Chapitre Quatorze: Christine Renie le Récit du Enlèvement
The following morning, Christine waltzed into the managers' office, so happy that she was practically floating off the floor. Everything in her life was perfect—Raoul was in love with her, Erik was ugly but still possibly the Angel, her father's dream had come true, and she was going to be the star of the Opera Garnier. Best of all, everyone was fawning over her because of her mysterious disappearance—even people she had never spoken to before had greeted her in the halls on her way to the office, expressing their happiness at her safe return and wishing her good luck in the next opera. Everything seemed beautiful to her—the people she passed, the architecture of the opera house, the sparkling flicker of the gas lamps; everything seemed to shimmer with a magical aura that promised her the world.
She threw open the door dramatically without bothering to knock. "Good morning!" she announced, twirling into the office. Meg, whom she had met in the hall (and who had hugged Christine multiple times, demanding over and over to know that she was all right), followed quietly behind her.
"Bon jour, mesdemoiselles," said André, looking rather startled by her sudden entrance. "We were very glad to hear of your safe return from Monsieur le Vicomte several minutes ago, Mademoiselle Daaé."
The office was large and decorated lavishly with tall, bold furniture, dark and incredibly ornate, including a marble-topped desk with clawed feet; Christine paused in her twirling, absolutely breath-taken with the beauty and expense of it all. She had only been in this office once before (when Poligny had wished to reprimand her in private for a certain practical joke she had played on one of the meaner chorus girls), but it had looked so plain and boring then—now, with Messieurs Firmin and André in command, it was exquisite!
After a moment of reverence she remembered why she had come and happily danced over to the beautiful desk where André was sitting and placed her hands on it dramatically. "I have returned!" she declared. "And I shall be the greatest princess the world has ever seen!"
He hurried to stable a pile of papers that she had jeopardized when she bumped into the desk. "Princess, mademoiselle?"
"Princess Elaina!"
"Ilia, you mean?" asked Firmin.
"Yes, yes, her—when do I get to start trying on costumes?"
Firmin looked somewhat surprised by the question, and she glanced at André and found that he was looking at her a little oddly as well. Perhaps she shouldn't have pronounced pretty costumes as her first priority.
"It will be a few weeks," Firmin replied, after a moment. "We have to figure out some kind of budget for the costumes and the sets."
"Oh," she said, disappointed. She had always wanted to flounce around the stage in a gorgeous satin gown with jewels and a tiara, enjoying the adoration of the crowd while the pathetic ballet rats looked on with jealousy. But a few weeks wasn't terrible, she supposed.
"You're taking the part, mademoiselle?" asked André.
"Of course I am! Of course, that means that you'll have to find someone else to finish up Faust; I can't possibly pour my heart into two operas at once—at least, not for my first role as a diva!"
The managers glanced at each other, frowning, and Christine panicked—was her request unreasonable? Or what if they had been listening to Reyer and the chorus rats—jealous, just jealous!—and thought she wasn't responsible enough to handle a diva's part?
"I promise I'll be amazing!" she said quickly, seeing her dreams crumble before her eyes.
"She will be!" said Meg, ready to back up her friend.
Christine, who had forgotten Meg was there, talked over her: "I'll memorize everything way in advance and I won't cause any problems and—oh, please, let me play Ilia!"
"Of course you can play her!" André exclaimed. Christine stopped to examine the managers' faces and found that they looked intensely relieved. "It's just that when we last spoke to you on the subject you seemed unsure about all the work involved—"
"Mademoiselle," said Firmin, a touch of pain entering his eyes, "we should be begging you to take the part! You have no idea what it's been like dealing with that Spanish nightma—"
"Firmin!" André interrupted sharply, shooting his associate a very definite don't-discuss-our-problems-in-front-of-her look.
"Nevermind about that," Firmin amended. "Congratulations on your appointment as the permanent and celebrated diva of the Opera Garnier, mademoiselle."
"Why thank you," she said, swelling with gratification.
"We'll just have to ask Mademoiselle—what was her name, André?"
"Lechasseur."
"Yes, we'll just have to ask Mademoiselle Lechasseur—she was your temporary replacement while you were missing, mademoiselle—to finish Faust while you devote your attention to Idomeneo. This upcoming opera is a very important landmark in operatic history."
"Marvelous," said Christine, clapping her hands together. She had been afraid they would not allow her to skip Faust.
