Chapter Eleven: Eye before the Storm
The two women sat in the brand-new Café Reggio, both sipping fine Italian espresso in the form of cappuccinos. Meg was attempting to regale Christine with yet another wild tale about the infamous Opera Ghost while simultaneously stuffing her mouth full of an Italian pastry with a name none of the women could possibly pronounce. Meg had sported a prominent milk foam mustache for a few minutes, but Christine was too amused to alert her.
"Someone had changed the lock on her room!" Meg giddily exclaimed while wildly gesticulating with a flakey bit of pastry in one hand "I have never seen Carlotta so furious. All of her costumes and wigs were inside. They had to call the handyman to open the door, but it was too late for her to appear on stage! Her understudy took her place on opening night."
Meg had clued in Christine to the general disdain the majority of the performers and crew held for the Prima Donna of the Metropolitan Opera House. The Prima ballerina had used a lot of words to describe Carlotta, some which could not be said around the general public. Narcissistic, cruel and self-serving, Carlotta had made a long list of enemies at the Opera. Unfortunately for the cast and crew of the Opera, Carlotta was a favorite among the managers. Poor Meg seemed utterly perplexed by their adoration.
"Meg, if practically everyone despises this woman, any number of people could have changed her lock. Why must it fall to some unreal, supernatural specter?"
"Her door was locked! Someone would have either needed a key, or the capability of walking through walls." Meg insisted, frustrated her ghost story was not being accepted. She was like a child clinging to their belief in Saint Nicholas long past the age they ought to.
"I believe you must certainly know the more likely of those two possibilities." Christine snorted and pulled a sip from the top of her cappuccino foam. "Very well, let us entertain the existence of this ghoul for a moment. What does your mother think of all of this?"
Meg folded her arms and leaned back in her chair like a petulant child. "She says there is no such thing as ghosts. She claims that it's a man."
Christine set her ceramic cup upon its saucer and leaned back into her own chair. "She truly acknowledges such a man exists? A man who parades as a ghost? A ghost who always wears evening wear?"
Meg sighed as though accepting that the jig was up "Perhaps he isn't a ghost, but something unusual is going on and Mama is involved somehow."
"Your mother is not the type to be involved in anything nefarious." Christine quickly dismissed.
"I know that." Meg rolled her eyes in exasperation. "But she knows something, I tell you. All this secret keeping has me in fits!"
"With all the stories told around that theatre it must be terribly difficult to sort out fact from fiction." Christine stated in a professional, no-nonsense tone. "So, let's attempt to solve this mystery. What are the facts?"
Meg held up an index finger to punctuate her first 'fact'. "He has his own box. Box five. It always appears to be empty during shows but there was this one time Carlotta tripped on her gown onstage and laughter erupted from that box. One of the other box attendants swears by it. Mama says the Box belongs to a wealthy patron, but why is it empty during shows?" She held up a second finger to announce the arrival of a second 'fact'. "Sometimes I'll see Mama with an envelope that she delivers to the management and shortly after they appear nervous and begin making all sorts of odd changes to the production. It's always the same sort of envelope, with a very distinctive color of ink." Meg held up her third finger. "The last bit, as you already know, is the faceless man in evening wear the crew has seen at odd hours up in the rafters and in the hallways."
"Faceless? Meg, that seems less 'fact' and more 'fiction'. You would make a wonderful gothic horror writer; you should consider putting some of these thoughts on paper."
"Faceless makes more logical sense than 'deaths head'. That's what Joseph Buquet claims he saw… although, we're fairly certain Buquet is hitting the Jake pretty hard. He's always shaking. I can't believe there haven't been more sets dropped. One time he nearly fell from the rafters and swore that he was attacked by the ghost."
"Sounds like a very credible source, Meg." Christine scoffed with lively sarcasm.
Meg scrunched up her face in disgust "I know, Buquet is a mess. I saw him drink a bottle of Vanilla extract once. On my word, it smelled like an alcoholic bakery backstage all day."
Christine's face was aghast. "Has the management done nothing about this? His actions could get someone killed."
The expression of disgust on Meg's face increased tenfold. "Those two idiots have no idea what they are doing. Do you know the two of them have never managed a theatre before? They're just a couple of goons from Wall Street who see some kind of opportunity to look cultured, or at least, that's what Mama says."
