All the Point of View - Chapters 4-8

Author's Notes: This chapter has some stuff changed in it, and the daroga comes to visit our Opera Ghost.

Chapter 4
Notes

It wasn't long before I heard Monsieur Firmin's voice reading a headline in the paper. Wow, I had publicity now.

André strode into the room moments later, and he was about as pleased as I had been when Christine tore my mask off. (What a feat! If she were a little nicer, perhaps she would have only screamed instead of flinging herself against the wall!)

Heh heh heh. They had come across my notes now.

Dear André,
what a charming gala! Christine enjoyed a great success! Indeed she had - my success - and her thank-you lay in what a gift she had presented me this morning. We were hardly bereft when Carlotta left— I suppressed a grin. That much was true. —otherwise, the chorus was entrancing, but the dancing was a lamentable mess! Unfortunate were the eyes that laid upon the dancers that evening.

Firmin proceeded to read his note, and I could not hold back the sly smile curving my mouth as they asked themselves who the mysterious was. Of course it was the Phantom of the Opera.

Who would have the gall to send this? they chorused. Someone with a puerile brain! Indeed, if you could call what I had a brain.' Do monsters have brains? I wondered quietly.

Who's O.G.? they asked amongst themselves.

To rhyme with what they said, I replied, They didn't hear me.

It was just minutes later that an upset Vicomte burst into the room. I knew what his problem was.

Where is she? he yelled at them.

You mean Carlotta?

I just about fell out of my chair, I was so disgusted with their suspicion. Who could miss that fat, pampered woman? Of course, I grimly hoped he was looking for Carlotta. I didn't want to feel jealous now of all times of the patron. Well, I shouldn't feel jealous, I tried to say to myself. She still loves you - she can look behind the mask.

Or perhaps that was just a wishful thought to try and run away from this predicament.

I didn't care to think things over. She could always love him - but not me. Why bother thinking about her now. . . .

I mean Miss Daaé!

Arr. There came the dreaded words. It was hard not to think of her. A sea of jealousy swept over me. Now how was I to rid my home - and my life - of the patron, without hurting my beloved Christine.

I scolded myself once again silently. I reminded myself she was not mine. She was his. Arr. Now I knew even more I needed somehow to rid this place of the young viscount.

Well, how should we know? Firmin asked him irritably.

I want an answer! The Vicomte was impatient. Now, did he really believe that Firmin and André had as messy handwriting as myself?

I turned and strutted around the room. This could go in Don Juan, perhaps - another part of my life story. Jealousy. . . .

The viscount's voice was making me as green with nausea as it was with jealousy and envy, so I covered my ears in attempt to shut out the high, squealy voice. That baby! I could stand being separated from the dearest thing to me in life for days at a time, and he couldn't be away from her for over twenty-four hours without shrieking about it. I knew he couldn't possibly love her as much as I.

Then moments later Carlotta burst into the room. I laughed at her reaction to my note as she blamed the foolish managers for the threat.

The managers began another duet, but were interrupted by Madame Giry.

Miss Daaé has returned, she stated.

I trust her midnight oil is well and truly burned, Firmin muttered dryly.

Where precisely is she now? asked André.

Meg and her mother informed him that she was at home, then the lovesick viscount asked the question.

May I see her?

No, m'sieur, she will so no one, Madame Giry replied. Whew.

A few more rambles were here and there and then Madame Giry pulled out my note. Here I have a note, she informed the others.

Let me see it! everyone demanded.

Firmin snatched the note and began reading.

I forced myself to stop gagging long enough to listen to them.

Big mistake. They went mad after reading the note, promising Carlotta the lead role in Il Muto.

The whole company started buttering her up, singing to the prima donna all sorts of lies about how much the crowd adored her, how much her public needed her, and other assorted commentary from others as the song grew more extravagant.

I stormed furiously as they all stopped to finish their song of reassurance to the dimwitted diva. It is to be war between us! If these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur!

Once more! they finished their song.

Chapter 5
It is I, Mr. Toad singing!

Tonight was the performance of Il Muto. The performance was partially underway when I made my way to Box Five.

But the box was not empty. There was a shape inside of it - the figure of a man. Now who was this?

Upon further inspection, I realised exactly who it was - the Vicomte de Chagny. The pampered patron. The lovesick leech. My names did not even begin to describe the wretch.

Furious, I used my loudest voice. Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty? I demanded.

The dancers skittered, and Meg said it: He's here: the Phantom of the Opera. . . .

