A/N: Auggh, you guys, I'm SO sorry! –weeps, grovels, and scrapes at your feet- I am a horrible, mean, cruel authoress and I'm very, VERY sorry for making you wait so long for this update. (Over a month, I know… -cringes-) I caught the sickness from Hell: bronchitis, pneumonia, mono, and a sinus infection all at the same time. It was disgusting, but I got a lot of time to rest over Thanksgiving break, so now I'm back in school and (almost) caught up in my classes, so I had enough time to squeeze in this update. It's a nice long chapter as an "I'm sorry" present. –hangs head in shame- Contrary to popular belief, I still adore writing this story, and I swear I am the luckiest authoress on ff dot net, because I certainly have the most loyal bunch of readers and reviewers our phandom has ever seen! Hugs, kisses, and leftover turkey, stuffing and cranberry sandwiches to all!
It was the night of the premiere.
Internally, I was a nervous wreck, though I would have died rather than let the raging apprehension break through my mask of composure. Of course, leave it to my disturbed psyche to dredge up wounds long sealed and buried on the night of my crucial triumph! It was positively infuriating. For months I had been utterly confident about tonight's outcome, but now painful memories of my childhood and adolescence began to stir up clouds of doubt and wariness within me. Even as I worried myself sick (quite literally), I hated myself for fretting, when just days ago I had been as cocky as a strutting schoolboy. I debated myself in circles until my head ached, pacing from one side of my lair to the other for hours on end.
What was I thinking? This was a terrible mistake. Call it off, damn you, call it off before it's too late! Christine will never—
Of course she will, idiot! She has no choice! She will be perfectly alone on that stage, and the gendarmes won't dare shoot if you stay close enough to her. Seduction is merely a game, and you've mastered it. Why balk now when you're so close?
Because I'm afraid! What if it doesn't work? What if she chooses the Vicomte after I've given her my soul? I'll die!
Then die nobly! Don't cower down here and let Piangi ruin your role. It would be a failure. The Phantom of the Opera does not fail!
Time slipped like sand through my fingers. A fleeting glance at the grandfather clock told me I had less than three hours until the curtain opened. My feet slowed and finally halted. It was the moment of truth. The situation boiled down to two options: to stay down here, where it was safe, and never lay eyes on Christine— or any other human being, for that matter— for the rest of my miserable life; or to march upstairs, perform my opera, declare my love for Christine, and brace myself for rejection. It was all I had ever known, and I realized I could expect nothing more. If, by some miracle, my plan worked, I would have her for the rest of my life. My heart nearly bled from my chest at the thought. But if, as I was beginning to dread and suspect, Christine, like every other person in my life, betrayed me and ripped my heart open, there was no sense in living; the black water of the lake would be my final resting place.
The decision sounded so simple, but the action itself was excruciating. Years ago, I had concluded that the best way to live my life was in seclusion, far away from the society— the world— that hated me. If I was the Devil's Child, let me live in my own Hell, far below the surface of the earth.
Hide your face so the world will never find you.
It had been my code, my oath, my standard of living for over twenty years. And then had come that life-altering evening when I stumbled upon a broken little child with the voice of an angel. She had resurrected my long-lost ability to care for another human being, to love as I had never loved before.
As I stood there, lost in thought, I wondered whether finding Christine had been a gift or a curse. I had not been happy, per se, in my isolation, but I had been safe from the white-hot blade of criticism, scorn, and rejection. However, the very thought of life without her brilliant smile, innocent laugh and beautiful voice crushed my chest like an angry python.
I had never taken such a high risk in my life. To live in solitude for the rest of my life, or to open myself up to that blade again in the hopes that perhaps Christine would be different— perhaps she would not plunge it into my heart?
I trust you, Christine. God help me… but I trust you.
Swallowing hard, I balled my hands into fists and made my way quickly up through the third cellar passage. For Christine, I would leap from the statue of Apollo and greet a gory death on the cobblestones below with open arms. Certainly I could perform a little bit of music? One song! Just one bloody song and it would be over.
I ran all the way up to the auditorium, convinced if I could simply move fast enough, I would leave my doubts in a cloud of dust. By the time I slid down into the small mechanics room that housed the chandelier chain, I was completely out of breath. I stood there panting for a few moments before moving over to the device. Simple enough— two hooks needed to be unclasped, and a lever flipped. The crystals on the chandelier shuddered and tinkled as the massive lighting fixture suddenly became reliant on a thick maroon rope attached to the one of the lowest rafters onstage. I studied the setup for a few seconds, analyzing the physics, and finally gave a terse nod. It would hold, but just barely.
