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. This chapter gets a bit
melodramatic towards the end but it is not the final chapter. Anything
that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
"…You are a wonderful person. Any girl, any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover… and a friend."
I mean every word I say. Erik does not believe me, I can see it in his eyes, but I am the one person who should know. My time with him, our friendship, is the only pleasant memory I have. Carlotta may have many admirers, people who like to be in her… in my company… but they do not make me happy. They do not flock to me because I am a pleasant companion. No. They come because I am well known and popularity brings many things but it does not bring happiness. A cliché, I know, yet it is the truth. As I child I wished only to be famous… and loved.
I spent the earliest years of my life in solitude on the streets of Barcelona. My father would trick some hapless fool into lending him money on the pretence that it was to buy his daughter a new dress or pair of shoes. He would then go and spend it on wine, perhaps even a woman. The do-gooders, nuns and old spinsters for the most part, would help now and then with a crust of bread. Some had even taken it upon themselves to teach me, mostly about God and the bible. It was thanks to them that I developed a liking for reading, not just books but music. Sister Maria, a kind old lady as I remember, played the piano – her secret vice, she told me – and taught me how to read the notes on the sheet music. She was the first person to hear me sing. The students, who dreamt of a better life for all mankind, would take pity on me and use me as an example as to why the world needed to change. They, of course, did nothing else and I quickly learned not to become a part of their games.
We left Spain when I was six. Although we had nothing to gain by leaving, we had everything to lose by staying. My father had upset one too many a man and therefore it was best that he left Spain for good. For a few months, we travelled with gypsies, the only people who would have my father. Our travels took us around France and I became fluent enough in the various languages and dialects we encountered. I did not give up my passion for reading or for singing. The first novel that I read was Notre- Dame de Paris though I struggled with written French; I could speak the language well enough just not read it terribly well. I understood the essence of the story but there were concepts that I could not understand. Lust, the feeling the priest had for the gypsy girl, was one emotion that I had not encountered.
By the age of twelve, we had travelled through most of Europe. I spoke new languages – Russian, English, German - and read more books. Eventually we ended up in Rome. My father had discovered my talent for singing and noticed that I was developing into an attractive young woman. How could he not exploit such a treasure? I would sing for noble families, charming their young sons as my father had instructed me, to wring from them as much money as I could. Usually it did not take much effort. They would hear my voice, look upon my angelic face and hand over a purse filled with money. I hated myself for that. I hated my father more for making me do it. The veil that had blinded me to all his faults was slipping away. I could see that he cared little for me and that when he said he loved me he did not mean it. In some ways, I think he blamed me for mother's death and for looking so much like her. Rome only made things worse. It was where he had met and fell in love with her. She was a promising young singer of notable parentage, he a handsome Spanish noble. There had been no questions about their marriage. Both families had agreed that it had been the prefect match. It had been a fairy tale that ended in tragedy. Her premature death was the result of complications from the birth of her child, Elisabetta. Me.
Three weeks before my thirteenth birthday I defied my father by refusing to sing for a family who had paid good money for the privilege. He flew into a rage once we were back in our little apartment, striking once, twice, three times with a riding whip. It was not the first beating I had taken from him, when he drank he hit me, but this was the first time he did not apologise for his actions. The morning after, I cuddled him and waited for him to tell me that he did not mean to hurt me but he sat, cold and uncaring, in that chair next to the window.
'One day,' he had said with anger, 'you will be a woman. You will be able to make decisions for yourself. You will have men who want you and you will want them. So much like your mother and like her you will be able to have what you truly desire. Until then you will do what I say.'
On my thirteenth birthday, I did what he said. When he told me that I was to go with the Englishman, I obeyed. He held me and told me to be a good girl before I left. It was the last time I saw my father alive.
That same day I left the Englishman. I never did find out his name. My midnight flight from that nightmare took me to Venice. There were people there who remembered my mother or who had heard of my voice. The manager of the opera house had been a friend of my mother and offered to take care of me even letting me join the opera as a chorus girl. He was a widower and childless. I think my presence in his home made him happy. For two years, I was happy with him and my small role in the opera house but it did not last. On my return home from rehearsals one day I found him still in bed. He had died peacefully in his sleep. Of course, his relatives claimed all his possessions and I had to leave the house. I remained at the opera but my work was harder. No longer was I doing something that I loved, I was doing the only thing I knew to make ends meat.
