"I'm in the mood for some delicious gossip." Genny informed me.
Again she had offered to take me to lunch and we now sat on the steps of a quaint cafe on the other side of the street from the opera. Actually she had wanted to get her hands on a paper. She informed me that even though her brother Philippe let her indulge in the unorthodox life of an opera singer, he refused to let her be involved with reporter or critics. As powerful as the Comte was, he could not keep his sister's name out of the newspapers completely. However he did not allow any of them at their town house so Genny was forced to buy them herself and read them out of sight
It came as no surprise that Genny received nothing but favorable reviews and praise. But word had gotten around that the critics and patrons were not as enthusiastic about the opera in general. She let me finish reading the column when she was done and found the critic share the same opinion of the opera as the Maestro.
To be blunt he hated it.
When we returned to the opera, Genny had promised to introduce me to the opera's gossip. She teased me stating that it was someone I had met before.
"Then it must be Jammes or little Giry. Who else chatters and gossip more than those ballet girls."
She shook her head "Guess again." We made our rounds through out the back stage until we headed for the stage. The orchestra had just finished their afternoon session and musicians passed us, offering a nod once they saw Genny.
"Ah Camille, I thought you would be here." Genny cried out to a woman standing near the edge of the stage. She turned and I saw that it was Camille, the assistant to M. Gabriel. She was close to our age, but while Genny and the other girls at the opera acted so extroverted and gay, Camille seemed a very serious person and not involved or concerned with life's trivial matters. She was devoted to her work as a script girl and Gabriel's assistant, keeping track of every score and sheet of music used for a performance.
As we approached, I shook my head in disapproval. Obviously I had misjudged her. "Don't tell me you're the notorious gossip."
She smiled coolly at me. "So, I see Genny has exposed my little secret."
Genny could see the look of disapproval on my face and frowned at me. "Christine don't be so judgmental." She chided me. Then she turned back to Camille. "I'm dying to here about the latest scandal. "
"Scandal?" I asked confused.
"I heard news that the opera ghost is most displeased with out new managers, or that's the talk that's been going around the chorus." Genny explained. "It's so unfortunate that I'm separate from the rest of cast."
Camille pursed her lips in a false pout. "Oh, the irony that a member of the ton can't be the center of her own circle of gossip." She mocked. "Don't listen to anything the chorus girls might say. You should always come to me first."
"Who is the opera ghost?" I blurted out.
Both of them turned their attention to me. Genny looked stunned.
"You've never heard of the opera ghost. You've been working hear all these months and no one has told you about the phantom!"
"Well I've heard of him." I admitted. "On opening night when Carlotta's dressing room was broken into. They say it was the ghost."
At this, Camille started to laugh. "Oh yes! And Carlotta blamed you." I shook my head, regretting bringing up the subject. However Camille sensed I was uncomfortable. "Don't worry Christine. The opera ghost has been playing tricks on Carlotta for years, or for as long as I been here."
"Yes but who is this person and why would he do such a thing?" I asked again, concerned that my companions took this matter so lightly.
"Christine…no one knows who the opera ghost is. That's why he's called the opera ghost." Genny explained. "I thought everyone knew about him."
"Well I can tell you this…"Camille cut in. "He is certainly no ghost. If you even believe in such things as ghosts"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well no ghost could have overturned furniture or wreck a room, like what happen to La Carlotta. Ghosts are limited to the things they can do." She lowered her voice. " For example they can't write notes…"
Genny gasped. "Don't tell me you heard?"
Camille smiled. "Yes, I was M. Gabriel when the latest note from the ghost was delivered to the manager's office." She gestured for us to come away from the stage, leading us back until she managed to find the staircase that my maestro had used. I was amazed that she had found it so quickly, while I had been still searching since that night of my first lesson. "Here, let us talk here. No one uses this old staircase anyway. So when M. Debienne and Poligny retired, they left specific instructions about the ghost. Well it's obvious the new managers have ignored them."
