Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. This
fan fiction story is based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by
Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay. I have no
permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of
Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a
past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Please do not kill me! I
have three guinea pigs to support.
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
I stand on the edge of the lake unsure of why I am here. There are better things, more important things that I could be doing but I only want to be here. The mob has left. Little Giry has gone too. She showed me the mask and told me it was over. He was gone. I could have laughed. The Opera Ghost finally gone! I should be celebrating but all I want to do is cry. Carlotta wants to cry for the Phantom. How amusing! However, nobody knows the truth. You can make people believe what you want them to believe, even yourself.
The water is cold as I attempt to swim across the lake but I am not bothered by it. What would he say? All the blubber on that whale should keep her warm, perhaps. I have to smile. Like a swan, I am more graceful in water than on land. It is not long before I am on the other side albeit soaking wet and in my chemise. I was not going to swim in my costume from the opera now, was I? A bitter laugh escapes my lips. All this for him and he thought I never cared.
I enter his house and sit near the fire. Why am I doing this? I have to confess that I am not entirely sure. All the things from the past, my past, that I had long ago buried have come back to haunt me. Opera Ghost! You are most certainly a ghost, Erik, a ghost of my past.
"Erik, my love." I say aloud. "Je t'aime."
My name is not Carlotta, not really, but it has served me well for many years. It was my mother's name. She was a great woman. An Italian diva or so I was told. I sigh. A mother I never knew - dead before I was a month old. I was an only child and a grave disappointment. A daughter! What use could a daughter ever be? Yet my father did find uses for me. Like my mother, I had a beautiful voice and a beautiful face to match. They were my father's ticket to a better life. We were poor, my father and I. He used to have money and a beautiful house but somehow he had managed to lose it all. Life was one long struggle to survive. We travelled most of Europe, leaving behind our native Spain, doing what we could to make money. My father even tried to sell me when I was thirteen to an Englishman. I was naive enough at the time to think that the Englishman was going to take care of me. I said tried to sell but he did in fact sell me. As long as I live, I will not forget that night. Yet I managed to escape from him and my father. I travelled to Italy. For some reason I thought that I could be a singer just like my mother had been before she met my father. I did not seek fame or fortune. I wanted to be happy and singing was the only thing that did. For a time I was happy, alone and poor but happy.
I was sixteen when I first met Erik. He was not much older than I was perhaps two or three months. Much like his little Christine, I too had started out as a chorus girl. My life was good even though I was living in wretched conditions and there was little money for food. I never sold myself as the other girls did. The memory of what had happened to me in my earlier years refused to leave. While they entertained their gentlemen and the opera house was deserted, I would go to the centre of the stage and sing. One night Erik heard me sing. He did not show himself preferring to remain in the shadows but he told me not to be afraid and that I had the most wonderful voice he had heard. Slowly we grew to be friends. At first, I would sing and he would just listen to me adding a few helpful comments when he thought it was necessary. We met every midnight on the roof talking about anything that took our fancy. I told him about myself, about my life and my father but he never told me much about his life. There was always a hidden sadness in his voice when he spoke of his past. Where he went during the day I did not know, I dared not ask, and where he slept at night was even more of a mystery. I considered him a good friend and feeling particularly bold on night, I asked him to share my home.
"Carlotta?"
I shook myself out of my thoughts, turning to look at him. He did not have his mask but I did not shudder, scream, or run away as many others have.
"Hello Erik." He was astonished. How could Carlotta possibly know his name? I knew that he did not recognise me. I have changed a lot since we last met. "I suppose you will want to kill me now that I have seen your face or so the ballet rats have led me to believe."
Whatever confusion he experienced was soon replaced by rage. I watched as he clenched his fists in frustration, taking large steps in my direction. Anyone else in my position would have run but I sat calmly knowing, in my heart at least, that he would not harm me.
"Go, toad! Go and tell your precious managers that the Opera Ghost is very much alive. Perhaps they will end my suffering swiftly."
I watched as he sat on the chair across from me. It was only in the light of the fire that I could see that he too had changed. He looked old and tired not the vibrant youth I had known so many years ago. I pitied him. A lot of his unhappiness was my fault. Oh, if I could go back and change history I would.
Watching him, sitting in that chair, reminds me of when my home became his. I worked during the day, leaving before the sun rose and returning long after the sun had set. Erik would be sitting at the fire tired from whatever activities he had been engaged in, which usually involved preparing our supper. We would sit by the fire after eating and talk. It was the only time during those days in Italy that I ever spent with him. I know that those moments were precious to him but I also knew that it was enough. Erik was a complicated man. He needed his privacy yet he need to feel that he was not alone in the world. I doubt that anyone had cared for him previously though he had mentioned a mason who had been kind to him. He was not the only one who needed this security. I needed to feel that someone cared for me too. I asked him to hold me once. At first, he refused but one day he took me in his arms and held me. When he held me, I finally felt as though someone cared.
"Why are you here?"
"I had to see the Opera Ghost for myself, this so-called Phantom who has had a whole opera house doing his bidding, the man who would dare to threaten La Carlotta, the one person I had expected to be better than this."
He looked at me, eyebrows knit in deep thought. To say that he was perplexed would be an understatement. I knew things. How could Carlotta, who thinks of no one but herself, know anything about a ghost?
"Have I wronged you in some previous existence?" He finally asked. I could not help but laugh at his words. He had not wronged me in a previous existence, far from it but I had most certainly wronged him. Maybe it was time that my own mask was to be removed.
"Once upon a time I was called by a different name." Did I really want to relive the past? Please forgive me for what I am about to do, Erik, but it for our own good that I do this. "Once upon a time my name was Elisabetta."