Granted, this was just a precaution— a fallback of sorts. Supposing the gendarmes were bolder than I gave them credit for, and they actually decided to shoot… I would be prepared. A single slice of that rope would send the grand chandelier crashing into the orchestra pit, giving me time enough to escape before the police could take better aim. And if they missed, and accidentally hit my precious Christine…
The very thought made my eyes flash with cold venom. Every last one of them would be murdered in their beds; I would slaughter every gendarme in Paris if they committed such a mortal sin, along with the Vicomte and his puppet managers.
But all of this was folly, for I was nearly positive they would not shoot with over twenty innocent civilians onstage. Even Andre and Firmin, in their infinite stupidity, would not be so dense as to give such an order. The chandelier would stay right where it belonged, so long as everything went according to plan.
I said a silent prayer to Fate, God, Aphrodite, the Heavens, or whatever supernatural being might be controlling the outcome of the night, skeptical it was even worth my breath. God had never listened to me before, when I was an innocent little boy, cowering under the gypsy's whip. Why would He bother now, when I was a notorious murderer?
No, I decided finally, the goddess to whom I should be praying is down the hall, in the fourth dressing room on the right, preparing for the performance. Tonight she would either make or break my soul, and at the moment I wanted nothing more than for the orchestra to start playing so we could just get it over with. If I had to have my heart torn from my chest and crushed beneath her dainty foot, I wanted it done quickly. Prolonged suffering had never really appealed to me. Conversely, if she were to choose me, as every last fiber in my being implored, then I was dying to hold her in my arms and claim those perfect lips. There were still two and a half hours left until the curtain opened, and I was ready to commit suicide from impatience.
Needing the comfort of constant movement, I slipped back through the trapdoor and headed around the horseshoe-shaped passage toward the rafters. Below me, the orchestra members were playing individual warm-ups, which were awkward and hair-raising when combined. I brushed quickly past them and climbed down to the stage level, careful to remain hidden in shadow. It felt odd moving about without my cloak, and I was especially wary because I was wearing a white shirt. Although no one took notice of me, I felt as if I stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the crimson folds of the wings, and ducked back through the trapdoor like a kicked dog.
As I wandered through the backstage area, I caught little clips of conversation here and there, none of which were particularly intriguing, but at least they kept my mind from the impending performance. Two of the ballet rats, Sidonie and Raquelle, were discussing their vulgar private lives, their voices slurred with alcohol. In another corner, Madame Giry was lecturing one of the stagehands about keeping his hands off of her girls until they were at least thirteen years old. Disgusted, I moved into what appeared to be an unoccupied prop room, only to find Carlotta and Piangi busying themselves on the couch from last season's performance of Faust.
Is there a single virtuous, decent person in this entire establishment? I wondered irritably. The irony of the situation didn't hit me until I had begun to gravitate habitually toward the fourth dressing room on the right: the composer of the most controversial, obscene opera ever to grace Paris was accusing his performers of debauchery. I would have laughed had I not been so damned nervous.
Christine was alone in her dressing room, thankfully. The Vicomte was off God-knows-where, probably briefing his quaint little squad of policemen for their job tonight. It was almost endearing… the white knight in shining armor thought he could save the damsel in distress and rescue the city from the monster's wrath with a mismatched band of local, underpaid soldiers.
Almost endearing… but not quite.
She was crying quietly. The sound of her muffled sobs stopped me in my tracks, and I decided perhaps it wouldn't be the best idea to creep over to the mirror. If I saw her delicate cheeks glistening with tears, I might not be able to restrain myself from running to her and kissing them away. Nevertheless, the instinctual desire to comfort and protect her welled painfully within me. My muscles tensed with the urge to sing. Christine and I both needed to lose ourselves in the comforting oblivion of music, something in a foreign tongue…
Just as I settled on an old Arabic lullaby and opened my mouth to sing, a knock sounded at the door. I glowered, and Christine drew in a sharp breath— we both suspected who was behind the wooden barrier. There was the sound of footsteps, followed by the click of the door and my student's astonished gasp.
