Author's Note: Thank you for the lovely reviews and follows! I'm glad you're enjoying this so far.
Yes, this is indeed a story in which Christine teaches Erik to sing. Let's see how well that turns out…
Thanks for reading!
Chapter Two: The Mystery of the Man's Voice
1.
Christine had not slept well, her stomach aching with hunger. She slipped out of the theatre early, and was relieved to find the small teashop already open. She bought a slice of sponge cake (which was delicious) and some syrupy black coffee (which was stronger than she liked, but welcome) and returned to the theatre feeling refreshed.
There was a company rehearsal at 10am, and the auditorium was already busy. It was nothing like the auditorium of the Palais Garnier. The Grand Music Hall was more like a ballroom, with arches and frescoes on the walls. A balcony ran around four sides of the room, supported by metallic spiral-shaped columns. The floor was uncarpeted boards. And instead of velvet theatre seats, there were wooden chairs and circular tables, as in a French cabaret.
Much like the theatre exterior, the auditorium had a faded grandeur about it. Christine thought it beautiful, in a sad sort of way.
She turned her attention to her fellow performers, trying to guess if any of them was the mysterious singer. The encounter had shaken her – the man's speaking voice had been slightly menacing - but she was curious in spite of herself.
A young woman in a white tulle tutu stood to one side, practising ballet steps. A group of men were choreographing an acrobatic routine. Another man casually shuffled a pack of cards. A group of half a dozen musicians stood around, holding their instruments cases and chatting.
There were heavy footsteps on the stage. Christine turned to see that Gerard had arrived. He smiled at her.
"Ah! Good morning, Miss Daae, I hope you slept well?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Excellent!" He held up his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? Ladies and gentlemen!"
The company finally fell silent and looked at Gerard.
"Thank you. We have lots to get through today, so it's good to see you all here bright and relatively early." He looked around the group, and his face fell into a frown. "Where's Erik?"
"I would suggest," said the man with the playing cards, "that Mr Phantom considers himself to be above such things as rehearsal." His voice dripped with contempt.
Gerard frowned. "Yes, thank you, Robert. Has anyone actually seen him?"
"Maybe one of his illusions went wrong and he made himself disappear," said Robert. He sounded as if the idea appealed to him.
There were chuckles from the company.
"Well, we can't start without him," said Gerard. "Simon? Will you please check Mr Erik's accommodation?"
"That won't be necessary," said a voice from the wings. "I'm here."
Erik stepped out of the shadows and walked down the stairs at the side of the stage. Christine had only had the briefest glimpse of him in the passage outside Gerard's office. Now, she was struck by how tall he was. He was wearing a long black coat which swirled around his ankles, and a wide-brimmed black hat which cast a shadow over his face.
As he stepped from the stage to the auditorium, Christine realised that it was not his face at all, but a white mask which left only his chin and lower lip visible.
The company had gone quiet, watching his elegant progress towards them. There was something almost cat-like about him. A nonchalant grace.
It was Gerard who found his voice first. "Welcome, Erik. Thank you for coming, but do watch your time keeping in future." Erik fixed Gerard with a piercing stare. The impresario seemed to gulp. "It is fine, of course."
Erik gave a slight nod, and folded himself onto an empty chair.
Gerard turned away and addressed the company. "Now, we'll rehearse. I would like to see everyone's act. Sorelli, you're up."
2.
Christine found a chair close to the stage and watched the music hall acts.
Sorelli was indeed a skilled ballerina, and together with her corps of six dancers, she presented an extract from Giselle, the small band of musicians providing the accompaniment. It was a far cry from the full orchestra of the Garnier, but the dancing was good.
The acrobats were next, followed by Robert, the magician. Christine found his card tricks and slight-of-hand entertaining enough, but at one point she heard a huffing noise, followed by a snigger. She turned to see Erik, who was sitting half in shadow. She didn't know how a man in a mask could contrive to look bored, but somehow he managed it.
Then there was an aerialist. Christine found herself holding her breath as the woman flew high above the stage on a flimsy trapeze. The routine was beautiful, almost balletic in itself. She glanced again at Erik, and saw that he was examining his fingernails. She turned back to look at the stage.
"And now," said Gerard, "The Phantom, if you please."
Christine looked around, and saw that Erik had vanished from the theatre seat. She hadn't heard him get up, which was rather disconcerting.
The small orchestra struck up some sinister music. With a great crack of thunder, the auditorium was plunged into darkness. Then a flash of lightning illuminated the dark figure of Erik, now centre stage. Christine leaned forward in her chair. Her heart was racing.
