3. Trip to the cellars

It had been a long time since I last went to the cellars.

Actually, I'd never gone further than some dismal areas of the second underground floor, where it was already tricky to visit without a lantern. By then, I got to see a few ill-lit chambers, rusted iron gates closing the passages to the lower levels, and a perfect scenario for a horror story. The result of this adventure was a serious reprimand I received when my mother learned about it through some nosey guard.

I remember when I first arrived at the Opera, as a youth coming from the country, how fascinated I was with that immense kingdom, seventeen floors altogether, five of which underground.

It was different than anything I had ever seen. I would play the explorer, and go everywhere around the Theater looking for ghosts, searching every room accidentally forgotten unlocked, investigating old sets, costumes and magic beings; everything was a new game. And there were, of course, the exciting stories and superstitions told by the old workers of the Opera, which would entertain us until the next ballet class. In that sense, I loved moving to Paris. But this city was not only luxury and beauty, as I learned later on.

Thinking of the cellars now, the only thing that made me ponder going there was the old warnings from my mother. We had all kinds of people working in the Opera, and she had always been worried about me rambling around - which I absolutely loved to do. Unlike the superstitious people of the theater, my mother was more concerned with the living people than the ghosts.

There were a few well-known stories about workers who should be avoided by young girls, and I didn't want to make one more. I thought about it for a second, and that was how long it took me to conveniently decide that if not for anything else, it was too cold for staff men to go around the theater haunting little girls.

I stopped by Christine's room, to see if she wanted to join me. I knew she was not fond of silly explorations, but thought it would be worth a try. Coming to the door of her dressing room, all I could hear was her voice, up and down in the notes. I decided not to interrupt her.

Grabbing a lantern in my room, I headed to the long corridor that gave way to the stairs. The difference between the upper levels and the area where my room and Christine's were was unbelievable. It was not as much for the cold as for the peeling walls and the dark halls.

One could hear clearly from there the music coming from the rehearsals, although the stage was a long distance from where I was.

The sounds in this Opera House seemed to know all the ways around it, and to be everywhere at the same time.

I remember my older sister, during the only visit she paid to us, complaining about the voices and sounds. "They are always in my head, all mixed up!" she said, overwhelmed. I think she never really grew accustomed to our eccentric home, letting it be evident that she was glad to be back in England and in her monotonous married life.

When, descending two narrow staircases, nothing could be heard anymore but my steps, an uncanny feeling struck me. The silence seemed oddly loud, compared to the constant effervesce of the theater! I would be scared to work anywhere below the main floor, surrounded by this solid emptiness of sounds. And there were people who worked underground, operating trapdoors or mechanisms that allowed the stage to rotate, depending on the performance. But once I reached the second cellar, it became a seldom occurrence to meet someone there. There was no activity there anymore, most of the rooms were inactivated. Only tons of ancient settings, spoiled costumes, ropes; and dust covering every inch of that desolate place.

I peered into a few rooms and thought it was a quite stale floor. Endless paraphernalia, but that was all.

The third staircase appeared before me, blocked with wooden boxes. I examined the barrier and failed in finding any reason to restrain myself. I found my way through the boxes and went down the stairs.

It was completely dark now, and I had to turn my lantern stronger to see where I was standing. I had expected, though I knew no one went there very often, to find some kind of illumination. From far away I could hear the sound of water running in tubes.

If the rest of the Opera was cold, I would have frozen in these cellars without my cape. But far worse than the cold was the humidity in the air, combined with a sharp and constant breeze.

I had to wonder why someone would build such an enormous place as the Opera House if so many areas of it would be eventually abandoned and completely useless. Perhaps the designer had other plans for these endless corridors and rooms than mere storage of sets and old material.

But The Opera House had not always had such a noble use, I must say. During the war, its cellars were used as a dungeon for thousands of political prisoners. I grew up listening to stories of skeletons found there and their spirits haunting the place. Not a pleasant atmosphere.

It was a sad sight - these forgotten chambers. The walls and the floor were built out of crude stone, covered with moss. Gas tubes formed a maze above my head and the cold was almost unbearable. It must have been a slow death to those who were locked down here.

What kind of people might have inhabited this place?

I decided to be reasonable and go back, since it seemed like there was nothing there for me.

I took my path again, walking faster to repel the rats, which I could detect by the noise they made. It was then that I tangled my feet in what came to be a big pile of ropes. I stumbled and hit the floor before I could tell what was going on.

I was upset for allowing myself to be distracted, and not watching my step. When I tried to stand up, a grief of pain took over me. The loud cry I gave must have reached every vault below the theater, and it was despairing to receive a thousand echoes as responses, in such a circumstance.

Groaning and restraining another cry, I reached out for my leg. The pain was overwhelming and it was clear I had badly injured it.

That hateful little voice came to my head, saying, "You knew you weren't supposed to do this. That's your punishment for disobeying..." I roared at the thought and decided not to panic. Looking around, no light and no one could be seen. I almost laughed at this dramatic situation.

Trying to keep the little coolness I had inside of me, I positioned my leg as comfortable as possible and began to scream for help.

I knew it wouldn't do any good, for though my cries could possibly reach the most remote areas down there, it would never make it to the surface.

Slowly the acceptance came - I was doomed to be left in that place until someone decided to go there, or until my despair was greater than the pain and I could finally drag myself up to the first cellar.

I gave a deep sigh and leaned against the block of stone behind me. It seemed to me that even the rats were quiet now. Looking at the lantern laying sideways, I turned it off. It didn't seem likely it would be needed anytime soon.

This would have been a good time to have faith in something. I wished I had at least half of Christine's beliefs, so I could tell myself that a father or a prince or an angel would rescue me. Unfortunately I had lost faith in all these magic-like things and I was pretty conscious I had none of those looking after me. It must have been so easy for Christine to go through hard times in her life... I never thought I would come to envy her imagination, and yet it would have been so helpful at that moment.

Knowing I had no other option, I resumed screaming for help. I understand that if someone was closer to where I was my screams would have sounded really annoying to him. And that is how I managed to get help.