Dear Journal,
The Opera Ghost has been busy lately. I don't know about everything going on--there's something about Box 5 and something else about a salary--but that's the extent of my knowledge since I'm not really a part of the "gossipy-ballerina" scene. I suppose I could go ask Giry or Jammes or one of the others… but I prefer not to associate with them. They don't like me, and I think they're annoying. We have an understanding.
Everyone was on eggshells during rehearsal. Their production of Faust was only a week away and everybody was feeling the tension.
The second trombonist eloped with one of the ballerinas and both had to be replaced.
One of the little boys of the ballet was goaded by his friends to attempt a dangerous, albeit flashy, maneuver high above the stage. The result was a broken ankle (not to mention a score or so of sore bottoms after the sound beating the foolish little boys received for causing trouble).
La Carlotta was being even more difficult than usual. The costumes for the chorus were still not finished because her dresses were constantly being sent back for alterations--this sash is too long, this bow is too small, there are not enough sequins (there were never enough sequins).
On top of everything, rumor had it that the managers had just received another note signed O.G. That makes the third this week.
However, from the gossip I have overheard, I have gleaned that M. Ghost has a profound dislike for La Carlotta. Whoever this gentleman is, he has good taste! Actually, while I still am quite certain about the improbability of a resident spectre, I can't help but feel a sort-of bond between he (or she, for all I know) and myself.
I am embarrassed to admit it, but, since this is my journal, I don't see the harm. I put ink in Carlotta's perfume bottle. As I expected, the Opera Ghost took the blame. M. Ghost--whoever, or whatever you are--I give you my thanks.
I know it's incredibly immature and petty, but I did feel a certain childish satisfaction when I saw the look on her overly-made-up face. And, something about the prospect of never getting caught made it all the more exciting.
I told the Voice about it. He, too, found it mildly amusing.
Speaking of Him, my lessons have been interesting lately. We have a bizarre sort of relationship. I don't trust him, but he doesn't know that. I do as he asks, and he continues to instruct me. So far it has worked out well, but I can't shake this feeling that our whole arrangement is precariously balanced.
"Again, Christine!"
As the accompaniment began from some unseen location, Christine tried to suppress a groan. They had been practicing one of Marguerite's arias all morning. The Voice was insistent that she sing it perfectly. After so many weeks of rehearsal, she would rather not spend her lessons practicing Faust.
"Must we, Angel? We've already done it seven times!" she whined
"Yes! Do not question me! Again, Christine!" he snapped. Clearly, he was as irritated as she was.
Christine wasn't ready to back down just yet. "Why are we learning this anyway, Angel, when I am only in the chorus?"
"That is no excuse for carelessness. I am trying to make your voice perfect. Besides, if you can sing this, you can sing the rest."
She sighed. I guess I'm not going to win this round. And began again.
For all the peculiarity of our arrangement, he really is a good teacher. He has taught me to do things with my voice that I had never imagined of before. Volume, for example.
"Christine, why must you sing like a timid little mouse? I can barely hear you."
"Sorry, Angel, I'm doing the best I can."
"That cow they call a Prima Donna could sing louder than ten of you put together!"
"Carlotta's huge!" Christine protested.
One of the benefits of Carlotta's considerable girth is that, if nothing else, that woman's voice can fill up the auditorium. Although, on second though, that might be from all the constant practice she gets screaming at everyone.
"Size has nothing to do with it, my dear. It has everything to do with your breathing, posture, and control. Just because you're a small woman doesn't mean you need to have a small voice."
"Observe." he commanded and then began to sing the aria in his own register. At first the sound was thunderous--a booming, powerful sound that shook the old wooden furniture. Christine's eyes went wide and she trembled. Then, as the phrase ended, he brought his voice down… softer… softer… until it was nothing more than an echo behind her left ear.
Christine was amazed. Even as a deafening roar, his voice retained all the beauty the line called for. Likewise, the hushed whisper never lost any of its power--in truth, it may have become more powerful in its gentleness.
For a moment the two were silent. The student stood in her place, tears in her eyes, not staring at anything in particular. The teacher in the shadows, breath shallow, reveling in her reaction to him. Then, as if coming back down to earth, the teacher cleared his voice…
"Christine…" he began, "My child, I think we've done enough work for today. Perhaps you should rest before rehearsal." His voice was sublimely tender, but left no room for argument.
Christine nodded dumbly and moved to sit on the divan in the corner of her room. When she laid down across it and put her head on the pillow, he began to sing a soft lullaby. The last thing she remembered before she fell asleep was vaguely thinking that ten o'clock was too early to be taking a nap.
He did make one more demand of me that I thought odd enough to mention. He told me to hide my gift, to sing as I once did, until he gives me the order to do otherwise. It seems like such a strange request. Is it supposed to be a lesson of some kind--that I should work for perfection that nobody will hear?
On the other hand, after Mamma's reaction to my new tutor, I would just as soon prefer to keep Him a secret from everyone else. No noticeable change means fewer questions for me to dodge.
It is harder than one might think to hide such a drastic change in my voice. While I haven't been able to sing at the level I am being trained to, I have managed to get through rehearsals without being singled out for any mistakes.
Soon, my beautiful angel. He thought as he watched her asleep on the sofa. She was most lovely when she was sleeping. So alone, so helpless, so needing of his protection, his guidance--this is how he always thought of her, but it was so much more apparent as the angel slept. Soon you will be ready to release your voice from its cage for the whole world to enjoy. They will come from all over to hear you sing, Christine. My Christine. Soon everyone will see you for the beautiful diva that you are.
I know it's wrong to aspire to invisibility--but that's how I feel.
-Christine
