Hello from the road! Just got back from seeing POTO on the big screen at the Orpheum Theater in Memphis. I was a mess from Don Juan until the credits. Erik's tragic life just moves me so much. (sniffle). Okay, it's a little late, but here's today's chapter. I think it's the longest one in the story, simply because there really wasn't a place to break it that one of the halves wouldn't have been too short. Finally things seem to be going our couple's way. Enjoy!
Acceptance
Pulling her cloak tightly around her, Christine stepped out the side door of the opera house and onto the street. A carriage waited at the curb underneath the glow of a gas lamp, the door open. Glancing around quickly, she searched for anyone paying her undue interest. Satisfied that she was not being watched, she crossed the pavement at a brisk walk. Climbing into the carriage, she shut the door behind her, looking out the window before pulling the curtain shut.
The carriage's other occupant rapped sharply on the roof of the vehicle and the cab jolted into motion before Christine had a chance to sit. The sudden movement threw her off balance and she landed in the lap of her traveling partner. "Why Mademoiselle, how very forward of you!" the Phantom laughed from underneath his hooded cloak.
Christine slid off his legs to sit beside him. Reaching up she pushed his hood back so she could look him in the eyes. "Yes, but I'm sure you enjoyed it." He laughed again then kissed her. She stared at him suspiciously when he finally released her. "And what has changed your mood? You were acting like you were heading for the guillotine when I last saw you this afternoon, not an audition." She had received a telegram from Signor Donato that morning, saying he was in Paris and wanted to see her and Monsieur Noir that evening.
He grinned, leaning in to kiss her neck. She giggled, surprised at his sudden change in demeanor. She had never seen him like this, all smiles and gentle teasing. Christine rather liked her Angel this way.
"Cecilié came to see me before I left. She heard back from the priest of the Madeleine. We are to be married two nights from now, at 11 p.m. Even if our audition is a disaster, I think I will still feel this gladness in my heart."
"Oh, Angel!" she cried, throwing her arms about his neck, hugging him tightly. "Oh! There is so much to do!" She released him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.
"I'll take care of everything concerning the wedding," he reassured her. "You have a performance to think about, two performances in fact, the audition tonight, and Adelia on Friday."
"I'm more worried about tonight. I could sing the role of Odetta in my sleep." She linked her arm with his and leaned against his shoulder.
"But what if La Carlotta throws one of her fits before Friday and refuses to sing?" She could hear the mischief in his voice.
"Don't you dare, Angel! Not now, now when we're so close to escaping! Leave Carlotta alone."
"But it's so amusing—"
"No." But she couldn't hide her smile. Her Angel had to be feeling better if he wanted to start playing tricks on the opera house again.
He stuck out his lower lip in a pout, making her laugh. "You have to admit you make a better Adelia than Carlotta. You know what it's like to love an outcast, to risk your life to be with the one you love," he said, turning from joking to melancholy in a split second.
Peeling off her glove, Christine laid her bare fingers against the unmasked side of his face, her thumb gently rubbing his cheek. "Yes, I do. And like Adelia, I would have it no other way."
The corners of his mouth turned up in a sad little smile. "But she had the Duke to make her a noblewoman, so she could marry her high-born lover. I don't think there is anyone in the world with enough power to make me socially acceptable."
"Are you saying we shouldn't marry? Or that we should just give up any hope of leaving Paris and starting a new life together?" She searched his face for an answer. "Or is it that you have stage fright, and are looking for any excuse to get out of accompanying me tonight?"
He ducked his head away from her, sighing. "Don't listen to me, Christine. I don't know what I am feeling at the moment. Everything has happened so quickly, and I am used to my life being under my control. Now I feel at times like it is slipping away from me, and the only way I know how to get it back is to run and hide."
"But you can't," Christine breathed softly. "There is really no place left to hide in Paris."
Swallowing, the Phantom nodded. "If I did not have you—" He shook his head. "I would have done something incredibly foolish by now and most likely be dead." He lifted her hand and kissed the back of her fingers. "Forgive me. This is your moment, Christine, your chance to truly shine. I won't ruin that for you."
She tapped the leather artist's portfolio that leaned against the seat. "It is your moment as well, and I won't let you ruin it for yourself." She pressed her lips to his cheek as the carriage came to a stop. A thump on the roof from the driver signaled they were at Signor Donato's hotel.
The Phantom pulled his hood up again then opened the carriage door. Taking a deep breath, Christine followed him onto the street. A few minutes later, they were standing in front of the door to Signor Donato's hotel room.
Her Angel stared at it for a long moment then raised his hand to knock. She grabbed his arm before he could. "Christine, what—?"
