The Phantom
"Gustave Daae would be satisfied
"That such a monument was granted his death
"Enclosed is everything I promised
"The correct sum that will cover all expenses
"To serve his mem'ry and to quote from Macbeth:
"'Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it'
"So therefore his grave will be given what only grandeur and esteem befit."
My pen stills against the paper, and the feather tickles the corner of my mouth. Christine's father was cheated out of the fame he might have had, the glory he deserved, by an unexplainable sickness and an untimely death. The few days he might have had, had I not ended him first, would have made no difference in the sudden and unfair obscurity of his life. He died a poor violinist with no family, and was given a nondescript plot in a picturesque but obscure division of the cemetery. Until now, such a thought has never occurred to me.
"Do not speak to Miss Daae of this renovation. She will learn in my timing." I consider the events of the past days once more, and Christine's suggestion that without Carlotta we may have no replacement, comes to mind. "I advise you to employ an understudy for the role of Pamina, in the event that the worst should happen and our resident pelican cannot perform. You would please me to consider Jacqueline d'Bram, whose voice is far more tolerable—Monsieur Reyer can conduct in a lower key, one more fitting for Jacqueline's range. I ask that you remind Madame Giry that her expertise is in ballet, and not the personal affairs of phantoms and Angels. Again, my good manager, you have my humble regards. With utmost gratitude," I pen and voice aloud, "O.G."
Madame is a very brave, and very strong, human being. I know exactly that her reproof to the Angel in Christine's presence was meant for my ears. I fold the letter and the franc notes into an envelope and seal it. Perhaps this will appease her presumptuous self and prevent her from intruding further upon my business with Christine in the future.
The ominous seal grins back at me.
My impatience with Christine's tears still plagues me. It is a mystery to me why she insists that she has failed me, and especially why she still grieves her father. She has me. I have been both Father and Teacher—albeit more the latter than former—and have done more for her than Gustave ever could. What more does she need, until she is finally past mourning him? I can only be resolute that this accolade to her father's memory will give her the closure that she lacks. Then, perhaps her soul will finally be mine alone, and I will no longer have to share it with the spirit of her deceased father.
Lefevre
"How long must I be expected to deal with him?" I murmured, sulking in the auditorium's front row, and I held the brandy bottle to my head.
The great shrieking Italian was engaged in a furious confrontation with Reyer. Apparently she didn't want an understudy. Jacqueline was standing off to the side with her support group, and on her face was a mixture of a smirk and a scowl. She had often starred in major roles in our productions, due to her pretty voice, but that had been before Carlotta had arrived and blown us all away with her astounding range. Now she was both eagre and humiliated to be given the chance at an understudy role. La Carlotta would have none of it, however.
"I stay! I not 'scared off' by your Ghost!"
"Signora, please, it is only in the event that, well, you fall ill and cannot—"
"Ah, no!" Carlotta shook both index fingers in his face. "I does not-a get seeck! I never need undahstudy at La Bellezza, and I never need one 'ere!"
Perhaps, the event of her getting a headache would be agreeable. It would certainly spare me one.
"You put far too much good faith in the powers that haunt this place," called a Jacqueline crony.
I had already given the money and the blueprints to the manufacturing team, after debating whether or not I should just keep it—after all, it was rightfully mine. But he would find out. It was the first time he'd actually given me money. Normally he expected me to pay out of what remained in my pocket, but then again, his demands always had something to do with the benefit of the opera house.
This request was of an entirely different nature.
The ballet mistress marched toward me. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her eyes blazing. "My students cannot concentrate. You are the manager—do something."
"Oh, Madame Giry," I acknowledged, raising my bottle to salute her. "The Phantom has a message for you."
She folded her arms and eyed me quizzically.
"He wants you to know that your expertise is in ballet, and not meddling in the affairs of phantoms and Angels—whatever that means."
She lifted her thin brows. "Is that so, Monsieur?"
I shrugged, and dangled the note above me. "It is. Yes, that is so. It says so right here." I cleared my throat and sang the first few lines to her, having learned his new blasted tune—not nearly as irritating as the first, but a bit grave nonetheless.
Giry snatched the note from my hands, but I had the little song memorised, and I continued to sing it and its irony in my high state as she read the words frantically. A look came over her eyes, one I couldn't read, but her voice had softened. "What does he have planned?"
"Apparently he wants Monsieur Daae's grave to be dug, and a shrine to be built into which his coffin will be placed. I don't know what it is about that little Daae girl, but he seems to have chosen her as his muse." I quoted the last two words with my fingers, and took a swig of brandy.
She gave me a sharp look.
"It's true," I slurred. "First the dressing room, and now her father's grave? What does he see in the little brat? She certainly can't dance."
Madame's hand swooped toward me, and I started and yelped, scrambling to sit straighter to avoid her blow. But it was my drink she aimed for. She yanked it from my grasp and sniffed the top, grimaced, and gave me back the note.
"It's my bottle I want back," I whined.
"I am aware," she said, and she proceeded to pour the contents into the nearest waste can at the side of the stage. She swiftly returned and arrogantly thrust the empty bottle in my face.
I growled at her, and swiped the remaining brandy from my moustache, before snatching the bottle away.
Christine
The curtains had closed on the opening night of Die Zauberflöte. The night before, Meg and I had slipped away from the crowds, which were larger than usual, it being the debut performance of La Carlotta Giudicelli.
It had also been mine, and Meg's, and every other student in the conservatory who had reached the age of thirteen—not to mention the older students, and the ballet veterans who had graduated from their training months and years before. But we were not the object of celebration for the night.
