How to Be an Opera Ghost
Part Three: "Try"
On a Tuesday approximately three weeks later, Isabelle decided that it was time to have a go at haunting. There was a principal rehearsal for the latest production of Carmen, but the corps de ballet had nothing scheduled until Thursday afternoon.
Isabelle debated changing into her suit while still at her own flat, but pure logic defeated that idea. What if someone should see her leave and know it was her? What if someone should accost her on the street and inquire after her? It wouldn't do to reply, "Oh, I'm going to the Opéra. I'm the new ghost, you know."
No, she would have to change her clothes once she arrived.
It wasn't unheard of for the occasional dancer to come in on her day off in order to practice; so nobody gave Isabelle a second glance as she entered and made her way toward the dressing-room. Upon making sure that nobody else was inside, she locked the door and began to unpack the suit from her dance satchel, where she'd carefully tucked it beneath a few pairs of ballet shoes, just in case anyone should look.
She'd had to fold it into a small parcel in order to fit it in her bag, which left a few unsightly creases in the cloak, but she didn't mind terribly much. Checking the lock once more for good measure, she began to don the suit. She thought about binding her chest first, but then realized that her bindings would probably be more noticeable inside the suit than her chest would. This made her frown, but only for a moment. She had far more important things to worry about.
Such as shoes, she realized a few minutes later. She'd not thought of shoes.
"Damn," she said softly to herself, looking around for a solution. She couldn't very well use the shoes she'd come in; intuition told her that people might laugh at a ghost who wore little white heels. Especially little white heels with bows on them.
At very least, she would have to find something black. After a few minutes wasted scouring the tables and closets, her eyes finally alighted on her own bag. And the four pairs of shoes that she always carried within. Her best pair of pointe shoes, a spare pair just in case, and the two pairs of slippers that she used for warming up: one pink, and one black.
She tentatively laced up the black pair, feeling distinctly odd in the combination of her own familiar shoes and a suit not even intended for someone of her gender. But when she regarded herself in the mirror on the far wall, her fears were somewhat allayed. The ballet slippers certainly made her feet look far too small for the suit, but if she'd gotten the rest of the costume right, who would be looking at her feet?
She carefully pinned her hair up, pressing it tightly against her head so that she could easily conceal it with the hat. She fastened the mask in place. And then, the final touch: the cloak. A long black cloak which swished when she walked and flared when she twirled.
Not that she would twirl. She was almost certain that a proper opera ghost should not twirl.
Again she looked in the mirror, and this time she shivered a little at her own reflection. She had done a very good job, if she might say so herself. She was perhaps a touch short for the role, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that to her eyes, the mask looked awfully good.
She grinned at herself in the mirror, but then realized that a ghost likely wouldn't grin. So she scowled instead, which worked much better. She grinned again in approval of her first-rate scowling, then hid her satchel and clothing in the closet just in case, and set forth from the room.
"What should I haunt today?" she murmured to herself, and the very absurdity of the phrase caused a nervous chuckle to escape her lips. But she pondered the question as she walked – no, stalked – along the corridor, and then settled on the most obvious answer: the theatre itself.
As she drew closer, she could hear the faint sounds of La Ernestina (or La Brunhilde, as the chorus tended to call her because of her thick German accent) practicing her scales. Isabelle began to feel her pulse racing with anticipation. She would frighten the new diva out of her wits! She would watch as La Ernestina screamed and fled from the stage! She would cackle maniacally and hope that it wouldn't sound too feminine! She would—
She stopped cold.
What would she do?
If the shoes had been a major oversight on her part, then this had surely been a moment of utter blindness. Even with all her preparation, it had somehow never occurred to her that she hadn't the faintest idea of how to haunt people.
Embarrassed beyond belief, she withdrew into a dark corner beside a column to think. What would the real ghost do? Well, aside from the occasional falling chandelier and disappearing diva, it was all harmless pranks, as far as she knew. Things went missing and then turned up later somewhere else. Mirrors shimmered and showed faint images of things that weren't really there. Doors opened and closed, seemingly of their own accord. And sometimes, there was a ghostly apparition of a man in eveningwear, which disappeared as soon as it had been seen.
Now, she had the costume. She could certainly do the ghostly apparition part.
But as for the mirrors and doors and disappearing – well, she wasn't so sure about that. And how would the ghostly apparitions be possible if she couldn't disappear afterwards?
And speaking of ghostly apparitions – what was that noise? It sounded far too much like footsteps for Isabelle's comfort. Footsteps coming from the other side of the column, and growing louder.
Oh dear, she thought. She pressed herself into the shadow of her chosen corner, raising her cloaked arm to cover the glaring whiteness of her mask. And she hoped for the best.
