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 +
"Elisabetta? Elisa?" My Elisa? She was barely 18 when last I saw her. God she has changed! That girl, the little chorus girl with the sweetest voice I had ever heard grew up to be Carlotta? To think that I would spend days thinking about what happened to her and yet she was under my nose the entire time. I look at her with a hundred different emotions running through my mind. Should I be angry? Or happy? I am unsure of everything at the moment.
"Erik?" I hear her say my name but do not respond. My thoughts dwell on the life I had with her, a terrible thing for a man who wishes to forget his past. She was beautiful. When first I saw her it was at a market in Venice more than thirty years ago, if I recall correctly. I followed her for days after that first encounter, discovering where she lived. The opera house, her place of work, became my home allowing me to be near her most of the time. From my hiding place above the stage, I would watch her in rehearsals practicing her scales or warming up for the ballet with the other girls. Her long black hair never hid her face; she preferred to wear it in single braid tied by a silk ribbon, which made her stand out from the other girls who preferred to wear their hair loose. Although she was of Spanish descent, so the gossiping ballerinas thought, she was pale and thin. It was hard to imagine that someone who resembled a porcelain doll could have such a powerful voice. She was full of surprise. A timid little mouse, she was, her head lowered to the floor afraid to look at any of the great singers lest the brilliant light that shone from those stars burn her. At night, when she believed that she was truly alone with only God to hear, she would come onto the stage and sing. I would sit and listen, losing myself in that heavenly voice. A shame she does not sing like that now. Can two so very different people actually be the same?
"This is a cruel trick." I whisper vaguely aware that Carlotta… Elisa is now standing, gazing at me with intense eyes.
"I assure you that it is no trick." She takes a step towards me; arms outstretched as a child begging for a mother's warm embrace would. "I am Elisabetta, your Elisa."
I had no strength to resist her and found myself oddly comforted by the feel of her arms around my waist. My chin rested on her head as I brought her closer to my chest. Over thirty years ago, I had held her in the same manor. Such a small thing was an embrace, like a kiss. People hold each other for many reasons – for love, for comfort, out of fear, to say hello, to say goodbye. Few have ever held me, certainly not my mother the one person who should have. I think Elisa was the first person to ask me for this smallest of gestures. At first, I had refused her. Why am not quite sure, perhaps it was a natural response, but when she asked me again I did not refuse. Her brown eyes shone with gratitude that night and she smiled at me when I place a kiss upon her forehead. She smiled! I had seen her smile at me many times before – when I made her laugh, when I told her wonderful tales of different lands and when I sang to her – but to see her smile for a simple gesture was more than I had ever though possible.
In the days that followed that embrace, we both felt that something about our relationship had changed. We were no longer passing acquaintances who met briefly like passing ships in the night, no, we had become much more than that. She was my friend, a true friend, the first friend I had ever known. In all my life, I have called few people friend, Giovanni, Nadir and even Christine in a strange sort of way, but Elisa was a different kind of friend. To me Giovanni and Nadir were mentors, the former a father figure and the latter, I would say teacher but in all honesty, I think I taught him more than he did me. No, Nadir was and is my conscience. Christine, loath as I am to think of our relationship in that way, was more of a daughter than friend or lover. Elisa was of my own age; we shared common interests, music, art, literature, and most of all we enjoyed each other's company. She told me things that I am sure she would never have told to another soul. We were, in my mind, friends.
Nothing else in our lives changed. She continued to work at the opera, dancing and singing, pouring every essence of her being into what she loved. I admired her for that. I envied her for that. During the day, I would leave her… our little apartment to find what work I could, a hard task for a man who hides behind a mask. Usually I would go to the harbour to seek work unloading the ships. No one ever asked questions there, no one cared about my appearance so long as I kept my head down and finished my work. It brought in enough money to contribute to my keep. As tempting as it seemed to let Elisa care for me, for I knew she would, I knew that it was wrong. She worked hard to keep herself alive I could never have expected her to do the same for me.
"Why did you come here, Elisa?" I have to know. There has to be a reason that she, of all people, is here now. Dear God, do not let it be more bad news. I am not sure that I could take any more today.
"I am unsure." My eyes follow her as she sits down by the fire again. She is soaking wet, poor girl. I take my coat off and offer it to her. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"You should never have spoken to me that night." She smiles lost in thoughts of that disastrous night, I imagine. "The night I sang like a toad. Your voice! As long as I live, I will never forget that voice - the voice of an angel albeit an avenging angel ready to protect Christine."
I cringe as she says that name. Christine. Has she come to torment me further? Have I not suffered enough? I want to put my hands around Carlotta's throat and squeeze but I cannot. I look at her and see the innocent little girl she once was, little Elisa so pure and clean never aware of the cruel realities of this earth.
"She left you, yes, like I did. I am sorry, Erik, for everything."
She places her hand on my knee. A small touch, a gentle touch, but one that means so much especially now after all that has happened. I place a trembling hand over hers just to feel her flesh, to know that she is real and not a dream as I fear.
"You shouldn't be. It was not your fault. Christine did not want me. She wanted to be with her Vicomte. How could I possibly compete with his youth and beauty?"
"Do not say that. You are a wonderful person. Any girl, any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover… and a friend."