"Now, if you will accompany us to the stage, mademoiselle?"
"Can't I look over the script for a few weeks before we start rehearsing?"
Firmin shook his head. "We have to begin immediately if we want to have it ready to perform before the year ends."
"Then why are we going to the stage?"
The managers looked surprised. "No one has told you?" asked André.
"We sent for the police the moment the vicomte informed us that you were indeed kidnapped."
"The police!"
"They're waiting for us on the stage so you can pick out the man who kidnapped you."
The giddy happiness shattered like a glass bubble, replaced by a wave of panic. "Th-the police?" she said again. "Are they really necessary?"
"Of course, mademoiselle! The man who did such an unspeakable thing must be brought to justice!"
She continued to protest as they led her down the hall (Meg walking quietly behind), but she couldn't change their minds, and her head was absolutely devoid of plans to get her out of this stupid, stupid lie.
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
Leonhard sighed and rubbed his moustache between his fingers, refraining with some difficulty from looking at his pocket watch. He had a great many reports to read and appointments to keep—more than usual, actually—and he couldn't afford the time he was wasting waiting for Mademoiselle Daaé to arrive. He ignored the fast, impatient tapping of the Vicomte de Chagny's fashionable boot on the floor; from the looks the vicomte had been giving the policemen and the stagehands lined up at the front of the stage, as well as the fact that he had brought his rapier, it was apparent that he disparaged police interference and was bent on running the mademoiselle's kidnapper through with his own two hands. Leonhard hoped he wouldn't have to restrain the raging vicomte once she had identified the man. Monsieur Camescasse was tapping his foot too, more insistently than the vicomte. He was even busier than Leonhard was; on top of his usual pressing duties—heading the administration of the Paris police force, ensuring the security of the capital, and keeping the politicians happy—he had to juggle the added stress of the epidemic that was sweeping across Eastern Europe in France's direction.
Despite the demands on his time, Leonhard had been happy when the Garnier's new managers had demanded that he appear in person to witness the mademoiselle's identification of her kidnapper. He doubted the man would come to work after such a crime, and handcuffing the culprit certainly did not require his presence, but it was nice to get out of the office and away from all the reports and complaints; this was the closest he was going to get to any real detective work.
He heard footsteps echoing from the back of the stage and turned to see the managers escorting a beautiful lady toward them. He recognized her as Christine Daaé from her picture on the front page of the newspaper—she had been the talk of Paris for days, first for her performance and then her mysterious disappearance.
When they drew near, the managers shook hands with him and the vicomte before commencing introductions. "Mademoiselle," said Firmin, "this is Jean Camescasse, the Préfet de Police, and this is Leonhard Blaise, Prevote de Police. Gentlemen, this is Christine Daaé, Mademoiselle le Diva of the Opera Garnier. Oh, and Mademoiselle Meg Giry."
Camescasse kissed Mademoiselle Daaé's hand and gave voice to some standard greeting or another, unable to refrain from checking his pocket watch when he straightened up.
The diva turned to Leonhard, and he kissed her hand as well; she giggled from the tickle of his German-style moustache. "I'm honored to make your acquaintance," he said gravely. "I was unfortunate enough to miss your performance of Faust, but I've already reserved a seat for Idomeneo, and I look forward greatly to hearing your heavenly voice, mademoiselle."
"Why, thank you, monsieur." Her smile made the very room brighter. She practically glowed with an ethereal, fantastic beauty that made her appear as a nymph, or a goddess, rather than just a beautiful woman.
Leonhard kissed Meg's hand as well and greeted her politely before saying to Mademoiselle Daaé, "We will do everything we can to make sure that your kidnapper is brought to justice."
"Why—why thank you," she said, sounding rather unhappy all of a sudden. Then she changed the subject: "I'm confused. You're the Provost—is that right?—and he's the Prefect—which one of you is in charge?"
Camescasse coughed, slightly offended that she had to ask, but Leonhard smiled patiently and said, "Monsieur Camescasse is the head of the Préfecture de Police, mademoiselle. I am the senior officer of the force. I assist him."
"Oh yes, of course. How silly of me."
The vicomte, unable to stay silent any longer, took the mademoiselle's arm and gestured almost violently towards the stagehands. "Please, my darling, identify the blackguard and allow me to exact justice!"
