Chapter 8

Christian kept the Tosca girl close in his memory; yet others did turn his head. From the end of Tosca's season, Christian indulged a series of fascinations with individual girls, sometimes running simultaneously, usually sputtering out abruptly after a few months. These "courtships" normally played out as a few gifts, a composition – a note if his courage allowed him – but seldom ever real contact. Once or two of his "mistresses" were transferred to another ballet or set up with a gentleman. In such cases, Christian would dip away from the world, refusing his food, slamming down his piano keys with such force that the pipes rattled in the powder rooms for three stories above. Such fits of passion would often coincide with his father suddenly becoming very ill, at which point Christian would nurse him with great tenderness and absolutely no skill. Having his heartbreak always redirected to his father became a habit and, as he grew, he would often seek solace in his father's approval. Christian's best concertos came from such heartbreaks.

The girls Christian threw his heart into were a varied set – there is little point in describing any of them except one early "affair" with a petit rat named Justine. Had Christian been asked to describe Justine he would likely have precisely detailed the ways that she (like the others) was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Readers should not be subjected to such a description. Instead, let it be said that Justine was pretty and unremarkable but for a heroic patience when faced with foolish questions. A young patron took a liking to her and she received him exclusively. Being sensitive and lonely, she often prayed that he would break off his betrothal. For his part, Christian tried not to think about the patron: he had stumbled across them once and had not made the mistake again, frightened by the hatred and desire he saw at another hand on her pink thighs.

About six months into Christian's silent courtship of her and four months into her relationship with her patron, her monthly flow stopped. She resolved first to starve herself. On the third day, she awoke to find a peach and a red rose on her pillow. The peach was halfway down her throat before she realised her error. (She nearly ate the rose, too.) Hungrier for having eaten, her second attempt proved impossible thanks to the continued appearance of fruit each morning. While the reader understand that Christian was providing these gifts, Justine had no reason to suppose this. The Opera Ghost had not stirred for almost fifteen years by this point. The gifts made her chest clench. Suppose that someone was somehow aware of her situation, and was mocking her? Had her lover's fiancée caught sight of what was going on? Would the petit rat be fired? On the fourth day of peaches, she resolved to throw herself at her patron's mercy. She had heard of mistresses being put up in good lodgings to raise their illegitimate child. There were even rumours of a Miss Daae being married to the patron for this reason. (This, of course, was wrong.) She tried to hush her hopes.

There was never a ballet in the first act as this allowed gentlemen to meet with the ballerinas backstage. The hope still whispered to her, insisting on her patron's goodness. After all, he had never once hit her. He often brought her trinkets and other bonbons. He paid her dormitory fees. If he had been so kind before she needed him, surely he would grow kinder now that she did.

"Not yet, dearest." She lifted his hand from her collarbone, anticipating its usual drop. "I need to talk you - about something important."

"Of course! What is it, my pretty one?" She told him; he chuckled. "Oh, is that all? No need to fret, how much will you need?"

"Need?" she asked quietly. How much what did she need? Time to get her things in order? Help to leave the opera house? How much of him did she need?"

"To get rid of it, of course." He pressed a coin into her hand and patted her, like one would a child. "We can't ruin that lovely figure, can we?"

"But what about your fiancé?"

"What about her?"

"What if she's angry with me?"

"Whatever for? You aren't even showing, you're as slender as a nymph."

"Someone's been coming in my room and leaving peaches," she spluttered, searching his eye for any promise of protection.

"Oh, that's terrible, dear," he replied, putting his hat on. "Never mind, they'll soon be out of season. I don't know how long it normally takes you to handle these things so shall I give you a week or two?"

"You're not coming to see me? Please, won't you at least go with me to the…" She knew it was impossible; his glance confirmed it.

"There there, dearest, there's no need to be frightened. There's plenty of perfectly good apothecaries nearby. You won't have to go to some butcher."

