a French accent inflecting his flawless English. He had a friendly face and wore an impeccable suite. He extended a hand, which I shook vigorously as I introduced myself.

"I am Christine Daniels, Reporter for the New York Times. It's a pleasure to meetcha, M. DeBataille"

"It's wonderful to meet you Miss Daniels, if you would please follow me."

The Manager led me through a massive lobby and into the backstage area of the theater. It was bustling with activity as actors and stage hands were doing a dress rehearsal. A chorus echoed through the auditorium, while the Manager and I stood on the sidelines.

"We are performing our annual production of Faust tonight," he gave me a sideways glance, a smile creeping across his features. There was a sudden pause, and the Manager seized his chance to get everyone's attention.

"Ladies, and gentlemen, as you all know, for sometime there have been rumors of a journalist from the states arriving to write a piece about us." The Manager's clear voice exclaimed over the grumbling crowd of rehearsing performers. "Well, it is my deep pleasure to inform you that these rumors are all true. Allow me to introduce the journalist, Christine Daniels." Right on cue, I stepped forward and gave a cheery wave and my patented smile. Some of the grumbling subsided. Others just got louder, and a few I assumed were cursing.

"Bonjour monsieurs et Mademoiselles, I am glad to be here to show the States what fine performers reside here at the Paris Opera House." I stated. "I would love to interview a few of you about your experiences here at the Paris Opera House, But please, don't let me interrupt your rehearsal." Immediately there was a collective sigh and the actors and musicians went back to work. I set my self in an inconspicuous place on the side of the stage, making sure to stay out of the way. As I waited, I stared up into the rafters, daydreaming.

While I dazed off, I could have sworn I saw a shadow shift up on a cat walk. Apparently my jet lag was affecting my imagination. With a shrug and a quiet chuckle, I turned my attention back to what was happening on stage.