She Sang for Me
"Damned rats," Erik cursed, picking up bits of shredded twine and bent wire littering the passageway. The loose ends of the system he created to alert him of trespassers on the path to his lodgings below the opera house, dangled useless. No wonder no alarms had been sounded in recent weeks – despite this being the first level, heavily trafficked by crew members. "Rat catcher – where are you? My ropes have all been chewed to bits by your little friends. Do you have any idea how long it takes to repair such damage?"
"I suppose alarms and traps at this level are not really necessary," he mutters to himself, leaning against the brick wall. The remnants of chewed jute fall from his long fingers. The infinite boredom of his days of endless night drove him to the tunnels – busy, keep busy – wasted time certainly but he had to move. The idea something of purpose, something to repair drove him to the upper levels. Move.
Too much time spent on that damned opera amounting to nothing. No inspiration. Twenty years of writing his pain and rage – to what end? More emptiness? Why could he not just simply die? Finish the piece and finally rest. Leave the bitterness behind. Why did he promise that priest he would not kill himself? Eternal condemnation – what would the difference be – he was already condemned. Foolish hope of something…someone who might save him. Lifting his hand to his face, he asks, "Why could I not love and be loved? Now I am screaming about rats being rats."
"I can't help laughing how pretty I appear in this mirror."
That voice – where was it coming from? Of course, it must be – the dressing room everyone said was haunted. How long had it been since he used it to go back and forth between the theater and the tunnels leading below? Stifling a laugh, he recalled how Carlotta screamed when he let some of the old man's rats in through the mirror. Would any of the fools buying their way into his theater never learn? This dressing room and Box Five were his. Was that too much to ask?
Who was singing now – certainly not someone in the chorus – he knew all those voices. Most definitely not Carlotta. What was this feeling? A warmth spread through his body. The heaviness in his heart lifted. Was there ever a time when he felt what could only be described as joy? A purity he strove for in his writing – never quite achieving – was in her song. A perfect Marguerite – guileless, charming, youthful and innocent…with just a touch of coquette.
"If only he were here. If he could see me like this…. It's a King's daughter."
What bliss. He must discover who was singing. He must be cautious. Best not to have a crew member discover him while searching for props. Running his hand over the tarred stone, he finds the opening to the passage between the outer and inner walls created for the workmen to make repairs when necessary. Slipping in, he easily located the secret door installed so many years ago. A flick of the lever along the side of the door, activated a slim panel which slid noiselessly away revealing a glass – the back of the mirror, allowing him to take in the no longer abandoned room and its current occupant.
"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?"
A ballet girl? That would be why he never heard her sing. Hiding in this room, crying for her father and some angel. An Angel of Music. A pretty, little thing – brown curls cascading down her back – the dress worn but mended with care. Imagine what a beauty she might be with the proper clothing…real jewels to dangle from her delicate ear lobes and gracing her swanlike neck.
Dare he talk to her – she must not see him – she would be horrified. Experience taught him never to approach a young woman or most anyone for that matter. Even with his mask in place, he avoided contact with most humans – the rat catcher did not care – his own face was mottled and scarred. If someone else wandered to the deeper levels, it was at their own peril – the fool Buquet nearly died of fright, yet he still wandered where he was not welcomed. His annoyance at the rats returned momentarily. Brushing any thoughts of vengeance away…for the moment…he must know this girl – this sublime creature – both beautiful in appearance and, well, her voice was beyond beautiful.
Perhaps if he threw his voice? She was speaking of meeting an angel as if that could actually happen. Could he perform such a ruse? He must…he could not allow her to leave the room possibly never seeing her again here – in this way. The emotions flowing through him were too strong.
Speak, you fool.
"Why do you cry? The song was good – not excellent, certainly, but not the cause for tears." He hoped the words were not too bold. Being kind and gentle was not his normal way of communicating. Should he not have told her the song was not excellent?
"Who is there?"
Thank you to whatever power allowed her to answer – she is not frightened. At least she does not appear so.
"Who would you have me be?"
"An angel? Are you my Angel of Music?"
"Is that what you wish?" Being an angel might not be terribly difficult. They were speaking to one another now – through the mirror. There was no reason for her to see him. Angels were invisible were they not? He could just be a voice.
"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." He did not know how to pray anymore, if he ever did, but perhaps there was a god who recognized his pain – the terrible loneliness. A solitude becoming more and more untenable. Why else would she think he might be an angel? Why else would he feel some prayer was answered? Purpose. His life had purpose beyond repairing traps. This girl – this lovely young girl would sing and have the world at her feet – thanks to him. What a gift.
"I am not a good singer."
Whatever a poor example of a man he might be – his past, his present – so much history – she need not know. He would be an angel for her – as best as he could be. She was already an angel to him, it was only fair.
"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."