Her palm itched beneath the coin. She had seen girls drink dirty white potions to empty their bellies, and knew the solemn whispers when a girl failed to rise from her bloodied bed. One girl had been in bed for fourteen days after her avourtmente only to be dismissed from the corps de ballet anyway for missing too many lessons. But then if she didn't, what was there for her? The thought of ruin frightened her almost as much as the thought of abortion. She curled her hand around the coin. He had never given her money directly before, not directly. Her protector seems greyer, further away. The kisses that normally left her giddy seemed almost insulting now. For the first time, she felt like a fool.

The coin hid under Justine's pillow while she built the will to look at them (delayed by the discovery that her patron was chatting up other ballerinas). She was still as slim as she'd always been and would be for a while. When the intense lessons and cassis failed to bring on her period, she braced herself for the side effects awaiting her. During the first act of the opera, she rushed out to the apothecary. It was a chilly October evening and the puddles soaked through the ballet shoes she couldn't afford to replace. She thought about her patron walking out with his fiancé, the light note in his voice. Get rid of it, of course. The taut little smile he gave her when she tried to tell him how frightened she was. Was she being a fool? Clearly, she was a fool for thinking she was the exception to what she'd always been told: that patrons would be as kind as they needed to be to keep favour. Hunger, exhaustion and heartbreak shuddered through her as she walked to take the potion. How would she ever have fed a child? She thought of her own mother – the taut tight skin stretched over her poor hands as she scrubbed other people's clothes. Her mother had fallen asleep sat at her washtub most nights, and wore her clothes to the last threads to pay for Justine's lessons. She wanted her mother now. Tears stung her eyes. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.

As she walked along the street, she became aware of soft steps behind her. She glanced back. The figure wore a cloak to its feet; it was small and slender. She felt certain the figure was a woman. She hastened her pace. The wind blew a faint smell of peaches.

The figure hurried along behind Justine. Her skin tensed as the rain soaked through her thin shawl. Was it not enough, that Justine was a fool? Would this woman see that she was a destitute fool as well? Would she do something worse to her? These rich women got bored at home while their husbands dallied at the Opera House. She had known of a girl being poisoned before, but surely not attacked in the street? Her patron had seemed so easy about the prospect of someone in her room: did he know who it was?

The apothecary did not meet her eyes and instinctively called her Madame. The bottle was small enough to cradle in her hand as she walked; the glass warmed against her skin. For all that its contents frightened her, her walk was sturdier and her shoulders less twisted for it.

Stepping back outside, she came face to face with the could stand it no more. She turned, clutching her francs instinctively. The figure stopped. In the lamplight she saw a red rose pinned to the figure's cloak.

"Let me be," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "I'll cause you no more trouble, I promise."

The air trembled between them.

"You have never caused me trouble." The voice was sonorous, faint. It had the quality of an echo.

"Have you been in my room?"

"I left you gifts," the voice replied. A pause. "Did you like them?"

"How did you know about my – " The words stuck on her teeth. "My situation?"

Another pause.

"What situation? Are you all right?"

When she thought back, she could never quite settle on why she told the figure her troubles. She had no one else to tell. She was tired. She was hardly even sure it was real the next day. She spoke of her fear at being pregnant, her indifferent lover, her poverty, her terror at what the concoction might do to her. The streetlight lit her face harshly, showing every pimple and freckle. She was violet beneath the eyes. Her hair frizzed in the rain. As she spoke, Christian dared to come closer to her, and she saw his face in the light. He was girlish, slender with a high forehead and long hair. It was easy to imagine she was speaking to another ballet girl, one who might understand her troubles. He spoke in a way she wasn't used to – gentle, without desire.

"What can I do to help you?"

She opened her mouth to speak then closed it, mind and stomach whirling. She had yet to suffer morning sickness and hoped it would stay that way until there was nothing to cause it anymore. Her voice was faint.

"I want my mother."

"Where is your mother?"