Christine quirked a derisive eyebrow, trying to picture Mme. Giry using the word 'goon'. The image did not quite sit well and was more than likely a bit of creative filler on Meg's part. "They certainly did not err when bringing you across the Atlantic to serve as Prima Ballerina."
Meg leaned in over the table towards Christine like a woman who was getting ready to reveal the mysteries of the universe over coffee. Her eyes wide with childlike delight. "And that's where our mystery comes full circle. Mama says it wasn't the managers who sent for me, but rather our mysterious patron in Box Five." She shot Christine an expression as though to say, 'I told you things were quirky around here.'
Christine placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand in contemplation. "Now of all the so called 'facts' you've presented, that seems the most interesting. The only thing we of which we can be certain is there is a wealthy patron in Box Five. Although, that would not be a surprise as most boxes are owned by patrons. Said patron may or may not always use his box, thus leaving it empty. We also know Joseph Buquet is a veritable drunk and that your mother sometimes delivers notes to the management. None of those fact point to the existence of a poltergeist. Now, inanimate objects floating in mid-air, blood dripping from the walls, and flickering lights…those are more along the lines of evidence of a haunting."
"You really know how to spoil the fun, Christine. If I had a parade you would be raining all over it." Meg grumbled. "I recall you used to go on and on about korrigans and all that other Swedish folklore."
"Oh, I still believe in korrigans." Christine winked. "Just not ghosts."
The two women spoke no more about the mysterious events at the Opera House. Christine enjoyed the tall tales but continued to carry a healthy dose of skepticism. She had, however, taken Meg's last words to heart, perhaps she was a spoil sport. Perhaps she ought to entertain Meg's fanciful beliefs in an unearthly specter. Good heavens, I don't want to grow to become cynical. She thought.
July was nearing its end. The muggy heat of a Manhattan summer was bordering on the unbearable, causing a claustrophobic sort of atmosphere. Christine's wardrobe was not equipped for this weather. She mentally committed to going on a shopping errand the following day for a new dress and shoes. Although early, the day seemed to begin hotter than usual. The air almost crackled with electricity. Christine could not help but feel it was the portent for something yet to come.
The two women finished their small breakfast and exited the café. As they walked along the sidewalk passing a flower shop, a boy selling newspapers, a man walking a tiny white dog Christine was eager to spill her own guts "Meg, I have some rather unusual news." A smile breaking out on her face, Christine looked down at the ground to obscure it. "My employer has offered to give me singing lessons. I've accepted."
"Seems I'm not the only one with outrageous tales this morning." Meg giggled and gave Christine a gentle nudge with the tip of a dainty elbow. "A nightclub owner knows about singing?"
"He certainly does. He claims…" Christine blushed and faltered on the delivery of her next sentence. "He claims that with some training I could be a lead in an opera."
"I've always known you could be a great singer, Christine" Meg claimed. "Although, I would have assumed a nightclub owner would be more involved with Jazz than anything else."
Christine gave a half-hearted shrug. "He wants to begin next week. I'm to arrive an hour prior to my shift. Although, I'm a bit nervous. What if I prove to be a failure?" What if he does not like me? She chose not to say.
"I cannot believe my ears. My friend, the very brave Christine Daaé is afraid of failure?" Meg scoffed. "You ride rollercoasters without hands. Nothing should frighten you now."
"My dear Meg, I was terrified on that rollercoaster. I just chose to face it."
"Look at you, giving yourself some good advice. Face this new fear too. I've always believed in you." Meg glanced at her watch. "Oh! Look at the time! I need to get back, Mama will be quite cross if I'm late."
The women embraced and Christine watched as her friend gracefully sprinted across the street in the direction towards home. In that moment she considered herself quite lucky to have such a friend in her life.
As the stifling morning melted into the afternoon the cackling electricity in the air seemed to grow in intensity. The dark clouds seemed to appear from seemingly nowhere, quickly rolling on the horizon like an enemy army charging forward toward a bloody battle. Christine watched them continue to grow larger from the window of her elevated streetcar as they began to loom ever closer to the city. By the time she reached her stop, the large raindrops were beginning to fall. Christine, dismayed by her utter lack of umbrella, prepared to brave the onslaught of heavy rainfall.
