Letter Seven - Prima Donna Drama

Christine gazed into the shadowy flies far above her and sighed, adjusting the sweater she was using as a pillow. She'd been in the same spot for what felt like hours, but didn't have the will to sit up or change positions. None of them did. The rest of the chorus was sprawled around her in various forms of repose, discreetly scrolling through their phones or reading. Some flipped through their music, but no one made a sound.

No one wanted to draw her attention.

Staging had begun for their first production. This meant full cast rehearsal, which meant...the prima donna. Christine sighed again and rubbed a hand over her face before checking her phone for the time. One hour left.

The chorus had enjoyed a productive morning blocking several scenes that didn't include any of the major players. Christine could never get used to the thrill of singing onstage, and the force of her excitement came like a shaft of sunlight in an attic window, brilliant, golden, and illuminating. She'd missed this.

The cast had broken for lunch, and returned at the end of the hour to find the leads warming up around the piano. Reyer gathered everyone to center stage, gave a rundown for the rest of the afternoon, and went through a brief warm up. Everything went splendidly for about twenty minutes, and then . . .

"It appears our prima donna has an issue," Reyer said, bringing the music to a halt with a wave of his hand. "What is it now, Miss Carlotta?"

"The issue, Mr. Reyer," Lana Carlotta bit out each syllable, "is that after weeks of rehearsal you refuse to cue me in on time."

"I refuse to cue you in?"

"Yes. I'm supposed to make my entrance - "

"Six measures in, on C, as it is written in the music, and as we've been rehearsing."

Lana stiffened at the interruption and shot the conductor a look so withering it stilled the rest of the company. A hush descended.

"I know what we've been rehearsing, and I know when I start singing, but as I have made perfectly clear, I should be on the stage on the first measure. My character should work the stage, garner attention, so when I start singing on the sixth measure the audience knows where to look!"

"This is Faust, Miss Carlotta," Reyer said wearily, "not Carmen. Marguerite is meant to be modest, there's no reason for you to 'work the stage.' Everyone resume places."

The company rearranged themselves into their starting positions. Christine held a cornucopia filled with fake produce aloft and straightened her shoulders. The music began, the chorus still somewhat stilted as they tried to create the illusion of a bustling town square. Carlotta glowered offstage until her cue and then burst from the wings, her opening notes fortissimo and decidedly immodest.

"Stop, stop, stop," Mr. Reyer said with a dramatic flourish. "Miss Carlotta."

"Yes, Maestro?" Lana replied, all ice.

"Do you need a review of your character?"

"Oh, no, I think I understand her quite well."

"Then why, may I ask, are you thundering onstage as though she is a Viking warrior?" Reyer asked. Lana did not respond, merely crossed her arms. Reyer sighed. "Everyone take five while I refresh our prima donna on her opening measures."

Five minutes had turned to fifteen. Fifteen minutes to thirty. There were a few times everyone stood up and actually took their places, but they never seemed to make it past the first measure. A solid hour and a half must have passed since the last time everyone had been called to their places, and Christine and the rest of the chorus had slowly slumped into their current positions of desperate restlessness.

The shadows were thick above her, and the sound of Carlotta's ongoing argument with Reyer buzzed in the background. Music played in the back of her mind, and Christine closed her eyes to remember it more clearly, and just as quickly veered away from the memory.

She still couldn't be sure if The Voice was real, and she didn't want to contemplate the consequences of it being otherwise. For now...she was still deciding, and she ignored the memory of The Voice singing again and again in her head.

Opening her eyes, Christine traced the various ropes leading from platform to platform, seeing nothing but her own thoughts, until movement captured her attention. Her eyes snapped to a dark corner where the shadows were deepest, and tried to pinpoint the source of the movement. A loose corner of a backdrop maybe? A curtain? She raised herself to her elbows and narrowed her eyes. She could almost make out the shape of a –

"All right, everyone! I'd like to run through this scene with the full company at least once before we leave for the day," Reyer called, clapping to draw the attention of the now lethargic cast. "Places everyone!"