"You will do no such thing," said Leonhard, trying to keep his voice reasonable. He hated dealing with nobles like the vicomte, so caught up in fashion and their own supposed power and superiority that they trod over the lower classes.
Her instructions from the vicomte countermanded, Mademoiselle Daaé looked to the Prevote for direction. Leonhard glanced at Camescasse, but the Préfet waved an impatient hand for him to continue. Normally Camescasse would have been annoyed that his assistant was taking control, but he was in such a hurry to get out of the opera house and to a government meeting that he didn't care.
"I doubt the man will still be here, if he is indeed an employee," Leonhard told her kindly. "But even if he is not here, you can still render us a valuable service by ruling these men out of our search."
She nodded and peered intently at the line of stagehands. Some looked nervous, some tired, and some annoyed. Leonhard couldn't see any obvious choice for their wanted criminal. They were dressed plainly, some in patched clothes; they were all of the poorest working class, and his heart went out to the thinner, more desperate souls in the lineup.
When he glanced at Mademoiselle Daaé again, he saw that she looked almost panicked. Poor girl, he thought, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, mademoiselle; he can't touch you now."
When she didn't look any less anxious, he said, "Don't feel pressured. If you can't identify him for certain, it's all right. We understand how frightened you must have been."
"N-no, I can—i-it's him!" she declared in a high voice, pointing at a large man far down the line.
Her pronouncement launched a burst of deafening chaos upon the stage: the stagehand flinched and stared at her confusedly; the vicomte yelled and started forward, but Camescasse signaled his men to restrain him; Meg cried out in dismay and grasped Mademoiselle Daaé's arm, crying that the man she had identified was a good man and wouldn't do anything of the sort, making Leonhard wonder if there was something between them.
The diva shook her arm free and said loudly, "I can't possibly be mistaken!"
"I thought you said he was short and rotund?" inquired André.
"What? No I didn't," said Mademoiselle Daaé hurriedly. "I—I was confused. But that is definitely the man!"
"But Christine―" pleaded Meg.
"I demand the honor of running him through!" bellowed the vicomte. As he cursed and strained against his captors, demanding his release and threatening them with his powerful connections in the government, the Préfet stepped forward and took control.
"What is your name, monsieur?" he asked the stagehand in a cold, detached voice.
The poor man—hulking, square-jawed and rather dull-eyed—opened his mouth to speak, but appeared confused by the diva's accusation. He looked to Meg for help, but Leonhard stepped forward to aid the man.
"Don't be afraid," he said kindly. "This is an investigation. We are after the truth."
"Hulbert…Hulbert Tannenbaum," said the stagehand slowly.
"Aha!" cried the troublesome vicomte. "A German, I should have guessed! Only a German would have the gall to―" He stopped abruptly when he remembered that Leonhard, whom he needed on his side if an arrest was to be made, was of the same nationality.
Camescasse ignored him. "How long have you been employed here, Monsieur Tannenbaum?"
The man thought for a ponderous moment, biting his lip and furrowing his brow in a concentrated effort to accomplish the math involved. "Two…two and a half months."
"Do you know Christine Daaé?"
"Not personally, sir."
"Did you abduct her on the twenty-second of October?"
Tannenbaum blanched. "No, sir!"
"Of course he did!" bellowed the vicomte, and Mademoiselle Daaé quickly seconded him.
Camescasse nodded decisively, ignoring Meg's desperate supplications. "Very well."
Leonhard frowned, displeased with the callous, hurried way his superior was handling the investigation. He started to speak, but the Préfet cut him off:
"We'll finish this at headquarters. Fouche, Ronquett, handcuff this man and escort him to the carriage."
As the policemen started forward, Tannenbaum panicked; he tried to run, but found his way blocked by Fouche. Fouche hefted his blackjack as a warning, but Tannenbaum took it as a threat and swung at the man. Fouche managed to duck before the massive arm hit him, and the rest of the men Camescasse had brought joined the fray.
Tannenbaum, though large and muscular, was slow and untrained, and the policemen quickly subdued him. As he was forcibly hauled towards the front entrance, yelling for Meg and bellowing that he was innocent, Leonhard turned and walked off the stage and into the wings, unable to watch. Meg pleaded with Camescasse to hear Tannenbaum's side—that he couldn't possibly have done it—but the Préfet, quite obviously satisfied that the case was closed, continued to ignore her. He remained on the stage for a moment to direct the gathering of statements from the diva, the vicomte, and the managers. He didn't even bother to arrange for character references or alibis for Tannenbaum from the Garnier's employees; he was just interested in wrapping up the paperwork as quickly as possible.
