"Christine?" Raoul called. No answer. Again he tried. "Christine? Are you
in there?" The doorknob rattled as he attempted to open the locked door.
"Christine! Angel!" Raoul's voice desperately cried out as he banged on the
door.
I quickly left the room and darted into the hall. I made my way as fast as I could to the corridor where Christine's dressing room was. Out of the shadows came Raoul, his face full of panic. Breathlessly he exclaimed, "Christine.gone. door's locked." He grabbed my hand and pulled me to her dressing room.
I tried the knob; the door was locked. Raoul moaned. "Relax," I ordered him. "I can open the door, give me a moment and don't panic. I could not believe I was ordering the Vicomte around, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I pulled a hairpin from my curls and inserted it into the lock. I bit my lip and twisted, listening for the snap. Finally I heard it and the door swung open. Raoul burst in and yelped, for there was no one there.
"Christine!" He cried. Frantically he searched the wardrobe, under the bed, behind the door.
I stared at the scene. There were no windows, only one door, no trap doors as far as the eye could see. Where had Christine gone? ~ "Once again now, where was the last time you saw her?" The friendly face peered down at me.
I rubbed my eyes. "Monsieur, I told you. Only a few minutes before she disappeared. Right before I met the Vicomte in the foyer." All night the Opera had been surrounded and scoured over by policemen. Right after Christine's vanishing, Raoul insisted the police be alerted and ordered to come search. They combed the opera, and found nothing. For over an hour now they had questioned everyone left in the opera house.
"And you Monsieur?" The questioner turned to Raoul.
"Before I met Madmoiselle Giry, just after the performance. Only a minute before. No one could have passed us in the foyer without us seeing, and there is no other way out."
My eyes filled with tears as once again I imagined possible fates for my friend, each worse than the one before. Looking about me, I saw my mother staring at the floor, a confused look on her face. Firmin, seated across from me at his desk, was talking to a reporter. Disgusted, I turned away. All he cared about was the publicity. I closed my eyes. I wished to get away from this nightmare, far away. Suddenly I heard Buquet next to me, muttering something. I leaned in closer and caught the words, "Opera Ghost." Of course! The Opera Ghost. Why not? It was a solution. If my mother believed in him, then so did I. Buquet must know something we don't, I mused. I vowed to talk with him the moment I had a chance.
The next morning, I grabbed my opportunity. Amid throngs of ballet girls, Buquet sat, regaling them with horror stories of the Opera Ghost. I settled just behind the wings, on a small box.
Buquet, his wrinkled face lit with pleasure, nodded at me before continuing in his rough voice. "His skin is like a carcass; old, yellow, and faded. There is a hole, a great black hole in his face where a nose is supposed to be. It never grew." He lifted the black cloth that served as a cloak to his face. His eyes grew large and hideous, and several girls hid their faces in mock fear. "His eyes glow, bright yellow in his repulsive face. But when he is angry, they burn a fierce red. He carries with him a rope, a lasso." The old stage hand held up a lasso and proceeded to loop it around his neck. Placing his hand in front of his face, he pulled the rope taut. Delighted, the girls clapped at the vulgar illustration. Buquet explained, "You must be always on your guard, for if you are not careful, he will catch you. His magical lasso, the Punjab lasso, has never missed a neck yet. Beware! And remember, your hand at the level of your eyes!" The show over, the ballet girls giggled and left. I stayed, waiting for a moment to talk to him.
"Buquet, is the Opera Ghost real?"
"Child, is the sky blue?" Buquet retorted. "Of course he is real. There is no doubt in my mind, for I have seen him. Some say he is the ghost of a man long ago who despised the opera and everything in it. He terrorized certain stars in the opera house, and sabotaged several performances. He was known as the Phantom of the Opera. People are beginning to say that the Opera Ghost is the spirit of his man, come back to get revenge once more. And it is not just the fancies of an old man who loves mysteries. " He added slyly, "Your mother has seen the monster, as well."
That caught my full attention. "My mother? She believes in him? She has seen him? Why has she never said anything to me about it?"
Buquet shrugged. "She does not wish to say anything."