Christine rolled onto her stomach and pushed up onto her knees. Grabbing her cornucopia, she stood and moved to her spot. The music in her mind matched the opening chords and she remembered to apply her new breathing techniques, surprised again that such simple instructions could bring such change. She let the music take her, still stumbling a bit in her choreography, but more confident than she had felt in weeks.

Christine's voice rang out in unison with the other sopranos, and she let it soar. Carlotta's head snapped in her direction for a moment, her gaze drifting across the line of sopranos before locking onto Christine. Christine smiled at the prima donna nervously before spinning clockwise in time with the other chorus members as the song grew particularly boisterous. Christine glanced back to see Carlotta still staring at her suspiciously, but shook it off. The company sounded well, and she cheered with them as the song finished and everyone exited to the wings. She walked quickly towards her dressing room, eager to see if she would hear him again.

o...o0o...o

"Christine, could you pass the salt please, sweetie?" Mamma Valerius asked.

"Oh, sure," Christine mumbled around a mouthful of chicken parmesan, and pushed the shaker across the table.

"Is your chicken parm good?"

"Delicious as always, Mamma. How do you do it?" Christine responded smiling. This conversation happened frequently.

"Well, my dear, first I start by putting a big pot of water on the stove. Then, once that's at a nice, roiling boil, I turn the heat off, pick up the phone, and call Cafe Fiorello."

They both laughed, and the conversation settled into companionable silence. Mamma Valerius looked at Christine intently.

"You seem to be doing well lately," Mamma V. said after a moment.

"Thanks, Mamma. It's been a...good couple of weeks."

"Mmmhh," Mamma made a noncomittal noise in her throat. She looked at Christine in that way she had, as if she knew Christine wasn't telling the whole truth. "They've been keeping you later and later for rehearsals."

"You know how it is, opening night approaching…" Christine said, and Mamma Valerius seemed to accept that as an answer. She smiled conspiratorially and leaned towards Christine.

"So...did you ever hear the voice again? In your dressing room? The Angel of Music?"

"Ha. Haha," Christine's laugh seemed somewhat forced. "Trust me Mamma, if I hear the actual Angel of Music, you're the first person I'll tell."

o...o0o...o

"No, no, NO!" The sound of fluttering paper followed the shriek as Lana Carlotta hurled her music folder at the back of the piano. "¿Cómo te atreves? ¡Eres estúpido! ¿Cómo se supone que debo trabajar en estas condiciones?"

The piano cut off with a discordant clang, and the chorus went silent. Christine clenched her jaw and looked at the floor. She'd been like this everyday so far. Reyer sighed heavily from the pit.

"What seems to be the problem, Miss Carlotta?" He asked drily.

"Well, the pianist is atrocious –"

"Fred's worked here for years, and I'll correct him if he needs it."

"– the chorus is extremely off key! Especially the sopranos –"

"The chorus is fine."

"And that girl," Carlotta hissed as if she didn't hear him, and stabbed a finger towards where Lyla Jammes stretched, "is standing in my light."

Lyla looked up, shocked, and the way she pointed to herself and mouthed 'who, me?' was almost comical. Meg swooped toward the dancer and ushered her further upstage, out of the line of fire.

"We aren't even using that part of the stage," Christine muttered to herself. One of the sopranos smirked, and Christine inhaled sharply, realizing she'd spoken out loud.

Carlotta's eyes snapped towards the huddle of sopranos. Her eyes narrowed on Christine, and the diva took a step towards the group, but the tapping of Reyer's baton drew her attention.

"Alright, places everyone. From the top, Miss Carlotta, if you are quite finished with your tantrum."

The entire auditorium stilled. The dancers. The chorus. The housekeepers sweeping between the seats.

"Tantrum?" Carlotta said, quiet and dangerous.

