Father Once Spoke of an Angel

By: Stealiana

Chapter 11: Opening Night

"Box Five, please." Madame Giry looked at the little girl incredulously.

"I'm afraid we do not allow patrons in Box Five… it is reserved…"

"It's alright!" The blonde girl laughed at the older woman's pale face. "See? I have the tickets." She handed the envelope to Mme. Giry, who opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a note, scrawled in red ink.

"Bring me a footstool, and make sure the girl is comfortable. Do not ask her any questions; she knows nothing. I wish not to be disturbed.

-The Opera Ghost"

Madame Giry swallowed and muttered to herself as she went to fetch a footstool. The woman was sure there would be disaster tonight - the Ghost was at his old tricks again - and after business had begun to turn around!

Christine sat down carefully, and straightened her purple velvet dress. She absent-mindedly rubbed a corner of the fabric as she stared at the draped curtains and listened to the orchestra warm up. It was strange to be sitting in an opera house, with a box all to herself and a rich velvet dress hugging her tiny frame. She had woken up that morning to see a note on the fireplace mantle and the dress across the back of a plush chair by her mirror. The note had said to practice her music, there would be no lesson today, and to wear the purple velvet for the opera that night. She had no idea where the clothing had come from - she could only assume that he had bought it as a gift for her. Although the Ghost may never have given presents, tonight was a special night. It was to be Eric's first performance.

The Ghost had also been promising to take her to an opera, so she could understand what a grand thing it was to perform onstage. She had not yet progressed to duets, and the Ghost insisted that singing to the accompaniment of a mere piano or organ did not do music justice. The completed orchestra of harps, percussion, violins, brass and woodwinds mixed with human voices was more intoxicating than the strongest wine, the Ghost would say. She always laughed when he said this, and he would get so angry, telling her she was mocking his life's work. But when she would explain that the analogy didn't help her since she had never been drunk, he would sigh and putting his ruffled feathers back into place. On good days, he might even crack a hint of a smile.

"What are you laughing about, child? Music is a very serious thing, you know!" Christine fairly jumped out of her chair, his voice breaking her out of her reverie.

"Monsieur! I did not hear -" She looked around her, seeing no one. She turned to the sound of footsteps approaching the entrance to the box, but was disappointed to see only Madame Giry coming with a footstool for the empty chair beside her.

"Is there anything Mademoiselle wants?" Mme. Giry asked, still slightly shaken.

"Thank you, but no." Christine beamed at the older woman, who quickly retreated, drawing the curtains to the entrance closed.

"Now let the show begin!"

Christine looked around again for the body to match the voice, but could not find it. She blinked several times and rubbed her eyes, squinting in the dim lighting. There was a chuckle, not an entirely friendly sound.

"Does my trick amuse you?"

"Not very much…" she pouted. "I can't see you!"

"It wouldn't be much fun if you could, now would it."

"Are you going to stop hiding? The lady brought a stool for you."

"I know, but I'm staying right where I am. Ghosts cannot be seen in public."

"That's not fair." Christine crossed her arms and sulked, sinking into the soft upholstered chair.

"Of course it isn't." Christine made no reply to this, but scowled all the more.

"Carlotta." The Ghost taunted.

"I am not Carlotta!"

"With that look on your face, you most certainly could pass for the vainest cow to low inside the Paris Opera House!" The Ghost snickered.

"If you're going to call me Carlotta, then you have to tell me a story tonight!" Christine retorted indignantly.

"Oh goodness, no. I will not be telling any stories tonight. I used up all my delicious Carlotta tales."

"You will too! Or… or… you'll regret it."

"I'm sure I will."

A hush grew over the crowd below as the orchestra began to play the introduction. The Ghost's voice was silent and Christine's eyes were glued to the stage from the moment the curtains lifted.

The ladies were clothed in such fine materials, with beads and pearls and diamonds sparkling under the lights. The men wore equally grand costumes, and had hats and canes and waxed mustaches. There were houses and carriages onstage, perfected and painted down to every detail. And the music - the music tore Christine's heart from its earthly dungeon and sent it soaring to the sky on a pair of golden wings. The chorus was filled with boys, girls, men and women, dressed as rich and poor alike, cavorting in the streets of the fictitious city. Then at the climax of the show, the two lovers sang a duet, so pure and sweet that it made her chest ache as she listened. Christine imagined what it would be like to be onstage, singing that duet, intertwining her voice with a deep, rich, masculine one, soaring high above the rafters of the building…

The curtain fell and the applause filled the domed roof. Christine did not stay to wait for the curtain call; she wanted to be first in line by the dressing rooms.