It's him - I know it, it's him! Christine whispered breathlessly. Well, Mademoiselle Daaé, do you have a problem with me - other than my face, which you were not content knowing not what it looked like?

Your part is silent, little toad! Carlotta hissed at her.

Ooh, this left her open for attack.

A toad, Madame? I snickered. Perhaps it is you who are the toad!

The orchestra began to play, and Carlotta began to sing. But in the middle of her song, she croaked. I began laughing.

She attempted to sing once more, and once again—croaaakkkk!! I laughed harder and harder. The chandelier's lights flickered on and off.

I shouted. She is singing to bring down the chandelier!

Carlotta was crying by now and was led off the stage by the head tenor (who could not sing an opera part to save his life) and Carlotta's lover (what terrible taste) Ubaldo Piangi. Firmin kept an eye on the wild chandelier as he switched the roles - Christine getting her rightful part. André, improvising, decided to give the ballet from Act Three at this moment. I took this time to slip down backstage and strangle Joseph Buquet, while casting my shadow all over the stage, causing Meg to fall out of step. Then I threw Buquet's dead body onstage.

The dancers screamed. The managers tried to comfort the panicking audience. Christine begged for Raoul's help. I gagged. Raoul came to her aid. I gagged some more. Christine and Raoul made their way up to the roof. I followed them.

Where to go? There were no good vantage points on the roof except. . . my gaze flickered to the statue of Apollo. No, this is stupid, I assured myself as I climbed up it. Perfect view. My ears did not have to strain, either.

I soon realised that not needing to strain my ears was a bad thing.

Christine immediately began pouring out to Raoul all different feelings. He'll kill me! she assured Raoul.

I wanted to shout at her. No, Christine, I would never kill you! I felt like saying everything to her. Christine, I would never kill you. . . all I want is for you to love me for who I am, not on looks alone. . . .

Christine, in a seemingly-melodramatic manner, kept on with her childish whining, thinking I would kill a thousand men, even though the only time I'd ever done anything of the sort was in Persia, and the boy assured her there was no Phantom of the Opera. I felt the Punjab lasso and ran it through my hand. Oh, there isn't, eh? I imagined the feel of tightening it around his neck.

Then Christine spoke of me. Raoul, I've seen him! she whispered. I can't ever forget that sight!

What was it like? he asked. She swallowed hard, looked around, and then met his gaze.

It was so distorted - deformed - it was hardly a face! There was darkness all around, as in a world of unending night. Darkness is his best friend, Raoul. . . .

I rolled my eyes. Horrified stares, rejection, and hatred were no one's friends, and the darkness was the only place I could escape from them.

But his voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound, she continued. I felt hopeful for once. In that night, there was music in my mind. . . and through music, my soul began to soar! And I heard as I've never heard before. . . . Yes, she had heard the voice of an Angel - from the spawn of the devil.

What you heard was a dream, Christine! A dream, and nothing more! Raoul told her. He had an uncanny ability to ruin my only joys at the exact wrong time. I wanted to toss the Punjab lasso down to catch him by the neck.

Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world. . . Christine continued. That was a good enough description. Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore. . . . That was a good description, too - I adored her and threatened the Vicomte.

Christine . . . Christine. . . . Raoul said, obviously trying to comfort her.

Christine. . . . I echoed.

What was that? Christine asked in a hushed whisper.

Their eyes met. Raoul suddenly changed the mood. I gagged - again.

No more talk of darkness, Christine. Forget these wide-eyed fears. I imagined his eyes bulging like bugs' once the lasso was tightened around his throat. That would be a wide-eyed fear.'

Christine and Raoul came up with the most sickening duet I'd ever heard - even listening to Carlotta sing seemed preferable. Tears sprung to my eyes. I tried my hardest not to release them, but I could not keep them held in any more than I could stop the inevitable kiss which followed their song. I choked on sobs as I watched them embrace. One sob was particularly loud and Raoul looked up. I believe I heard something, he told Christine. Perhaps someone is hurt. Should I check?

My eyes were burning, my fingers were soaked with salty tears as I tried wildly to brush them away, and my head was throbbing from a splitting headache.

Christine kissed him again. I could not bring myself to watch, yet my eyes were fastened on them and could not move. No matter how unendurable this was, I could not move too much. My headache was preferable, yet as physically unendurable as watching Christine kiss the boy.

