Pianissimo

Warning: mentions of the feeling of being stalked.

The week and a half wait seems to take an eternity. I had bounded through the door upon arriving home. "Mama! Mama!" As soon as she was in view, I raced into her arms. I bent lower and placed my head on her shoulder. "Mama, I did it! I auditioned! Oh, you should have seen it!" I grip her arms tightly, then relax to avoid hurting her.

"Congratulations, Madeleine! Oh, my little musician, I knew you would do well!"

In the meantime, I had explored our new home more (it was as grand and opulent as the first), explored the grounds (nothing except a few trees, which I climbed), composed a small song, and wrote a letter. I desperately hope Charles receives it in a timely manner, since I have not spoken to him in months.

My dear Charles. Charles Fournier is my only love, my true match. With his sandy hair and sparkling green eyes like the wide sea, his charm is boundless. We met years ago; I was only eleven at the time and he thirteen. We would see each other at various parties throughout the years, but he wished to court me only a year ago. He requested Mama's permission, taking her hand and kissing it through her black crepe glove. "Madame, I promise to make Madeleine the happiest woman alive. I pray you give me the opportunity to make her my wife."

I smile. Charles shares my love for music, which is something I pray to find in a husband. Though he is not a mad, passionate artist like me, he takes to music in his own, refined way. He can play the cello and sing with a gorgeous baritone. Music is not planted in his head obsessively like it is in mine, but he has the proper respect for it to learn. He even helped me write a piece once; I rewarded him by giving him a solo. He reminded me, though, that life was about more than music. That it was about the simple pleasures of family, of love and being loved in turn. He inspired me to take up other interests, such as my sketching or even playing simple games.

Now, I eagerly await the arrival of his letter. We promised we would keep writing to each other now that I was on another part of the globe. In my letter I told him about Mama's new position, my own budding career (I joked that I was too ahead of our times, especially for an aristocratic lady), and the excitement surrounding New York, even though I missed Paris. I told him of all the new sights and places I've been to.

I avoid telling him of my other feelings. The feeling I can never find respite. The feeling of being watched. Being followed. This past week was difficult, for everywhere I went in the city, I felt like someone was following. When I accompanied Mama, I avoided turning around to check. Yet the dread would sit in my stomach like a boulder in a stream. My skin was crawling at the thought of eyes boring into my back, at the thought of someone looking at my face, staring at my bonnet, knowing my features, wishing to take me as their own…

I never alerted anyone for fear it was simply my own paranoia. It could very well be nothing. It likely is nothing. And yet…yet…

Pierre enters, the sound of our door snapping me from my thoughts. Letters are in his hand. Charles. "Pierre?" I cry, racing towards him like an eager child, "any letter from Monsieur Fournier?"

"No, Mademoiselle," he looks up at me before continuing to sort through our mail. I am nearly bouncing on my toes and he is turning envelopes over at a near-snail's pace! "Mostly bills and—ah! Something for you here!" He hands me a letter. In the corner of the envelope is written in an elegant scroll:

Mr. Gerard Carriere

Manhattan Opera House

"Thank you, Pierre!" I race to the chaise and rip open the letter, nearly dropping it. With my hands trembling from excitement, I hold it to the light and read,

Mlle. Madeleine de Chagny,

It is our greatest honor to have you join us as our orchestra pianist. You will be joining our company…

I do not read the rest as I nearly jump to my feet. I race to the West Sitting Room, where Mama likes to read or do other tasks on her own. Once I reach the door, I knock at a rapid pace.

"Come in!" she chimes.

I burst through the door like an impatient schoolgirl. "I received their letter," I say, my voice breathless and words clipped. I clamp my mouth shut and avoid the urge to squeal in delight. With utter poise and elegance, Mama rises and takes the letter from me.

She smiles up at me, eyes aglow. The light from the window frames her head like a halo. "You did it, Madeleine! I knew you would."

She pulls me into a warm embrace. Roses and cotton fill my nose. Happiness radiates from her, and I cannot help sharing her delight. She smiles into my hair. "I'm so proud of you, my angel!"

"Thank you, Mama." My real chance! I can show the world who I truly am! A musician. And, hopefully, I can train to be a singer. Just like Mama.

