The Phantom goes dine on the Gala Night
My mother never understood quite how I managed to stumble on the bare floor of my room, as I told her. A physician was called during the time I was on bed, and he diagnosed a slight fracture. 'It would be impossible to dance for long periods of time', he said. I knew I would not be in the next performance. Everybody felt very sorry for me being left out, and I was probably the only one who, secretly, didn't see things in that way.
When I started at the Ballet School of the Opera, I was truly excited, and for a while I believed that was what I wanted for myself. As the years passed, all the effort, all the training, began to lose its objective, becoming monotonous and dull. I enjoyed dancing, but I wanted so much more for my life than only that stage life! And as irresponsible as it might sound, I was so excited and preoccupied with what followed my accident that I could barely be sorry for missing a little performance.
Thinking of that, I sighed deeply. I knew the reality of the moment, and this was that dancing was a job that paid me fairly well. But how long would I hide myself in that apparently steady life? I hated when the only thing left for me to do was to ponder endlessly about problems without solution.
"Where would that masked man be?" I wondered, trying to distract my mind. But the old thoughts came back, stubbornly.
The first time I left the room in weeks was for the Gala Night. My head was so light on the day, it was hard to imagine how some people could spend years working or living in the exact same place, without seeing other people or the rest of the world.
The Opera House was entirely occupied by a huge crowd cladded in their fanciest attires, climbing the grand staircase, losing themselves through the corridors. I met my mother at the mezzanine level, she has been keeping box five, seven and nine. Wearing her old black dress, she was outstanding in the colorful crowd.
The performance was already over and piano music could be heard coming from the foyer, where the celebration would take place.
When I came into the room, all the ballerinas surrounded me, eager to tell me how beautiful the ballet was, and how frightening it was meeting the Opera Ghost just before getting onto the stage.
I had a weird feeling of not belonging to that place, and suddenly felt sad. I was definitely not dedicated or fanatic about dancing, though shivering and discussing the Phantom of the Opera with the other girls was one of my favorite pastimes. I bent my head slightly with this thought and walked away from them.
The celebration went on with people discussing the show energetically, and it was soon clear to me the climax of that night: it was not the ballet, which was in its best moment; it was not the musicians, or the presence of the actual composers of the pieces presented; it was the new "Margueritta", Christine Daae, who astonished the entire audience with the most beautiful voice of Paris, gaining a full-standing ovation that extended for several minutes.
As happy as I was when I heard about her huge success, I was a little concerned when James told me Christine had fainted just after singing her last note. "Little James", as some would call Cecille, was a dear friend, a bit younger than me. Her mother had been working as an usher side by side with my mother for years. And I knew how she loved to start new rumors.
It was La Sorelli, the main dancer on our group, who was able to tell me more about the abrupt ending to Christine's performance.
Sorelli was a beautiful woman, with a strong but delicate frame, and had the most exquisite eyes I had ever seen. These eyes were now responsible for the Count de Chagny's recurrent presence inside the dressing rooms.
She was standing by the end of the foyer, trying to memorize a speech she would present to the old managers. The Count was by her, watching her little coquettish gestures as she read the paper over and over.
"Hello, my dear Meg," she said in a slightly condescending voice, "how is your leg doing?"
I lifted the brim of my dress, showing my immobilized ankle - which made the Count blush slightly and turn his head away. She told me how sorry she was and introduced me the Count with a good touch of pride.
He was in his late thirties, a distinct man with a kind smile and cold eyes. He kissed my hand politely, and after some talking from Sorelli, he interrupted her and asked me, "Mademoiselle, is it possible that you saw my young brother, Raoul, around the dressing rooms?"
"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I did not go through there. I came straight from my room on the opposite side of the Opera."
"It's just that... it's been a while since I saw him. He went to talk with this friend of yours, what is her name? Daye, Dyae... Anyway, that was after the performance, it has been a while now... But thank you."
I was already leaving them when Cecille came running toward us. She was waving her hands and tangling her fingers now on her ballet skirt. She approached La Sorelli and me in a secretive way and asked, very frightened and pale, "Can I please talk with you?"
The Count frowned at the girl but excused us. Sorelli looked pretty upset, 'This had better be important, Little James!'
"It is!", she said with wide eyes. She lowered her voice even more and announced, "He is here. The Phantom of the Opera."
I thought Sorelli was going to slap the girl, but her eyes quickly met what James was talking about: at the very end of the foyer, barely distinguishable in the distance, there was the figure of a man whose head seem to be dead, in spite of his polite gestures in refusing a drink.
The stories told about the Phantom said he had many heads, and he could choose which one he would wear. He even had a head "all made of fire", as someone reported once. But the "death head" was the most common in the descriptions.
It didn't matter to Sorelli whether this was the ghost or not. She only managed an expression of total disgust at the sight and left the room, looking for the Count de Chagny.