Chapter 2: The Mysterious Angel of Music
Kori Anders was raised by a small farmer in Scandinavia who worked the earth during the week and sang and played the violin during the weekend. He was a meager man who had no wife alive to bear him a child. When he found the abandoned child at his doorstep, he took her in with as much love as any father could give and began to shower her with affection.
When the girl turned six, he sold his small patch of land and traveled seeking fame and fortune in the big world. Taking only his violin and his daughter, the only two things in the world of any value to him. The little girl loved music just as much as her dear father, and Anders and his little girl Kori would travel through-out the land and play their music and the festivals they passed along the way.
Kori was a girl who learned the musical alphabet before she learned to read, and music was in her veins. Her strange, alien voice echoed beautiful, wonderful notes from its very depths. Many would come and see this fiddler and his amazing young soprano. Relishing in the triumph, Kori would go day to day smiling and laughing.
They had sought fortune and found poverty, and yet still they were happy to have their music and their love. No girl could have a more loving father. And while they traveled again to fair to fair, trading their wonderful songs, they came across a professor of some repute who found in them a primal and wonderful music that he felt demanded care and attention to allow growth. Anders was the first violinist to him, and his daughter the makings of a great musician should her education be attended to.
So they went with this Professor Firjit to Gothenburg and the education began, and both her wit and her beauty grew exponentially. No longer a cute little girl, Kori Anders had the markings of a beautiful woman. It was with this kindly professor that they would finally find themselves transported to the beautiful French cities. It was here that the health of Monsieur Anders began to deteriorate.
But then came that fateful vacation when a young boy would fetch her scarf, and Monsieur Anders gained another patron of his art, as he played his guitar distantly and sang a song.
"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing," he would say, "Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. Little Lotte thought, 'Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes, or of riddles or socks or of chocolates.'
"No, what I love best, Lotte said, was when I was asleep in my bed and the angel of music would sing songs in my head."
This song would reverberate most with the young girl who would become the dazzling soprano at the opera house that night that so spellbound the now adult Vicomte de Chagny with her powerful voice.
And brought to the attention Tara Markov's curiosity. "You were wonderful tonight, Kori! How can it be? But a week ago your singing was a crock, and now it was as beautiful as ever."
Tara, sweet Tara knew naught of the repercussions of Monsieur Anders' slow death. His health had failed so quickly and he faded like the last chords of an opera, slowly and with painful consequence. "My Father once spoke of an angel," began Kori, suddenly. The start caused Tara to jump. "I, I always believed he would come and now he has finally arrived!"
"Kori! You're speaking so strangely," Tara said, hesitantly at first, but with growing confidence, "Surely, you don't mean the story your father once told. It's a fairy-tale, nothing more."
"But my father promised me," Kori said, so forcefully that Tara became meek and tiny in front of her. "He promised me that he would come and now, now I have heard him. He sings to me as I fall asleep and he has taught me so much. Oh, and his voice!"
She described to Tara a voice that mere words could hardly contain. There was at first a velvet and dark quality that formed its base, like the vague stitching around a doll. It hid beneath it tender cotton lovingness. And around this darkness there were small highlights of violet on its velvet flesh. It was clothed in ostentatious gold, but lined with perfect silver, untouched.
And yet, she had never seen once the face of the Angel of Music. Never once did it dare show itself, but that was by a matter of course. "No one sees the Angel, but he is heard to those who are meant to hear him."
Tara, in her fright, meekly bowed her head, and again warned Kori, "Such things are not meant to be."
"My father promised me that when he came to Heaven that he would send the Angel of Music, and now his promise has been fulfilled. That is all I need know! What else is there to say?"
"Nothing," Tara said, "I, I must go. Madame the Demoness will yell if I am late for practice."
"Go along, little Tara," spoke Kori, vaguely, as she began to comb her hair in the full-length mirror. That mirror spooked Tara, it seemed ready to consume whoever looked at it. And yet Kori stood before it with no hesitation. She felt strangely as if she were intruding and excused herself without another word.
She saw someone turn the hall and she ducked behind it, hurrying to conceal that she had been anywhere but where she should have been. It was the owners and the Vicomte, she saw, and she hid, wondering what such a wealthy patron could want with Kori Anders!
And yet he gained no admittance into the room. It was locked, and he seemed almost frightened as he leaned against the door and backed away. She wondered if he had noticed her, but cast the thought from her mind. He merely ran the opposite way he came, as if he had seen a ghost.
But of course!
The Opera Ghost!
She ran forward, after him. But she was stopped by the looming presence of La Demoness. "Madame Raven!" Tara said, attempting to minimize the damage, "I was in such a hurry to practice that I did not see you there."
"Practice is over, Mademoiselle. You should be going home. I will speak to you about your punishment when I return."
"You are not coming?"