"Signor Piangi, this is a surprise…"
The Italian's heavier footsteps clattered on the stone floor, along with Christine's light, scuffling ones. The door clicked shut again, and my frown deepened. It sounded almost as if he were pushing her back into the room…
Ignoring my pretence, I climbed immediately down to the backside of the mirror and peered in adamantly. Just as I had suspected, the obese globule had cornered my innocent protégé, and fear radiated from her in waves at the suggestive glint of his piggy eyes. His gaze rested on her breasts, which were currently bound in the tight, revealing corset of her Aminta costume.
"Signorina Daaé, you look stunning tonight," he purred, grabbing her milky hand in his pudgy one and smacking his lips over it. I was quaking with rage, rivulets of sweat streaming down the small of my back. Not five minutes ago he had been using that mouth in a most foul and disturbing manner. That he would dare to come anywhere near Christine after that disgusting display was…
"How can I help you, monsieur?" she asked politely, still backing away from his looming form.
He grinned, licking those fetid lips. "You're a lucky, lucky girl, Christine. Twenty eight beautiful chorus girls in thees opera 'ouse, but only you have the honor of being my new… project."
All of us were breathing through parted lips now: he from desire, her from fear, me from unbridled fury. If it came to it, I would not hesitate to burst through this mirror and strangle him with a single flick of catgut.
"I'm afraid I don't understand," she lied, her voice trembling audibly.
"I think-eh you do," Piangi insisted, reaching out to stroke her curls. My hand flew to my waist of its own accord, and my heart skipped a beat when I found the Punjab absent. Damn it, I had left my belt in the lair with the rest of my costume! Seething, I pressed myself to the glass, prepared to strangle him with my bare hands if he tried anything more.
"I have to get ready for the show," Christine said, her face and voice deadpan. The color had drained from her cheeks, making her look ill. "If you'll excuse me, Signor Piangi…"
"Very well," he consented, an infuriatingly smug grin stretching his fat face. "We'll-eh talk more about this after the show, eh, mia bellezza?"
Christine nodded numbly, and I silently swore she would never have to suffer through that conversation. Originally I had not planned on killing him when I took his place in the performance; a timely burst of sleeping gas or perhaps a gag and a broom closet would have done the trick. Now my mind was made up. As soon as I was sure he would not come back to pester my student, I would go back down to my lair, dress for the part, and make sure I had both the Punjab and a spare length of rope. He would be dead before his head hit the ground. No one harassed my sweet, innocent Christine without paying the price.
I stayed and watched over her for the next hour, my eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness. She seemed too drained to weep, but sighed melancholically every few minutes as she shifted from one task to the next. When her makeup and hair were finished, a blood red rose tucked behind her ear, and her waist wrapped with a gold gypsy shawl, she finally stood and slowly made her way over to the door. She paused for the briefest of moments and squeezed her eyes shut, gathering strength, no doubt, for the evening ahead.
"You'll be fine," I whispered. Christine stiffened, but after a moment her shoulders relaxed again, and she gave a terse, accepting nod before stepping out into the hallway.
It was my cue to finish getting ready. The hall outside of Christine's room was reasonably quiet, meaning the ballerinas had scampered off to begin stretching. The kitchens would be open as well, though very few performers actually ate anything on the night of a premiere. Sighing deeply, and still bristling from Piangi's intrusion, I slipped back down to the fifth cellar to change into the rest of my outfit.
The temperature had dropped to freezing over the past week, and it was at least ten degrees cooler in the lair. I was grateful for the extra layers of the costume, especially the fur-lined cloak, but even so I could not seem to alleviate the bone-deep chill that had settled over me. Suddenly overwhelmed with an unexplained, violent anger at my inability to get warm, I snatched the nearest candle, not caring that the melted wax was scalding my fingers. With a raucous growl, I hurled it at the wall as hard as I could and watched with mild satisfaction as it snapped in two and set a few of Christine's portraits ablaze. For a few seconds I watched them burn nonchalantly before picking up a bucket and dousing the smoldering papers with lake water.
Feeling slightly better, I moved over to my desk and donned the last few pieces of my outfit. The underside of the black wig was rough and itchy against my scalp, but at least it provided more insulation than the pitiful wisps of my real hair.