Christine realised the time by then. They had been up there kissing for too long. She released him reluctantly, and said, I must go - they'll wonder where I am. Wait for me, Raoul.

Christine, I love you! Raoul called to her as she began walking away from him.

Christine, I love you! I echoed him silently. But I love you so much more than that boy ever will. . . .

I gave you my music. . . .
made your song take— I choked on a sob as I looked over at the one person I loved most as she grew further and further out of my reach. —wing. . . and now how you've repaid me:
denied me and betrayed me. . . . I hung my head and let out a sigh. He was bound to love you when he heard you sing. . . . Christine. . . Christine. . . .

In the distance, I saw them and heard them singing to each other, pledging their love to one another. Unable to contain myself any longer, I pointed an accusing finger and sobbed uncontrollably for a moment before I called out at her again.

You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you! I screamed at her - though she did not hear me. That flower, that angel, that traitor - how were they the same person?

Then I laughed. I don't know how, or why, I laughed, but I did. The chandelier was shaking and the lights were blinking on and off. Then I stopped laughing to make a command.

It came crashing down, and the two-kilo chandelier landed at Christine's feet.

Chapter 6
Sing for Me

I left the managers alone for six months. I won't go into detail about these months, because the only events that really took place were waking up after an uneasy sleep full of nightmares, sitting at my organ, composing, writing, and eating a bit every three days, then sitting on the couch and crying for about an hour at least twice a week for a reason still unknown to me - I don't like to cry. (I'm guessing I was thinking about Christine and the viscount on the roof.)

During those six months, I finished Don Juan Triumphant.

The time had come, on New Years' Eve, during the masquerade ball that the managers had called for, to present my opera. I wrote several notes concerning the opera, and wrote up a cast list. I found my costume - Red Death. I put it on quickly and hurried over. I arrived right in the middle of it.

I made my entrance at the top of the stairs. Every person there froze immediately. I descended slowly, my gaze seemingly flickering about the room but really planted on Christine - and the engagement ring strung about her neck.

Why so silent, good messieurs? I asked sarcastically. Did you think that I had left you for good? Not a chance. Have you missed me, good messieurs? I have written you an opera!

Christine's eyes widened when she saw the huge packet I held up. Here I bring the finished score: Don Juan Triumphant! I tossed it to Monsieur Firmin, dressed as a skeleton.

I advise you to comply, I continued. My instructions should be clear. I turned my head to Christine and added, Remember, there are worse things than a shattered chandelier!

I sauntered over to Christine. Your chains are still mine, I hissed, grabbing hold of the chain around her neck. You will sing for me! I ripped it off and flung it across the room. She gasped, I swept my cloak around myself and disappeared through a trap door. Then I dropped my notes into the managers' inbox and awaited their arrival, pacing.

Chapter 7
More Notes

André exclaimed, staring down at my open score.

No more ludicrous than you, I thought, rolling my eyes.

Have you seen the score? he asked Firmin, who was entering the room.

Simply ludicrous! Firmin agreed.

It's the final straw! André said angrily.

Only if you want another ruined performance, I silently warned them.

This is lunacy! Well, you know my views. . . .

All too well, I thought grimly.

Utter lunacy! André agreed again.

But we daren't refuse. . . .

There's a good boy, I thought. I considered walking in and patting him on the back, then decided he didn't deserve it for calling my opera ludicrous.'

Firmin was sorting the letters spread across his desk when André slumped into a chair. Not another chandelier. . . . he groaned.

Firmin, discovering my letters, held them up. Look, my friend, what we have here.

André opened his and read it aloud. He wasn't too pleased, but I had made quite clear to him that he didn't have a choice.

Dear Firmin,
Vis à vis my opera: some chorus members must be sacked. If you could, find out which has a sense of pitch - wisely, though, I've managed to assign a rather minor role to those who cannot act! Carlotta, for one. Firmin threw the note onto the desk, furious. Heh heh heh.

Carlotta burst in about then.

she exclaimed, pointing a finger at my opera. This whole affair is an outrage!

Now who's causing the outrage? I certainly wasn't out there screaming.

Have you seen the size of my part?

No, I'm sorry, Carlotta; the part was too small that I couldn't see it.

Piangi rushed in after her, with a similar complaint. Strange how one little opera wreaked so much havoc in one office in one day. It's an insult! Just look at this - it's an insult!

The managers were in a frenzy to comfort the two stars, Carlotta and Piangi were in an outrage, and Christine and Raoul were entering the room hand in hand. I was both choking with laughter at the hilarious managers and choking on my throat when I saw Christine and the patron together.

