Back to Ariella for this chapter! And introducing someone you might find faintly familiar... ;-)
Enjoy!
Chapter Three: The Audition
I stopped Ariella the next evening as she gathered my costumes up to leave. "Wait a moment, Ariella. I'd like you to try something with me."
"Yes, Madame?"
"I'd like you to try some warm-ups with me."
"If you wish. But I don't really need them, you know…"
I tried to not roll my eyes as I answered, "Ariella, everyone needs to warm up their voice before they sing. If they don't, not only is their potential range greatly reduced, they can seriously damage their vocal chords."
"I suppose that might be true for opera, especially for people without natural talent, but folk songs--"
"Any song." She really was making it extremely difficult for me to remember that I had wanted to help her to sound her best. "I knew a very popular folk singer in Brittany years ago, when I was a child. There was a festival… They wouldn't let him stop singing. All week long, everywhere he went, everyone kept clamouring for one more song. And he obliged them. And he didn't warm up first." I paused, remembering the tanner. "I did my best to help him; I made him hot teas with honey, but his voice never recovered. When I last saw him, years later, he still sounded as if he had swallowed a rasp."
She looked away, contrite, it seemed. I hoped that I had made an impression.
"In any case, I want you to sound your best. And everyone sounds better after they've warmed up."
"Sound my best? For what?" Her eyes lit up.
"Well… It's said," I lied, "That if you stand on stage when everyone else has gone, and sing to the empty house, the Ghost will listen to you. Consider it an audition."
She laughed and clapped her hands like a child at Christmas. "And then he'll take me on as his student; I know he will! Oh, Madame, thank you so much!"
I was rather afraid that she would hug me in her enthusiasm, but she managed to restrain herself to jumping around the room. "Settle down, then," I said; "We don't want to keep him waiting!"
I did my best to guide her through simple warm-ups before she lost patience after half an hour. I persuaded her to keep going for another ten minutes or so by pointing out that the longer we took, the emptier the theatre would be, and the more likely it would be that the Ghost would be lurking about. But finally even I had to admit that she sounded as good as she was going to that evening, and led her back to the stage.
The theatre and auditorium were dim; only the ghost light lit the stage. She shivered slightly when I told her its name. "Is it… for him?" she whispered.
I chuckled. "It's to keep the light of the arts shining forever—and to prevent people from tripping over the set," I replied. "Here, stand here. That's right."
"Where should I sing to?" she asked, looking up at the flies above us.
"Sing to the auditorium," I advised. "That will give you the best acoustics."
"But what if he's up in the catwalks?"
"Why would he be up in the catwalks?" I asked, puzzled. "It's a bit exposed for a ghost, don't you think?"
She blushed prettily. "I suppose… I just thought…" She trailed away.
"He's the Ghost; he could be anywhere," I said. "Sing to the auditorium." I backed away to leave her alone on the stage.
"What shall I do?" She looked a bit panicky. "How should I start? What should I say?"
"Don't say anything. Just sing."
Slightly hesitant, she turned back to the auditorium, nervously smoothed her dress and hair, and sang.
She started with an old Romany song. I recognised the tune; Erik played it for me occasionally. Her voice was untrained, but had a sweet, lilting air that, I had to admit, rather suited the song. When she finished, she sang a song I had heard the stagehands sing upon occasion; unfortunately her voice and fragile air were less suited to the rather bawdy lyrics. However, I supposed I had to applaud the enthusiasm she brought to it. I suspected she had included it to show her range; it certainly was not one I would have chosen to woo a man who dwelt in an opera!
She finished with an attempt at the Jewel Song from Faust. Behind her and in the dark as I was, I made no attempt to hide my wince. She reallywould end up damaging her voice if she persisted in singing beyond her abilities.
When she had finished, she curtsied, and stood, waiting, apparently, in a somewhat awkward silence. "What now?" she whispered over her shoulder to me.
"Now, we go," I replied, with a quick glance around. There was no sign of movement.
"But… he didn't come!" she almost wailed.
"What makes you think that? He's the Ghost; did you think he would walk up to you and applaud?"
"I thought… I thought that he might give me some sort of a sign. You know. Of his approval."
Reluctantly she turned and we left the stage. "What kind of a sign?" I asked.
"Oh, you know." She twirled a lock around her finger, embarrassed, perhaps. "Like a rose. With a black ribbon, so I'd know it was him…"
"You've thought all this out rather carefully, haven't you?"
"Well…" It was hard to tell in the dim lighting of the backstage corridors, but I suspected she was blushing.
