Chapter Nine: From My Perch in Box Five

Leah

Every part of me screamed to stop moving.

I ignored my tired limbs and continued down the hallway with my sketch pad in tow. Roving the mezzanine level, my body and I were both impatient to find the box seat I had in mind. I scanned the doors as I passed them, looking for the right number.

There!

I studied the ornately stylized numeral five painted in gold on the dark lacquer of the door.

The hinges pushed open easily with a soft swish.

"Well, at least there's one door in this place that's oiled properly!" I thought to myself.

That was a stark contrast to most of the innumerable doors in the vast opera house. Even after nearly a month of living in the dormitories of the Garnier, there were still many unexplored avenues within its vast walls that I had never seen. My days were generally spent in only a few specific regions of the house, but I had begun to investigate when I had time. Yet as a student of the conservatory, time was a commodity that I found myself lacking, as I began to settle into the comfortable routine of a ballerina.

My mornings continued to be spent on the roof with Beth and the pale light of early sunrises. My time with her was allowing me to let down so many of my defenses in a way I had never dreamed possible. For the first time in my life, I had found someone I could count on, someone who would be there when I asked. I did not need to impress her, or win her over by adapting to her habits. I could simply enjoy her company, as she seemed to enjoy mine.

She was patient, gentle even, with the sharp, jagged pieces of my heart that I just couldn't seem to rid myself of. We read together and even sang occasionally. Neither of us possessed an exceptional amount of vocal talent, but we were not terrible either. She had even been giving me advice about the difficulties I faced each day in class and in practice, and had worked with me on my routines.

Those extra lessons were a true 'God send', as Beth so often liked to put it, for warm ups and classes came as soon as we could gobbled down our breakfasts.

Formal classes began at seven o'clock every morning without fail. I had been placed in a less advanced class than many of the other girls my age, and longed for a friendly face with which to share my struggles. Mme Carvarlo was the good humored woman who usually taught our classes, and I slowly grew familiar with several of the other instructors of the Conservatoire de Ballet. But whomever the lessons were supervised by, they were always demanding and difficult, leaving us physically and mentally exhausted by our noon break.

The afternoons were a short, but appreciated pause in our hectic days. While most of the girls went shopping or practiced, I spent a great deal of my time in the attic with my paints and brushes. It had taken me several weeks to complete the painting of Beth on the roof to my mild satisfaction, but then again I was rarely happy with anything I managed to produce.

Even so, I began to grow sick of correcting its thousands of flaws, and set it aside in favor of another project.

I missed being home quite badly some days, and what I had originally intended to be an oil landscape had quickly transformed into a portrait of the women in my family: My great great grandmother, my great grandmother, my Abuela, Maman and I. The deceased women were painted from my memories of the portraits that hung in my grandparents' home. My favorite detail was one of my own invention. Strangely, it made me feel closer to them, as though I was part of something larger than myself, for I painted each of the women wearing a tiny lead key about her neck.

When Little Meg inquired after the subject matter, I often jokingly informed her that it would serve as a much needed reminder of all the strong, suborn women who had gone before me in order to deal with her tom foolery.

As I had promised in return for her help in finding a place to paint, I had begun to teach her what I knew. She often spent hours with me in the warm, sun filled rotunda attic. While seven years of lessons from a private painting instructor had failed to impregnate my clumsy fingers with any true degree of talent for the subject, I was still able to pass on the basic ideas of perspective, contrast, mediums, and countless other such things with some small measure of success.

Not knowing what else to do to begin, I had started her makeshift education with some of the earlier lessons that my instructor had first given me. She had progressed quickly, as eager to learn to paint as I was to learn during classes, and she had already completed several passable attempts at still life compositions.

Now, after a few day's search in the dustier regions of the property department, we had located an acceptable old mirror and little Meg had begun her first self portrait. True, she was not the next Da Vinci, but there was definitely an aptitude in her brush strokes. The light hearted image was done in well chosen, vibrant colors, and she had begun to grasp the idea of contrasting shadows and highlights. Watching her paint stirred up unfamiliar emotions of what I thought might be pride. It was a cozy feeling, almost a motherly sense of pleasure at seeing her talent flourish.

