Letter Eleven - The Farewell Gala
I'm singing.
I'm singing.
I'm singing.
The thought ripped across Christine's mind over and over again, almost drowning out the music she was making. She was on stage. She was alone. She was in a dress that sparkled like rubies and her voice was ringing out into the theater. The packed theater. Echoing off the walls and ceiling and wallets. Not wallets, that was wrong, those didn't echo, but the past did. She was singing. She could hear her own voice in her ear and the boy who saved her scarf was somewhere nearby and there were bad things, bad things, bad things, and the song was ending now and maybe so was she.
Dark.
Grey.
Everything was made of dark and grey. Tulle and fog and muted colors and a sea made of bottles. There were people above her and the lights were bright. Then they were gone. She was alone on a high windy hill. She was alone on a cold October beach. She was alone in the subway tunnels.
It was possible she was in her dressing room.
Tulle and fog, crepe and mist, inconsequential and vaporous and covering. She was in a motel room, in many hotel rooms, in an alley, in a barn, and always from somewhere just behind her she could hear her father's violin, and she was young and spinning and happy, but also so, so, so sad for reasons she couldn't remember at the moment but felt heavy and important in her hands.
She could hear Meg, nice Meg, fun Meg, friend Meg. Meg and another woman talking about Trauma.
Trauma with a capital T.
Traaaaaaaaa-mah.
She did not want to leave the grey. It was cool and soothing and safe. Far away from the bad things and Joseph Buquet and there was a man speaking now, floating with the other voices...
o...o0o...o
The final two days before opening night passed in a blur of song and sweat and sound. Among the new chorus members there was a buzz, a thrill of excitement. This is what they had been working towards, dreaming of, wishing for all those opening nights in high school and community theater. This was dreams coming true.
Christine loved every second. The feel of being backstage was electric. The final dress rehearsal broke, and the cast was released for a few hours to rest and eat before the curtain rose on the 2014-2015 opera season. Christine heard some of the other chorus members making plans to get dinner together, but she ducked off stage and hurried to her dressing room.
"Angel, are you here?" She closed the door behind her and listened.
"As I said I would be," the Angel's voice, sonorous and tinged with amusement, filled the room.
"Ok. Ok, good," Christine said. She opened the lunch bag on her desk. "I brought something light, like you suggested. PB&J and an apple."
"Very good. That will sustain you without hindering your voice. Would you like me to go over what you should expect tonight?"
Christine nodded, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the mirror, and started eating. The Angel covered many topics as she finished her sandwich and started on her apple, ranging from the size of the audience to tips on how to avoid stage fright. The voice flowed over and around her, soothing her like a lullaby. She washed the food down with sips of tepid water, and once finished the Angel talked her through a series of stretches.
"Roll your head clockwise...good, now counterclockwise...and done. How are you feeling, Miss Daaé?"
Her eyes opened slowly. Her limbs were warm and loose, and the Voice wrapped about her like a velvet blanket. She felt content. She felt safe. She felt she could go to sleep right there and then, and if she did, nothing bad would ever happen again.
"I feel good." Is what she said aloud.
Christine sat at her vanity and braided her hair in two french braids. Her bangs were tricky, the short hairs slipping from her fingers, but eventually she pinned the tail ends of the braids close to her head and put on a wig cap. The Angel continued to speak, encouraging her and answering her questions without annoyance. He gave suggestions as she applied her stage make-up. He regaled her with funny stories of other musicians he had visited in the past while she changed into her costume. As long as he was speaking, she felt ok.
"Time to warm up," the Angel said once she had adjusted her wig. "Begin with the arpeggio I taught you the other day."
Christine sang as the Angel ran her through exercises for her upper register, her lower register, and volume. An alarm went off on her phone. Twenty minutes until she needed to report to the stage. She felt a nervous spike shoot through her at the sound. She grabbed her toothbrush and toothpaste and headed to the bathroom.
Stepping out into the hallway felt like stepping out of a dream, like waking, and in a rush the impending doom of the evening crashed upon her. Could she do this? Was she ready? She rinsed her mouth and looked into the mirror. What was she doing here? She turned the water off and hurried back to her dressing room.