"Monsieur!" cried Meg, turning to Leonhard. "Monsieur, you must help him!"
He patted the hand with which she was gripping his arm, but said reluctantly, "I cannot go against the Préfet's decision, mademoiselle."
"Surely you can see that he is innocent―"
"I believe he is, mademoiselle, but I cannot prove it without witnesses."
"I'll get you witnesses! I'll do whatever it takes!" she said desperately.
"Then speak with the other employees, mademoiselle—establish an alibi for him."
She nodded frantically and rushed off to catch the stagehands, who had already wandered off.
Leonhard watched her go, thinking gloomily that the stagehands would be too concerned about jeopardizing their own employment to be of any help. The managers seemed clueless. And the diva was adamant.
At a loss for what to do, Leonhard wandered into a small room past the wings where the props for the current opera were kept. He paced for a moment, but his anger grew so great that he stopped and swore in German. He had become a police officer to help people, to battle evil and fight for justice; but as the Prevote, all he did was cater to the whims and schemes of a politician, who, while believing himself to have Paris' best interests at heart, had just condemned a man to prison without so much as a hint of justice.
Leonhard touched a prop column, ostensibly of marble, noticing with distracted disappointment that it was merely cheap plaster, and wracked his brain for a way to ensure that justice was done without overstepping his bounds. The Préfet wasn't supposed to handle individual cases like this, but since this was of such a high profile (the beautiful mademoiselle was quickly rising as a celebrity in Paris), he would despise any efforts on Leonhard's part that would put him in an undesirable light.
Leonhard inspected a crack in the plaster and discovered that the faux-column was disintegrating. He was fairly sure that Tannenbaum was innocent—the look in his eyes when Camescasse had accused him was proof enough. But what could he do? The case was closed.
"There's nothing to be done," he muttered, leaning glumly against the wall.
"Hulbert Tannenbaum is innocent."
Leonhard jumped at the voice and looked wildly around, but there was no one.
"Yes, I…I know," he said, searching behind the props nearby. "But I can't prove it." The voice was deep, soothing, and possessed a commanding quality Leonhard instinctively trusted; still, he didn't like anything he couldn't see. "Identify yourself," he said, pulling back a tapestry to find only a bare wall.
"Look in your coat pocket."
His hand delved into the pocket and came in contact with a piece of paper. A trifle unnerved, he lifted it up into the light and saw that it was an envelope.
"Give it to Mademoiselle Daaé. She will come to her senses and revoke her charge."
Leonhard stared at the envelope for a moment, then glanced around again, wishing the room were not so poorly lit. For some reason, he didn't feel in any danger, but he still didn't like it.
He started to demand again that the voice identify itself, but stopped; it wouldn't do any good. "I hope you're right," he said, pocketing the letter.
The voice didn't reply, and Leonhard left the room.
He hurried back to the stage and was relieved to find that the diva was still there, talking to the vicomte and the managers. Meg was desperately speaking to a stagehand, but she seemed to be having an impossible time. Most of the stagehands had already left, and Camescasse had disappeared—he was probably at his meeting by now—but it was just as well; Leonhard didn't think he could explain the strange letter to his superior.
"Oh, it was just terrible," Mademoiselle Daaé was saying. "He never even touched me—he was barely even there—but I was so frightened!"
"Don't fret, my sweet, if I cannot exact justice myself, then I shall have him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law!" declared the vicomte.
"Excuse me!" Leonhard broke in. "I was instructed―"
"I already filled out a statement and gave it to that other man," the diva informed him dismissively.
"No, no, it's not that—I was instructed to give this to you."
She accepted the envelope and extracted the letter curiously. When she saw its contents however—read so quickly that it only could have been a single sentence—her beautiful skin turned a cold, ashen color.
"What is it, my pet?" demanded the vicomte, trying to take the paper from her. She refused to give it to him, holding it against her chest—though she looked as though she regarded the thing as a particularly large and frightening spider—and stared at the floor.
She started to speak, but her voice came out as a squeak. "I—I—I wasn't kidnapped. I made it all up."
Meg shrieked again and ran to stand by Leonhard to hear the diva's words.