If only my dancing were to flourish in such a manner!

My quiet hours were ended every day at five in the afternoon by a light dinner in the dinning hall and three hours of rehearsal for the latest upcoming production. Performance was an interregnal part of an education at Academie National de Musique, and every student was involved in the production to some degree or another, though a great most singers and dancers were merely cast in the chorus or as understudies and almost all of the instrumentalists were treated the same. This practice, though shorter than our morning classes, was far more abrasive to my nerves, for while in rehearsal I had to learn alongside all of the other girls.

I was supremely happy to dance in the company of my new found friends, but there were mocking eyes in the crowd of my fellow ballerinas as well. I was far from the most talented, ranking in truth more closely with girls three and four years my junior who still slept with rag dolls at night. As Maitre de Corps, Mme. Giry often oversaw our evening practices, and I was often one of the unlucky individuals that she found fault with and upbraided in front of every one.

Though my first reaction to this harsh treatment was barely leashed fury, I soon was forced to see that the reprimands were not undeserved. I was infinitely perturbed by the fact that all my hard work, all my fervor for this art form should not be conveyed in every step.

"If only they could see me when no one was watching!" I often muttered inwardly. "Then they would understand."

On the afternoons and days of recess when no one used one of the smaller practice rooms, I often abandoned the pleasant hobby of my canvases and compositions for my real passion.

With warm blocks of sunlight streaming from the third story windows and carpeting the wooden planks of the floor, I would stretch my tense limbs and begin to fly free. As I bound my toes with lamb's wool and tied the dingy lilac ribbons of my favorite pointe shoes, I could feel familiar happiness begin to race through my veins like molten silver.

This was the one pursuit in my life that was my own. It had not been born out of a desire to please in trade for love, for in truth it was the one thing that separated me from those I loved most dearly. This was the one part of my life that I could proudly plant a flag on and claim as mine.

Since the first time I saw a ballerina –in this very opera house- at the age of five, I had been enchanted and captivated by the unspoken language that she whispered to me with every elegant curve of her performance, a language more powerful than the dry letters on a page could ever hope to be. I had begged incessantly before my family had employed my ballet instructor, but every difficulty that my dancing caused me was insignificant when compared to what it gave me in return.

By myself, I could fling every caution to the wind and dance with my heart laid bare. It was only as I moved to an unheard melody in my head that I truly felt alive, as though a veil that separated me from reality was lifted with every hushed whisper of my slippers across the old wood floor. As my lungs filled to the bursting and my heart beat a mad tempo inside my chest, lightning coursed through me and the world seemed brighter. I could forget my problems, loose my inhibitions, and let go of everything that caused me pain as I spun about in silence, drunk with the sheer elation of being human.

Yet despite the overwhelming force of my passion when I was alone, I could not seem to manage to touch that plane of existence when in the midst of a group. A tiny part of me was terrified to let anyone see the whole truth of who I was, petrified that someone might see the sheer honesty that shone from every pore of my slick skin when I let go of my fears. And thus my fever, my passion was hidden from the world, causing me frustration as I hobbled my way through the trials of being a second rate dancer.

True, I was more than eager for my first appearance on stage, but it was not the dream of an applauding audience that invoked such fierce joy inside my heart, but rather the dream of dancing well and expressing all of myself with my movement and my body.

At length, I had to admit with weary resignation that even Beth's tutelage could only do so much. While I knew I wasn't as hopeless as I had believed during my first training session, I also knew I wasn't the prima ballerina I had once dreamed of becoming. I had decided to be satisfied with just doing the best I could.

When practice ended at eight thirty, the hours before curfew were usually rather quiet.

At least in our dormitory.

Many of the other cliques in the corps got together at night and gossiped. Others tried to elude Madame Giry's watchful eye long enough to slip out with their beaus. Excursions with the opposite sex were forbidden during the week, but that didn't hinder anyone from finding creative escape plans when an attractive subscriber came along.

