Lefevre

Her hair was obnoxiously blonde.

I leant back in my chair, studying her as she primped herself in front of a hand-held mirror. The extremely white powder with which she dusted her face was as obnoxious as her hair. Neither looked natural against her Italian countenance. Her eyebrows had been deliberately painted into an exaggerated curve, and her lips brightly pinked and ferociously outlined to give the illusion of fullness.

She hadn't yet said a word.

"She has a remarkable history behind her," said the well-spoken Italian agent. "She was the leading soprano for more than five years at the Teatro di Bellezza, and has been trained in an Ospedali conservatory since she was ten. She's performed in grand operas such as Pompeo, Le Nozze di Figaro, and Faust to name a few. Quite a record, indeed."

"Signor Morelli," I interrupted, sitting straight. "Regardless of my obvious position, I really don't care at all for the arts of the big names that come with them. All I want is to hear the woman sing. Shall we?"

Signora Giudicelli immediately came to attention. "Well," she spat, and I nearly jumped at the bright, nerve-wracking voice. "Eet's about-a time."

And with that one sentence, any optimism I had coming into this conference left me. Her shrill tones surely wouldn't sound any better in song. But I owed them an audition. Blast if I knew anything about music. She had been a leading soprano in the past; perhaps her offensive voice would soften a bit when put to a piano. If she could sing high enough without shattering glass, I supposed I would have to take her, seeing that I was desperate.

Seeing that the Phantom still demanded his salary, after all.

"Very well then," I concurred, standing, and the two Italians and their posse stood as well. "If you would kindly follow me, I will lead you to the auditorium."

We left my office. Giudicelli's voice was shrill even in murmurs as she spoke in hushed tones with her agent in their native Italian. I made my way to the stage, where M Reyer was already waiting with his instrumentalists and his unsure expression. "Monsieur," I addressed him, and moved my hand in the direction of the Italian diva. "Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, accompanied by Gestapo Morelli, her agent." I introduced the conductor to the two and motioned Giudicelli to the stage.

"Gestapo, ma music!" demanded Carlotta, gesturing wildly. The agent produced a collection of sheets and handed it to her. She snatched it away wildly. "You always haff to bend-a the paper, ya?" And with a flurry of Italian words, she made her way toward the stage, thrust the music into M Reyer's hands, and ascended the steps, with two cronies waddling behind her.

The short, unkempt duck of a woman wielded a glass bottle of pink liquid, which she promptly sprayed into the diva's throat. The taller one with spindly limbs straightened the Italian's mass of yellow hair, until Carlotta slapped them both away. "Monsieur?" she demanded, her shoulders back and one hand resting in the air—in practised position to sing.

I smacked my lips nervously and took a seat with Signor Morelli in front of the remaining of Giudicelli's posse, and before sitting I briefly noticed that several chorus members and stagehands had gathered about the room—undoubtedly eagre to hear the new leading hopeful.

Reyer shuffled the music and divided it between himself and the pianist. The Italian screeched at him. "Ah'm ready! 'Allo!"

I winced and glanced to the agent at my side. "Why…exactly…did Signora Giudicelli leave the Teatro di Bellezza?"

Morelli chewed on his lower lip as he settled into his seat. "Well, it is a funny storey, in a way…it could be called an agreement between La Carlotta and the managers. They did not want her to remain, and neither did she. It cancelled out in the end."

My brow furrowed, and I looked forward as the music began. The soprano wore a contented smirk upon her face, and she threw a grin of feigned humility to her manager before singing:

"O cessate di piagarmi

"O lasciatemi morir!"

From the first note, I wasn't sure what to think. The piece had begun in a ridiculously high key, so I was confident in her confidence that she could continue to scale higher and higher and still keep in tune. I checked my watch. Her range, then should not be a problem…but my ears protested.

"Luci ingrate, dispietate

"Piú di gelo e piú de' marmi!"

To give her credit, she hit each note, but the shrillness was slightly offensive.

"Fredde e SOOOOORDE a miei martir!"

I grimaced as she elongated the highest note of the piece, and the pianist fumbled over the keys as he tried to improvise his playing to match her self-ordained timing.

I thought it was over as she repeated the first two lines of the aria, but to my annoyance there was yet another page of words to be sung. I sat patiently, biting at my cheek, as she shrilled her way through the song. I never did care for opera. I would be the first to admit I didn't know anything about music. But she sounded quite a bit like all of those confounded opera singers out there, and her range was, in fact, magnificent…and her foreign extravagance was, in a way, entertaining.

But really, in truth, I was desperate. I could hardly afford the twenty thousand francs every month as it was, and the Opera's income was lessening with every passing season. We were doing poorly without a star as magnanimous as Willem di Renaldi. I hoped the Opera Ghost was happy with his decision to scare our leading tenor off—it resulted in a catastrophic drop in annuity for his beloved theatre. The main thing we needed now was a star to bring in the money.