"What instructions?" I asked
"The ghost has certain rules that must be followed. He has his own private box…"
"Little Meg's mother, Madame Giry is in charge of it." Genny interjected.
"He is allowed to make artistic decisions on the works performed and the performers and I've heard it said the M. Debienne and Poligny used to pay the ghost a salary of 20,000 francs a month." Camille continued. "Apparently he was very much against the performing of 'Orpheus' in the first place. Rumor is that the managers choose it to appeal to new audiences. Our patrons have been sitting through it politely enough, applauding our efforts, but the critics are tearing it apart. The ghost shares their opinion as well. What I overheard when I was in the office was that if they did not pull Orpheus from the program, he would make it difficult for the performers to continue."
"Ah, that's why he made that wreck in Carlotta's room on opening night. He was trying to upset her enough not to go on." Genny mused. "Too bad, La Carlotta is as stubborn as the ghost. She'd still go on stage, even if the ghost set her hair on fire!" she joked.
Now I was stunned. "What kind of person would do that?"
Camille smiled. "Ah you have the same thought as me Christine. I believe that this 'ghost' must in fact really be a person, someone of flesh and blood."
Genny disagreed "No person could be every where at the same time, like the ghost seems to be."
"That because the ghost is not simple one man, but many." Camille continued.
"What makes you so sure it is a man, Camille?" asked Genny. "I overheard that the ghost often ask Madame Giry for a footstool and has left a fan in Box Five"
Camille waived a dismissive hand. "Old lady Giry is as crazy as a bat! It must be a man, and a powerful one at that."
"Then explain your theory."
Camille leaned back on the stairs, still emitting her cool sense of confidence. "I believe the ghost is a powerful patron, intent on getting his way around the opera. He fancies that he should be allowed to call all the shots and get special privileges, yet he cannot reveal his true identity. So he sends anonymous notes pretending to be a ghost, and when he does not get what he demands, he reverts to sabotage. Yes, no man could have destroyed Carlotta's dressing room by himself. He must have had help. I believe that he pays off certain staff to do his bidding. People, who would be unnoticed, people with keys…"
"But why would he need a salary?" Genny posed. "If he is so rich and powerful, why does need the money anyway?"
"I knew you would try to poke a hole in my theory. I think it is to pay his helpers." Camille explained without missing a beat. "Besides, if you had enough influence to frighten people into giving you money, wouldn't you use it?"
I felt my skin prickle as her voice trailed off. "That is horrible" I said.
Camille and Genny looked at me, their eyes asking for further explanation.
"If this ghost is what you say he is Camille. A man who has enough influence and power to frighten the managers and the staff. Some one who uses fear and extortion just to have an opera run his way…then perhaps it would be better if he was simply a phantom instead."
More Mozart that night at my lessons. We switched from The Magic Flute to The Marriage of Figaro.
"I hope this is suitable?" he asked. I did not answer with a quip or jovial response as I might have. My mind was too focused on my conversation earlier that day about the opera ghost. I nodded.
"Good I have been informed there is to be a change in the season. This will be the opera that follows Orpheus and we will need to get you ready for the auditions."
I stared at him puzzled as he arranged the music on the piano. He seemed to know so much about the goings on at the opera, when I knew so little about him. I was no closer to guessing his identity than I had been at our first meeting. It had not even been announced to the cast that the opera season had undergone changes.
Perhaps he was a colleague of M. Gabriel, Mercier or even the managers themselves. He must have chosen to work separate from the rest of the staff, at night were no one could look at him or his mask.
"Aren't you curious what part you will be singing?" he asked.
I snapped out of my daze. "Yes, please." I asked shuffling through my folio of music. He took it from my hands, and turned to the correct pages.
"You'll start here." He informed me and I looked down to see the line at the top of the page.
"Cherbunio?" I asked
"You are displeased." He returned my question with one of his own.
I did not feel comfortable challenging him on his decision; for I'm sure he made it with the best of intentions. "No I guess I was just surprised."