"Well, never mind. I rather suspect that if he does contact you, it won't be when you're expecting it." I paused, and glanced around. The corridor seemed deserted, but for us; but the opera really was more like a small city than a theatre; it was nevertruly empty. Still… "Ariella, if I may make a suggestion…"
"Yes, Madame?"
"Don't tell anyone what you know. About the Ghost, I mean. If you're correct, if he truly is a real man and not a ghost, then he won't like you talking about him. He wouldn't like you giving away any of his secrets."
She swallowed. "That's what Bruno said," she confided. "My friend's brother's friend. You know. He said…" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He said that they found Claudin's body in the cellars. He said that he had probably been snooping around where he wasn't wanted, and that I should watch my back."
Excellent advice, I thought.
"But Iknow he wouldn't really have killed him. Claudin probably just slipped and fell. Or if he did, then—then he probably deserved it."
He did deserve it, I remembered, still shaky when I thought of just how close he had come to killing us both. But that didn't lessen the tragedy of the man's untimely death.
"You know, he was probably really mean to the chorus girls…" Ariella was saying.
I stopped. "Did you just say that if he had been mean to them, he would have deserved to die?" I was horrified.
"Well, you know… If he was always leering at them… Perhaps he… Perhaps he had grabbed one of them, or something…" She trailed off under my shocked stare.
"Ariella," I said, slowly and carefully, "There is nothing that can justify taking someone's life. There are times when it must be done to preserve one's own, I'm sure, but you cannot seriously believe that a man who behaved like a cad would truly deserve to die!"
Tears welled in her violet eyes as her face crumpled. "You don't understand! You could never understand him! I should have known better than to tell you anything—You're horrid!" She whirled and dashed off down the hallway.
Dash it all! Honestly, how could anyone be so stupid? I could only hope that in her ever-so-tragic love for a man who didn't exist, she would at least see the sense in keeping her mouth shut.
Drat. I didn't wish to leave my door unlocked, but I couldn't leave my costumes in the hallway. If she didn't come by in the morning to deal with them they would never be ready for the evening's performance! I decided to leave her a note on the door instructing her as to what time she could pick them up in the morning.
I was just pinning it up when one of the stagehands approached. "Excuse me, Madame, he said, nervously twisting his hat in his hands. "Might I have a word? If you have time, of course; I know it's late…"
"Gerard, isn't it?" He grinned at my recognition. I recognized him; most of the chorus girls had been deeply aware of him. He was a handsome man, with strong limbs and a deep tan, despite the hours spent indoors at the Opera. The jagged scar that seamed his right cheek, a souvenir of an unfortunate backstage accident several years before, only added to his roguish charm. To be perfectly frank, he had always reminded me of nothing so much as a good-natured pirate. His habit of leaving his shirt open as he worked the ropes and pulleys that shifted the massive set pieces about the stage completed the illusion. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, Madame, it's about your dresser. You know. Ariella."
"Yes?" I asked cautiously.
"I was wondering if you knew… Does she have a beau?"
I was not quite sure how to answer that. "Why do you ask?"
"Well… Well, she's very pretty, and… I thought that perhaps, if she didn't have one…"
I couldn't help but grin. He had never struck me as the type to be shy, I had to admit. I took a closer look at him. Rather dashing, scarred but not unattractive… He might be just the thing. If he would be good to her. "How serious are you about her?" I asked.
"Very," he answered gravely. "She's so… so beautiful, and delicate, and her voice is so lovely…"
"Would you make an honest woman of her?"
"I would."
"Where would you live?" Heavens, I sounded like her mother! But I couldn't, in all good conscience, simply send her away with just anyone, although, for the life of me, I was having trouble remembering just why not…
"Well, if she agreed, I'd thought we could move back to the town I grew up in. My father was a carpenter; I could make a decent living for us."
"Then I think I might be able to help you win her. But you'll have to follow my instructions to the letter," I told him with a smile.
A/N: The anecdote of the singer who ratched his voice out permanently in a week is true; it happened to a guy I know. It was Ricolo's I brought him, not honeyed tea, but it didn't help. It's a shame; he used to have a wonderful mellow voice. Now even when he's just talking he sounds like he's about to start hacking up a lung. Also, I disagree with Christine about no one deserving to die (for example, I used to work with the older sister of the best friend of one of Clifford Olson's victims. I know exactly what he did to her. I also met one of his prison guards, who apparently did not know details: he said that CO was a very nice person, and would we all be so quick to say he deserved to die if we had to pull the trigger ourselves? Know what? He needs to die. And yes, I would happily kill him myself). But for being mean? Come on. Alas, that's too often used in Bad!phics to justify Buquet and Piangi's deaths in the movie. Like they say, though, the opinions in this piece may not reflect blah blah blah.
