And Should I Turn Away…
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters, songs, etc. associated with it. I am merely a penniless writer captivated by a story.
Yay for reading week! It means I have time for an update, or perhaps two? I can hope. In this chapter I mention an opera entitled "I Masnadieri" by Verdi. For a synopsis, check out this website: http://opera dot stanford dot edu/Verdi/Masnadieri/synopsis dot html
Chapter 4: BanditsDespite luncheons with Raoul, which should have been the light of her days, Christine discovered that she was living for her nights. Those brief moments when the passion of the opera and those devilishly tempting words would dance within her soul and fill her with emotion. Because when she wasn't singing, she wasn't feeling anything at all.
Christine's steps were soft and unsure as she approached the manager's office. Emotionally she was a wreck, and the lack of new material to work with (a dangerous thing when the run of Eric's opera was scheduled to end in just another few weeks) was grating on her nerves. At least if she had new music to throw herself into she might find some relief from the increasingly frustrating Raoul, and the memory - the very physical memory – of Eric's fingertips running across her waist, refreshed with every evening's performance as it was.
She paused before the heavy wooden door, set back slightly by the fact that it was closed. Andre and Firmin maintained that their door was always open for fresh ideas and opinions (on the off-chance that one such idea might increase profits). Christine bit her lip gently as she nervously raised her pale hand to rap upon the door. Only the softened rumble of a voice caused her to halt her movement in mid-air.
"I'll not perform in a comedy." The voice said firmly, as inflexible as usual. Christine felt her breath catch in her throat. There was no mistaking Eric's inflexion or the hardness of his tone. The very corner of her lips twitched slightly at the realization that the lack of new music to learn was likely because the managers could not find anything that Eric would perform in.
"You're inability to perform a role without a mask," Andre's voice cut in icily, "Rather limits our options."
"Please, gentlemen," Eric began in a mocking tone, "If you would only cease to waste my time I could continue my work on the opera you've commissioned of me."
"And yet we pay you to sing as well." Firmin added dryly, the annoyance in his voice only thinly masked. There was a loud rustling of papers, and the Christine could just imagine the unhappy faces of the managers as they found themselves once again manipulated by the Opera Ghost. "What about this one?" Firmin's voice came finally. "The lead male plays the part of a bandit leader – surely a mask would not be so out of place."
There was a creaking of floorboards: Christine could only imagine that Andre had stepped over to Firmin's side to peer at the work in question. "I Masnadieri?" she heard his voice echo awkwardly, stumbling slightly over the Italian as only a Frenchman used to business deals rather than art could.
She heard Eric sniff. "Verdi?" His voice came dryly. She remembered then his mild dislike of Verdi's compositions. Nothing compared to his dislike of some composers, but there nonetheless.
"It is that or we refrain from paying you for a job you do not perform." Firmin's words were cold and succinct.
"I don't much like the ending." She heard Eric say lazily. "I'm assuming you intend to cast Christine as Amalia?"
"That was the intention." Firmin replied, still coldly, evidently furious at the lack of respect accorded to him by Eric.
"You and Christine do have such marvelous chemistry." Andre added. "I'm fairly certain that we could simply put the two of you on stage singing nursery rhymes and people would flock to see it." Christine would have laughed at the expression she could imagine on Firmin's face at Andre revealing all their cards, yet the deep blush that had crept across her face stilled her mirth. What Andre said was true, undoubtedly. And if it was so very visible to the audiences, it certainly did go far in explaining Raoul's overwhelming presence in her life at the moment. She breathed a small sigh, this attempt at clearing her mind of the turmoil Eric's existence was causing in her was having quite the opposite effect.
"Very well." She heard Eric say with slight resignation. "I suppose the other members of the cast will need the time to simply learn their lines."
"Of course." Andre replied jovially. "And we shall be seeing you at the rehearsals." Christine's jaw dropped at Andre's audacity. There been no question in Eric's attendance, he had simply demanded it.
"You waste time I could be working on your opera." Eric's voice came from just beyond the door, strained for civility.