Now for the tricky part, I mused, looking over the gathered make-up utensils. This wasn't the first time I had created a flesh-like mask to cover my deformity, but that didn't make it any less difficult. A bowl sat on the desk, filled with a thick jelly the color of my skin. Next to it was a small, square mirror, propped up against the back of the desk. I caught a glimpse of my bare face in it before looking quickly away. Little dark bags hung under my eyes from a lack of sleep and the illness that still hadn't departed my body entirely. Without further ado I dipped my finger into the thick gelatin and proceeded to smear it across the right side of my forehead. The makeup began to harden almost immediately upon touching my skin, so I had to work furiously to add layer after layer of the smooth shell until every last bump, vein, and blister was covered.
Unfortunately, there was not enough of the jelly to cover the entire right side of my face, but I wasn't worried; the mask would cover everything from the middle of my forehead to my upper lip. I had to wait only a few minutes for the mask to fully harden against my skin. It was truly a remarkable substance— tender and supple like real skin, molded flawlessly to my face, and yet as easily discarded as a mask of any other material. One had only to peel it off once it had hardened. It was very convenient in times like this, when I needed to cover a small patch of skin, but every experiment I had ever done with it to cover my entire face had been a disaster. I had nearly blinded myself when I had tried to slather it under my drooping right eye, only to irritate and inflame the sensitive membrane.
Finally the mask settled, and I prodded at it experimentally to make sure it wouldn't slip at the slightest movement. It stayed put, thankfully, and with a sigh of relief I snatched my black leather mask and slipped it into place. Glancing once more at my reflection, I hardly recognized myself. With the aid of the gelatin mask, it looked as if…
As if I'm just another man.
I stared for a few endless minutes, unable to tear my gaze from that face. This is what might have been, I thought repeatedly. Had fate taken a different twist, this was the man I would have been… smooth-skinned, with thick, sleek black hair.
I was almost… handsome…
A smug grin cut through my features, the familiar light sparking in my eyes. With that single thought, my confidence swelled. Now the Vicomte had no upper hand, nothing that I didn't have. I could still win. All appearances set aside, Christine and I were left only to our music, and I had written this song specifically to seduce her. It had worked once before; my lips still tingled from the memory.
In considerably higher spirits, I smirked at myself in the mirror and straightened my wig, singing to myself in reassurance.
Seal my fate tonight,
I hate to have to cut the fun short
In the reflection I caught sight of the stage miniature behind me, and my grin broadened. Turning on my heel, I snatched up another candle from its golden stand and bent over my meticulously-constructed set. Everything was perfect, save one detail…
But the joke's wearing thin
Let the audience in
Let my opera begin!
I dropped the burning candle into the center of the stage and watched, fascinated, horrified, and amused, as the flames swallowed it whole. The fire in the production would not be real, unfortunately; try as I might, I had not been able to convince the managers to set a fire onstage, even if the surrounding wood and curtains were drenched in a flame-resistant chemical…
"Idiots," I grumbled under my breath as I took the water bucket and doused the smoldering embers before they could light the table on fire. "No artistic appreciation whatsoever."
The grandfather clock struck seven thirty, and my head jerked toward it incredulously. Half an hour until show time…
Nervousness wrenched at my gut, but this time I managed to drown it out, dismissing it as nothing more than a little pre-show butterflies. How many times had I calmed Christine's nerves before a performance, assuring her that she had absolutely nothing to worry about, and that anxiety would only serve to harm her performance?
… It didn't help.
Swallowing hard, I moved over to the filtered pool and cupped some of the water in my hands, bringing it to my parched lips. Suddenly I was insatiably thirsty, but after four more handfuls I moved away from the pool, knowing full well the risks of drinking too much Parisian water, filtered or not.
I settled for pacing. It was too early to creep back upstairs, as I would only wind up doing something regrettable. The gendarmes were probably already at their stations, and if I was in the rafters with nothing to assuage my nerves, I would just as soon strangle one of them as look at him. And contrary to popular belief, I did not enjoy killing; I was indifferent to it.
Except, of course, in the case of infuriating bastards such as Piangi… oh, I would take great joy in sapping the life from his mammoth form.
I fingered the Punjab lasso absently as I strode from one side of the lair to the other and back again, glancing up at the clock each time I passed it. The minutes crept by agonizingly, as if Time was amusing himself by drawing each second out as long as possible.
At last the minute hand ticked onto the 9, and I shot into the nearest tunnel like a bullet. There were still fifteen minutes before the curtain rose, but I couldn't stand it any more. I moved at a pace somewhere between a walk and a run, too anxious for the former and too nervous that I would wreck the jelly mask for the latter.