Though the idea of going out to a party was awfully alluring, most of my heart was very glad for my sober friends. Especially after seeing so many violent hangover reactions from the other dancers.

Beth, Amanda, Alana, Meg, and three or four other girls made up our small set. I was slowly learning how to be near to the people that mattered in my life without scheming to win their friendship. The girls were becoming more and more important to me with each passing day. I was discovering that, for the first time in what seemed like ages, there was something greater than my own existence in the world. That someone else's feelings and opinions could matter more than my own, and that I did not need to adapt myself to their interests to gain their affection.

Our nights, unlike many other's around us, were generally spent reading aloud or soaking in warm baths after particularly grueling sessions. I soaked in more than water when I was near them, soaking up their warm kindness as well during our nightly communions. Still, we were dancers in training, and it seemed that sleep could never come soon enough for any of us at the end of an exhausting day.

Or stay long enough, for that matter. It generally took me a full half an hour to become conscious after waking up, even in the brisk morning air on the roof.

I never had been much of a morning person.

With such demanding days and nights, I had never had a reason to come back to the main auditorium after my first night. I had always been too busy. But with opening night less than a week away, Madame had finally allowed the troupe into the hallowed hall itself for dress rehearsals. This Saturday would be the start of a two week production of Gluck's Orpheus et Euridice.

And to my surprise and supreme delight, I would be performing in this production. Just thinking about it brought a tiny smile to my face.

Best of all, Maman had written to tell me that everyone would be there to see my début on stage.

Faint singing from the chorus now wafted up from that same stage. The corps de ballet had been released to their dormitories nearly an hour ago, after an unusually difficult and draining rehearsal, and the only people besides myself who were present in the theater proper were those required to be there. During the past few nights of intensive rehearsals, my new little family had been too exhausted to do anything more than flop into bed like very dead fish.

I, on the other hand, always felt more alive after a long run through. Tired, sore even, but full of a restless itch that refused to allow me sleep. I leaned back and let the music soak into my tired bones. To stave off my sleeplessness, I had spent several evenings sketching the musical rehearsals.

Drawing began to grow a bit dull after a time, for the only people left on stage were a bunch of ninny witted chorus girls that looked ready to fall asleep where they stood.

The scene could not be helped, I supposed, but at least I had found the best seat in the house.

The view was perfect from my perch in box five.

Eric

The view was perfect from my perch in box five.

Behind the intricate carving of box five's half nude protector, I had the best seat in the house.

And tonight I had been pleasantly surprised by the quality of the music. My mind still occasionally wandered back to the disappointing events of the afternoon, but my spirits were boosted by the soothing rendition of the aria of the blessed spirit from the second scene of act two.

Resting my head back on my opulent head cushion, I closed my eyes and let the music envelope my entire being.

♪…le riant séjour
De la felicité.
Nul objet ici n'enflamme l'âme,
Une douce ivresse laisse
Un calme heureux dans tousles sens;
Et la sombre tristesse cesse…♫

How I longed to find my place in those restful fields!

My reverie was rudely interrupted by the soft swish of the box door.

I immediately sat straight up and moderated my breathing. I couldn't quite see who it was. They were simply STANDING there!

Finally, the idiot found the time to grace me with his presence.

Or hers…

A slender ballerina entered, carrying a sketchbook under her arm and a small box of charcoal.

She was oddly familiar, and yet to my irritation, I couldn't place her.

Who was this girl who dared to intrude on MY BOX?

My box?

I completely disregarded the child as I began to analyze my thoughts.

Where had that come from? I didn't own anything anymore, not even my lodging or the clothing that covered me. I was a thief, a parasite of the opera. What right did I have to anything in it?

And yet, I wondered slowly … Why shouldn't it be mine?

Those idiot managers didn't know what a glorious creature they had in their power. I could make it legendary. I could make good my debts to its walls and then some.

