Christine was five minutes late for chorus rehearsal, thanks to a particularly difficult passage on music theory Erik was having her translate from the original Italian. She had not yet heard about the infamous auditions. When she walked in the room, everyone ceased their warm-ups. She felt their stares like a heavy rain against her skin. M. Besson seemed surprised to see her. "Christine, what are you doing here?"
"Have I been suspended from the chorus, Monsieur? What have I done?"
He laughed, a rich, deep sound that eased her anxiety. "No, no. I only thought you would be preparing your audition piece already. I knew you would not stay in my chorus very long."
"Monsieur, I am sorry, but I have no idea what audition you are referring to."
"For Faust, Christine, where have you been?"
"Translating Aretino, and not enjoying a moment of it." She was still struggling with one passage in the back of her mind. "Wait. Did you say 'for Faust'?
"The entire Opera's buzzing with it, and the one person who should be most excited is off translating dusty Italian. Christine, as your choral director, I instruct you to march straightaway to the managers' office and sign the call sheet. Then you must head to the music library and pick your audition piece. Make it something spectacular." He smirked at her standing there, open mouthed. "Go!"
Christine was out the door before he could finish his command, walking with more self-control than she felt towards the managers' office. There, beside the door was a white sheet of paper that called back memories of her fifteenth birthday. That call sheet had been full of names; this one bore only La Carlotta's melodramatic flourish. The implications of challenging Carlotta's right to the lead role made Christine falter, until she imagined Erik's reaction to her cowardice. Her hand steadied, and she signed her name in her clear, neat script. As she descended the stairs, she passed a glowering Carlotta, but gave no sign that she saw the evil look on the other woman's face. She curtsied politely and said, "Buon pomeriggio. I look forward to your audition piece," before walking on.
Once back in her apartment, she sank into her father's chair. This was the path she had to walk, but it promised to be difficult. She did not doubt her ability to succeed in the audition. It was the certainty of Carlotta's hatred that daunted her. No one had opposed Carlotta's will in years. She was infamous for the vendettas she carried against dressmakers who sewed her hem too low, basses who rumbled over her in duets, and servants who made too much noise cleaning her hearth. What would she do against a young upstart soprano whose first move in the opera was to attempt to usurp her as diva? As she sat in painful contemplation, she heard her name murmured softly from the direction of the mirror. Erik had come. She smiled, welcoming the interruption.
"Come in, Angel." He was no Angel, he was Erik, but in her judgment the two were one and the same.
The glass swung inward, and Erik stepped into the room, looking vaguely ill at ease in his bearing. "I am pleased to see that you have been brave enough to add your name to the call sheet." His lower lip curled in what Christine guessed must be a smile. "Not one of the other sheep in this place has dared."
She lowered her eyes shyly. "I thought of you, and our music the other night. We have worked so hard, for so many years…"
"It would be a pity to waste such talent in lesser roles. Have you selected a piece?" He stayed where he had entered, unsure of the etiquette to use when one entered a lady's room via her mirror.
"The Jewel Song, of course," replied Christine, unconcerned. "Erik, she's going to do everything she can to make life unpleasant."
Erik closed his eyes and savored the sound of his name coming from her lips. It had been fourteen years since he'd heard anyone speak his name. The sound was intoxicating. But this business of La Carlotta brought him back to infuriating reality. "La Carlotta has walked a dangerous line for many years now. If she becomes a problem, I will take care of her," his tone was so cold and ominous that Christine flinched.
"You wouldn't hurt her, would you? She has been faithful to the Opera, Angel, and it's not her fault that her voice is failing."
"Why do you defend her?" Erik was irritated by this inexplicable kindness Christine displayed towards a woman who was clearly attempting to dismantle the Opera single-handedly. "Her voice would not be failing if she did not abuse it with her excesses. She does not deserve your consideration."
"She doesn't know anything else. Please." If anything happened to the aging diva, Christine would feel personally responsible. She thought of all the terrifying things that had happened to other performers who displeased the Opera Ghost.
Heaving a sigh of aggravation, Erik capitulated. "Very well. If you do not want my help, you can deal with her on your own. Only know that if she becomes too damaging, I will defend my Opera. Now you must practice. Come to the mirror."
Christine stood next to him, looking at herself in the mirror that she now knew contained a passageway his world. He stood so close that she could smell the damp, musty scent of his clothes. It reminded her of the fishermen's houses on the edge of the lakes, or of the root cellars where old women grew their potatoes. There were no lakes nearby that she knew of, but there were basements. Did Erik…
Her thoughts were interrupted by impatient throat clearing. She had become so wrapped up in her contemplations that she failed to adopt her singing posture or begin her breathing exercises.
"You must concentrate, Christine. No matter what happens in the world around you, no matter what thoughts swirl in your mind, you must always be able to focus on the music. Posture! Do you think you will be able to summon that emotion whenever you want, just because it came to you on one night? Give me your full range on those scales. We will concentrate on your chosen audition piece today. You know what Margeurite is feeling in this piece; let me hear you sing it."
Christine drew herself up, smiled, and began to sing. She got only as far as "Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir," when Erik stopped her, shaking his head. She was singing happily, but the emotion was flat, false.
"No. You are just pretending happiness, and that is where your fault lies. Be joyful." He paused, "She feels beautiful, admired. Simply call up a time when you have felt that way."
Christine studied the floor. When had she last felt joyous? Not since her father's illness. She couldn't ever think of a time when she had "laughed to see herself so beautiful in this mirror." Her silence betrayed her thoughts.
"Nothing? We shall see. For now, focus on the words and breathing." Guilt pressured his speech. "You should have many such memories. I have been too strict. I am sorry…" he trailed off, not knowing how to apologize for the theft of her girlhood. "I shall return to you tonight, after dinner. Let your hair loose." He touched the lever and the glass swung open. He bowed to her and was gone.
Christine stared at the mirror in consternation. Never had he left a lesson before its end. His awkward apology and his curt request for her presence –with her hair down, no less, the mask that could not be mentioned, and that smell of basements all left her puzzling over the enigma of Erik. For a few moments she searched for the lever to open the mirror, but gave up easily. There was something forbidding about secret passages and masked men. It had been so much simpler when Erik was an Angel, not a man.