She kissed him fiercely, her fingers clutching the lapels of his coat. When she moved back to gaze up at him, she found a slightly dazed look on his face.
"What was that for?" he finally croaked.
Smiling, she answered, "For luck, and to remind you that no matter what happens, I love you."
He was silent for several seconds, his eyes closing. When he opened them again, she caught a glimpse of unshed tears before he crushed her to him in an embrace. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for seeing beyond the mask, for seeing me, for loving me. Thank you for making me confront my fears, for making me feel like a human and not a monster. Were you to lead me into the depths of hell, I would follow you."
Christine touched his cheek. "I do not think the depths of hell lie behind that door, but if they do, I will be right here beside you." She kissed him once more then turned and knocked on the door.
After a short wait, it was opened by a man in a servant's uniform. Her Angel stepped forward. "Monsieur Noir and Mademoiselle Daaé to see Signor Donato."
"Right this way," the servant said, standing to the side to allow them to enter. He took Christine's cloak and gloves and then the Phantom's. His eyebrows raised slightly when he saw the mask, but otherwise he showed no reaction. "Follow me, please."
He led them down a short hallway and into the dimly lit sitting room of the suite. A cluster of chairs, sofas and tables stood on the darkened side of the room, facing the grand piano that took up rest of the space. The sole occupant had his back to them, gazing out the window at the snow that was beginning to fall.
"Mademoiselle Daaé and Monsieur Noir," the servant announced then left the room.
Christine reached for her Angel's hand, giving it a quick squeeze before turning her full attention to the opera house owner.
Reaching into his vest pocket, he consulted his watch. "Punctual, good." His accent was barely noticeable. He turned around and walked toward them. He was tall, nearly as tall as the Phantom. Christine sought a glimpse of his eyes, but the light was behind him, casting his face in shadow. Her Angel tensed beside her, but the man made no comment regarding the mask, though his attention did appear to linger on the Phantom longer than on Christine.
"Shall we begin by hearing a selection from Mademoiselle Daaé?" He gestured toward the piano.
Christine curtsied then followed her Angel over to the instrument. He set the music up on the stand and took a seat on the bench, running his fingers over the keys, producing an arpeggio she followed effortlessly, warming up her voice. After a few minutes of exercises, he opened the sheet music to "Think of Me" from Hannibal.
Normally she would have moved to the side of the piano and faced her audience. But when Christine stood at the Phantom's shoulder during her warm-up, she could feel his nervousness. As he started the introduction to the aria, she moved behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. Almost instantly she felt him relax, and his playing became freer, his fingers finding the emotion in the melody even before she began to sing.
She had always given the song the same light-heartedness as she had heard Carlotta and other visiting divas do. But her Angel had changed the key, perhaps without even noticing he had done so, and the melody turned dark and disquieting.
"Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in a while–please promise me you'll try..." She remembered her Angel lying in the snow in the cemetery, wanting only to love her, to have her love him, for just a moment.
"...Think of all the things we've shared and seen—don't think about the way things might have been..." Her mind flashed back to the opera house roof, to the night she had kissed Raoul for the first time. She could see her Angel clearly in her mind, hiding in the shadows, his heart breaking. She would never forgive herself for that, never.
"...Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we'll never do. There will never be a day when I won't think of you..." She tightened her grip on his shoulders, holding onto him, the final cadenza becoming a mournful wail of regret.
The last note died away as he raised his hands to grasp hers, supporting her as she nearly collapsed against his back.
"Brava, mam'selle, brava!" She heard Signor Donato applauding behind her and, taking a deep breath, she turned around and bowed to him. "Such a unique interpretation. I have always thought Chalumeau overblown and disgustingly cheerful, but you have shown me new depths to his work."
Christine straightened, her gaze going at last to the impresario's face as he moved into the pool of light surrounding the piano. She had thought Carlotta's remark about Signor Donato being "ugly as sin" to be her anger at not being hired for his opera house. Now she knew the diva had spoken the truth. She gave a little gasp and clutched her Angel's arm. He turned to see what had startled her and she could feel his surprise as well.
Signor Donato was a man in his early fifties with a powerful physique only softened by the slight paunch at his waist. He had dark wavy hair shot through with silver. His eyes were black and revealed a sharp intelligence. Much like her Angel he would have been an extraordinarily handsome man, save for the fact that at some point in his life he had suffered from smallpox. His face was deeply pitted and scarred, his skin tough and leathery-looking.
He approached them, his hand outstretched. It, too, was terribly scarred. Christine shook off her shock, offering her hand. She allowed him to kiss the back of it, aware of her Angel getting to his feet behind her.