I could have this box if I wanted!

Why shouldn't it be mine?

Why shouldn't this whole damn opera be mine?

The novelty of the scheme was luring me in like a fish to a shining hook.

My original intent of coming to the auditorium flitted away from my conscious mind. I had planed to play a trick or two with the lighting or something of that sort. But any fatherly desires to play with my 'children' had long ago evaporated in light of this new idea.

"Why shouldn't this whole damn opera be mine?" I silently repeated to myself.

And I could find no reason to deny my urge.

I could only fantasize about how sublime it would feel to wield real power again, even if I were to do so from a pit in the moldy cellar. I could own an entire theater. I could rule the meeting place of the Parisian elite.

It would be wonderful to dominate anything again, especially something as grand and influential as the Garnier.

Besides, I could run this opera far better than those two bunglers sitting in the managers' office. To be blunt, neither Debbine nor Poligany could carry a tune in a bucket, much less make critical decisions demanding musical expertise.

I decided then and there to take it upon myself to 'advise' those naive fools.

I tilted the tips of my outstretched fingers together and hunched forward in my seat subconsciously, pondering advantages and disadvantages of several plans that were already coming to life in my mind. I had taken that stooped position when deep in thought since childhood, even though it had infuriated my mother to no end. She had believed it to be bad posture, and had whipped me soundly whenever she caught me indulging in the forbidden pastime.

My mother…

It had been over twenty years since I had escaped the twisted asylum that was my father's house, and I still was unable to picture her delicate face without emotions of panic, fear, desperation, and love coating my stomach and slithering down to rot in my guts like spoiled milk.

Even a fleeting thought of the woman nearly caused me physical pain. The memories of betrayal and rejection reared their ugly heads in my mind, taunting and mercilessly provoking me to violence. Years ago, I had soothed away this pain with the empowering drug of control and domination as I killed and tortured. I had played the part of God and the sense of power that it had afforded me had temporarily numbed my more pressing emotions. During my time in Azadeh's court, I had simply indulged in killing to rid myself of this agony within, but now that my path had taken a different course I could no longer hide from my pain behind a shield of blood.

The only other focus for my attentions besides my agonizing memories was a small herd of half sleeping chorus girls. With three nights left until the season premier of Orpheus et Euridice, chorus rehearsals had dragged on even longer than those of the corps, leaving its members dead on their feet for hours after the last ballet rat had crept off to her bed.

Oh, how I longed to bring swift death to someone, to calm the tormented, ceaseless throbbing in my skull!

Anyone would do. I wanted, no, I needed to feel in control of something. If I could not control the agony in my mind, perhaps the familiar sensation of holding a fragile neck in my grip would sooth away my memories.

The punjab nearly itched in my pocket beside my trembling fingers.

If only I could ensnare one of those lovely girls! I would teach them not to taunt me in my dark shadows with their beautiful bodies. I would make them pay for such irreverence! I could do what I wanted with them.

After all, I reasoned, if the opera was mine, then they were mine as well!

I ached to fling myself from my carefully concealed recess amid the private boxes. To explode onto stage and snatch up a victim. From there, the possibilities were endless.

Thousands of images flooded my mind's eye as I imagined what I might do with such a captive. All the appealing ways I could slowly cause the air to seep from her lungs. I thirsted to feel the sensation of my fingers on the dove soft skin of her throat.

As my need for blood slowly faded with the antidote of my homicidal fantasies, another longing gradually replaced its intensity. The caresses of my murderous desires swiftly became those of fleshly desire.

To stroke my imagined lover's neck with excruciating tenderness. To brush my fingertips against her body lightly in places she had never dreamed of being touched. My chest began to constrict tightly, signaling the beginning of a lonely road I had walked so many times before.

Until an unexpected sigh startled me from the seductive trance.

How had she gotten so close?

Leah

The scratching of my charcoal had begun its own harmony with the hushed music of Orpheus's journey into Hades until a sudden absence of music startled me.