"Madame Giry!" Christine called, a sense of urgency in her voice. The older woman, who was waiting just outside, snapped back the curtains, half expecting a dead body to be lying on the floor. When she assured herself there was none, she turned her attention to the little girl, trying to hide her shaking.

"Can you take me to the dressing rooms?" Christine asked. Mme. Giry nodded and led the girl down the steps to the door leading to the adjacent corridor.

"You will have to exit this way if you wish to go back out the front, Mlle." Madame Giry explained. "The door at the other end of the rooms leads out to storage and then a back exit. The main entrance is the best way to go."

"Thank you," Christine smiled. "I'll be fine waiting here. Thank you very much." Madame Giry left the girl, muttering to herself as she made her way back up to Box Five to remove the extra footstool. When she stepped in, however, she spotted a box of candies on the rail of the balcony. With a smile, she picked them up - it was the same tart sweets the Ghost used to give her so long ago… perhaps he wasn't going to cause mischief tonight after all.

Christine tried to peer through the crowd, looking for Eric's dark hair and merry eyes. She saw the diva, Carlotta, who the Ghost had pointed out to her, and stifled her laughter. She did indeed resemble a cow. She could see the dancers, milling about in their excitement, and the ballerina, Meg Giry, shooing the younger ones into their wing of dressing rooms. She saw Henri, the one who had sung the divine duet, greeting two men, shaking their hands and accepting their congratulations. Christine decided not to interrupt.

There was a blonde boy making his way through the crowd, seemingly alone. No one stopped to talk to him, and he wove in and out of the clumps of people, purposefully making his way to his dressing room. In his haste, he nearly stumbled over Christine, who was still looking for Eric.

"Are you lost, little one?"

Christine turned to the boy and said nothing. Her mouth hung slightly ajar; she was surprised at being addressed and irrevocably shy in front of strangers.

"N-no, Monsieur, I'm just waiting for someone."

"Ah, I see. Well then, have a good night." His green eyes smiled as he turned and left, as quickly as he had come. Christine watched him with bewilderment, his graceful, fluid movements resembling a cat as he moved about the throng. She did not recall seeing him onstage, but there was a mask in his hand - yes, that would explain it. His costume was that of a nondescript chorus member and she slowly lost him in the sea of people. But before she did, she fancied he had turned back, to look for her…

"Christine!"

Eric's voice was filled with such surprise that she could not help but grin.

"You were wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!"

"Don't be ridiculous, I hardly sang at all!"

"Learn to take a compliment, Monsieur Eric, it's a valuable skill!" She teased, enjoying the redness creeping into his face. "Our Ghost was pleased."

"Really? What did he say?"

"When you earn his silence, you earn his approval." Christine mused sagely.

"I suppose you're right!" Eric laughed, his excitement from the performance still coursing through his veins. "Let's go see him!"

"But how do we know if he went back yet?" Christine's face clouded over with doubt.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! Where else would he go?" Eric scoffed, tugging at her hand. Christine smiled.

"That's true; ghosts cannot be seen in public."

Eric shot her a strange look, but smiled to match the grin she wore.

* * *

Erik sat on the bench, glaring angrily at the music before him. What had he been thinking, when he gave this opera to the cast to perform? That was easily answered, clearly he hadn't been thinking at all. To put such music before an audience when it was painfully obvious that it was not yet perfected had been utter madness. Then again, he had been seized by that madness often back in those days, and to be this careless about such a masterpiece was every bit within reason. His state of mind had somewhat stabilized now, now that he had stopped his foolish vying for unrequited love.

He picked out the chord again: a minor third, perhaps, might suffice. He jotted down the notes on a blank piece of paper, unwilling to let the thought escape from him. His slender fingers cast their spell over the organ and he played the preceding melody, his hands flying over the ivory keys, evoking the horribly menacing sounds he composed. He inserted the newest addition of notes, dreadfully pleased with the result. He had fixed the problem in that bridge…

He searched through the loose papers, cursing his own sloppiness. He had meant to put these sheets in order, but in his concentration he had managed to muddle them altogether again. He threw up his hands and muttered an exclamation of disgust, before stalking into his room to search for the paper he needed.

Christine opened the door quietly, hearing the Ghost cry out for the "infernal paper" to show itself or he would merely throw it in the fire to "roast in Hell's fury". Eric had already returned to the Opera House, for it was quite late. They had heard the sound of Don Juan Triumphant and wisely decided not to interfere with his creation. Instead, they roamed the streets in their fine eveningwear, recalling the places they used to haunt. Earlier, Eric had managed to steal a rose off an admirer waiting in line for one of the older chorus girls. Out underneath one of the streetlights, Eric made a huge fuss, pretending to be one of the characters in the opera, presenting the rose as a token of his "undying and eternal love". Unfortunately, he was not as good an actor as he thought, for it was only halfway through his monologue when he burst into laughter. She had joined him gleefully, her tiny hands cradling the blood red rose, her voice sounding like the tinkling of delicate little bells.

