"I can't help laughing how pretty I appear in this mirror," Christine sang, donning the rhinestone earrings from her costume in "Hannibal" as she danced around the small dressing room. Dusty from lack of use, the modest room – as compared to the larger dressing room she and the other ballet rats share – but this, of course was a private room for one person…two at most – appeared to be primarily used for storage now.
This was her hiding place – a discovery made when wandering around backstage, seeking a place to speak to her father, grieve and mourn…and to sing. Miscellaneous props stand in corners or lean against the dirty beige walls. A faded, burgundy-colored chaise and wooden dressing table with a cushioned bench, worn and broken, make up the furnishings. And, oh yes, the glorious full-length mirror she had taken to practicing in front of. Unlike the other mirrors provided for the performers to utilize for dressing and applying their make-up, this looking glass appeared to be part of the wall like a door.
Pappa always wanted her to sing, encouraged her voice, but she was too insecure, afraid to show anyone her soul in such an intimate way. Although dancing was difficult, not something she was born nor drawn to, in all honesty, but being anonymous – part of the chorus was perfectly fine with her. One of a group where no one would notice her.
FAUST was one of her favorite operas – "The Jewel Song" a favorite aria. A character she identified with. Finding joy portraying the impoverished Marguerite finding the basket of jewels, trying them on and admiring herself was the closet she believed she would ever come to both performing and owning any jewels. A complete fantasy, but one she found pleasure in creating. No harm being done.
"If only he were here. If he could see me like this…. It's a King's daughter."
Ending the aria with a final twirl, she giggled. Flushed with pleasure, she observed herself in the mirror, the plain gray dress she did not remember acquiring – a bin for the poor, no doubt, already turned once, the hem beginning to fray even as she tried to stay ahead of the split seams and worn fabric. The elation gone, feeling slightly embarrassed, she removed the baubles, tossing them onto the vanity. "Oh, Pappa, how can this ever be for me? I shall never sing Marguerite anywhere but here in the shadows. Why did you have to leave me? You promised me an Angel of Music – where is he?"
"Why do you cry? The song was good – not excellent, certainly, but not the cause for tears."
The glorious voice came from where? Spinning around, Christine's eyes searched the small room. Of course, it was empty. It was always empty. The mirror? "Who is there?"
"Who would you have me be?"
Oh, the words suggestive, the tone seductive.
"An angel? Are you my Angel of Music?"
"Is that what you wish?"
Could this be real? Her heart skipped a beat at the thought. The Angel of Music here in this forgotten room waiting for someone…her to discover him?
"My father promised me when he died, he would send me the Angel of Music, but it has been so long."
"Sing the aria again."
"I am not a good singer."
"I shall be the judge of your talent. You have not realized your full potential, but you shall. Our work begins now. Sing for me."