Just like her.

She breaks our warm embrace and walks off to tell the servants. I smile after her and walk towards the large window. The outside is calm, full of green grass and few trees. Birds chirp and the sky above is bright blue. It is idyllic and peaceful and—

Something moves.

I swear I had seen it! A black shape, tall, and imperceptible in its movements. I walk closer on stealth, quiet feet. Is someone…watching us?

That familiar feeling of claws crawling up my back, of ice deep in the pit of my stomach as immovable as a cornerstone, of that whisper in the back of my mind. You're being watched, followed…someone wants you, wants Mama! And there's nary a thing you can do!

"Come out, then!" I hiss, tightening my jaw. If he were to show himself, I could frighten him away. Perhaps now my wretched temper, which years of strict training quelled, would be useful!

The unknown person moves again. This time, I catch not only a cloak moving but…a tassel. Perhaps on a hat of some sort? I shake my head. We'll catch him, and we'll be safe again. We may have to alert the police, but we will be fine. I look around again, and he is gone. Vanished, like a ghost.

The feeling does not leave me for the rest of the week. No matter where I go in the house, it seems there are eyes on me. Naturally, the servants are our eyes and ears throughout the entire house, but this is more invasive. As though a pair of eyes from outside my own home are there, watching my every move. Could it be some disgusting voyeur? Some old enemy from the past—though Papa had none, as far as I could recall? Could it be someone after our riches? Looking in because of Mama's fame?

Worse, it was in flashes. There are bits of clothing or items—the edge of a cloak, an Oriental-looking hat, a shoe, a gloved hand. Am I going mad? Am I finally succumbing the hysteria? Is it the stress of getting a new job? No, it can't be that. I love the piano, my mind is whole, and I am healthy.

Yet that does not quell the dread I feel when I step outside the house. My first moments outside those walls leave me feeling naked and exposed. I wrap my own cloak tighter around my shoulders as if the wind could rip away my clothing and leave me defenseless. On the streets I have to suppress a shiver when I especially feel those burning, inhuman (for what else could they be?) eyes. They bear holes into me, seeing everything and threatening to expose something. Perhaps they are knowledgeable of secrets I do not know.

Mama does not know at all. After all, if I am truly mad, why worry her? If it is nothing, should I say anything? Though, perhaps a visit to the police would not hurt.

Yet when we walked on the street together to collect new score paper and boots for me, I fought the urge to wrap an arm around her. To hold her close if only to reassure myself she was there. A terrible feeling would eat away at me for concealing this from her. But it could be nothing. And it likely is. So, I shouldn't worry. They like to tell ghost stories about La Divina to romanticize it.

I smile. La Divina, now my employer. Today is the day.

La Divina shimmers, welcoming in the sunlight. It almost seeks to embrace me and pull me heavenward, to make music fitting for the angels themselves. I am so small in comparison to this magnificent edifice. Almost insignificant. Tears prick my eyes and pride swells in my chest. I'll make you proud. I'll be worthy. Here, I can at last forget my terrors if only for a moment.

Trembling fingers stroke my locket. Papa, I'll make you proud. Grandpapa, you as well.

The large wooden doors open like the stately doors on an old castle. They open to reveal that grand hall that glows with the warmth of a kingdom of music. A kingdom waiting for new talent in its subjects, still yearning for the glories of music past but waiting for the melodies of the present. A kingdom ruled by music—by its vacant but beloved queen, La Divina herself. Currently, the scepter lies with her mysterious king.

I find a few employees milling about. I ask one, who appears to be a manager how I can find M. Carriere. After he leads me through the meandering halls, I arrive at M. Carriere's office. The man, M. Roux, tips his hat to me and wishes me well.

I knock, joyful anticipation in my heart and the melody of the Dance of the Cygnets playing in my mind. At last, he opens the door and ushers me inside.

"First," he begins, sitting down behind his desk, "We want you to work some more with the cast again, as you will be needed for when we do warm-ups. You'll work with our chorus, some with the ballet girls, and of course, with the leads."

The ballerina slippers would float on a marble floor, light pink on cold grey, backlit by white sunlight. Singers would follow my riffs and runs, an entire chorus creating beauty as their voices blend. Aiding the leads in their warm-ups. Learning proper technique from them, which I can use to teach myself to sing…

"Would this suffice for you?"