"A pleasure, Signor," he said, clasping the Italian's hand firmly, confidently meeting his eyes. His nervousness gone, he took command of the situation. "We have several other selections prepared for you. If you would take a seat?"
Signor Donato laughed, flashing a smile at them. "Why of course. I am most interested in hearing them."
The Phantom seated himself at the piano again, changing the sheet music. Christine sat beside him, prepared to turn the pages as well as sing. The first dissonant chord made her quiver then the melody changed to the seductive strains of the opening duet of Don Juan Triumphant. Her Angel's voice flowed through her, sending tendrils of desire uncurling from her core into the rest of her body. She savored the sensation, feeling the heat of his thigh where it pressed against hers even through her dress and petticoats. So lost did she become in him that he had to elbow her in the ribs just before her opening notes.
She sang, watching him play with his eyes closed, his lips slightly parted, his fingers caressing the keyboard. She longed to be the piano, for him to coax beautiful music from her. "...When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames at last consume us...?"
She felt a shiver go through him as she hit the low notes, her voice a growl of passion. His baritone wrapped around her soprano for the final verse. "Past the point of no return, the final threshold–the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn..." He turned his head to look at her, his love, his need for her a blazing emerald flame in his eyes. "We've passed the point of no return..."
Christine felt her voice breaking on the last note, but she didn't care. Signor Donato's opinion of them no longer mattered to her. She had sung with more soul, more emotion than she ever had before. Her love for her Angel had done that to her, had linked her heart to her voice. She would remember this moment for the rest of her life.
As he lifted his fingers from the keyboard, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face against his neck to hide her tears.
The Phantom held onto Christine, nearly as overcome with emotion as she was. He sensed rather than heard Signor Donato move from his seat, and he said, "A moment, please, Signor." He rubbed her back, whispering nonsense in her ear until he felt her take a steadying breath. Letting go of him, she straightened, swiping quickly at her damp eyes. He handed her a handkerchief, and she gave him a tremulous smile.
Rising from the piano bench, he offered her his hand, leading her over to a sofa across from where Signor Donato sat, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. The Phantom sat next to Christine, as the signor asked, "Are you all right, Miss Daaé?"
She nodded. "Just a little overcome, Signor. One can rehearse and rehearse and yet not feel the emotion of a song until it is performed before an audience. It took me by surprise." She flicked her gaze to the Phantom then to the portfolio leaning against the side of the sofa.
"Perhaps we should give Miss Daaé some time to recover before we ask her for another selection. I have brought some of my sketches for you to look at. Hopefully it will give you some idea of my work as a designer." He opened the case and began laying out drawings on the table between them, explaining the operas they were from and his reasons behind his creations.
After nearly half an hour, the Phantom was running out of sketches. "This last design is for my unproduced opera Don Juan Triumphant. The duet we did earlier was from the first act."
"Marvelous piece of music," the signor remarked. "And quite scandalous, if my grasp of the French language has not escaped me. If I were to engage you, I would be interested in producing it." Leaning back in his chair, he sighed. "My previous artistic director had to retire at the beginning of last year for health reasons. My company has been leaderless ever since. We've made it through the past season performing nothing but old works, reusing sets, costumes, operas. We've become a shadow of ourselves, and it shows in our receipts. Attendance is low, and it will only improve if we can once again become known for doing the newest, most daring works.
"Having heard just that one song, I can tell you are an artist and composer who leads instead of follows." He gestured at the drawings spread over the table. "Your designs are fresh and romantic, spare, yet evocative. Tell me, Monsieur Noir, if I were to turn my opera house over to you, what works would you choose to perform?"
The Phantom felt as if he had just been dropped into the middle of the ocean, no land in sight. He shot a quick glance at Christine. She smiled at him and nodded encouragingly, but he still felt like he was drowning in a sea of possible answers. Though perhaps the solution was not to answer the question at all. "I'm afraid I could not make a choice at the moment, Signor, not without meeting your company, seeing your theater, and learning their strengths and weaknesses. An opera will only be successful if the roles are carefully cast, the sets and costumes meshing with the existing stage. I know what roles are suitable for Miss Daaé, but one singer does not an opera make." He waited, holding his breath.
A slow smile creased Signor Donato's scarred face. "You are the first applicant to give me that answer. You are, I think, a very wise man, Monsieur, or perhaps just crafty. Either way, I believe your quick mind and obvious talents are what my opera house needs."
Again, the Phantom looked to Christine. "What about Miss Daaé?"
The Italian looked stricken. "Ah, forgive me, mam'selle. I was so caught up in your beautiful performance earlier that I completely forgot to tell you the position with my company is yours, if you agree to accept it. You would be singing the secondary roles for now, but in several years Maria Zarelli will be retiring and the lead soprano position would be yours."
