A/N This is dedicated to LSS, who inspired my voice and cleaned up my grammar. I write for YOU!
1870, February 13.
Dearest Angelina,
Well, I have indeed made it to Paris! The city of lights! The land of love! The place of…prostitutes, no no, no, that's not what I meant. The car ride was hard indeed, what with us being jostled about along the winding street on the boulevard of broken dreams. But here I am, at the Opera Populaire-Garnier! I made it, finally, no thanks to our awful big sister Christine, whom I suspect did not give me the correct directions. I do believe I would have wound up in Austria, if it hadn't had been for an incredibly nice gypsy man named Javert. Why, my driver Henri needed to only open his mouth, and that Javert was quick to respond. And pet Henri's hair. What a helpful, if portly and a little smelly, gentleman!
Oh, my darling twin, how fondly I remember those days on the Brittany coast (or was it the Jessica coast, I forget). When Papa would play the accordion, and Christine would try to sing, and we would laugh and point, and Papa would cry because Christine was so bad. And those stories…of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music, and how confused we got, because the Angel was like her father- but not her father- with the voice of angel, but the hands of a man…I remember feeling a little funny at the way Papa's eyes would sparkle when he got to that part.
But no, my special sister, I am here, and as I ascended the gleaming staircase (everything is so clean and new, nothing like what that wretched Christine described, bitter hag!), I was met by M. Andre and M. Firmin, who promptly shook my hand, kissed my cheek, and offered me a place in the chorus. My talent radiates off me! My entire being must sing a seraphic chorus!
I was ushered off into the general dormitory, and was met by a horde of less than friendly girls. I suppose I will have to get used to being lonely here, even though I was very, very popular back home (as you well know, twin of my flesh!) They turned a cold shoulder to me, and huffed a bit, but I don't know why. I was only trying to practice my scales a hundred times, as Papa always demanded! In as many keys as possible at once! I wonder, perhaps they just don't sing very well, and are intimidated by me. I hope that's not the case, as that will make it harder to rise to the level of prima donna and be universally loved!
So, in my despair over being so unceremoniously shunned, I ventured out into the theater. I wandered around, noticing that roses without thorns but with really expensive black silk ribbons kept falling from the sky. Or the catwalk, I'm not sure. I chose not to look up lest I see a ghost, or a man, or a ghost-man of love. You know how superstitious I am! And how easily frightened, but strangely brave when necessary. And how incredibly virginal and pure I am. Purer than driven snow!
Oh, how strange, my sister, that I forgot to mention earlier: I did notice that M. Firmin seemed to sidle up rather close to my person earlier. I do believe he licked my ear, but I cannot be certain, as I was rather dumb with wonder over the enormous statues of well-endowed gilded women.
In any case, I followed the trail of roses to a strange door, with a strange key, which I promptly turned, and the door opened, and I entered, and I knew it was to be my dressing room. It smelled of lavender and cinnamon, just like me! Well, my hair smells like lavender, but my neck tastes like cinnamon. I think my thighs are creamy, but I cannot be sure; as I am so pure, I've never seen myself naked!
I took a seat at the vanity, and began to brush my hair, which as you know is very long and perfectly curly and very, very blond, like golden wheat or those gilded women in the interior of the theater. I grew sleepy so quickly, and promptly curled up on the chaise lounge, pulling a blanket about my shoulders.
But sister, when I awoke this morning, I had a down comforter covering me, a tray with a full breakfast buffet, a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses, three candles that smelled of patchouli, a short but cleverly rendered sonnet, a sleeve of arias and various compositions which must be intended for me to memorize today, and a single perfect red rose! But who could have done this?
I hope it's not M. Firmin.
Yours,
Catherine