"There is a snoop," she said.
"A snoop? I should stay and help!"
"No," Raven said, coldly, "I will do this alone."
"What if it's the Ghost!"
"Do not believe those stupid stories Mumbeux has told you. There is no Phantom of the Opera. He is merely a myth that he tells to scare young, gullible girls." She sniffed her nose indignantly and took that young girl's hand. "I will take you to the door, and you will go home. I will return soon."
"And if you do not?"
"Keep waiting."
"Very well, Madame Raven," she said and took to following her. She felt there was a creaking of the floorboards, but instead, if seemed to come from beneath even that. A creaking like a flurry of rats beneath the floorboards.
What a sight that would be!
The rat-catcher could work for years there. And yet, he would never find that nest. The many, many floors beneath the ground, all dark and mysterious, each with their own, strange myth populating them, it would take years and far more money than a man such as I could afford to find them all and scurry them away.
But that's not the point of the Opera. The Opera is a place to let your guard down in the absolute darkness of a strange place with strange people. The ghosts of the opera house are just as important as the actors.
Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny however was not a believer of ghosts. But he was a believer in crimes and criminals. He swore to deal with that problem in his own way, many years ago when the Comte de Chagny took him in. And so he removed his evening wear and took on more suiting dress.
In Japan they had Ninja, in Paris, we had Le Merle. Le Merle was the sidekick of Le Batte. Le Batte et Le Merle. Such were the tales back then. Many a young lady would remember a handsome, dashing figure in a mask and a dark, skin-tight outfit with the symbol of a bird emblazoned on it, saving them from such predators.
But tonight, le Merle flew alone. With a twist of grace, he landed on the ground besides the Opera House and began to explore. "The Sewers, perhaps?" He was about to descend into the sewers when he heard the sound of a door opening in the back alley. From that door emerged a girl, no more than fifteen, who looked nervous to walk these cold dark streets alone.
Paris at night is a different beast than Paris in the evening. When the City of Lights lets its lights burn out, it becomes so dark and foreboding. Romance gives way to fear and the beautiful streets become ugly and grisly pathways to one's demise.
One does not want to wander Paris at night alone, and le Merle was a gentleman first and foremost. He took to the shadows and followed her as she walked to her apartment. She shivered in the cool air, and entered the doorway to her building. He descended then, and stepped out into the light.
"Ma'am?" he asked, gruffly.
"Who, who are you?" she asked, hesitantly. She felt frightened yet at the same time exhilarated at the sight of this mysterious masked man. Masks ignite something in the opera people's blood. Inexplicable how it can replace their image of a man's face. "Monsieur, have you been watching me this whole time?"
"These are streets that the less kindly walk. But I was wondering if you could help me. Kori Anders, are you familiar with her?"
"Is that why you followed me?" she asked, "To ask about Kori Anders?"
"Mademoiselle, your safety was my first concern," she was reputed to have heard. He dashingly bowed, and then said, "I merely wish to protect her from something that I fear may be lurking in the shadows."
"The Angel!" He showed a degree of confusion to her response, so he elaborated, "The Angel of Music, she said that she heard an Angel of Music."
"The Angel of Music," he murmured. "I, I am familiar with that story. Tell me, did she tell you anything else?"
"Monsieur, how do you know of such a story? I had met Monsieur Anders only once before he passed away and he told me that it was a story he told Kori when she was but a little girl."
"Shouldn't your question be 'How does this stranger in her room know this story?'"
"For all I know," she retorted, "You could be that man. Now, monsieur, tell me how you know!"
"My secret identity has met Monsieur Anders once, a long time ago. He would not have remembered me." He turned to leave, with a flourish of the cape he wore along his back. "I must go now," he said, "If you have any information that would help me, please let me know before I leave."
"Perhaps you should speak to Miss Anders where she lives," Tara said, hesitantly. "I have the address if you want it."
"That would be helpful, but perhaps you could leave a message for her, for me. Do you have anything I might write with?"
"Please, come inside," Tara said, quietly.
x x x x x x x
The Opera House's famed snoop had found himself cornered by the woman that they called the Demoness! The woman was known as the Demoness not for her temper, which was quiet and slow to rise, but for her strange eyes that sometimes seemed to glow red in the candlelight of the backstage.
The Snoop was a man that would be familiar to any resident of the Opera House, as he wore the robes of Persia. The Persian looked at her from behind the cool white mask that covered the left side of his face. He appeared to be smoking. The woman responded, coolly, "Monsieur, could you please stop smoking."
He gave her a look that spoke volumes. "I can't."
He was a large man, for certain he stood at least six feet tall. His skin was darker than any Raven had seen, perhaps he was a Moor who had been raised in Persia. He frowned with conviction, looking very angry with the interruption. "Perhaps you can explain," Raven said, "Why you are snooping around here?"