We were, however, the object of attention from many of the patrons and wealthy male theatre-goers who, though they were refined and gentlemanly on the outside, were pigs like Joseph Buquet within. Madame had never explained to me of the nature of men, but I had become somewhat informed by the gossip of the older ballet girls who were "experienced"…though I still wasn't quite sure I knew what that meant.
Madame Giry had instructed us to remove our costumes and prepare for bed at once. We did not argue—though we would have liked to remain for the party, the strange men and their inappropriate behaviour was a bit frightening.
It was the next morning, and Meg and I were still reeling from the excitement of the night before. We were scouring the boxes before the cleaning ladies were on duty, looking for any lost coins or trinkets. It was Meg's idea, but she was far too nervous to go through with it on her own. I was intrigued, and that was enough for her—she relied on me a great deal. I did try to be obedient in the important things, but Madame was at the market, and the golden boxes seemed to gleam in the afterglow.
"Look!" called Meg, and I peeked out of Box Nine. She was across the theatre in Box Four. "I've found a lady's comb!"
"Oh!" I left the box and skipped, however clumsily, on my dancer's feet throughout the corridor that encircled the auditorium. I rounded and flung myself into Box Four, where Meg was positively giddy. "Let me see it!" I said breathlessly.
Meg handed me the comb. It was silver, and bejewelled with pearls and engraved with a name: Marie. "It's beautiful," I breathed.
"I'll bet I could sell it to La Sorelli for ten francs," Meg gushed.
I paused before handing it back. "Suppose the owner comes looking for it?"
"Oh, Christine, that wouldn't happen," Meg assured, shaking her head. "It is far too below their class to come scrounging after a lost trinket in an empty theatre."
I nodded, and opened my pouch to show her all of the coins I had collected.
Meg brandished hers as well. "Let's count them!" I heartily agreed, and we poured the contents onto the floor of the box, still gleefully energetic with the memories of the previous night's triumph.
Apparently, however, the management was not.
"Travesty!" cried Lefevre. "That's his one critique, 'twas a travesty! As if he should speak!"
Meg and I dropped our coins at the loud, irritated sound, and stole a glance over the edge of the box. Lefevre stood about the stage in front of M Reyer. We grinned at each other. He had fairly sung his complaint!
"Mockery, was his final word, such a mockery!" agreed Reyer. "Is that not absurd?"
"Clearly he has yet to see, audiences disagree," continued the manager. "'Smashing hit,' the paper wrote. You should see our Phantom's note!"
Meg grabbed my hand and whispered, "The Opera Ghost! He must not have liked the performance!"
Lefevre cleared his throat, and proceeded:
"Lefevre, she has disgraced my Opera
"Carlotta, thence, is simply out
"Your consensus is daft
"Though we're understaffed
"I believe
"That with my notoriety
"Society will still remain devout!"
Before he could even finish reciting the musical letter, the aforementioned soprano and her posse burst through the doors of the auditorium, shrieking. Meg and I both jumped, and covered our mouths to stifle our giggles.
"Opera Ghost!" she wailed. "Vhat a childish prank! Who dis Opera Ghost?"
"If I might be frank," interjected Reyer, "it's no joke! We've a spectre here: I swear, it's no joke…and he's quite austere."
"Superstition don't suffice! You believe dis poltergeist?"
I glanced at Meg. "She's got a note too," I whispered, and the Angel's presence settled about me, with his familiar smell of candle-wax and rose petals. I never knew if anyone else smelt him, or if it was only me.
Lefevre had taken the note from Carlotta's manicured hands, and it was clear, as he cleared his throat a second time, that he would indeed be singing again.
"My dear Signora Giudicelli
"Thus far you have ignored my hints
"Though a tune from your throat
"Couldn't charm a goat
"Still you sing!
"I've had it with your shrieking
"Though your speaking voice alone still makes me wince!"
Meg and I burst into silent giggles, and Piangi chose his moment to sing aloud from a slip of white paper—his own note.
"My dear Signor Ubaldo Piangi
"You're married to a mockingbird
"She's not fit for the stage
"But instead, a cage
"I should add
"Of course she'll want to squeak
"So bind her beak and she will utter not a word!"
And as Carlotta pouted, Lefevre, Reyer, and Piangi joined their voices and input into a disharmonious rant that matched the Phantom's melody.
"Clearly that's a gross distortion
"Our Ghost and his embellishments!
"One thing is for certain
"When they call, 'curtain'
"She remains
"He might resort to violence
"He might silence our soprano
"A piano suits his preference
"But our deference è gravano
"So O.G. will have to deal
"For this spiel makes us weary of suspense!"
I grabbed Meg's hand and we ran from the box, collapsing on the floor outside of it so we could release our laughter without restraint. Tears streamed from both our cheeks as we tried desperately to capture our breath. "What on earth…" Meg forced through a laugh, "does…è gravano mean?"
I clutched my stomach, still enraptured by their hilarious ravings and the Phantom's arrogant sense of humour—for the first time, I could associate something other than fear with his name. "It means," I laughed, and took a deep breath. "It means is a burden, I think."
Through a large grin, Meg furrowed her delicate brow at me. "I did not know you spoke Italian."
I didn't…not fluently, at least. But the Angel had taught me a decent amount of dialect in other languages, Italian being one of them. I couldn't tell her that, however—especially with his obvious presence so near to me—so I quickly formed an excuse in my mind. "An Italian piece that the chorus performed last year…I read the translation."
Meg's curiosity vanished. "How I hate studying such things."
We were silent, our lips pursed over new bouts of laughter, for a moment. With one glance at each other, though, we were doubled over in fresh fits.
A/N…This was a fun chapter. If you can't match the lyrics with tunes from the movie, ask me and I'll let you know which I had in mind.