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
"Elisabetta? Elisa?" My Elisa? She was barely 18 when last I saw her. God she has changed! That girl, the little chorus girl with the sweetest voice I had ever heard grew up to be Carlotta? To think that I would spend days thinking about what happened to her and yet she was under my nose the entire time. I look at her with a hundred different emotions running through my mind. Should I be angry? Or happy? I am unsure of everything at the moment.
"Erik?" I hear her say my name but do not respond. My thoughts dwell on the life I had with her, a terrible thing for a man who wishes to forget his past. She was beautiful. When first I saw her it was at a market in Venice more than thirty years ago, if I recall correctly. I followed her for days after that first encounter, discovering where she lived. The opera house, her place of work, became my home allowing me to be near her most of the time. From my hiding place above the stage, I would watch her in rehearsals practicing her scales or warming up for the ballet with the other girls. Her long black hair never hid her face; she preferred to wear it in single braid tied by a silk ribbon, which made her stand out from the other girls who preferred to wear their hair loose. Although she was of Spanish descent, so the gossiping ballerinas thought, she was pale and thin. It was hard to imagine that someone who resembled a porcelain doll could have such a powerful voice. She was full of surprise. A timid little mouse, she was, her head lowered to the floor afraid to look at any of the great singers lest the brilliant light that shone from those stars burn her. At night, when she believed that she was truly alone with only God to hear, she would come onto the stage and sing. I would sit and listen, losing myself in that heavenly voice. A shame she does not sing like that now. Can two so very different people actually be the same?
"This is a cruel trick." I whisper vaguely aware that Carlotta… Elisa is now standing, gazing at me with intense eyes.
"I assure you that it is no trick." She takes a step towards me; arms outstretched as a child begging for a mother's warm embrace would. "I am Elisabetta, your Elisa."
I had no strength to resist her and found myself oddly comforted by the feel of her arms around my waist. My chin rested on her head as I brought her closer to my chest. Over thirty years ago, I had held her in the same manor. Such a small thing was an embrace, like a kiss. People hold each other for many reasons – for love, for comfort, out of fear, to say hello, to say goodbye. Few have ever held me, certainly not my mother the one person who should have. I think Elisa was the first person to ask me for this smallest of gestures. At first, I had refused her. Why am not quite sure, perhaps it was a natural response, but when she asked me again I did not refuse. Her brown eyes shone with gratitude that night and she smiled at me when I place a kiss upon her forehead. She smiled! I had seen her smile at me many times before – when I made her laugh, when I told her wonderful tales of different lands and when I sang to her – but to see her smile for a simple gesture was more than I had ever though possible.
In the days that followed that embrace, we both felt that something about our relationship had changed. We were no longer passing acquaintances who met briefly like passing ships in the night, no, we had become much more than that. She was my friend, a true friend, the first friend I had ever known. In all my life, I have called few people friend, Giovanni, Nadir and even Christine in a strange sort of way, but Elisa was a different kind of friend. To me Giovanni and Nadir were mentors, the former a father figure and the latter, I would say teacher but in all honesty, I think I taught him more than he did me. No, Nadir was and is my conscience. Christine, loath as I am to think of our relationship in that way, was more of a daughter than friend or lover. Elisa was of my own age; we shared common interests, music, art, literature, and most of all we enjoyed each other's company. She told me things that I am sure she would never have told to another soul. We were, in my mind, friends.
Nothing else in our lives changed. She continued to work at the opera, dancing and singing, pouring every essence of her being into what she loved. I admired her for that. I envied her for that. During the day, I would leave her… our little apartment to find what work I could, a hard task for a man who hides behind a mask. Usually I would go to the harbour to seek work unloading the ships. No one ever asked questions there, no one cared about my appearance so long as I kept my head down and finished my work. It brought in enough money to contribute to my keep. As tempting as it seemed to let Elisa care for me, for I knew she would, I knew that it was wrong. She worked hard to keep herself alive I could never have expected her to do the same for me.
"Why did you come here, Elisa?" I have to know. There has to be a reason that she, of all people, is here now. Dear God, do not let it be more bad news. I am not sure that I could take any more today.
"I am unsure." My eyes follow her as she sits down by the fire again. She is soaking wet, poor girl. I take my coat off and offer it to her. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"You should never have spoken to me that night." She smiles lost in thoughts of that disastrous night, I imagine. "The night I sang like a toad. Your voice! As long as I live, I will never forget that voice - the voice of an angel albeit an avenging angel ready to protect Christine."
I cringe as she says that name. Christine. Has she come to torment me further? Have I not suffered enough? I want to put my hands around Carlotta's throat and squeeze but I cannot. I look at her and see the innocent little girl she once was, little Elisa so pure and clean never aware of the cruel realities of this earth.
"She left you, yes, like I did. I am sorry, Erik, for everything."
She places her hand on my knee. A small touch, a gentle touch, but one that means so much especially now after all that has happened. I place a trembling hand over hers just to feel her flesh, to know that she is real and not a dream as I fear.
"You shouldn't be. It was not your fault. Christine did not want me. She wanted to be with her Vicomte. How could I possibly compete with his youth and beauty?"
"Do not say that. You are a wonderful person. Any girl, any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover… and a friend."