Erik began to juggle with fire, throwing fireballs from one hand to the other, and then stretching them between his hands until they became long ribbons of flame. Christine watched, mesmerised, as he conjured clouds and mist and flocks of birds, all apparently from nothing. He conjured autumn leaves which blew across the stage.
At the end of the act, hundreds of tiny sparks shot from his fingers and hung in the air, like stars. Finally, his black coat seemed to twist and levitate, and then fell to the stage, empty.
The lights came up.
Christine let out the breath she had been holding, and began to applaud.
"You approve, then?" said a silky voice by her ear.
Christine leapt to her feet with a yell. She whirled around to see Erik standing a few steps behind her. This in itself seemed impossible. He must have moved with inhuman speed.
"You frightened me," she gasped.
He said nothing but merely stood there, regarding her with a sort of languid amusement.
"But yes…" Christine continued. "Your act is astonishing."
He did not thank her, but gave a slight bow.
"Miss Daae?" said Gerard. Christine looked at the impresario. He appeared quite pale, a film of sweat glistening on his brow.
Christine took her place onstage. She nodded to the small band of musicians, and tried to banish the lingering effects of Erik's act from her mind. She needed to concentrate. It was very important that she made a good first impression.
She had chosen two of her favourite arias: The Queen of the Night's aria from The Magic Flute, followed by 'Song to the Moon' from Rusalka. She was relieved to find that her voice was still on good form after so many weeks of limited rehearsal.
Towards the end of her second song, she looked in Erik's direction. He was leaning forward in his chair, his whole poise speaking of rapt attention. After his apparent boredom throughout the rehearsal, his sudden interest surprised her.
When she was finished, everyone applauded apart from Erik. He had risen to his feet and was staring at her.
The other performers surrounded her, all talking excitedly.
"Thank you, Miss Daae," said Gerard, as she left the stage. "That was wonderful."
Christine thanked them all, and glanced towards Erik's chair. But the magician had gone.
3.
The rehearsal had been much as Erik had feared: a tedious parade of acts the like of which he had seen a hundred times before. And he had expected Miss Daae's act to be no different.
His mind had been elsewhere when she had taken her place on the stage. He had been thinking about his act, and whether he could contrive to have the dreadful Robert struck by lightning.
Then Miss Daae had started to sing.
Erik knew little of musical technique, but he had stood backstage in enough theatres to recognise a good voice when he heard one. And Christine Daae had a very good voice. More than that. Her voice seemed to touch his very core, wrapping itself around his heart and filling his body with heat. And the music! The melodies themselves were beautiful, fascinating in their grandeur and complexity.
He listened, mesmerised by that music coming from the slight figure on the stage.
When the second song came to an end, and applause rang around the theatre, he realised he was on his feet. Miss Daae looked out into the auditorium. Erik realised she had caught him staring, and blushed to the roots of his sparse hair. He was grateful for the mask.
Perhaps it was embarrassment that made him slip out of the auditorium, or maybe it was a simple desire to be alone with his thoughts. He did not know which. As he glided through the shadows backstage, he caught site of the stave paper on the old upright piano. He paused in the wings. Everyone had gathered around Miss Daae, congratulating her and praising her voice.
No one noticed his dark shape swoop forward and seize the sheets of music.
4.
Erik spent the afternoon in his attic room, peering at the music and trying to recall every note and nuance of Daae's performance. He neither knew nor cared if Gerard required him for another rehearsal. He had spent months perfecting his latest illusions, and if Gerard did not like them, there were other theatrical fleapits that would hire him. Maybe.
By three pm it was starting to get dark, and Erik decided it was time to go in search of food. He liked the winter months; he was able to go outside, safe in the knowledge that the darkness would protect him. He could walk the streets, if he wished, and purchase supplies. Today he visited a bakery, and did his best to ignore the stares of the boy who served him. Then, a hot meat pie wrapped in paper and tucked under his arm, he returned to the theatre.
After eating his pie, Erik turned to the pile of books which had been left outside his door during rehearsal. One of the volumes turned out to be Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Erik tossed it to one side in disgust. His instructions had been clear: no novels. The other books looked interesting enough. There was an account of the construction of the railways, a book about the art of ventriloquism, and a history of opera, from the sixteenth century to the present.
Erik picked up the opera book and flicked through it, but the thought of reading made his head ache. He forced himself to read the first paragraph of the introduction, but Daae's blasted voice was still singing away in his head.
It was so distracting.
There was only one thing to be done.
Five minutes later, he was on the stage, clutching the sheet music. He summoned Daae's voice into his mind and tried to match it to what was written on the page. Erik could not read music, but he had a good memory for tunes, and at least the lyrics were printed there too.