"Yes, tantrum. I will not have my rehearsals prolonged with your childish behavior and finger pointing any longer."

"You can't talk to me like that."

"Oh, I think I'll speak in any manner I deem appropriate. I have directed this opera since before you were a chorus girl, and I will not tolerate this behavior any longer. Your insufferability has increased with each passing season, and I will not to hesitate to pass this information onto the managers –"

"The managers?" Carlotta barked with a laugh, and began stalking towards Reyer. Her long, dark hair slipped over one shoulder of her sleek pant suit. "What are you going to do? Tell on me? Give me detention?"

"If you continue to disrupt my –"

"Who do you think was a bigger draw for our new managers, Mr. Reyer? Me? Or you?"

Reyer did not answer, merely gazed up at the angry woman now looming above him.

"Me. They chose this opera because of me. Because of my name, my talent, and my connections," Carlotta continued. She was quiet, cold. It was worse than her screaming. "Which one of us is on track to EGOT, Reyer? Me? Or You?"

"No one is denying that you are talented, Miss Carlotta –"

"Yes. That's right. I am talented. I bring in the crowds. I bring in the money. It's my face on the posters, not the face of some tired old man."

A stunned Reyer watched as she turned, strode back across the stage, and picked her up her black Balenciaga bag.

"Who do you think the managers would be more willing to lose, Reyer? Me? Or you?" Carlotta leveled a final glare at the director before she turned and strode into the wings. "Think about that next time you want to comment on my 'behavior.'"

o...o0o...o

The week began to follow a pattern. A productive morning, followed by an unproductive afternoon. Carlotta wasted time, the cast grumbled, and then they all went home. By Friday, in spite of everything, Christine could see the show beginning to come together. There were still snarls to work out, but with three weeks until opening night, and nearly four until the Farewell Gala for the managers, the company was on track.

In the mornings, when it was just the chorus, Christine loved being at the Opera. She loves the singing, the dancing, the sense of camaraderie. She began to feel she was truly part of the company.

In the morning.

Then, lunch would end, as all lunches must, and it would be time for the full cast to rehearse. Christine considered herself a patient person. She had her off days, of course, but she tried to look at things from both sides, be understanding. Anger fit her like an uncomfortably tight dress, and she didn't like to wear it often.

Lana Carlotta, it seemed, was determined to be Christine's personal tight dress tailor. The woman seemed to peddle anger, and a tiny, little fire of annoyance built inside of Christine as the week went on. Everytime Carlotta opened her mouth, another log was added to the growing flame.

The prima donna split her time equally between singing and critique, and Christine was getting tired of both. It wasn't that Christine disliked Carlotta's voice. Her voice was gorgeous. Big. Powerful. The woman dominated the stage when she was singing, but dominating was all she ever did. She didn't perform so much as strut, warping the role to match her own personality. Even pianissimo, everything thing Lana Carlotta did was loud.

Christine could have accepted a flat performance. It would have been fine. It would have been tolerable. It would have been a quirk if Carlotta hadn't been so...so...infuriating? Rude? Arrogant? It was Christine's first season at the opera, and she knew she had no right to complain. Maybe this was just how it was everywhere. Christine couldn't help but imagine, though, how good the company might be if everyone wasn't worried about angering the lead soprano.

The diva had repeatedly interrupted the morning's practice with her comments and corrections.

"Hmm, it seems like something off key is coming from the soprano section, doesn't it, Reyer?"

"Don't you think the chorus should be a bit louder, Reyer?"

"It seems like someone stage right is throwing off the melody."

Christine had been standing stage right when Carlotta threw out that particular accusation, and her little fire of annoyance was being threatened by lapping waves of dread. All the woman's nitpicking, all her little comments had seemed to be aimed in Christine's direction. Christine tried to shake the feeling. She moved to her starting position, and waited for the music to start. She hadn't done anything to Lana Carlotta! She hadn't been rude, she hadn't gossiped. There was plenty of talk in the wings to join in on, but Christine did her best to steer clear of it. Christine's step faltered as she remembered the retort that had slipped out in response to Carlotta's rant about Lyla earlier in the week. Had Carlotta heard her? Was that what this was?