Ah, here's our little flower! Carlotta said dryly, noticing the future de Chagny and her little fiancée entering the room.

Ah, Miss Daaé, quite the lady of the hour! Firmin added.

You have secured the largest role in this Don Juan, André continued to inform her.

Christine Daaé? She doesn't have the voice! Carlotta mumbled, half to herself.

Signora, please, Firmin urged Carlotta.

Then I take it you're agreeing, said the patron.

I think Christine's behind this, Carlotta whispered to Piangi.

It appears we have no choice, André replied to the Vicomte.

Wise decision, André; you have no choice, I felt like assuring him.

She's the one behind this! Carlotta burst out, unable to contain herself. She pointed accusingly at Christine. Christine Daaé!

Christine, who had been silent till now, was incensed. How dare you!

I'm not a fool! Carlotta lied.

You evil woman! Christine blurted. How dare you! This isn't my fault!

So now we were talking about faults? Goodness, it was only an opera, and Christine had enjoyed my playing - or so she said. . . . Then I felt that familiar feeling of rejection sweep over me as the full meaning of that sunk in.

I don't want any part in this plot!

I shut my eyes and tried to shut out her voice that I had trained.

The managers, now meekly accepting the fact that they had no choice but to produce my opera, glared at Christine, shocked.

Why not? Firmin asked her quietly. Well, it's your decision, but - why not?

André nodded his head, rounding on Christine. It is your duty!

I cannot sing it, duty or not!

All eyes turned to her, mine among them - in shock. Of course she could sing it. . . I knew she could!

Christine, Christine. . . . said Raoul. You don't have to. They can't make you.

You underestimate me, boy, I thought, a dry smile beginning to form on my face.

Please, messieurs - another note, piped up Madame Giry. The managers groaned.

'Fondest greetings to you all! A few instructions just before rehearsal starts: Carlotta must be taught to act. . . .'

. . . . not her normal trick of strutting round the stage. I completed the sentence. Carlotta's face filled with anger. Our Don Juan must lose some weight - it's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age. I saw the look of shock on Piangi's plump face. And my managers must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts.

As for Miss Christine Daaé. . . . Christine looked round, as if expecting to see me or something. No doubt she'll do her best - it's true, her voice is good. Though sickening at times. She knows, though, should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn. If pride would let her, return to me, her teacher, her teacher. . . .

Your obedient friend. . . .

. . . and Angel, Madame Giry finished.

There was a moment of silence as all eyes turned to Christine, who then turned a bright shade of red. she asked uncertainly.

Raoul came up with a brilliant idea then.

We have all been blind, he said with a shrug, but the answer is staring us in the face! This could be the chance to ensnare our clever friend.

I sat back in my chair to listen to this, trying my hardest not to laugh.

We'll do his work, of course, he continued. But remember, we hold the ace: for, if Miss Daaé sings, he is certain to attend! Well, of course I was going to attend. Now if that changed anything. . . .

The managers improvised. We'll make certain that the men are there at every door and every door is barred. Then. . . .

When the curtain falls, his reign will end! said a triumphant André.

Not likely, I thought. I didn't need to hear any more; they'd read all my notes and revealed all their plans to me, so I was free to go home now.

I was almost to the lake when I heard a familiar voice behind me, speaking to me.

What do you want? I asked irritably, turning to the daroga, horribly annoyed.

I came to check on you, he murmured. I'm afraid you might do something.

What would I do?

Well, kill someone.

I laughed. Well, daroga, if I were to murder someone, the only person I feel inclined to murder right now is you.

The Vicomte. . . . he began, trailing off as he saw me stiffen.

What business is that of yours? I hissed.

Don't kill him, the daroga instructed. Do not kill him.

I felt a smile curving my already-twisted lips. And why not?

Because he doesn't deserve it. . . his only crime is love.

I was silent for a moment, but I had reason enough to be. The gaze that met his eyes was enough to convince that cursed daroga to leave. He was about to turn the corner when he called back to me, Don't kill him.

I rolled my eyes and mouthed the words sarcastically in sincere imitation. He turned the corner and disappeared. I stepped into the boat and set off all the more swiftly.