A sparse mop of gray hair waved about wildly in the orchestra pit. Obviously Monsieur Reyer had found fault with the harp soloist again.

Honestly, that was the third time in a row!

I couldn't blame him for his perfectionism. That attention to detail was the reason that he was the conductor. Still, it was starting to wear on me. His droning, nasal tone was not pleasant under the best of circumstances. And at the moment I was feeling a bit drowsy, not improving his resonant qualities.

My attempts to end my sleeplessness were finally beginning to come to fruit, I realized.

But I was too comfortable presently to move out of the warm, red velvet nest of the well padded corner chair. I had retrieved my favorite throw from its hiding place under said chair, where I had concealed it the evening before. Now the slightly itchy wool lay on my lap, shrouding my legs. I set down my sketch pad and charcoal, being careful not to smudge my quick, gestural drawings.

"I won't go to sleep." I promised myself. "I just want to rest my eyes while I think."

I pulled the knitted blanket up around my shoulders, leaning against the sensuous carving that protruded from the wall. Resting my head against her golden thigh, I shrugged my cover into a tighter embrace. The deep folds of her tunic were shadowy and dim, illuminated only by the light of the stage. In an odd way, I was reminded of my grandmother's caring arms, even though nothing could be more different from the cold statue under my cheek.

"Honestly Leah!" I chided myself with an air of mock sternness, "That's rather pathetic. It's a statue for goodness sakes."

In that moment of decidedly strange humor, I realized for the first time just how lonely I really was.

I missed them.

I had thought that separating from my family would be easier if I simply forgot about them for the first few weeks. Now I saw in hindsight that the painful days and nights that I had spent repressing their faces had only intensified my hurt.

Even before the moist tears began to well up in my eyes, I ruthlessly quelled them. Mama's words to me had become a bit of a mantra in my moments of emptiness. Now they came nearly unbidden, echoing inside my head and chilling the hot twinges in the back of my throat.

"Stop your crying bebé, I will see you again soon. Besides, crying is a sign of weakness. You are too strong for that."

I stuffed all the anxiety into a far corner of my consciousness. I was too strong to give in to tears. My fists clenched in my lap without thought, strengthening my resolve to stand firm.

The voices of hell's harpies and the strong strains of orchestral music radiating from stage began to fade from the front of my mind as I eagerly thought about Saturday.

I longed to see my family and now I understood, for the first time, just how much I had given up to be here. Even at the beginning of my incredible dream of coming here to dance, I had known that it would come with a price. It seemed that fate would not allow me to exchange my destiny for a different one without some sacrifice on my part.

It was rather unusual for a young woman of my station to enroll in the National Academy to begin with. True, the corps was not the low life brothel that rumor sometimes named it. In fact, most of its members were from wealthy families, even housing a few daughters of the lesser ranking aristocracy. The dormitories housed more than a few chaperones, employed by doting parents to care for their pampered daughters as they climbed the ladder of stardom.

Yet that is not to say that opera patrons did not make frequent excursions to the backstage. On any given night, you could easily discover two or three intimate couples tucked into secluded alcoves and sheltered back doors, strategically positioned to avoid both overprotective chaperones and the formidable Madame Giry.

But whatever the reality of the average ballerina's romantic life, whatever the social status of my companions, my entrance into the corps had crossed a barrier that I could not erase. My reputation as a woman of good standings had been shattered with the first step I had taken inside the grand foyer.

This was the truth as far as Edmond Beecher was concerned at least.

Had my mother been engaged to marry nearly any other man, I would not have found myself almost disowned by my family. But Lord Beecher was not just any step-father to be. 'A stuffy English prude', my Nana had once called him under her breath, and I was eager to agree with her point of view.

From the beginning of their courtship, he had been reluctant to adopt my brother and I when he married my mother, appalled that she had conceived bastards outside of wedlock. He had actually had the gall to use that word aloud while we were present! After weeks of coaxing on my mother's part (for the poor fool was really quite besotted with her, if not with her children or her past) he had been on the verge of agreeing. That was before he learned of my upcoming theatrical pursuits.