"That man—whatever his name is―"
"Hulbert," said Meg, just as Leonhard, amazed at the sudden reversal the mysterious letter had evoked, said, "Tannenbaum."
"—is innocent," finished Mademoiselle Daaé, dejected and embarrassed, but still firm.
The vicomte's face was an unrecognizable mask of shock. "You—you can't be serious!"
"I made it up," she repeated.
"Why would you lie to me?!"
"Because—because I wanted a few days off, but I was afraid I'd be fired if I admitted it, so I made up a story!"
"Good God!" exclaimed the managers together, unable to believe it any more than the vicomte.
"Christine, my precious, how could you―"
"I didn't mean to make such a big commotion, but you were so gallant, and wonderful, protecting me, that I couldn't tell you the truth!"
That seemed to calm the vicomte down a bit, but the managers were still outraged. They continued to voice protests which the diva replied to in increasingly shrill tones, until Leonhard finally interrupted with,
"Mademoiselle! Monsieur Tannenbaum is being escorted to headquarters as we speak!"
"Oh! Oh, of course! Quickly, lead the way, monsieur—I must revoke my statement at once!"
As the Prevote and the two ballerinas rushed towards the Garnier's main entrance, Leonhard cast a glance behind him, wondering just what being, seeming to share his desire for justice, had just spared an innocent man a prison sentence.
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
Christine closed the door just as quietly as she possibly could, inching it shut ever-so-slowly, but she still flinched when the mechanism uttered an audible click as it closed. She held absolutely still for a full minute, but there was no sound that Erik had heard; there was no sound at all from the room or the mirror or the tunnel beyond, just the ordinary bustle through the halls beyond the treacherous door.
She turned and took tiny, silent steps across the minefield of a floor—so filled with squeaks that it was impossible to cross without alerting the entire opera house of her presence—towards the vanity, where her makeup was located. She had taken her shoes off in the hallway, so her feet made little sound upon the wood as long as she avoided the creaky spots.
She clapped her hand over her mouth as she felt something sharp stick in the soft, vulnerable arch of her foot. Trying hard to keep from crying out in agony and cursing Loki, the trickster god, for placing a splinter in her path, she ignored the horrific pain and hobbled towards the vanity.
Finally, after the longest eternity of her life—and with minimal squeaks from the floor—she was within reach. She mentally congratulated herself as she seized the cheap tin of face powder. She had gone without makeup all morning, but she hadn't been able to take it any longer and had worked up the courage to sneak into her dressing room. Meg was absolutely furious with her (apparently she had a thing for that hulking German fellow), and as bad as that was to endure, Erik's response would likely be worse. She was so afraid of what Erik would say about her lies and false accusation that she had been avoiding her dressing room for all of yesterday and this morning.
Accusing that stagehand had been a cruel and stupid thing to do, but what else could she have done—told the world that the Angel, whom she had thought was a monster but who really turned out to be the Angel again, disguised as the dreaded Phantom of the Opera, had made off with her in the night? Everyone would think she was crazy, and Raoul would refuse to rest until he had killed the Angel, and no matter who won, she would lose out on one of the keys to her future.
At least, she hoped that he was the Angel. She felt her conviction wavering, and began to repeat to herself, "Erik is the Angel" several times until her doubts subsided. He had to be. He just had to. If he wasn't, it would mean that her father was wrong—that she was in the clutches of a fiend—that she had been tricked and used—
But it doesn't matter, she told herself angrily, because he is the Angel!
She grabbed a little tin of blush, but—unwilling to move any closer than an arm's length to the vanity—she was unable to find the powder puff that went with it in all the clutter. After a moment of frantic searching she gave up, figuring that she could just as easily apply the powder with her fingers. She grabbed a few more necessities and clutched them to her chest, wondering if she should put it all on now or leave and hope she could find another mirror. It was better to leave immediately, she decided, rather than court a chance meeting with the disapproving Angel. Oh gods, when she had caught sight of the words on that paper, her heart had almost stopped….
Holding the tins very carefully so as not to drop them, she slowly backed up a few steps, until, close to the door, she turned around.
"Erik!" she shrieked, dropping all the makeup containers in her fright. A cacophony of multi-hued powders spilled all over the floorboards, and she cried out furiously as her precious cosmetics were lost forever to the disgusting, dirt-ridden floor.
"Christine," he said, looking very displeased as he leaned against the wall by the door, where he had apparently been standing when she had come in.