A year passed and I met Erik. At first, I had been afraid of him for he hid from my sight. When he did eventually show himself to me, I was unafraid. His voice, sweet and seductive, had reassured me. The mask did not matter, I completely understood. Everyone wears a mask but to see it physically made no difference. That is not to say that I was not curious about what lay beneath. I was immensely curious but I knew that whatever was there was bad and so I never brought the subject up.
Erik and I developed a curious relationship, what I have since learned is true friendship. We did not ask much of each other but we gave all that we could to make the other happy. The only thing I asked of him was to be held and he did with reservation at first but, with confidence, he let go of his fears and held me tenderly in his arms. He asked one thing of me, something that I had never expected.
'Will you love me?'
"Then why did you not?" Erik looks at me intently, seeking an answer to a question he asked thirty-two years ago. I did love him, I do love him, and I have never stopped loving him. 'Will you love me?' 'I…cannot...' 'Any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover.' 'Then why did you not?' Why did I no do the only thing you asked of me?
"I'm sorry, Erik," I hold my head high and hope that you appreciate the enormity of what I am about to say, "but I have always loved you."
"I ask again, why did you not? Was it my face? I never meant to scare you." I watch as he lowers his head, wringing the corner of his dress shirt with his fingers. He looks so much like a child, a child who has done something so terrible that he fears the rejection of his mother. "The feelings I had for you were powerful but I knew I could never have said those words without you seeing what was under that mask."
"You showed me the truth and…" I hesitate, unsure of how to put into words what I want to say. "It was never about your face, I realised from the moment that I met you that you hid some kind of deformity." I look into his eyes to see my own reflection. I am no longer a girl of eighteen. No, I am a woman, a very old, very silly, very unhappy woman. "The truth is, or was, that I could not commit myself to you. I was afraid that like other men in my life… that if I ever loved you I would lose you. I am sorry that I have to admit this now, of all times, but I was a little coward. You must believe me when I say I love you because it is the truth and always has been."
"You… love… me?"
I press my lips to his.
"Oui."
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +
"…You are a wonderful person. Any girl, any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover… and a friend."
I mean every word I say. Erik does not believe me, I can see it in his eyes, but I am the one person who should know. My time with him, our friendship, is the only pleasant memory I have. Carlotta may have many admirers, people who like to be in her… in my company… but they do not make me happy. They do not flock to me because I am a pleasant companion. No. They come because I am well known and popularity brings many things but it does not bring happiness. A cliché, I know, yet it is the truth. As I child I wished only to be famous… and loved.
I spent the earliest years of my life in solitude on the streets of Barcelona. My father would trick some hapless fool into lending him money on the pretence that it was to buy his daughter a new dress or pair of shoes. He would then go and spend it on wine, perhaps even a woman. The do-gooders, nuns and old spinsters for the most part, would help now and then with a crust of bread. Some had even taken it upon themselves to teach me, mostly about God and the bible. It was thanks to them that I developed a liking for reading, not just books but music. Sister Maria, a kind old lady as I remember, played the piano – her secret vice, she told me – and taught me how to read the notes on the sheet music. She was the first person to hear me sing. The students, who dreamt of a better life for all mankind, would take pity on me and use me as an example as to why the world needed to change. They, of course, did nothing else and I quickly learned not to become a part of their games.
We left Spain when I was six. Although we had nothing to gain by leaving, we had everything to lose by staying. My father had upset one too many a man and therefore it was best that he left Spain for good. For a few months, we travelled with gypsies, the only people who would have my father. Our travels took us around France and I became fluent enough in the various languages and dialects we encountered. I did not give up my passion for reading or for singing. The first novel that I read was Notre- Dame de Paris though I struggled with written French; I could speak the language well enough just not read it terribly well. I understood the essence of the story but there were concepts that I could not understand. Lust, the feeling the priest had for the gypsy girl, was one emotion that I had not encountered.