The song was too high, written as it was for a woman's voice, but it proved an interesting challenge. When he was finished, he still thought it beautiful, but (like most songs) well beyond his limited talents.
Still, few things defeated Erik.
He tried again.
5.
Christine waited behind the backdrop.
Gerard hadn't yet found lodgings for her, and despite the strangeness of sleeping in the theatre, she decided it would be an opportunity to solve the mystery of the man's voice. Its harsh words had frightened her last night, but in the light of day some of the menace had faded. She had convinced herself it was a member of the company.
The theatre was silent, but just as she was sure there would be no music tonight, she heard a soft tread on the floorboards, and the voice began.
Something was different this time.
He was imitating her. Or trying to. It was 'Song to the Moon', which she had performed at the rehearsal. And, although his voice still sounded strained, he was doing an admirable job of singing it in a lower register. Whoever he was, he had a good ear.
It was too much of a coincidence. He must have been at the rehearsal. He must have heard her sing.
Curiosity finally getting the better of her, she took one step forward, then another. She was careful to creep; the singer had made it clear enough last night that he did not wish to be disturbed.
Reaching the wings, she peered around a flat.
The stage was lit by a ghost light, casting a wan glow over the boards. But it was enough for her to make out the tall figure, dressed in his long coat, studying a page of sheet music, and singing with every sign of deep concentration.
Christine stifled a gasp.
It was the magician. It was Erik.
His voice was a combination of light and shade, hardness and gentleness. He did not sound like the tenors she had known at the Paris Opera; there was a roughness to his untrained voice, and occasionally he would crack a note.
But, with training…Christine's mind whirled with the possibilities.
She had no doubt that his voice could become very fine indeed.
He reached the climax of the aria, and his voice gave out again, growing hoarse and lapsing into silence. His hands clenched into fists of frustration, almost crumpling the sheet music. Sheet music which Christine was starting to suspect belonged to her.
"No," he said. "No, no, no! Why is it so hard?"
"You need more breath support." Christine had spoken without thinking.
The figure on the stage grew eerily still. Then his head snapped around to face her. His eyes seemed to spark like something out of his magic act. The sheet music vanished.
"What are you doing here?" There was danger in the voice, but also wariness.
Christine stood her ground.
"I said, you need more breath support," she said, trying to stop her own voice from shaking. "You're running out of air on that last note."
"And what do you know about it?" asked the magician, cocking his head on one side.
Christine found herself smiling. Surely he knew this was an absurd question? "You were singing my song. You tell me."
He folded his arms. "Your song? I didn't realise you owned it."
"Not at all. It just seemed a bit coincidental that I was singing it at rehearsal today."
"I did not know I required your permission."
He was being sarcastic, but she decided not to notice. Instead, she took a step forward. He tensed, and she got the impression that he wanted to leave. That he would leave, if she said the wrong thing.
"I'm sorry if I've disturbed you," she said gently. "I'll leave you to sing in peace if you wish, but you seemed genuinely stuck and I thought I might be able to help."
"Help? In what way?"
"You have a good voice, but it's obviously untrained…"
"Oh, is it so obvious? That's useful to know."
"I only wanted to offer some advice about technique. Breath control, that sort of thing." She tried to smile. "Back in Paris, I worked for a time as a singing teacher. I might be able to help you hold that note."
He was silent for a moment, regarding her.
"Thank you, but I do not require your help."
Christine felt herself blush. "I'm sorry… I meant no offence."
"I don't need help from you or anyone else. I'm more than capable of doing this on my own."
"But…"
The magician ignored her. He turned away, his long coat whirling around his ankles, and slipped into the shadows of the stage.
Christine stared after him.
"Well, really!" she exclaimed. She had offered the man help, and had received nothing but rudeness in return. Well, let him ruin his own voice with his botched attempts at singing. It had nothing to do with her.
6.
Erik marched back into his room and slammed the door.
He couldn't believe the nerve of that woman. To have the gall to criticise his technique, to tell him he was doing things wrong. No breath control, indeed! What did she know about it?
Probably quite a lot, whispered a treacherous voice in his head.
Erik lay down on the couch which had been serving as his bed and stared at the patch of damp on the ceiling.
No one had ever helped him to learn anything. Not since early childhood, anyway. He had taught himself magic, and how to build things, and reading and writing. Music would be no different. He could not expect help from anyone, least of all a quaint little opera singer from France.
He was Erik, and he needed no one else.
But wouldn't it be nice to have help? asked the treacherous voice. Just for once?
Erik ignored his doubts. Instead, he took out his reading book, and his exercise book, and began to copy sentences.
Singing was not for the likes of him, anyway.