"Madame Mol, while I appreciate it is not how your Opera House operates, I need a pianist to practice with, and adequate rehearsal time. If you cannot provide me with such requirements, I am happy to speak with Mr. Y about them. You contracted me to sing here. Without a pianist – a competent pianist – there is no way I will be ready to perform in a week's time."
Was what Christine had meant to say today to Mol Weaver. What she did say replayed in her mind, sounding childish, whiny, and petulant.
What she wanted was not an extravagant demand. It was not a matter of opinion. It was a simple fact: a singer needs a pianist and a singer needs rehearsal. Christine could handle the changes that came when performing acts instead of operas. She was flexible after all, if not excited for the change in pace. But common expectations should still be met. Diva's expected accompanists who could play the selections she was to sing.
Nonetheless, Mol had huffed and excused and half listened until Christine gave up in her attempts. That had been a week ago. And still her opening night had not been scheduled.
What good was an opera singer if she was not perfection? What was she worth paying if she did not produce an income?
Now back in her hotel room, she seethed at her own inability to confront the woman for her basic needs. She was not sixteen anymore. She was not some poor orphan opera dancer anymore. She was not inexperienced in the nature of the theatre. She would not be intimated by this woman. She would not sit silently as managers controlled her fate and took her voice from her.
She was not having this same conversation with herself again.
Twisting her hands into the back of the overstuffed chair, Christine stifled a frustrated roar and kicked at the music piled next to her, sending books and pages scattering about her feet. The relief was fleeting. Foolish, she thought. Her anger only ever served to hurt herself. A curse to God escaped her lips.
Perhaps escape to the rural mountains was not for her and she just return to New York. Returning could be no more shameful than her leaving.
Falling to her knees and with a steading breath, she took to righting her mess. Her fingers lingered over the pages and pages of music. Works her father had loved to play, operas she had longed to sing from, practice pages with lingering French annotations in the margins. How easy life would be, to merely be notes on a page which rise and fall at one's – no. No. It was not easier to be notes on the page. She had been once, and it had only brought her heartache and tragedy.
She would not return to New York. We never look back, she reminded herself.
This could not be her life – wishing herself away to times of false love and safety and music.
Unbidden and sharp, her memories betrayed her and came rushing in. Sheet music crumpled between her fists, her hands clutched at her bodice. It had always been so easy with him – to escape into the music, to feel like so much more when in the music. The familiar ache in her chest, which always rose when her mind wandered into the hauntings of the past, returned viciously. His love was not false. Selfish. But not false.
She would feel the treacherous ache pulsing through her veins for days. Another ghost she could not escape. Another longing she could never forget. He sent you away. They loved you, but did not want you. They said they loved you, but did not want you.
The phantom was dead. Long dead. And Roaul just as dead to her, though his heart still beat.
We never look back.
Warm tea steadied her nerves, though her muscles still felt the lingering emptiness which always surfaced when her memories let loose. Christine took careful time to organize the cluster of music she's displaced – prolonging each moment steadily to fill the evening hours.
At the bottom of the pile she found a copy of the Carbon County Gazette, the front page announcing her arrival.
'Suffering Soprano Christine Daee flees New York to reside on Opera House stage'. She did not need to read further to know her reputation had proceeded her to the earnest looking, bloodsucking reporter. Worse – they couldn't even spell her name correctly. At least there was no mention of Paris in the article. Had the reporter had any real resources or connections, he would have had a greater scandal to tell than her abrupt departure just days before the opening night of Puccini's Tosca.
He'd not used a single quote from her in the whole article. It was like she'd not spoken to him for two hours. She might as well have been a porcelain doll staring back at him with wide eyes and a vapid smile.
It could have been worse. But it was still bad enough. On such a miserable day, she'd had enough.
Enough - the word echoed through her mindand rage defiant burned down her spine. She could not correct the past, but she would create for herself a future where she had her own voice. If no one would listen of their own accord, she would make them listen. And if not to her, then she would use someone they would.
On the back of the 3rd movement from Pelléas et Mélisande, Christine wrote:
Good Sir,
While I have yet to have the pleasure of meeting my most esteemed manager, I wish to thank you for your most generous engagement at the Opera House. I look forward to providing my voice to your vision. Should you have a particular selection you wish to hear, I am most amenable to your suggestion.
There are, however, a few perplexities in the nature of our arrangement that I hope you will provide clarity on.
I have yet to be provided the benefit of a daily rehearsal room and pianist. These are two requirements I must insist on. While my previous representation and I have parted ways, I do know that these fundamental requirements were part of my contract. I hope this news does not deter you from our partnership.
Indeed, the only change I see necessary is if you would kindly provide me my portion of ticket sales directly from yourself, rather than send them to New York for reimbursement.