Suddenly my mother appeared at my side. "Buquet! Keep silent. You will find all too late that prudent silence is wiser than momentary pleasure of scaring young girls." Glaring at him, she added, "If I were you, I would hold your tongue."
I quickly left the room and darted into the hall. I made my way as fast as I could to the corridor where Christine's dressing room was. Out of the shadows came Raoul, his face full of panic. Breathlessly he exclaimed, "Christine.gone. door's locked." He grabbed my hand and pulled me to her dressing room.
I tried the knob; the door was locked. Raoul moaned. "Relax," I ordered him. "I can open the door, give me a moment and don't panic. I could not believe I was ordering the Vicomte around, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I pulled a hairpin from my curls and inserted it into the lock. I bit my lip and twisted, listening for the snap. Finally I heard it and the door swung open. Raoul burst in and yelped, for there was no one there.
"Christine!" He cried. Frantically he searched the wardrobe, under the bed, behind the door.
I stared at the scene. There were no windows, only one door, no trap doors as far as the eye could see. Where had Christine gone? ~ "Once again now, where was the last time you saw her?" The friendly face peered down at me.
I rubbed my eyes. "Monsieur, I told you. Only a few minutes before she disappeared. Right before I met the Vicomte in the foyer." All night the Opera had been surrounded and scoured over by policemen. Right after Christine's vanishing, Raoul insisted the police be alerted and ordered to come search. They combed the opera, and found nothing. For over an hour now they had questioned everyone left in the opera house.
"And you Monsieur?" The questioner turned to Raoul.
"Before I met Madmoiselle Giry, just after the performance. Only a minute before. No one could have passed us in the foyer without us seeing, and there is no other way out."
My eyes filled with tears as once again I imagined possible fates for my friend, each worse than the one before. Looking about me, I saw my mother staring at the floor, a confused look on her face. Firmin, seated across from me at his desk, was talking to a reporter. Disgusted, I turned away. All he cared about was the publicity. I closed my eyes. I wished to get away from this nightmare, far away. Suddenly I heard Buquet next to me, muttering something. I leaned in closer and caught the words, "Opera Ghost." Of course! The Opera Ghost. Why not? It was a solution. If my mother believed in him, then so did I. Buquet must know something we don't, I mused. I vowed to talk with him the moment I had a chance.
The next morning, I grabbed my opportunity. Amid throngs of ballet girls, Buquet sat, regaling them with horror stories of the Opera Ghost. I settled just behind the wings, on a small box.
Buquet, his wrinkled face lit with pleasure, nodded at me before continuing in his rough voice. "His skin is like a carcass; old, yellow, and faded. There is a hole, a great black hole in his face where a nose is supposed to be. It never grew." He lifted the black cloth that served as a cloak to his face. His eyes grew large and hideous, and several girls hid their faces in mock fear. "His eyes glow, bright yellow in his repulsive face. But when he is angry, they burn a fierce red. He carries with him a rope, a lasso." The old stage hand held up a lasso and proceeded to loop it around his neck. Placing his hand in front of his face, he pulled the rope taut. Delighted, the girls clapped at the vulgar illustration. Buquet explained, "You must be always on your guard, for if you are not careful, he will catch you. His magical lasso, the Punjab lasso, has never missed a neck yet. Beware! And remember, your hand at the level of your eyes!" The show over, the ballet girls giggled and left. I stayed, waiting for a moment to talk to him.
"Buquet, is the Opera Ghost real?"
"Child, is the sky blue?" Buquet retorted. "Of course he is real. There is no doubt in my mind, for I have seen him. Some say he is the ghost of a man long ago who despised the opera and everything in it. He terrorized certain stars in the opera house, and sabotaged several performances. He was known as the Phantom of the Opera. People are beginning to say that the Opera Ghost is the spirit of his man, come back to get revenge once more. And it is not just the fancies of an old man who loves mysteries. " He added slyly, "Your mother has seen the monster, as well."
That caught my full attention. "My mother? She believes in him? She has seen him? Why has she never said anything to me about it?"
Buquet shrugged. "She does not wish to say anything."
Suddenly my mother appeared at my side. "Buquet! Keep silent. You will find all too late that prudent silence is wiser than momentary pleasure of scaring young girls." Glaring at him, she added, "If I were you, I would hold your tongue."