M. Carriere's voice shakes me from my thoughts. I swallow, cast my eyes down at my skirt, and fight a blush. Focus! You are new, Madeleine de Chagny! You are the pianist—singing will wait.

I just have to wait.

"Yes," I breathe. "It would, very much. I cannot wait to know my coworkers more, and get to see this…bizarre place." I add in a laugh. "Oh, Monsieur, forgive me, but this place is a maze. If not for experienced workers leading us around, we would easily be lost. Did you experience the same when you began working here?"

"I—" he thinks for a moment, but light is shining in his gray eyes, and he cannot stop a tiny smile from playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, yes. I have been the manager here since its opening, and navigating the entire building took a month. Except for the West Tower, no employees go in there frequently except for Monsieur Bernard. That is where the Maestro's office is."

I nod. As if to calm my fears about getting lost in the building, he adds: "Do not worry. If you should be lost in the building, any one of our experienced staff members will escort you where you need to go."

We rise, and M. Carriere addresses me before opening the door. "First, we will have you help with the ballerinas since you know Mme. Dufort. The sheet music for the warmups will be provided for you. You will also get to meet my wife."

The ballet girls are encircled around Mme. Dufort like little white swans around a dark nightingale. She introduces me with warmth in her rich voice—omitting "Christine Daae's daughter" in my introduction—and all the girls introduce themselves to me. Most are either from France or immigrants, but all know the language, which brings me relief. One of the girls, Lillian, gives me a warm smile and tells me how grateful she is to have a new pianist. I smile at her in return.

Warmth bubbles in my chest. Finally, my skill is needed. I am not just mere amusement at parties or a prodigy to be marveled at—though the attention is flattering. I am needed. My skills mean something.

"Mademoiselle de Chagny, we are doing simple warm-ups now. We have the music there on the piano. Please let us know when you are ready."

"Of course, Madame." While the girls position themselves, I study my sheet music. It is simple, with my right hand playing a jovial melody and my left doing some basic chords. It is also in ¾ time, which is typical for a waltz. Many of the notes are tied together, but then switch meter every ten measures. The music is ten pages long, likely able to accommodate thirty minutes of practice. There are some repeats in the measures, as well as a few fermatas over the half-notes. "Hmm, perhaps for holding arabesques?" I muse.

"I am ready, Madame!"

"Ladies, tendu en un, deux, trois, quatre…"

The simple, jovial tune with its leaps is intercut with Madame's booming voice. Her demeanor and the thumps of ballet shoes remind me of Grandmaman teaching me in the chateau when I was seven. I remember her firm gaze but warm smile, her sternness underscored with pride in me. When I had cried, "I can't, Grandmaman!" and wanted to sulk like a child, she had put her warm fingers under my chin and had me look into her eyes. "Feel the music, my dear. You are a brilliant girl, like someone else I know. Let that dictate you movements. Can you?" Her eyes were so hopeful, then, and her aging face so full of promise. Yet it was as though she wasn't seeing me, but someone else—

Mme. Dufort gets my attention and tells me to play measure twenty-five. It changes mater to more broken notes and a different rhythm. Had I made a fool of myself by not noticing?

Without pause, I play, enjoying hearing their movements in time with my notes.

Working with the chorus is much simpler. Warm-ups are easy, delightfully so, allowing me the freedom to think. Before I play, choirmaster M. Petrie introduces me as the company's newest employee. Excitement is on their faces, and they all look delighted to see me. I stand out among them in upper-class clothing, and their eyes take in everything about my appearance as if I were a specimen. They are dressed similarly in neat but working-class clothing.

They ask me questions about how long I have played and if I have accompanied others. One of them, a shorter, stouter young woman a few years older with red coiffed hair and green eyes, asks if I sing as well as play.

"No, Mademoiselle, but I wish to learn," I answer with a smile. After a moment's hesitation, she gives me a weaker one back.

"Well," M. Petrie begins after a silence. "Mademoiselle Madeleine, please take your place at the piano here." He gestures to the grand piano in front of everyone, a large black instrument polished beautifully. It is in near-perfect condition, so fine and fit to be played at concerts. "I will tell you which chords to use for which section. Singers, take your places!" All of them assemble women on the left, men on the right.