Pushing the thought from her mind, she stood straighter to give her diaphragm more support. You have to push from the abdomen for the strongest notes, he'd said. If he had said it. If she wasn't crazy. Christine spun once with the rest of the chorus line and released a long, pure note. This was one of her favorite measures in the opera, and she let herself enjoy the moment. Too soon, the music moved on, and she joined hands with one of the tenors to promenade down the stage. As he whirled her stage left, Christine made sudden and terrible eye contact with Lana Carlotta. The diva had come to a complete stop and was glaring at Christine with menace. Christine's voice died in her chest, and she could sense the rest of the company coming to faltering stops around her as Carlotta's cue came and went unsung. A bass on the other side of the stage tripped as the alto in his arms went still, and the note he had been singing went sour.

"Mr. Reyer!" Carlotta cried shrilly, silencing the orchestration and the remaining singers. The diva stalked towards Christine like a jungle cat. "There it is again. Did you hear it? I've been saying someone has been off all day."

Reyer said nothing, but his shoulders fell. The tenor holding Christine's hand inched away from her, and Christine suddenly found herself isolated from the safety of the herd. Carlotta stopped in front of her, never breaking eye contact.

"I think I found our culprit." Carlotta said, gently placing a hand on Christine's shoulder.

"Really, Miss Carlotta," Reyes hastened to say, but there wasn't much heart in it. "Steven tripped, a simple mistake, and its –"

"No," Carlotta interrupted, her voice quiet and saccharine. "That wasn't Steven. I think it was this little songbird. You're new, aren't you? What's your name?"

"Uh, I'm…" Christine stammered, confused and more than a little suspicious. "My name is Christine Daae?"

"Well, Christine," Carlotta leaned in as if speaking to a child, "next time, try singing on key."

"But," Christine said quietly, stunned, but Lana Carlotta had already turned and sauntered toward center stage. "...I'm a soprano? That wasn't even –"

"From the top then, Maestro?" Carlotta asked Reyer loudly, shooting a smirk over her shoulder at the still stammering Christine. Reyer looked at Christine sadly, but the fight had left him. He tapped his baton.

"If my diva commands."

o...o0o...o

He stormed up the tunnel, his keen eyes carving the path out of the shadows, but his body knew the way already. He let his legs take control and allowed himself to fume unhindered.

That harpy.

That shrew.

She had been tolerable . . . until she won that Grammy. Then, she had been a nuisance . . . until her bit part on some movie won her an Oscar. Then, she had been insufferable until, oh blessed relief, she'd gone off to star in some Broadway spectacular. He had thought he was rid of her, but no. She was back with her Tony and her complete inability to understand her own mediocrity. Worse than that, she was getting in his way.

The girl didn't trust him yet. Not fully, not the way he wanted her to. It was only a matter of time, of course. He could sense her turning toward her 'Angel,' and that was good. It was necessary.

The only way he could shape her voice was if she gave it to him completely.

They'd been making progress. It had only been a few days, and already her tone had improved. Her confidence. Before, she had let herself get lost in the background, but now she let the music take her. Hesitantly, of course, but there were flashes of brilliance.

It was those flashes, like shiny objects to a squawking crow, that drew that woman towards his project. His investment.

Lana Carlotta was walking a dangerous line.

The girl had been doing fine, well even, but she had begun to retreat inside herself again. Ever since the Prima Donna had singled her out and blamed her for that bass' mistake, he could see the retreat in her body language during rehearsals. He could see the retreat in her eyes when she listened to him through the mirror. Moreover, he could see her begin to doubt the Angel, and that was unacceptable.