Aparently, the British have prudish views on many things.

Dancing, for example.

When he learned of my intentions, he had staunchly refused any further mention of adopting me as an heir. He had told me that it was sinful to prance and caterwall about on stage. Sinful! And that he would never allow his good name to be connected to such humiliation.

I knew in my heart that Mama would not have accepted his proposal had it not been for his political and familial connections, and the fact that she was rather enamoured with him for some odd reason. House Beecher was powerful and influential, not only in its native England, but abroad as well. Their sway was even firm in España, and when he married my mother he would use his social clout to return my Abuelos to their rightful position in the courts of Madrid.

I also knew that my family would not have agreed to his vile arrangements if I had not urged them to do so. I was not about to ask them to sacrifice their hopeful futures for my dream. Maman cared for him deeply, and I could not deny my Abelos their chance to have a position in court again, nor could I ask Henry to give up all of his ambitions that were tied to his noble birth.

Henry had a promising future. He had joined the navy only last year, on his seventeenth birthday. Already, he was rumored to be in line for a promotion in the ranks. And the honor of his position was not the only thing that shone brightly in his life. I once heard it said that it's hard to resist a man in uniform, and it seemed that my big brother was no exception, for he was slowly courting a high born woman named Leotyne.

I could not ask him to risk his good name along with mine if it meant that he would loose all that was so important to him.

The fact that he was only my half brother never once crossed my mind. It had never mattered to me who our fathers were. Especially mine, as I had never met the man. Henry was my brother, without any conditions attached to the title.

So my choice had been clear.

If I followed my dream, my family would be a much smaller part of my life, and I would no longer be able to claim any inheritance from my mother. And I had accepted that fact. It had not been easy, but I knew that it would be what was best for us all.

And besides, I knew in my heart that even though my family would never relate to me as they once had, they would never abandon me. They would never leave me on my own, and would remain in Paris to be near me.

Little proofs of their unremitting love came flooding into my mind. The letters grandfather had written me. Abuela's careful packing and preparations for my transition. Henry's occasional visits, whenever he could avoid his naval training. Mama had even sent me a box of chocolates, my favorite treat.

I also knew that I would never be unsupported, despite the loss of the estates that would have been my inheritance. My Abuelos had set up a small account with their banker on my behalf. Discreetly, of course. It would be obtuse for them to have supported me publicly, for it would have badly endangered Henry's chances of being adopted. Regardless, the small fund would be sufficient to sustain me for many years. If I could learn to be frugal, that was.

Most dear to my heart, they would be here to see me when I took stage for the first time. Of course, I was in the last row of the largest dance scene, but I would be on stage. That was all that mattered for now.

Still, my joy at their presence at the premier only highlighted the fact that they were so often absent from my life. A storm of emotions twisted inside me. I just wanted to stop thinking about anything for a little while.

Sinking deeper into the chair, I snuggled into the cozy warmth of the blanket and returned my attention to the last half hour of the chorus rehearsal. I sighed softly, wishing that life could have been different.

Stretching sleepily, I closed my eyes in contentment and weariness.

Unbenounced to me, someone was drawing close to my resting place as I curled up nearer to my guardian statue.

Author's notes:

♪My cat has spent the entirety of this chapter's writing attempting to get me to pet it. In the process, he has insisted on sitting on my keyboard. If there are errors in this chapter, blame it on him!

♫Just to be clear, the mezzanine is actually the first floor of balcony seats. The ground floor is called the orchestra level. So Leah was on the right floor of the building, she didn't magically transport herself. :D

♪Orpheus and Eurydice is a really beautiful opera. If you're into opera, you ought to check out the libretto!

The translation of the song (roughly):

Lovely fields so gentle and peaceful
Where with joy is filled the air,
Friendly domain of blessed spirits,
Free of care.
Though the world beyond be gray and tearful,
Here our bond is gay and cheerful
In timeless bliss the days go by
While all sadness turns to gladness
And to laughter every sigh.