I look forward to meeting your choice of pianist as soon as possible.
I realize that these requests may trespass upon your hospitality quite enough, but I would ask only one last favor, as I'm sure it is within your excellent abilities. I have noticed from the Phantasma pamphlets that you are in possession of an e with accent aigu. Should you have a spare type of this very French letter, would you be able to provide it to the Carbon County Gazette for use? There are many indignities a female must suffer for her art. Incorrect spelling of her name should not be one of them.
I look forward to meeting you before opening night.
Your humble soprano,
Christine Daaé
The letter sat where Christine had addressed it last night, on her writing desk. She must move it before the bellman arrived with her morning coffee. If not, he would surely spill all over it.
How to get the letter to Mr. Y though? Christine did not have an address for him and based on the general chatter about Mauch Chunk, it was not like one could simply stop by his door uninvited. Even if her brazenness had lasted beyond her fitful night of sleep, she didn't even know where his door would be. Phantasma, most likely. And she was not at all interested in visiting the American carnival.
She did not trust Mol to take the letter to him. The only other person would be Mr. Cummings. Mr. Y had discussed her singing with the man.
Though the hour was early, Christine dressed. If she was to catch Mr. Cummings before he left for work, she must leave soon. Before coffee, even. She was careful to add an extra layer of socks. The temperature had turned and the mountains of Pennsylvania held a far sharper cold than any street in New York.
When Christine was finally able to knock on the Packer Mansion door, she was more than a little concerned it was inappropriately early for the household. In her experience, Americans rose early to start the day with no care for morning refinement; however, all the windows of the mansion were dim, and frost still clung to the edges of their frames.
"Mr. Cummings is a'ready at the work, Miss." James startled her from behind. "Best you head there quick." Christine took several steadying breaths, trying to slow her heart rate, and not yell irrationally at the mussy man. It was not his fault unholy terror rose in her chest whenever she was surprised. Still, her voice froze in her throat and she knew no good sound would come out. With a nod and a tight smile, she left James on the front stoop and made her short way to the company office.
The LeHigh Coal and Navigation Company offices sat imposingly before the wide river bed, lording its four stories over the railroad station between. The red building was the tallest structure in town, its interworkings the steady heartbeat of every action taken throughout the valley. While American society often perplexed Christine, it was clear to see that any young man looking to advance could be found working within, and every other man without means or connection worked without.
Christine hadn't even grabbed the door handle before she heard Mr. Cummings sauntering down Main Street, three men and a small boy in toe.
"Miss Day," he nodded, his walk barely slowing for his words. He opened the door before them, readying to sweep past Christine entirely.
"Mr. Cummings. You're just the man I was looking for."
Hand placed firmly on the open door, he allowed the rest of the men to pass before him. "What can I do for you Miss Day?"
"I have a letter for Mr. Y and I hoped you would be so kind as to deliver it to him."
"Is the United States Post Office on strike?" he mocked.
C'était une mauvaise idée. "I do not have an address for him. Since you are aquatiu-"
"Sam!" he hollered through the door.
"I was just hoping—"
"Sam," Mr. Cummings asked the small freckled boy who had been walking with the men, "This woman has a letter for your employer. Make sure it gets to him?" And with less than a nod, Mr. Cummings excused himself from her company.
Sam could be no more than eleven or twelve. He was a lanky boy in disheveled clothing, but there was not a spot of dirt on his person. From the way his boots reflected the early morning light, it looked as though he had carefully shined the old things for hours. "You are Miss Daaé. Did I say that right?"
"You did. Much better than anyone else in this town."
"Mr. Y says you have the most beautiful voice. More beautiful than all the angels. You're very pretty." The statements left his mouth as though he was talking to himself. When the boy realized he said them out loud, to her, he blushed scarlet. "I'm sorry, Miss. You have a letter for Mr. Y?"
"I do. Your name is Sam, oui?" He nodded. "Will you make sure Mr. Y gets my letter Sam?" His nod didn't stop and continued on through the train's horn.
"I gotta catch that train, Miss." Releasing her letter into his care, Christine was only half convinced it would find its proper recipient.
Since it was still painfully early in the morning and she had yet to enjoy a cup of coffee and Mol would have her sit in the Opera House until at least mid-day, Christine decided she would enjoy a warm breakfast from the baker and see if his wife had any interesting news from New York since last week.
She should have known the interesting news would be her article in the paper. Did that foolish Frenchman really leave you for the South Pole? Was it true you suffered indignities no proper American woman could imagine? What were those indignities? I can't believe you didn't up and leave for Paris when they brought in a young ingénue!
Sweet Lord, how she longed for a quiet, lonely train ride.