"I was just coming to see you!" she said, talking loud and fast, as she always did when she was upset.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, and I was going to apologize for my stupidity and beg your forgiveness!"
"Beg my forgiveness?"
"Yes! And—bow down to your—boundless wisdom—and knowledge—and promise that I would never do anything so stupid again!"
Her words didn't change his expression or his stance, tall, straight, arms folded. "Shouldn't you be apologizing to Hulbert Tannenbaum?"
"Um, yes, that was my plan—apologize to you and then straight to Monsieur Tannenbaum!" She smiled brilliantly at him and darted towards the door.
She tugged the doorknob fruitlessly, then looked up and saw Erik's hand holding the door shut. "I just want to know why you would feel the need to deprive an innocent man of his honor and his livelihood," said Erik.
She stared at her feet in shame, unable to formulate any kind of reasonable response. Then a pang from her foot supplied her with a plan.
"Oh! Oh, my foot!" she cried, clutching it desperately in a sudden show of pain. "I stepped on a splinter a minute ago and oh, it hurts so much!" She contorted her face and summoned tears to her eyes as she looked up at Erik pitifully, thrilled to see that her act was working.
With a sigh that let her know he saw through her ploy, he helped her to a chair and lifted her foot—with great whimpering on her part—onto a dusty, torn ottoman and knelt to inspect it.
She continued to sob as he dusted the various cosmetic powders from her foot and lifted it into the light. "This isn't a splinter," he said, after a moment. "It's a sliver of ceramic, if I'm not mistaken."
She squealed in agony and redoubled her cries, playing up the wound for all it was worth in the hopes of avoiding the Tannenbaum issue altogether. Perhaps it had sliced a nerve or something and she would have to go to a doctor. Maybe it would get infected and Erik would be so busy worrying about her that he would completely forget about the whole thing. Come to think of it, she could use this as an excuse to get out of dancing and choreography completely in future operas! Yes, the tragically lamed diva, unable to walk, but with a voice so heavenly that—
She howled loudly as Erik pulled out the sliver, realizing belatedly that she hadn't felt a thing. As he held it up to the gas lamp to deduce what it was from, she was disappointed to see that it was pathetically tiny. She probably wouldn't be able to get away with much with such an insignificant little thing like that.
"It's porcelain," he said. "Did you break something?"
She opened her mouth to say no, but then closed it suddenly when she remembered that, a few months ago, she had taken an ugly little porcelain cat out of Carlotta's dressing room and smashed it in revenge for a particularly cruel insult about her singing. She'd thought she had swept up all the pieces. "Um, no," she said blandly, feigning puzzlement. "I don't have any idea what it could be from."
"You shouldn't walk in here without shoes," he reprimanded sternly, depositing the sliver in the wastebasket. "It's so cluttered that it's dangerous."
"Yes, I'll keep that in mind," she agreed hastily. If she didn't do something quickly, he would remember about chastising her. "Have you seen the managers' office? It's absolutely amazing! All the furniture! It's so beautiful that even the gods must be jealous!"
Erik frowned. "Yes, I've seen it. The furniture is all rosewood, mostly from the Rococo Revival, and an absolutely absurd waste of opera funds."
"But it's so beautiful!"
"So you think it's reasonable that they've pillaged the Comte de Chagny's generous donations—and therefore the props, costumes, and salaries for the opera—for their own private benefit?"
She gasped as she realized that it was Raoul's money and possibly her paycheck that had bought it all. "That's not fair!"
"No, it's not."
She could see that he was about to speak again and feared that it was about Tannenbaum. "I decided to take the part of Ilia!" she blurted hastily.
"Oh—I'm pleased to hear that. You'll make a wonderful Trojan princess." His smile was both fond and proud. It bothered her to think what his face must look like contorted into a smile. She again forced herself to stare into his eyes in an effort to keep from thinking about his ugliness. It failed miserably, and she had to turn away. He was an Angel—she just had to remember that.
"Will you tell me about her character?" she asked. "I'm sure you know everything about her and the opera and I want to play her well."
As he started to tell her about the fall of Troy, she congratulated herself on her brilliance; she'd also managed to make him happy, and perhaps he'd even agree to skip their lesson now. But after a few minutes of listening about Greece and Troy and some wooden horse, she started to regret her plan, no matter how brilliant it had been. But if it got her out of hearing about Tannenbaum, it was worth every boring moment.