"I can understand. Cherbunio is just causally ignored as the comedic relief in this story, but I see him as more than that. He like the Countess is depressed and torn apart by love. He loves the Countess, but dares not confess his love to her. I think it takes more skill in a role with such dual points of emotions."
"I didn't doubt your judgment, Maestro." I explained. "But thank you. I do see you point."
"And I believe your voice, now is very suited for this role. The Countess is meant for a singer with preferably a more mature voice. A dramatic soprano if you will." He chose his words carefully. "Your voice as lovely as it is, still betrays your youth." He explained, sitting down at the piano. "But here we can use that to our advantage."
He started to play as I stumbled through the introductory aria. It moved like the rest of the opera at a frantic pace and I felt myself challenged more to keep up with each note and word. My Maestro was as patience as always as we moved past the first few pages.
Love, That word that sets me hoping and fearing
Love, that word I'm always hearing
Love, ah love how can I dissemble, those desires that I hardly dare name…
We reached one of the ending phrases, were all the words seem strung together before the final notes. I gasped to reach the notes and keep up with the pace. He struck the keys on the piano with such force, shouting encouragement.
Only for love I languish…For love, for love I am sighing…
"Keep going!"
The flow of the music caused me to take a break in places I did not want to breathe at. The effect was forcing my words to spill out in a frenzied pace to make the emotions of the distraught pageboy.
I managed to pull through to the end. "Close your eyes Christine and hold the last note as long as you can."
And echo's voice replying…And even if none be near me, I talk of love alone….
I obeyed him, hearing the chords stop. I held the last note, using all my reserved breath to sustain it.
Talk of love alone….
Then I was aware that he had left the piano and was now standing behind me. I felt his hand gently place itself against my stomach, pressing lightly to encourage those last breaths. I did not open my eyes.
Finally there was no more. I silenced the music and with my eyes still closed, listened as the sound of my heavy breathing echoed in the room. Now I was afraid.
"Put out your hands, Christine." He instructed in a whisper. I tried to rationalize with myself that if he has wish to harm me, he would have done so by now. I held my hands palm up in front of my sides and felt the pressure against my stomach release and then press into my hands. With his fingers, he placed something in my palm and closed my fingers around it.
"Open you eyes Christine."
I did and looked down. I could see something thin and silver within my clenched fingers. I opened them slowly than gasped.
"No…it couldn't….
The silver chain was attached to small round pendent. My fingers trembling, I opened the clasp and saw the face of my father, still sporting his mutton chops, starring back at me.
"My necklace! How did you…"
"Shall I help you put it on?" he asked. Without answering, I passed it to him and felt as his fingers brushed aside the hairs that fell lose under my bun. His touch felt electric and I felt strange yet exhilarating as his fingers grazed the back of my neck, locking the necklace close.
I reached up to push it against my chest, felling the cool metal against my skin. I turned around.
"How did you find it?" I asked in delighted shock.
He shrugged. "It was simple enough. I decided to visit each pawn shop near here, looking for a necklace that might have matched your. I asked around for a locket with a photograph of a man and a little girl. I found it on the Rue Feydeau. Once I saw the picture inside I knew it was you…"
He didn't get a chance to finish, for I flung myself at him. I wrapped my arms around him and buried my head in his chest. Propriety is damned. I was already crying tears of joy.
"Thank you! Thank you…maestro…" I cried. This time his embrace did not feel stiff as before and his arms were welcoming. His hands came up to my head, gently stroking the top of it.
"How can I ever thank you?" I pulled away and looked up into his face. It was hard to read the expression behind the mask, but I did not even see the hint of a smile on his face. He looked down at me, and I was soon aware his fingers grazed the bottom of my chin.
"Christine...if you would only..." his beautiful voice was now breaking, as if it were painful for him to speak. "Let me take care of you...then..."
I wanted to touch him. Something within me cried out for me to reach up my hands and hold his face between them. To let him know he could speak honestly with me. To let him know that I trusted him, completely.
"Never mind." he stated, his voice now even again. He withdrew from me and I felt empty away from his touch. "You are welcome, Christine."