Now it was Christine's turn to look at the Phantom for help. "I believe that would be acceptable to Miss Daaé. I would much prefer she continue to train her voice and not damage it by attempting too demanding a role before she is physically ready for it."
"Since my teacher feels that this is a great opportunity for me then I shall be happy to accept your offer, Signor," Christine said.
Signor Donato rubbed his hands together. "Very well, now we must get down to the difficult business, salary. I'm afraid I cannot offer you the equivalent of the twenty thousand francs a month you are receiving from the Opera Populaire. I can give you a comfortable salary though, and the director's position comes with a villa on the Grand Canal. I can also arrange an apartment close to the opera house for Miss Daaé, and the same starting salary as all our seconds."
Christine took the Phantom's hand. "The apartment won't be necessary, Signor. Monsieur Noir and I are engaged to be married two nights from now."
"Ah! Congratulations are in order then!" He got to his feet as the Phantom gathered up his drawings. "How soon should I expect you in Venice? I must wire them to prepare your villa, as it has been empty this past year."
Looking at Christine, the Phantom said, "Miss Daaé has one final performance this coming Friday at the Opera Populaire. If I can get passage, I will book us on the first train out of Paris after the performance."
Signor Donato clapped his hands. "Splendid, splendid! I will have my assistant make arrangements to have any of your furnishings and large trunks sent separately. I trust a message sent to you at the opera house will reach you?"
"If it is sent in care of Miss Daaé," the Phantom answered.
"Very good." As Christine rose, he bent over her hand again then shook the Phantom's as well. "One more thing before you go, Monsieur."
The Phantom froze. This was it. He was finally going to ask about the mask. He schooled the disappointment from his face before he met the other man's eyes. "Yes?"
"I want to make it clear to you that as my director, your word is law among the company. I do not tolerate gossip, or abusive behavior toward any of the company members, including you, Miss Daaé, and myself. I think we have probably both suffered more than our fair share of that in our lifetimes." He gestured at his own face with a sad smile.
For a moment, the Phantom was speechless. Finally he managed to force a squeaky "Thank you," past the lump in his throat. Looking toward Christine, he saw she was crying from the emotion of the moment. She knew how much it mean to him to be judged by his work and not his appearance. Biting the inside of his lip, he turned back to Signor Donato, raising his hand to his mask. He knew it had not been asked of him, that Signor Donato would never ask. Yet it was for that reason he felt a need to reveal himself to this man who was, in a way, making the Phantom's life with Christine possible. Trust, Christine kept reminding him, he had to learn to trust.
His hand shaking, he slowly removed the mask.
To his credit, Signor Donato did not cry out in horror. He simply sighed and said, "I think we have much more in common than just opera, Monsieur."
Swallowing, the Phantom replied, "Perhaps we do." He replaced his mask then said, "I think I shall look forward to working with you very much."
"And I with you, and mam'selle as well." He gave them both a little bow then saw them out.
As the door closed behind them, Christine looked at her Angel. He appeared as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't quite figure out what. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs made him grab her arm and drag her around the corner, out of sight. "Angel?"
He shook his head, the muscles of his jaw twitching, but still he said nothing. Finally, he pulled her into his embrace, crushing her to his chest. She slid her arms around him underneath his cloak. He shuddered against her, his breathing loud in the empty hallway.
"Christine...Christine..." he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. "Tell me I am not dreaming, for never in my wildest imaginings have I ever envisioned this. Is this what it feels like to be normal?"
She brought one hand up to cup the back of his neck. "I don't know, Angel. I hardly feel my life thus far qualifies as 'normal' either." She brushed her lips against his, enjoying being the cause of the shiver that went through him. "But whatever it is, it feels good, like it is meant to be."
He squeezed her tight, throwing back his head and laughing. When he looked down at her again, he had the most beautiful smile on his face. "Come my darling Christine. Let us go home and pack." Pulling his hood up, he took her hand and led her down the stairs.
Adelia is an opera by Donizetti first performed in Rome in 1841. The story takes place in a land where it is illegal for nobility to wed the lowerclass. The punishment is death. The original ending to the opera had lower class Adelia committing suicide after her high-born lover had been hanged. That did not sit well with the papal censors, so the ending was changed. The Duke made Adelia's father a member of the nobility, thus allowing his daughter to wed her lover. The opera is rarely performed, due to the fact that it requires bel canto singing. Bel canto singing is characterized by a focus on perfect evenness throughout the voice, skillful legato, a light upper register, tremendous agility and flexibility, and a certain lyric, "sweet" timbre. Operas of the style featured extensive and florid ornamentation, requiring much in the way of fast scales and cadenzas.