Chapter 8
Dreams

I've always accused myself for wistful thinking, and tonight was no exception as I propped myself up on the couch and lay my head back against it. Then I shut my eyes and imagined Christine sitting on the other end of the couch on nights she had spent down here. Sweet memories, then flooded back to the first morning she had been here when she pulled off my mask. Then, even more wistful thinking - thinking of pulling the Punjab lasso tight around the viscount's neck. I scolded myself.

It was hard to sleep that night, but I finally remember banging my head against the back of the couch. Then everything went black for a while, until I had a curious dream.

Christine and the Vicomte, hand in hand on the roof. The Opera Ghost, watching, on the statue of Apollo. When the Vicomte begins closing in on Christine, she backs up. Raoul, curious, asks her what's wrong. But Christine does not answer and runs down the stairs. The Opera Ghost follows her, and sees she is now making her way towards her dressing room and calls out to the Phantom, who shows up behind her and locks the door.

What is it, Miss Daaé? asks O.G.

The-the Vicomte was. . . . says Christine, bursting into tears.

Dear Christine. . . . O.G. takes her into his arms and lets her weep her fill. You're safe now, dear Christine. . . .

Christine smiles at the Opera Ghost, moves her head closer until they. . . .

Dreams have an interesting ability to know when you wish for them to continue. Then they end.

I woke up with a start, rubbed the back of my aching head, sauntered over to the organ, and tried to play. The noise made my headache worse. I reached to where I banged my head on the couch and was surprised to feel a sticky liquid. I drew my hand back quickly and was surprised to see blood.

I knew I couldn't sleep without bleeding on whatever I chose to sleep on, and being a partial insomniac wouldn't allow me to sleep normally - I was sure of that. Perhaps some time on the roof would help me clear my mind. . . .

Taking a step forward made me feel light-headed, so I had no choice but to lean against the wall for a moment. I wondered if I had been bleeding for a long time.

There was nothing to be gained sitting there, I realised after waiting for a minute after I felt strong again. If you plan on going to the roof, you should go now.

I tried my best to ignore my headache while I ascended the stairs. The attempt proved futile when the pain was so severe I was temporarily blinded. Luckily I stumbled onto the roof seconds afterward, ready to feel the breeze on the back of my head while attempting to clear it.

I don't know how much later it was when I woke up, but it was evening when I opened my eyes. Perhaps it had been good for me to try to ignore it. I needed the sleep without knocking myself out again.

Then I realised I had stopped bleeding. Yes, that walk had been good for me. My head no longer hurt, either.

I looked out over Paris. People were all over, walking to cafés and other shops, going home to their flats, reading about the new opera - the new opera?

Yes, rehearsals for Don Juan Triumphant should've been starting right about now. I had to hurry if I were going to make it there on time.

***

Those who tangle with Don Juan!

I closed my eyes and covered my ears. Signor Piangi was so off-pitch that I wondered how he had ever received the title head tenor.'

No, no, Signor, Reyer broke in. Nearly, but - no.

Piangi sighed. Reyer attempted to teach him the line correctly. Those who tan, tan, tan. . . .

Those who tangle with Don Juan! Piangi sang.

Reyer would've made a better head tenor.

Everyone burst into furious conversation all at once. His way is better, I heard Carlotta saying dryly. At least he makes it sound like music! A few others laughed.

Now where would it hurt Carlotta most?

Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer? Madame Giry warned. I mentally cheered her - that was my boxkeeper, all right.

Carlotta muttered, do you see the composer? I do not. Even if he were, I'd—

Are you sure of that, Signora?

Carlotta rolled her eyes, but seemed to take the warning and quieted down. Piangi had discovered that Christine, being my student for some time, would know the piece better than anyone, and was asking for her guidance.

Those who tan, tan, tan, Piangi was still wrong. Is right?

Not quite, Signor, Christine answered. Those who tan, tan, tan. . . .

Piangi tried once more - and failed. I was sick of the commotion. The piano was right there above me and the noise was deafening as Reyer came back to instruct and attempt to restore order in the room.

I opened yet another trapdoor underneath the piano and climbed up to play from inside. It was hard, but it worked.

Everybody, in a trance, began to sing accurately - as they finished, Christine started inching away. I, eager to find out where she'd go next, climbed down and closed the trapdoor. Where are you going, Christine? Where?

I ran as fast as I could to the mirror. She was there in not too long, searching her wardrobe frantically. What was she looking for?

Her face lit up as she reached in and pulled out a navy blue cloak. She pulled it around her shoulders and dashed out the door. I felt like crying out to her, but I could never do that. But. . . where was she going?