Chapter 9:
"The role suits him," Carlo's boisterous voice carried over the clamor of the theatre lobby, "he has the hair of a lady, does he not?"
Laughter floated from the group seated around the opera star, and then the conversation merged back into the surrounding noise. Erika stood vigil at her hidden window, lingering there to spy on the cast members that remained. It was halfway through the first day of rehearsal, and a recess had been called for the midday meal.
Erika had surveyed the chaos that was standard of any first rehearsal: scattered sheet music, singers stumbling over unfamiliar lyrics, and the like. The announcement of the cast list, in particular, had placed her in a foul disposition. Her instructions had been blatantly ignored. Carlo had been given the role of Count. The role of Serafina – the mute maid the Count was to fall in love with – was a deliberate spit in the face. The role, completely intended for a woman, had been given to Christian.
Erika was livid. With Christian absent from the lobby, his peers were happy to gossip about his humiliating fall from grace. A night as Hannibal, now overshadowed by an affront to his masculinity. The vast improvement of his voice, now ignored by a silent role. Every snide remark and quiet jeer cut as if they were directed at her.
"When members of your cast are vanishing, it doesn't bode well for the production."
Three people approached up the hall, entering from a doorway several yards from the two-way mirror. The face Erika first recognized was Florence. The manager was walking alongside a well-dressed man. Judging by his brisk walk and the way he donned his top hat, said man was preparing to leave the building.
"Monsieur Daaé was gone for only a night," Florence's words were coming forth rapidly. It was clear she was becoming desperate in her exchange with this gentleman. "He returned unharmed."
"Did you ever learn where he was?" the man asked as they continued on. "Was anyone, other than the press, ever contacted?"
Florence was silent.
"Then, madame, I cannot risk my investment. Your publicity stunts could stain my reputation."
"Viscount, I implore you," Florence pleaded, "your involvement in this production is a resource Andrée and I value. One small incident will not affect your business with us, surely?"
As Florence and her guest passed in front of the mirror, Erika saw a second familiar face following behind them. The red-headed young woman buttoned a riding hood around her shoulders as she followed the man and Florence into the lobby. She was no longer dressed for the formality of a gala, but her bright orange locks were unmistakable despite their lack of pearl accents. What had her name been, again? Ah, yes: Rachel. Erika scowled as she recalled the sound of the name on Christian's breath.
"It will not," the Viscount said, "but I warn you, Florence, if anything more happens to upset production I'll sever ties with you and your partner."
"Of course," Florence agreed, "merci."
On the other side of the room, Christian and Marc were returning from lunch. Marc had not been handed down instructions to treat Christian to a meal that day, and Erika had been surprised to see them depart. It was evident that the two youths had become close friends through the season. Erika hoped Marc's bond with her pupil would further her influence over him. The dancer would do anything to assist a friend.
Rachel saw the men arrive and hurried over. The distance was too far to pick up any words exchanged between them, but Erika could see the friendly embrace Christian and the woman shared upon meeting. After a few more muted sentences, the pair approached Florence and the Viscount. Erika honed in on the conversation, straining to listen.
"Father, you remember Christian Daaé?" Rachel asked the Viscount.
"Oh, yes," the Viscount said with a nod, "quite the man of the hour."
"He would visit us often when we were younger, Father," Rachel said. "His mother would play the violin, don't you recall?"
"Vaguely, I do," Rachel's father said, his voice stale as old bread.
Christian was grinning, but his shoulders were visibly tense in the presence of the Viscount. "Good day, Monsieur de Chagny," he greeted, extending a hand.
Rachel's father accepted Christian's handshake, but just barely. "Good day. I trust you're well after that…" he glanced at Florence, "incident at the gala?"
"Yes," Christian gave an uncomfortable laugh, "I'm well."
"The papers must be pleased to hear you've returned," the Viscount said, "it's sure to get most of Paris through those doors. Quite a story for the masses."
"Yes…" Christian said, embarrassment starting to flush his face, "I suppose so, Viscount."
"Father, may I speak to Christian alone?" Rachel asked, taking Christian's hand away from her parent's grip. She didn't wait for a response, she simply nudged Christian into the hallway she and her father had come from. Now Erika could hear their words above all else.
"Don't ask me, Rachel," Christian said, pulling his hand away from her.
"Father is convinced this whole thing was staged for the press," Rachel sighed, glancing over her shoulder, "but I don't. I know it's been a long time since we were playmates, but the Christian I know wouldn't lie to hundreds of people for money. What happened during the gala?"
"I was with a friend," Christian insisted, taking hold of Rachel's shoulders, "it's no one's business but my own."
Rachel's hand cupped Christian's cheek and suddenly she gasped. "Oh my God…Christian…what did this 'friend' do to you?" Her thumb went over the corner of his lips. "You're bruised."
Christian took her hand away from his face. "There was a little too much to drink, that's all," he muttered, quickly glancing towards Rachel's father. "Don't worry yourself."
Erika took her eyes off the conversation and caught sight of Carlo and his comrades watching the two from a ways off. The Italian tenor seemed to find it rather humorous that his impromptu replacement was speaking with a Viscountess. Erika found it to be quite the opposite. The revelation of this woman's title didn't quell the disdain that was rising in her.
Rachel stared at Christian with aggravation before heaving a sigh. "I won't force an answer from you," she said. "If Father will allow it, Christian, would you like to join us for lunch?"
"Not today, I'm afraid," Christian smiled, "there's much still I'm needed for. " He cast a second glance in the Viscount's direction, but with more confidence. "I don't think your father fancies me any."
"He would if he got to know you," Rachel chuckled. "He has an investment with the Opera Populaire, and if he and the opera's brightest star were to share a meal-"
"I'm not the brightest star," Christian said, "that would be Carlo."
"Not if I can help it," Rachel grinned up at Christian, her face sunny. "Perhaps tomorrow you could join us?"
"Perhaps," Christian took Rachel's hand and laid a kiss atop her fingers. "Until then, min dam."
"Until then."
As Rachel departed, Erika shifted her weight onto a support beam in the wall. It was not a deliberate move, simply an attempt to become comfortable. The aged wood emitted a low, creaking moan not out of place in the large building. No one else in the lobby reacted to the commonplace sound, but Christian's back straightened. Erika covered the window and left.