"Mademoiselle," he turns to me with a serious expression in his gray eyes, as if entrusting his most precious possession to my care. "I will allow you to tune the parts of the choir as you see fit. All voices must harmonize together at the end, but you have the majority of the freedom."

I nod.

"Sopranos," I say, keeping my voice loud but level. "I wish to begin on a simple arpeggio, beginning on G below C. Ah, Ay, EE, O, U. Legato." I play this for them and keep my lips tight. I cannot sing with them, else I will ant to take over the entire rehearsal. And that is unprofessional.

I lead them through, their voices blending to form one melodic line. Some of them use more vibrato, a few drop out to make sure they are on pitch before rejoining, but most stay on key. It is mesmerizing to hear all these voices blending in a seraphic choir. I move with them through different vowel combinations and exercises, all at M. Petrie's urging. With the sopranos, I quietly add my own voice in. I play at mezzo loudness, and sing at pianissimo. My notes are broken and fractured since M. Petrie's gray eyes stare into my back, watching my movements like a cat to check for perfection.

I work with the contraltos, whose lower registers are full, rounded, and rich. The tenors and basses are gorgeous in their own way. Some of the men's deep registers send chills down my spine. Some begin at baritone notes before descending. I smile. Charles…how I miss your soulful singing. I fight a laugh at the way he sang "off-key" to a simple gramophone song once. He'd tried to amuse me, and it worked.

Warm-ups conclude with all four parts holding a long note until I release the key. "Excellent!"

M. Petrie praises his singers for their hard work, and I take a bow before them. "And let us honor Mlle. Madeleine de Chagny for her excellent work as our new pianist!"

They clap, and familiar pride swells in my chest, rejuvenating me. Ah, the rush. I cannot keep the smile from my face, and my cast member's infectious pride revitalizes me. I want to mirror their smiles, know their struggles. And one day, I wish to be them.

The choirmaster hands me music from Norma. "Our choir, Mademoiselle, participates in the opera just as much as the leads do. We will rehearse a few scenes, all of which are in there. I want to briefly introduce our few soloists: M. Hart, Mlle. Patterson, Mlle. Welch, and Mlle. Guidicelli." All four float down like they are angels among men. They are all young, possibly in their early twenties. Mlle. Guidicelli, the red-head from earlier, now smiles at me with gusto.

I curtsy before them.

"We shall begin when you are ready, Mademoiselle," M. Petrie says.

I strike a chord, and begin.

Finally, my day ends. My fingers are aching from being well-used, a feeling I haven't had in years. With a smile on my face and pride in my chest, I am read to go home and prepare for the next day. Amidst the gold and glittering crystal of the main hall there is a black cloak and that hat once again. Ah! I will not lose him this time!

Stalking forward on quick but silent feet, trying to avoid the echo on the marble floor, I begin my pursuit. Had he been watching me in the opera house this entire time? Fury replaces all fear. I fight the urge to throw something towards him that would render him helpless, trapping him in the same way I have been trapped. NO one gets away with harming my family!

Thank heaven I am good at hiding. Though I have a bad foot, I am easily the family ghost: hiding for long periods, stalking around silently, climbing, leaping…and the occasional mild scare as a prank. I know how to hide. But can I find? I look at the long columns that hold up the hall, with their reflective but distorting surfaces. Perhaps I can find his appearance through these. Yet, nothing.

I stalk like a fox up the stairs, round the winding halls, through the sharp corners. I am barely breathing, lest the sound alert him to my presence.

You will not hide from me. Come out!

I press my back against the wall, but something moves. I jump back to look at the thing behind me. My stalker is gone, but at my back is a portrait of a woman on a stage. She is wearing Elissa's gown from Hannibal, and her back is turned to the viewer. Long brown hair tumbles down her back in contrast to her pale skin. Her audience is standing, awed by the beauty of her performance.

I shake my head, cursing myself under my breath for losing focus. He could still be watching, still be out there. Lurking after me like a lion prowling, waiting for just the right moment…

I look past me, but there are only doors. He is gone.