Most of the audience had already taken their seats. It was a full house— not exactly surprising, but my chest swelled with pride at the thought nonetheless. I watched from the rafters as dukes, earls, counts, and their beautiful trophy wives looked over the program and made little comments behind fans and powdered, gloved hands. Some looked positively scandalized, others enthralled.
Trust me, ladies and gentlemen, you have no idea what awaits you…
If time had been dragging its heels in the lair, now it seemed to be moving at double-time to make up for it. Before I knew it, the orchestra was playing the opening chords, and the ballet rats scurried in every direction to take their positions. The murmur in the audience dulled to whispers, but was never fully extinguished.
Here the sire may serve the dam,
Here the master takes his meat!
Here the sacrificial lamb
Utters one despairing bleat!
Poor young maiden! For the thrill
On your tongue of stolen sweets
You will have to pay the bill -
Tangled in the winding sheets!
Serve the meal and serve the maid!
Serve the master so that, when
Tables, plans and maids are laid,
Don Juan triumphs once again!
I watched from high above the stage with a strange detachment from the music and events taking place below me, as if I were just another spectator who had never before seen or heard the opera. For awhile I simply watched the first scene unfold, lost in the performance, until Piangi's hair-raising voice jarred me from my reverie.
Passarino, faithful friend
Once again recite the plan
I blinked the haze from my eyes, and watched as Rossini began to sing almost in-key. Breathing an almost inaudible sigh of relief, I took hold of a rope beside me and climbed up to a higher catwalk. Everything was going well so far. The Vicomte was sitting up in my box, as usual, but I had no use for it tonight. His face was set in a determined expression, and he and the managers were flanked by two gendarmes apiece; only his eyes, which darted feverishly around the room, searching for any sign of me, betrayed his nervousness. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I situated myself on a rafter directly behind the curtain, like a panther ready to pounce.
Your young guest believes I'm you
I, the master, you, the man
When you met you wore my cloak,
With my scarf you hid your face.
She believes she dines with me,
In her master's borrowed place!
Furtively, we'll scoff and quaff,
Stealing what, in truth, is mine.
When it's late and modesty
Starts to mellow with the wine
The Italians moved upstage, so that I was staring down at the bald spots on the tops of their heads. Every muscle in my body was tensed, the Punjab clutched at the ready in my right hand. Christine was much farther upstage, her expression glazed, as if she was daydreaming. Fortunately she didn't look as if she would be moving backstage any time soon, for as much as I loathed Piangi, I could not further corrupt her innocence by forcing her to watch a cold-blooded murder at the hands of her mentor and (hopefully) friend. Slowly, I began to shut down my mind— it was impossible to take a life while allowing one's mind to be fully functional.
You come home! I'll use your voice—
Slam the door like crack of doom
I shall say "Come hide with me,
Where, oh where? Of course! My room…"
Poor thing hasn't got a chance!
Here's my hat, my cloak and sword
Conquest is assured
If I do not forget myself and laugh!
The laughter had not yet died on Piangi's lips when I dropped down upon him. He had time only to suck in a breath of air in a loud gasp before the Punjab whistled through the air and snagged around his neck. Both of his pudgy hands flew to his throat as his eyes bulged, and I watched with cold, glaring eyes as his mouth worked in a useless attempt to draw in air.
Much as I abhorred him, even I was not cruel enough to make him suffer for long. A sneer curled my lip as I leaned forward, bringing my face within a centimeter of his.
"This," I hissed, "is for Christine."
It was the last thing he heard. With a single jerk, it was over; he fell to the floor with a dull thump. I was panting and snarling like a wild animal, baring my teeth at the lifeless corpse. So consumed was I in primal instincts that it took me a moment to recognize the sweet sound of Christine's voice.
No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy
No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!
Her voice was all it took to tame my fuming soul. In three seconds flat I managed to collect myself, straighten my mask and wig, and move to the curtain. I closed my eyes for a fleeting moment as I brought my cloaked right arm up to my face, temporarily concealing the fact that Don Juan had magically dropped two hundred pounds. When I reopened them, there was no time for hesitation; Christine was waiting. I stepped through the curtain and into the direct visibility of the audience.
No going back now…
A/N: Haha, this chapter is getting ridiculously long! I could go on with PonR, but I'm afraid that would be putting too much strain on this chapter. Better to save it for next time and give the song my full devotion and attention rather than slap it on the end of this one as an afterthought. Again, sorry to those of you who have been waiting… I swear the next update will not take that long!