"She is dead."

"I cannot bring you to her then. Is there nothing else that would comfort you?"

"What good is comfort to me now? I might as well be dead if I don't take what the apothecary gives me. And if I do take it, I might still lose everything. I need to go. Missing lessons is bad enough but if I miss the ballet – "

"I understand. Why is it so terrible if you do miss a lesson? From what you say, you'll be far too sick." Christian had been sick for all of eight hours of his life and had practically been clutched back to health by his father. The ballet masters seemed strict to him, but not cruel.

"Because there are thousands of scrawny little dears desperate to be where I am. That's why we pay so much."

"What do you mean?" The ballet girls seemed to Christian as much a fixture of the ballet as himself or Papa. It was enough of a surprise that this girl came from a mother. "The Opera House needs ballerinas."

"There are more girls that need the Opera House," she replied. "And you still need a place to sleep, food, your shoes, your clothes, your lessons. I make eighty-two francs a month, Monsieur. I can't afford a child and I can hardly afford this." She held to bottle up by its neck, then closed her hand to protect it. "I couldn't even afford this without help." The figure had become quiet. Perhaps this person, whoever they were, was an idiot, Justine thought, escaped from some institution. With that thought, she tried to keep her tone gentle. "I make eighty-two francs a month. My skirt and shoes are twenty-one francs. It isn't a lot to live on."

"And no one helps you?"

"My patron was paying my dormitory fees."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"Yes, yes it is," she murmured. "I need to get back. Forgive me, I don't know your name."

"Christian… Justine?"

"How… Never mind. Thank you for the peaches," she mumbled, "but I need to go."

"So soon?"

"I shouldn't have been out this long."

"May I see you again?"

"I… Let's see," she said quickly, tucking a stray hair back and dropping her gaze. "I need to go now. Good evening, Monsieur."

The Phantom would have pursued. Yet Christian, for all his father's influence, was of a different temperament, and the night's revelations had rattled his brain. He had seen money, of course, had fetched it for his father now and then when asked. Erik had used them to teach his son to count. He had flung them across the water to make wishes. Thinking of all those coins at the bottom of the lake, Christian fell nauseous. Justine flickered in his mind again that night. He realised what he had to do.

Justine did not do her best dancing that evening; she would not dance for another five days. When she finally was well enough to rise to her lessons, she was met with nothing worse than a stern glance or an overheard giggle. As she lay down to rest, she heard the girl in the next bed whisper to her.

"How did you persuade him?"

"Who?"

"Your patron. How did you convince him to give that much."

"He only gave me money for the potion."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that he gave me ten francs and that was all. I've had nothing else."

"That isn't what people are saying."

"Well, what are they saying?" she asked, her hand slipping under her pillow. There was no peach.

The manager's third cigar was burnt down to its last half-inch as he sorted the dull coins into little piles. He spat the stub into his cold coffee, his heavy moustache drooped over the edges of his pink, girlish mouth. He looked again at the scrap of paper again, squinting at the childish red writing scratched onto it as if with a matchstick.

Monsieur,

Please do not dismiss Justine for missing her lessons. I will pay for her expenses if she is allowed to stay. Please use the money to pay for anything she may need.

The note ended at a tear onto which clung a few bars of music. The piece of paper was large, not to conceal the note, but to wrap around the many coins concealed inside. Six thousand francs! Yet it was not this alone that troubled the manager. The parchment was old, stained by drips of water. The edge, though tattered and smudged by years of use, was still legible, and the words at the top stood starkly in the electric light. He had, at one point, been a violinist. After the death of Piaggi – that fat, proud Italian who never thanked anyone but was the first to lend his umbrella on a rainy day – the orchestra had gathered together and burnt their copies of that infernal opera. He had laid his own sheet music on the bonfire. They had all attended. How could it be that here, in his ink-stained, trembling hand, he help a tattered, torn, crumpled copy of Don Juan Triumphant?