Madame Giry

Rehearsals for Die Zauberflöte were already underway. It was nearly a century old and had been performed a thousand times over, but with encouragement from the Opera Ghost, Lefevre had introduced it to the Populaire and instructed me to choreograph into it a few ballet numbers. Against the Phantom's wishes, he had assigned the lead role of the Queen to Signora Giudicelli. The soubrette assigned the role of Pamina had up and left, refusing to work under the obnoxiousness of La Carlotta's disposition.

True to her grandiose and selfish stylings, Carlotta insisted upon rehearsing for both the Queen and Pamina until a replacement soubrette was found.

Backstage my girls practised their arrondis as the actors rehearsed their lines in the auditorium. More than once my brow furrowed in irritation at the obnoxiously loud Italian and the effect she was having on my students.

Carlotta's shrillness cut through the thick air behind the elaborate sets. "O such martyrdahm! Such pain-a!"

Bette and Agatha, the opera house's most jovial and curious middle-aged maids, giggled from their stations. The performer who played Monostatos responded: "Lost is your life!" I weaved in and out of my students' queues, observing them with a strict expression of critique and one hand on my chin.

"Death do not move-a me," wailed Carlotta. "Only ma mather will mourn for me! She will die ahve grief cer-teen-ly."

"Signora, Signora," interrupted M Reyer through a loud tapping of his baton on the base of the stage. "I would remind you that Pamina says does not instead of do not, as she is a well-spoken—"

"Maestro, you make fun ahve me?" the diva yipped nasally. "I am not-a Pamina for long, and the Queen say however she likes!"

The girls tittered through their arrondis and I released a sigh of exasperation. "Concentrate," I warned, and their mouths clamped over humoured grins. I was far too annoyed to be amused at the soprano's antics, and I was not about to let her ruin yet another valuable practise.

Christine's arms were not rounding the way they were meant to inside such a position. God-willing, she was surely a better singer than she was a dancer. She would have to be, the way he praised her in my presence. I approached her from behind and held her in the proper stance, my hands clutching her forearms. "Like this, Miss Daae," I instructed, and I felt her muscles tense beneath me. She was so terribly frightened of criticism, I wondered how she ever made it through one of his lessons.

Then again, perhaps he was the reason she was so frightened of disapproval.

"Yes, Madame," she responded, but her arms began to tremble with her efforts, and she stumbled a bit.

I released her and turned her around, well aware of the other girls' eyes on both of us. "Have you even been practising on your own time?"

Her head hung slightly, and she lowered her eyes. "No, Madame." Her shoulders drooped, and I snapped my fingers; she straightened, and looked me in the eye. "He doesn't give me much time for anything else."

She said the last part in a whisper, which only attracted more stares. I turned from her and clapped my hands, and the ballerinas resumed position. I met Christine's eyes again. "You should remind him that you have responsibilities other than his own indulgences," I murmured.

Her brown eyes widened a bit, and she shook her head. "Oh, no. It isn't for his sake at all that he challenges me…I ask him to."

I gave her a hard stare. "Then it is you who needs reminding. Come now—continue your stretches."

Christine nodded and blew a stray curl from the pale skin of her young face.

The rehearsal had resumed. The actor who would play Papageno recited, "Pretty girl, young and fine…much whiter still than chalk."

I smiled as I turned from her at the character's words, and my thoughts, as they often did, found a place thinking about the Phantom. I reminded myself to trust him—to trust the apparition who swore his indifference and therefore his honour. His sudden revelation of lust for the pretty girl, whiter than chalk, and his equally sudden promise to never view her in an unholy way again, attacked my mind.

"Huh!" called Papageno and Monostatos in unison. "That is the Devil, certainly."

…

The Phantom

I pace about the top of the rafters, my hands behind my back. I wear no cloak, but I am dressed fully in black, and the mask I wear is also black—I will not be seen unless one looks specifically for me. Staring down at the wide stage and the colourful wooden sets, I smile; and then my gaze settles on Carlotta.

Her horrible blonde wig is piled high above her head. It is nearly large enough to fit her ego. My manager has annoyingly not taken my distaste for her seriously, and the caped hog did nothing but insult her pride. It is time that my subtle hints intensify in their efforts. A wicked grin creeps into my features.

Carlotta's cheekbones raise as her mouth widens, and she inhales loudly and sharply before singing her duet as Pamina with Papageno. It is blasphemy. A dramatic coloratura squeezing her voice into a soubrette role is offensive even to God. But Carlotta will miss no chance to prove her vocal…flexibility.

"What joy is indeed greater!"

I cringe at the offensive sound as I study the overhanging pulleys above. Is it even possible that she makes me despise Die Zauberflöte? I secure a rose to one of the rigs with a long black satin ribbon, just above the hook, and lower myself swiftly down the length of a sturdy rope between the gigantic red curtains, a return cord in hand.

"What a luck if I found him!"

On cue, Monostatos makes his ominous entrance, entirely transforming their gay and love-dizzied tune to mournful grief.

"Ah, now it's all over for us!"

A series of unsure lyrical spouts of unmatched melodies erupt from the frantic chorus as each singer ludicrously attempts different lines of the necessary musical commentary intended for such a scene.

"O, friend, now we are done for…."

"No truer words have been spoken," I murmur through my hot breath, though I realise if she was not humiliated enough by the "Italian" pig, ridding myself of her may not be as easy of a task as I thought.

Still hidden within the curtain, I aim the rig directly into Carlotta's path, and with a great tug on the cords, I release it. The rope above the stage comes loose and the heavy hook at its end swings faithfully toward the diva. It would be pleasant if it hit her evenly in the face, but that is not my intention. Instead, it performs exactly as I mean it to; the roped iron dips directly into centre stage, and lodges in her elaborate yellow wig like a hook in the mouth of a fish. At the impact, Carlotta screams and is knocked backward; her wig tears from her foreign head and continues into the rig's flight.

My mouth opens in a triumphant grin as more screams accompany hers, but instantly I harden as I see the diva sprawled on the floor; she is not bald underneath at all. Instead, her dark brown hair is pleated and pinned beneath a white cloth. I curse and whip around, disappointed and terribly angered at such a failure, and my mind circles around new, more frightening plots as I move soundlessly through the curtains and into a dark corridor. My blood boils even as I hear the frightened echoes of the onlookers who have discovered my rose attached to the rig.