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
I stand on the edge of the lake unsure of why I am here. There are better things, more important things that I could be doing but I only want to be here. The mob has left. Little Giry has gone too. She showed me the mask and told me it was over. He was gone. I could have laughed. The Opera Ghost finally gone! I should be celebrating but all I want to do is cry. Carlotta wants to cry for the Phantom. How amusing! However, nobody knows the truth. You can make people believe what you want them to believe, even yourself.
The water is cold as I attempt to swim across the lake but I am not bothered by it. What would he say? All the blubber on that whale should keep her warm, perhaps. I have to smile. Like a swan, I am more graceful in water than on land. It is not long before I am on the other side albeit soaking wet and in my chemise. I was not going to swim in my costume from the opera now, was I? A bitter laugh escapes my lips. All this for him and he thought I never cared.
I enter his house and sit near the fire. Why am I doing this? I have to confess that I am not entirely sure. All the things from the past, my past, that I had long ago buried have come back to haunt me. Opera Ghost! You are most certainly a ghost, Erik, a ghost of my past.
"Erik, my love." I say aloud. "Je t'aime."
My name is not Carlotta, not really, but it has served me well for many years. It was my mother's name. She was a great woman. An Italian diva or so I was told. I sigh. A mother I never knew - dead before I was a month old. I was an only child and a grave disappointment. A daughter! What use could a daughter ever be? Yet my father did find uses for me. Like my mother, I had a beautiful voice and a beautiful face to match. They were my father's ticket to a better life. We were poor, my father and I. He used to have money and a beautiful house but somehow he had managed to lose it all. Life was one long struggle to survive. We travelled most of Europe, leaving behind our native Spain, doing what we could to make money. My father even tried to sell me when I was thirteen to an Englishman. I was naive enough at the time to think that the Englishman was going to take care of me. I said tried to sell but he did in fact sell me. As long as I live, I will not forget that night. Yet I managed to escape from him and my father. I travelled to Italy. For some reason I thought that I could be a singer just like my mother had been before she met my father. I did not seek fame or fortune. I wanted to be happy and singing was the only thing that did. For a time I was happy, alone and poor but happy.
I was sixteen when I first met Erik. He was not much older than I was perhaps two or three months. Much like his little Christine, I too had started out as a chorus girl. My life was good even though I was living in wretched conditions and there was little money for food. I never sold myself as the other girls did. The memory of what had happened to me in my earlier years refused to leave. While they entertained their gentlemen and the opera house was deserted, I would go to the centre of the stage and sing. One night Erik heard me sing. He did not show himself preferring to remain in the shadows but he told me not to be afraid and that I had the most wonderful voice he had heard. Slowly we grew to be friends. At first, I would sing and he would just listen to me adding a few helpful comments when he thought it was necessary. We met every midnight on the roof talking about anything that took our fancy. I told him about myself, about my life and my father but he never told me much about his life. There was always a hidden sadness in his voice when he spoke of his past. Where he went during the day I did not know, I dared not ask, and where he slept at night was even more of a mystery. I considered him a good friend and feeling particularly bold on night, I asked him to share my home.
"Carlotta?"
I shook myself out of my thoughts, turning to look at him. He did not have his mask but I did not shudder, scream, or run away as many others have.
"Hello Erik." He was astonished. How could Carlotta possibly know his name? I knew that he did not recognise me. I have changed a lot since we last met. "I suppose you will want to kill me now that I have seen your face or so the ballet rats have led me to believe."
Whatever confusion he experienced was soon replaced by rage. I watched as he clenched his fists in frustration, taking large steps in my direction. Anyone else in my position would have run but I sat calmly knowing, in my heart at least, that he would not harm me.
"Go, toad! Go and tell your precious managers that the Opera Ghost is very much alive. Perhaps they will end my suffering swiftly."
I watched as he sat on the chair across from me. It was only in the light of the fire that I could see that he too had changed. He looked old and tired not the vibrant youth I had known so many years ago. I pitied him. A lot of his unhappiness was my fault. Oh, if I could go back and change history I would.
Watching him, sitting in that chair, reminds me of when my home became his. I worked during the day, leaving before the sun rose and returning long after the sun had set. Erik would be sitting at the fire tired from whatever activities he had been engaged in, which usually involved preparing our supper. We would sit by the fire after eating and talk. It was the only time during those days in Italy that I ever spent with him. I know that those moments were precious to him but I also knew that it was enough. Erik was a complicated man. He needed his privacy yet he need to feel that he was not alone in the world. I doubt that anyone had cared for him previously though he had mentioned a mason who had been kind to him. He was not the only one who needed this security. I needed to feel that someone cared for me too. I asked him to hold me once. At first, he refused but one day he took me in his arms and held me. When he held me, I finally felt as though someone cared.
"Why are you here?"
"I had to see the Opera Ghost for myself, this so-called Phantom who has had a whole opera house doing his bidding, the man who would dare to threaten La Carlotta, the one person I had expected to be better than this."
He looked at me, eyebrows knit in deep thought. To say that he was perplexed would be an understatement. I knew things. How could Carlotta, who thinks of no one but herself, know anything about a ghost?
"Have I wronged you in some previous existence?" He finally asked. I could not help but laugh at his words. He had not wronged me in a previous existence, far from it but I had most certainly wronged him. Maybe it was time that my own mask was to be removed.
"Once upon a time I was called by a different name." Did I really want to relive the past? Please forgive me for what I am about to do, Erik, but it for our own good that I do this. "Once upon a time my name was Elisabetta."