La Carlotta could be it. Her voice was pretty underneath all that pompous vibrato. Those upper-class snobs who frequented the Populaire would love her if we sold her well enough. And with a range as impressive as hers, she might be an easy sell.

I wondered if the Phantom approved, and then cursed myself for even caring.

…

The Phantom

I shake my head, chuckling in disgust, from my seat in Box Five. From my position, I am only visible to those on stage, and even with that, the shadows blanket me into nothingness. I years ago reconstructed the box so that at the first hint of an intruder, I can disappear from it immediately and nothing will look out of place. It assists me agreeably, especially when eavesdropping on performances such as this.

Carlotta is the musical equivalent to a train wreck.

This I conclude before she even sings.

Her timbre is far too bright and constricted even in her spoken word, if that is what one wishes to call it, to allow any room for relief when set to music. She struts atop the stage as if she's been performing on it throughout the entirety of her pitiable life. It is already clear that I will not be expected to tolerate her even if she can sing well enough to claim the position she seeks.

The piano introduces the piece, and I recognise it as an aria from act two of Scarlatti's Pompeo. The aria was originally intended for an alto, but the key she begins in is far too high for a lower-ranged female. I lean forward, eagre to humour myself the second she opens her mouth.

Delightfully, she does not disappoint me.

"O cessate di piagarmi…"

My face bursts into the grin that I reserve solely for these occasions. With a horrendous glottal start she takes off, and from there the notes soar on the paradoxical wings of a vulture. Her disgusting embellishment at the height of the phrase reflects far more than just her voice, but her entire aura; she is more pretentious than even Willem di Renaldi. Indeed, her range as a soprano does not fail to impress, but none of the notes are hit with either clarity or grace—not that either attribute would compensate for the rest of her voice regardless. The song she has chosen is a tragedy and should be performed in a sombre approach; Carlotta, however, cannot hide her arrogant grin beneath her feigned and repulsively unnatural appearance of grief. The translation of the Italian lyrics glance off my mind as she continues. Cease to wound me…let me die. I sneer at the obvious irony. Cold, deaf to my torture…crueler than a serpent and asp, deaf to my sighs. It is perfectly scathing! The words she sings reflect the thoughts of all who are unfortunate enough to be present in the room—or within even a kilometre's radius.

For the first time in my life, I actually feel sympathy for other human beings in this moment whose ears have suffered enough.

I remove myself from my seat, cast a long look at my golden opera house and the misplaced shrieking foreigner at its stage, and slip through the rich, blood-red velvet curtains. My eardrums have convinced me to leave the wails of the Italian "diva" to drown in their own pomposity, and I gaily leave my box, confident that M Lefevre will not ever consider employing such a screeching pelican in my theatre.

…

Lefevre

"She's hired," I declared.

Carlotta's posse clapped their palms excitedly and floundered about her, and she smiled and generously offered gracious thanks to all who had listened. The residents of the opera house who had listened also applauded her, and whispered amongst themselves with wide grins and energetic nods. With each passing moment I grew more confident. She wasn't a bad singer at all, as far as the operatic type went…the truth was, she was a rather good singer with some rather obnoxious exaggerations. She would definitely do to an obnoxious society.

A look of great relief passed over Signor Morelli's features, and he shook my hand. "Thank you, Monsieur. This is an investment you will surely not regret."

My eyes landed on the flamboyant diva as she fluttered between false demureness and self-importance. I had an idea that, in time, I would. But right now, money was the issue, and money was my highest priority.

Oh, Mother Mary, I could not wait to retire.

"La Carlotta's husband, I may have mentioned, is also a veteran of the stage," the agent went on. "He could not join us today, but I have a distinct feeling that he will also be ripe for an audition—if you need a tenor of his qualifications, that is."

"Oh, really," I returned. "Well, we have a few talented young men here as well, but none to truly brag about. When should I expect Signor Giudicelli?"

A sharp glance was thrown my way by Carlotta.

"Oh, Monsieur," chuckled Morelli. "He isn't a Giudicelli at all. The two were stars before they wed, and Signora Giudicelli kept her own surname for publicity's sake. Signor Ubaldo Piangi will be in Paris within the week; I am sure that upon receiving the news of his wife's new position in this Opera, he will be glad to oblige you with an audition."

I nodded and clasped my hands together. "Very good, then…very good indeed. We could always use another star here at the Populaire." I threw a brief glance to the rafters, reminding myself that I had done the only smart thing to do in such a situation, and he couldn't possibly disagree.

A/N…Yeah, I still haven't fully returned…but I thought I'd upload anyway. Might be helpful to let you know that a couple of years have passed, and Christine is now thirteen years old. I don't know when I'll upload next…but for those of you who are still reading, you have no idea how grateful I am. Merry Christmas!