"I am searching for an old friend. He knows me well."
"Really," Raven asked. "Then tell me, Monsieur, why are you snooping around after we have all gone home?"
"Have you seen Mademoiselle Kori Anders leave?"
Raven's eyes widened. "I, I had not."
"Strange," the Persian said, "No one else has, either."
Raven hurried to the dressing rooms, and searched Miss Anders private dressing room's door for a key. She jiggled the handle and tried to open it, but the door would not budge. It was locked from indoors.
"It is locked!" Raven declared, putting her hands to the door in frustration. "If this is some manner of trick, I swear I will –" but when she turned around there was no one standing there. The faint scent of steam lingered in the air.
x x x x x x x
The next day, the owners had found themselves staring at strange notes placed on their desks. Sebastian opened his in a flurry and found himself staring face to face with writing that was red and crooked, as if it had been written by an unsteady hand.
Dear Monsieur Blood,
Charming gala.
Anders, a triumph.
Chorus, needs waking.
Dancing was lamentable.
I do not believe we will need to see Madame la Gatita in these circles again.
Signed at the bottom of the letter was, in a grand sweeping calligraphy, was the initials "O.G." and then it was torn off, on the back was written scribbling of music that Blood merely threw to the side, seeing the handwriting to be uncouth and obviously uneducated. "Garfield, tell me, did you receive a note?"
"Yes, I did," Garfield said, "I haven't opened it yet. Should I have?"
"Not yet, but let's see what it has to say." They tore open the envelope and removed the note. It was written in the exact same hand as the one Blood had received, and while he handed Garfield his note to look over, he looked over the note with a bit of apprehension as to what it said.
Dear Monsieur Logan,
Just a brief reminder.
My salary is overdue. Your predecessor had paid for the last month, however now that the month is approaching its close, it's past due for my payments. That is 240,000 Fr., or precisely 233,424 Fr. 70 c., to be correct.
I also wish to post a rather harsh reminder that Box 5 is to remain empty. I do not imagine that Madame Hive left without alerting to you that this box is my own private box, and that I do not enjoy sharing the seat with such uncouth gentry that has the resources to afford such a luxury.
I trust that during this time of change and growth, you will find the time to maintain my wishes and if you wish to live the remainder of your time as managers of my Opera House, you would wisely adhere to these simple rules. Your generosity to charity cases such as le Jinx, Mademoiselle Markov, and La Gatita, all of whom are hardly worthy of such honors, leads me to believe you will bring your charity to your ever faithful servant.
Faithfully yours,
O.G.
It was in that same dark calligraphy.
"I think we should be afraid of Madame Hive's sense of humor. She's quite the dangerous one," Sebastian laughed. He took a piece of stationary out and began to pen a note, "Perhaps we should invite her to the next gala. Oh, what was that? Il Muto, wasn't it? Indeed. Madame Hive would enjoy that show, I think," Monsieur Blood said.
"I believe we have a problem," Garfield said. He unfolded a newspaper and on the front page, "'Mystery of Soprano's Flight.'"
"La Gatita? Nonsense!"
"No, not nonsense," Garfield said. "It's not La Gatita, either. It's Mademoiselle Anders. She's gone. No one has seen her since last night. The police are investigating, but they're finding nothing."
"So, you're expecting me to believe that Mademoiselle Anders is gone?"
"I don't expect you to believe it," Logan answered, "But that's beyond the point. Sir, I'm worried. This news, it's horrible."
"No, it's not! Half our cast is gone, but the seats are filled. In fact, the only seat not yet sold is Box 5. Peculiar, wouldn't you say? Arrange for the Box to be made up for Madame Hive, would you?"
"Sir, I just have a bad feeling about this. Something's not right here."
"Of course not! That's the beauty of Opera!"
"No, Sir," Logan responded. "Madame Raven had just told me that there was someone snooping around backstage, and then Mademoiselle Tara told me that some masked man had approached her about the girl."
"Anders, Anders, Anders," Blood said, angrily, "All we've heard since we've come here is Anders!"
"Where is she!" The room was turned asunder by the explosive arrival of the Vicomte de Chagny. He was said to have appeared by throwing the door open with the right timing. It was very dramatic and I felt compelled to include it in a dramatic fashion.
"Who? Miss Anders?"
"Yes, where is she?" he asked, waving a note around like a sword. "I received a letter that makes me very concerned. Did you write this note?"
"And what are we supposed to have wrote?" Sebastian said, realizing he had put the tense wrong, he silently cursed, and added, "Written. Pardon me, but French isn't my first language."
"Then you did not write this note?"
"Allow me," Sebastian said, taking it upon himself to read each note personally and under amazing scrutiny.
Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny
Do not search for your precious Mlle. Anders. She is under the care of the Angelof Music. Make no attempt to see her again or face consequences beyond your wildest nightmares.
The Angel
No time was spent on formalities. It was crude and even the calligraphic signature was missing, replaced with the disgustingly scratchy "Angel" signature. Monsieur Blood laughed. "He fancies himself an Angel now!"
"Who is this Angel?"
"He was calling himself O.G. before."
"O.G.?" Richard asked.
"Opera Ghost," Monsieur Blood answered, without taking a look away from the note. "It's like he's scribbling it in the dark. Just no line of sight. Pity," he laughed, "A man with that sense of humor could go far."
"Monsieur Blood," Richard said, "I don't like your tone."
"Pardon me," Blood said, clearing his throat, "Three notes. Fascinating. I wonder if he's part of the postal service!"
"You laugh," Richard said, "But that is a most distinct possibility."
They would be joined soon by a shrill whine as a man with a butterfly lapel escorted a younger woman in. The prodigy La Gatita struts. It's a sight to see. Her own belief in her ability has left her most incapable of walking. She struts every which way, no matter if she's angry, or happy, or sad. But in this case, she was outright furious. "Monsier le Vicomte de Chagny, I have heard of you!" she said, upon being introduced, "And I find your sense of humor very lacking!"
She looked as if she was about to devour the young gentleman. "What joke have I told? I've been nothing but serious today."
"This note!"
"A note!" chorused the room. La Gatita was obtuse but even she noticed the loud chorus of voices. "Let me see this note!" said Sebastian Blood, who received the note in quick order and he took it from her hand and began his scrutiny. It was in the same hand as all the rest, but if the note to Monsieur Richard le Vicomte de Chagny had been curt, then this was unbound and total loathsomeness writ from the pen to the page.
La Gatita
Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered and I must say it has happened all too late in your less than stellar career
Kori Anders will be singing on your behalf tonight and every night until she deigns to retire which I pray will not be for a long time
Her genius will extinguish your lantern
Should you attempt to take her place I will be forced to take actions that I will be most regretful to implement
It was not even signed, and no punctuation was even wasted on it. It came together to form a rather angry tone. The penmanship was even scratchier, as if it had been written on a flood of anger.
The anger which now presented itself in La Gatita's small, round face.
"Madame!" said Blood. Why they referred to her as Madame was always a mystery to me. I believe it deals with her prodigal rise to stardom, but to me, she was always a dull and boring young girl.
She was born in Spain to a small Spanish nobleman and a blonde haired French woman. Born and raised along the Pyrenees, she became a powerful singer in time, and with some lessons she became well-known.
It was when she was discovered that her range became her most valued guide. Through Othello and the Boheme, she was delightful as Maguerita in Faust, but her greatest triumph was in Romeo and Juliet.
Her rage at the girl was well-known. To be overshadowed in the performance that had made her famous by a little girl from nowhere whose voice was a crock until mysteriously that evening – that was what haunted the woman. And when she awoke to find a note of such vitriol awaiting her perusal, she had set to the Opera House immediately.
Her Carriage Driver responded to my ad for anyone knowing anything about the details contained within that month. She had speculated that it had been her fans all the way, but her father – the man with the lapel pin – had convinced her that it must have been the Vicomte.
I always found this amusing, as the Vicomte was handsome and charming and la Gatita had attempted to flirt her way into his favor many a time, but had been rebuffed at every move. Convincing her that he was to blame, it wasn't as hard as at first it seemed.
But now she was all in a huff, and without Madame la Gatita to headline, and Mademoiselle Anders vanished, the managers were confronted with the very real possibility of having no soprano for their big gala. And without a soprano the show just could not go on.
Blood brought his hand to La Gatita's and kissed it. "Madame La Gatita! It was not to our knowledge."
"Your precious patron has insulted me. I am sorry to say I'm forced to leave behind this petty little establishment. La Gatita will not stand for your rudeness! Good day, messieurs!"
"Madame!" Garfield said, seeing the panic in his older assistant's eye. "Look! A flying gorilla!"
Sebastian Blood could only groan audibly at the desperate measure that Garfield took. La Gatita looked at where he pointed. "I, I can't believe it worked," Sebastian's only response was. He swept in and put his arms around the girl. "Madame! We love you, your public loves you, and even Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny loves you! Your public, she needs you!"
"You would much rather have your precious Ingénue, Mademoiselle Anders?"
"No, the world wants you!"
Sebastian Blood convinced her that she was their true Prima Donna in a fashion that I'm not sure could easily be reproduced. It was a combination of his silver tongue, her air-filled head, and the sheer amount of egotism that the Opera can foster, especially in one such as La Gatita.
The celebration was cut short by the sudden interruption by Madame Raven and Mademoiselle Markov.
"Mademoiselle Anders has returned!"