Her tatty kitten heels were clearly not ready for this weather and she could feel every hard foot fall through the increasingly thinning sole as she scampered towards the club. She was not fast enough, the sky split open like it had been disemboweled by a sharp blade. Rain came down like buckets soaking her thoroughly from head to toe in a matter of minutes.
By the time she inserted her key into the lock of the back entrance to the Gilded Cage she resembled a woman who had just washed ashore. Her hands were shaking from her mad dash. A booming thunderclap startled Christine as the sky lit up with the first signs of lightening. The lock gave way and she quickly ducked inside, locking the door behind her. Glancing down, she noticed the puddle of water rapidly forming from the excess water cascading off her water saturated black dress. Her curls were most likely ruined. She was sure if she saw her reflection mirror, she would see black lines running down her face.
"Uh Oh. Looks like someone forgot an umbrella." Arthur smirked. "You aren't the only one, Christine. Although, lucky for me, I made it here before the monsoon."
He pulled out a few bar towels and handed them to a grateful Christine who began making quick work drying her hair. "I had no idea it would rain. The sky was so blue this morning."
"You'll get used to the New York summer storms. You learn to feel it in the air." He replied while using another towel to blot some of the excess water from her dress. "Sorry, darling. I'm not trying to get frisky with you, but you're leaking like a sieve all over the floor."
The pair worked for nearly fifteen minutes attempting to salvage her soggy outfit, sacrificing an armful of bar towels in the process, but the rain had soaked her clean to the skin.
She let out a deflated sigh. "How am I ever going to work like this?" She lamented while gesturing towards the clinging dress.
"We may not be that busy tonight. Rainstorms like this typically keep folks inside. Good for us, because we're short for a Friday. Regina quit."
"That's a shame. I really liked Regina." Christine frowned. "Why?"
Arthur lowered his voice and cocked his head towards the direction of the man sitting by the locked front entrance "Turns out she and Keenan were having a 'thing'. I don't know much aside from that, but things apparently ended pretty ugly. That's really all I know." He gave her a once over with his eyes. "Go get yourself cleaned up Christine. It'll be okay."
Christine made her way to the powder room; she could feel the squelching of the water in her nylons with each step. Upon opening the door her breath caught in her chest.
There, hanging on the mirror, was a nearly identical dress to the one she currently wore. Its only difference, shorter sleeves. The dress was accompanied by a long, black umbrella with a slender hook handle. Attached was a note with one word scrawled in adorably childish handwriting in red ink, 'Christine'.
She shook her head. Truly, by now she should learn to stop being so surprised in the ways of Erik.
*Sfogliatelle- A Southern Italian pastry shaped like a clamshell and filled with a delicious ricotta cheese, orange curd filling.
Protip: If you are ever in Napoli or anywhere else in Southern Italy, get one! Make sure they serve it to you warm! You will never eat a more delicious pastry. (But try not to butcher the pronunciation.)
*Cafe Reggio was opened in 1927 and hold the claim to fame as being the first cafe to introduce American's to the Cappuccino. They still have their first espresso machine on display. Next time you visit New York, check them out!
*Jake= slang for Jamaican Ginger extract. It had an incredibly high alcohol content and was typically used in small doses as a medical treatment for headaches and other small medical concerns. (If using alcohol as a medical treatment sounds odd, you should consider how they treated Syphilis with Mercury Bromide. : / ) By the 1930's individuals who consumed large amounts of Jake were reported to suffer from a strange paralysis as a result of a chemical called triorthocresyl phosphate which is a plasticizer often used in paint finishes. This chemical turned out to act as a neurotoxin.
Some individuals afflicted by this paralysis presented a very distinctive walk, which is why the paralysis is sometimes called Jake leg.
*Summer storms in New York City are unlike anything I have ever experienced. Clear skies one moment then clouds appear and monsoon-like rain comes out of nowhere. I once saw a bolt lightening hit a manhole several feet from me, the accompanying thunderclap was so loud I felt it in my bones. It was a terrifying day, but also such a wild experience. Immediately after the storm the air feels so fresh, until the water begins to evaporate and you are in humidity hell again.