Discord, missteps, the occasional wrong note were annoyances, to be sure, but they to be expected at this stage in rehearsal. That arrogant toad had begun blaming his pupil for all of them. Inane, idiotic, claims that even a child could see were the petty jabs of a jealous woman. And Reyer, that coward, stood by and said nothing.

The glow from her dressing room soothed him as he neared, and he exhaled. He would deal with Lana Carlotta. He would deal with Reyer. First, though, he needed to reassure his student.

The dressing room was empty, and his internal clock told him that rehearsal wouldn't be ending for another half hour. He reached above his head and pressed a small button. A seam shot down the mirror, and with a hiss the two halves of the glass swung towards him.

He stepped into the dressing room and breathed deeply. He liked how the room smelled now. It had lost the smell of dust and closed up places, and in its place there was something sweet and open. Alive. The air and apples and sunshine.

He walked the perimeter of the room, so changed now from the musty storage space it had been. He ran a finger along the dresser. No dust. She kept the room more or less clean. He could see, from the care she took of her music and her space, that she understood the very great value of the opportunity she had been given. He picked up the two silver egg cups and tapped them together as he had seen her do. The *TING* sounded throughout the room, and he almost smiled.

He silenced the resonating hum with the touch of a finger to each cup, and drifted toward the vanity. Her purse was open, and he rifled through the bag with a practiced efficiency. The contents of a woman's purse always told an interesting story.

Gum, charger, a travel bible, headphones. A few loose receipts floated around the bag, and at the bottom was a library book of "true accounts of angels on earth." He did smile then. Her wallet contained the usual debit and credit cards, her I.D., MetroCard, a few ones dollar bill, and some pennies. Tucked under the I.D. was a small photo with worn edges. A somewhat haggard looking man and a young girl at the beach. Her eyes were large in a face almost too hollow for a child, and the man's face was lined from hunger. The two were smiling, however, almost laughing as they held shells out towards the camera. He flipped the photo over, and saw in looping script:

"Our first summer with Gustave and Christine at Port Jarvis. – 2001"

Tucking the photo back into place, he commited the name to memory. Gustave Daae. He had done a cursory search into his student's background, of course, but it would be useful to research her family history further.

He placed the purse where it had been, and surveyed the rest of the vanity. A camera sat atop an unsteady looking pile of two thick books and a battered, white cardboard storage box. Oh yes, Tuesday. The day she filmed.

They were very informative, these "letters" as she called them. He had seen her film a few before he had chosen to reveal himself, or more accurately, his voice. How peculiar to share something so intimate with the world. The views were minimal, of course, she didn't try to advertise, but the videos were public. She was utterly unmasked, and it was fascinating.

After watching her film, he'd been curious to see if she did anything with the footage. He had found her YouTube channel with ease, but did not subscribe. He had not yet discovered if she was the inquisitive sort, nor had he gained an accurate assessment of her intelligence, but she didn't seem like a complete idiot, and he couldn't risk her making any connections.

A mysterious voice claiming to be an angel could be believable . . . to a person of the right temperament and with the appropriate persuasive elements.

He had made grown men believe in ghosts, after all.

But a mysterious voice, and an anonymous subscription to her video diary? Too many coincidences.

No, he wouldn't risk that. Not in this delicate stage of the process.

He moved behind the camera, a somewhat outdated handheld model, and flipped open the small screen. The gold curtain dominated the frame, but the chair she usually sat in had been tucked out of the way.

Utterly unmasked. He'd never encountered someone so open.

Voices began to drift down the hall. Rehearsal must have ended sooner than scheduled.

"Don't worry about it, Christine," he heard that Giry woman's daughter say on the other side of the door. "No one is taking anything she says seriously."

His student's muffled response sounded . . . more irate than downtrodden. Was it possible? This could prove interesting.

The girl was making her goodbyes to the dancer, so he pushed record on the camera before swiftly stepping back through the mirror. The panes of glass swung silently back together behind him.

With a soft, hydraulic hiss, the seam between the panes vanished, leaving no trace, just as the door opened.