"If you are to perform," Firmin began, "We expect you to perform well. And if you don't perform…" He let the sentence dangle; a hanging threat. Christine's astonishment knew no bounds. The managers were treading a fine line along Eric's ferocious temper.
"I'll attend." She heard Eric's voice, calm though she could sense the simmering anger beneath his words. "I'll be needed to correct the blocking in any case." Christine felt the corner of her lips twitch again, itching to smile. Not only had Eric contained his temper, he had made Firmin's threat sound as inconsequential as it truly was.
The door opened a crack, and Christine hastily stepped back, flattening herself against the wall several feet away from the door. She could see Eric's hand upon the inner doorknob and the mere sight of those hands… those hands who's touch tortured her every waking moment, stilled her breath.
"What is your new opera called?" Andre asked suddenly.
Christine watched the knuckles of the already pale hand whiten. "The Phantom of the Opera." She heard Eric's voice murmur, ever so low.
"Ah, autobiographical then?" Andre's voice exclaimed, "Excellent, excellent. Can't wait for it."
Christine heard Eric's soft snort, and watched in mild horror as he strode out of the door, slamming it behind him before stalking down the hallway in the direction opposite to which she stood. For a moment she watched him stride purposefully down the hallway, his dark cloak moving like a thick shadow behind him. A heavy feeling settled over her heart. She had been dying to talk to him, her heart begging for a single kind, or even critical, word. Wasn't this perhaps her best chance?
Without another thought Christine found herself running after him, her footsteps nearly silent in her soft ballet slippers. She slowed a step behind him and reached a hand out tentatively to tap his shoulder. The merest second before her fingers could touch, he spun around, his eyes flashing angrily and then melting into surprise. Christine pulled her fingers back - fingers she was terrified to notice were trembling.
"Christine?" His voice was surprisingly soft to her ears. She wasn't surprised that it sounded strange in her ears, seeing as how she'd only heard him sing for over two weeks now. "What do you want?" His eyes were hardening now, though Christine hardly knew into what emotion he was retreating.
"To talk to you!" She heard herself exclaim. Frustration tinged her voice and she found herself widening her eyes in surprise. "I miss you." She said more softly, though no less surprisingly.
"You see me every night." He replied, his voice seeming somewhat husky to her ears, filling her with a rising sense of something perhaps akin to terror, or maybe desire, if she let herself imagine such things.
"I mean I miss talking to you." She replied lamely. "I miss my teacher, and my friend." Christine found herself at a loss. The honesty in her voice surely betrayed the fact that these were no lines she had rehearsed. They were being born straight out of the mire her emotions had become in the past weeks, leaping from her tongue before she could think better of them.
She watched his eyes widen. "Friend?" He replied softly. His eyes were intent upon her, bright but guarded, hope flickering faintly into life. "I wasn't sure you counted me among your friends."
Christine frowned. "Why ever not? Since my first days here you were the person I confided everything in. You recognized something of worth in me, and you were the one who taught me and kept me from forgetting everything my father taught me to love."
"And Raoul?" He prompted, his voice on edge.
"What about Raoul?" She exclaimed, frustration again colouring her words. "What does Raoul have to do with you being my friend?" She demanded. "What does Raoul have to do with anything at all?" She stepped back, a hand raised softly in front of her voice in surprise at her outburst. She knew very well that it was her emotional turmoil that had brought her to it, and she winced at the realization that she had even managed to insert a sneer into Raoul's name in her frustration. She hung her head slightly; it was unfair of her to take her frustration and confusion out on Raoul, even if only in thought.
When she finally managed a peek up at Eric, for he had not said a word in response to her outburst, he was looking at her quite seriously. He cleared his throat softly, his lips parting silently for a brief moment before something like resolve spread across his features. "Perhaps we should resume your singing lessons then?" He offered. "Now that you are the undisputed diva, we can actually make use of the stage and perfect the acoustics."
Christine felt her lips spread into the first genuine smile in weeks. "I would love that." She replied softly, her eyes gazing up into Eric's. For a moment she saw the corner of his mouth turn up into the possibility of a smile, the closest she had seen him come to one.