By the age of twelve, we had travelled through most of Europe. I spoke new languages – Russian, English, German - and read more books. Eventually we ended up in Rome. My father had discovered my talent for singing and noticed that I was developing into an attractive young woman. How could he not exploit such a treasure? I would sing for noble families, charming their young sons as my father had instructed me, to wring from them as much money as I could. Usually it did not take much effort. They would hear my voice, look upon my angelic face and hand over a purse filled with money. I hated myself for that. I hated my father more for making me do it. The veil that had blinded me to all his faults was slipping away. I could see that he cared little for me and that when he said he loved me he did not mean it. In some ways, I think he blamed me for mother's death and for looking so much like her. Rome only made things worse. It was where he had met and fell in love with her. She was a promising young singer of notable parentage, he a handsome Spanish noble. There had been no questions about their marriage. Both families had agreed that it had been the prefect match. It had been a fairy tale that ended in tragedy. Her premature death was the result of complications from the birth of her child, Elisabetta. Me.
Three weeks before my thirteenth birthday I defied my father by refusing to sing for a family who had paid good money for the privilege. He flew into a rage once we were back in our little apartment, striking once, twice, three times with a riding whip. It was not the first beating I had taken from him, when he drank he hit me, but this was the first time he did not apologise for his actions. The morning after, I cuddled him and waited for him to tell me that he did not mean to hurt me but he sat, cold and uncaring, in that chair next to the window.
'One day,' he had said with anger, 'you will be a woman. You will be able to make decisions for yourself. You will have men who want you and you will want them. So much like your mother and like her you will be able to have what you truly desire. Until then you will do what I say.'
On my thirteenth birthday, I did what he said. When he told me that I was to go with the Englishman, I obeyed. He held me and told me to be a good girl before I left. It was the last time I saw my father alive.
That same day I left the Englishman. I never did find out his name. My midnight flight from that nightmare took me to Venice. There were people there who remembered my mother or who had heard of my voice. The manager of the opera house had been a friend of my mother and offered to take care of me even letting me join the opera as a chorus girl. He was a widower and childless. I think my presence in his home made him happy. For two years, I was happy with him and my small role in the opera house but it did not last. On my return home from rehearsals one day I found him still in bed. He had died peacefully in his sleep. Of course, his relatives claimed all his possessions and I had to leave the house. I remained at the opera but my work was harder. No longer was I doing something that I loved, I was doing the only thing I knew to make ends meat.
A year passed and I met Erik. At first, I had been afraid of him for he hid from my sight. When he did eventually show himself to me, I was unafraid. His voice, sweet and seductive, had reassured me. The mask did not matter, I completely understood. Everyone wears a mask but to see it physically made no difference. That is not to say that I was not curious about what lay beneath. I was immensely curious but I knew that whatever was there was bad and so I never brought the subject up.
Erik and I developed a curious relationship, what I have since learned is true friendship. We did not ask much of each other but we gave all that we could to make the other happy. The only thing I asked of him was to be held and he did with reservation at first but, with confidence, he let go of his fears and held me tenderly in his arms. He asked one thing of me, something that I had never expected.
'Will you love me?'
"Then why did you not?" Erik looks at me intently, seeking an answer to a question he asked thirty-two years ago. I did love him, I do love him, and I have never stopped loving him. 'Will you love me?' 'I…cannot...' 'Any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover.' 'Then why did you not?' Why did I no do the only thing you asked of me?
"I'm sorry, Erik," I hold my head high and hope that you appreciate the enormity of what I am about to say, "but I have always loved you."
"I ask again, why did you not? Was it my face? I never meant to scare you." I watch as he lowers his head, wringing the corner of his dress shirt with his fingers. He looks so much like a child, a child who has done something so terrible that he fears the rejection of his mother. "The feelings I had for you were powerful but I knew I could never have said those words without you seeing what was under that mask."
"You showed me the truth and…" I hesitate, unsure of how to put into words what I want to say. "It was never about your face, I realised from the moment that I met you that you hid some kind of deformity." I look into his eyes to see my own reflection. I am no longer a girl of eighteen. No, I am a woman, a very old, very silly, very unhappy woman. "The truth is, or was, that I could not commit myself to you. I was afraid that like other men in my life… that if I ever loved you I would lose you. I am sorry that I have to admit this now, of all times, but I was a little coward. You must believe me when I say I love you because it is the truth and always has been."
"You… love… me?"
I press my lips to his.
"Oui."