Author's Note: This is the latest a chapter to this story has ever been (what has it been, like two weeks? Jesus Christ almighty), and I apologize for that. Life has gotten in the way, and I hope none of you are too upset with me. Please enjoy!
Chapter 8
"Do you think this is humorous?" Florence asked, leaning over her desk. "Is this your idea of a practical joke, Giry?"
Monsieur Giry was seated in the managerial office, his hands folded over the head of his cane. Erika had made for the office's hanging mirror when she heard the managers summon him. She now observed the interrogation the old Box Keeper was stoically receiving.
"Did you or did you not send these letters?" Andrée pressed, tapping the two torn envelopes sitting on the desk.
"I know nothing of any letters," Giry answered, "the only message I've touched is the one I left for you this morning."
Both women looked to the envelope sitting atop a stack of paperwork. Its red wax seal was unbroken, its contents unread. "To Management" was scrawled in black cursive above the seal.
"You wrote it as well?" Andrée asked.
"I wrote nothing, madame. That was in Box Five, waiting there as I made my rounds."
Florence took the envelope addressed to her and unfolded the letter within. She threw Giry an unhappy grimace. "The handwriting is the same," she said, comparing the scribbling on the page to the unopened envelope.
"What, may I ask, did the letters say?" Giry inquired, "What has you so upset that their sender must be located?"
Florence cleared her throat, smoothed down her hair, and read from the message she'd received:
"Dear Florence,
I was very much pleased with last night's gala. It's clear you and your associate are at least competent at directing a cast. However, do instruct your choreographer to better train her dancers. Several members of the ballet were late on their cues, resulting in several numbers looking like a charging herd of goats.
Your Friend,
Mirage"
Andrée re-opened her letter:
"Dear Andrée,
As you were the producer of last night's performance, I must congratulate you on your success of going over budget. Did the turbans of the elephant handlers need to be so ornate? Next time, focus your resources on what truly matters. I must say, you were wise to choose Christian Daaé to replace Carlo. He brought an air of regality to the role that no one else could have.
Your Humble Servant,
Mirage
(P.S) I have yet to receive my salary, madame, and I'm growing rather impatient with you."
"If you're unhappy with how we run our opera, monsieur, I suggest you file an official complaint," Andrée said.
"Indeed, there's no need to voice your concerns through sarcasm," Florence agreed, "it's unlikely anyone will take you seriously."
Giry leaned forward on his cane and chuckled deep inside his throat. "There's no need to take offense. The Mirage is simply giving her feedback."
"Monsieur Giry, would you like to lose your job?" Florence sighed. "Because that's exactly what will happen if you try and blame this on a fairy tale character."
"The Mirage is no fairy tale, mesdames," Giry shrugged, "she's been present at the Opera Populaire for years. Did your predecessors not mention the letters they received after each production?"
Once again, the women shared an uneasy glance – this time at one another. Andrée reached for the sealed envelope, but Florence snatched it and held it out to Giry.
"You read it," she said, "and let us see what this 'Mirage' character wants of us."
Giry broke the crimson seal and drew out the parchment inside. In a voice that was clear and precise – as if he knew Erika was listening – he read:
"My Dearest Friends,
I see you intend 'La Muta' to be your second undertaking. As you are running your business from the doorstep of my home, understand that I'm entitled to make changes to the production as I see fit. Most assuredly, you felt the motion of my hand in the workings of Hannibal. Your acceptance that it was my hand is another matter entirely.
I ask for very little in regards to 'La Muta'. I only request a change of cast for two very particular roles. The foreign novelty of your lead tenor has begun to wear thin. The ensemble is in need of fresh lifeblood after so many years, and Carlo is little more than a clot. However, the improvement in the young Daaé was remarkable, was it not? You're quite welcome for that. Had he not been my pupil, your gala would have been lamentable indeed. It would be a shame if he was given any role less than the Count after such a marvelous debut.
As for Carlo, should he choose return, I believe the limelight has not been good for his health. It would do him good to rest his voice for a bit. As the producers of 'La Muta', perhaps you could find him a role that would spare him the strain on his vocals.
I must make you aware that Box Five is to be off-limits to audience members on opening night. These instructions are not optional, and I will expect each one to be followed to the letter. Please be advised, mesdames, that one with the power to give also has the power to take. I wish you the best in your endeavors.
~ Mirage"
The color had faded from Florence's cheeks, their blushes of rouge powder doing nothing to hide it. Andrée was giving her partner a smug grin, standing taller with vindication. Monsieur Giry folded the letter and placed it on the desktop.
"Am I excused?" he asked.
Florence waved her hand, dismissing Giry from the room. "If you 'find' any more of those notes, Giry, burn them," she called after him, "I don't want to see another in my office again."
"Florence," Andrée piped up after a moment's hesitation, "what are we going to do?"
"We're not going to be intimidated by a joker," Florence scowled, pouring a glass from the water pitcher, "that's what."
"Should I send for Carlo, then?"
"No, let's just forget our biggest staple and let our theatre go bankrupt," Florence retorted, rolling her eyes as she brought the glass to her lips. "Yes, send for him you idiot. Just what is that Mirage going to do about it?"
"Nothing, whoever they are," Andrée laughed lightly, "if they wish to remain an employee. My money is on Josephine, she's always up there in the rafters. She could be pulling these pranks, the flash powder, the falling scenes. After all, she's the one who started all this talk."
"Talk," Florence nodded, sitting her glass down, "that's all this is. It's talk."
Erika impatiently shook her head. "You trust that notion," she thought, "see where it gets you."