She quietly closed the door and tiptoed over to the organ, peering at the red notes scribbled across the paper. She sat herself down on the bench, feeling incredibly small in front of the large instrument. She placed her hands tentatively on the keys, picturing the Ghost's pale white fingers resting on the same spot. She always watched with fascination when he played; he made it look effortless. Her tiny hands, however, could not reach all the notes needed for these ominous chords, which she supposed was all for the better.

Forgetting the Ghost was still shouting away, attempting to cuss the particular paper into his sight, she gently pressed down on the keys, shocked at the loud noise that filled the room. She instantly pulled back her fingers, not realizing the deathly silence that filled the dwelling. She placed her fingers on the keys again, following the Phantom's music as best she could, slowly playing the dark and foreboding chords.

The Ghost stepped from his room, watching the girl with an intense concentration, watching her hands lean over the keys and hearing his twisted opera sing from underneath the fingertips of an innocent child. He stared with a frightful fascination as she began to speed up, the chords coming to her faster, and the grand finale about to be reached…

But she stopped three chords short of where he had ceased writing. There was a delicate pause, the air filled with a throbbing swell of emotional strength and power. He felt as if he were standing on a precipice, waiting to fall.

Then, out of the silence, a quiet, sweet melody danced from the organ. It was a simple line; Christine picked out the notes carefully and deliberately, with only her forefinger, leaving a moment for thought between each note. The Ghost felt a flood of utter despair and sadness sweep through his chest, as if a dam had burst. This was it; this was the ending he had so long searched for. It was nothing more than a snowflake drifting on air, a feather tickling the senses, a string of singly jeweled pitches that a music box would tinkle. Yet it held command over the entire score he had written. She repeated the simple line again, adding a ritardando spanning about eight beats before she held out the last note, building an elementary arpeggio in as the final chord.

As the final ringing of the notes disappeared, Christine had the growing sensation she was being watched. A chill ran down her spine as she turned to see the Opera Ghost, staring at her with the darkness of his room framing his lean body. She watched as he slowly reached underneath his mask and wiped his face, his hand emerging wet from what she supposed to be tears. For a moment, he said nothing, merely gazing upon her with an air of utter loneliness encompassing him. She dared not move, her heart crying out at his tears. Finally, he broke the silence.

"Would you play that again?" She looked at him, her brow furrowed with anxiety.

"But… you're crying." She bit her lower lip, her eyes watering at the sight of his sadness.

"Someday you will understand, child, that not all tears are of sorrow." He stepped over a pile of his discarded sheets. "Play it again." With a doubtful look, she complied, starting from the same place she had before. The Ghost felt the same surge of emotion, then the pause; the first gentle note popped the balloon of passion, extinguishing the flame that had been burning, dousing the ire and hatred with a pure melody, evicting the fury of moments before, and ending as quietly as it began.

She finished and turned to him expectantly, her eyes begging for him to say something, anything. He breathed in deeply, as if trying to take in the sweetness in the music through the air. He gently pulled her off the bench and set her on her feet.

"It is late. You should run along to bed, little one." She did not move, however, but continued staring at him. He met this with a silent query, so she whispered timidly:

"Monsieur… ghosts do not cry." His head jerked back slightly at this strange revelation. The girl looked at the ground, rubbing her toe into the floor. "So… that means you aren't really a ghost."

"That's very sound reasoning." He responded, feeling a strange sense of uncertainty bubble inside of him.

"If… if you aren't a ghost… then… don't you have a name?" Christine looked at him; her blue eyes filled with worry and, oddly, fear of betrayal.

"A name?" He repeated, his voice quivering. Oh, where was his mind when he needed it? Filled with quick retorts and evasive, mysterious musings, it had abandoned him when he needed it most. She couldn't know, she couldn't know! What would she do, if she knew who he was? Oh, he should not have told her those stories, those stories about Erik. She would know, she would realize he was just a hideous beast, and she would run, just like everyone else. Even Eric - the boy was so very like him - even Eric would turn against him, if he knew the truth. The truth…

The Ghost smiled and knelt before Christine, his slender hands reaching for her. He gently cupped her face in his long fingers, his thumbs persuading her eyelids to drop. His musical voice began to croon to her.

"Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth, and the truth isn't what you want to see…" He carefully picked her up, humming the tune as he carried her to her room with the heart-shaped mirror engraved for Daaé. By the time he lay her down, the child was already fast asleep.