"Maestro…" she said as she crossed to the mirror.
"You are ready, Miss Daaé." The Angel's tone brooked no argument. "Now go. It is time."
Christine released a shaky breath and squeezed her hands into fists as though clinging to the Angel's words. She nodded and turned to the door.
"Christine."
She turned to look at the mirror.
"I will be there. Listening. You won't be alone."
She smiled and shut the door behind her.
Christine hurried to the stage. The audience sounded like the sea, their voices crashing like waves against the curtain. Christine saw Meg stretching with the dancers and waved at her. Meg mouthed 'break a leg!' in return. Christine grabbed her basket from the prop table and took her place with the rest of the chorus. Reyer stopped by briefly to give some sort of speech about opening night, but Christine heard very little of what was said. She took the hand of a soprano near her and gave it a squeeze. The girl squeezed back and shot Christine a bright smile as the sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments silenced the sea of people. Christine gazed up into the rafters.
Oh Lord, don't let me fail.
God had sent the Angel of Music to her. God would take care of her. Everything was going to be alright. Her father was up there, looking down on her, and she knew he would be proud.
The opening notes of Faust erupted from the pit.
Christine jumped a bit at the sound, and the soprano let go of Christine's to pat her shoulder.
"Don't worry," the girl whispered in Christine's ear. "You'll do fine!"
Christine's heart beat wildly in her chest until she heard the cue for the chorus. She began to sing, and it was as if Christine disappeared. She entered the world of the story, and the only thing that mattered was the music. The lights were bright and hot. The audience was shapeless and shifting. But she was part of a heavenly chorus. She was a peasant girl on market day. She was one of many in mob out for blood. She drank in the music, and the music poured out of her.
She was free.
All too soon, Christine saw the curtain fall. Carlotta began hissing for the stagehands to lower her from her harness for the curtain call. Bit by bit, Christine came back to herself, like box being closed.
Breathing heavily, she joined hands with the line of chorus members, and together they ran into the light. They bowed, raised their hands into the air, bowed again, then split into two groups to allow space for the lead actors.
The principal actors had their bows, and Christine allowed her eyes to roam across the audience as she clapped. At least half of the audience was standing. Her face began to hurt from how wide she was smiling. Her eyes danced across the auditorium, from the front row to the nosebleeds and back again. The private boxes were all occupied save one, but as she gestured with the rest of the company to Reyer and the orchestra, her eyes caught on one box in particular.
Raoul was standing, clapping, cheering so exuberantly she felt she could almost make out his voice in the crowd.
And he was looking at her.
She held his gaze for a long moment, a sweet warmth filling her chest before she caught herself and looked away. She gestured towards the sound booth, her heart skittering around her chest in a way that felt almost certainly like joy...if joy was wearing panic as a sweater. A final bow, and the curtain came down.
The company began to disperse, words of congratulations and talk of the show bouncing around the stage. Christine stayed where she was, gazing at the curtain and running through it all again.
"Christine!" Meg appeared suddenly and folded Christine into a hug. "What did you think! How'd your first show go?"
"It was...incredible."
"Right? Come on," Meg took Christine's hand and pulled her across the stage. "I want to hear all about it."
Christine followed Meg to her dressing room, and the two of them rehashed the show. Lyla chimed in now and then as she and Meg got changed.
"Chris, are you coming out with us?" Lyla asked as she cleaned off her stage make-up.
"I don't know. I haven't heard about any plans."
"Oh yeah! I was meaning to tell you," Meg said. "Most of the company goes out together after opening night. You've gotta come, it's always so much fun!"
"Yeah, you have to come, Christine!" Lyla said
"Ok. . .yeah! That sounds great. I can just run to my dressing room real fast, and–"
"Just wait, I'm basically ready! I'll run to your room with you and we can just head out from there," Meg said. "Lyla, do you want us to wait for you?"
"No thanks, I'm riding over with someone already."
"Oooh, that tenor? New-Guy-Nate?" Meg asked as she swiped on some lip gloss.
"Yes, New-Guy-Nate."
"Well, you two kids have fun." Meg grabbed her coat and purse. Christine waved goodbye to Lyla, and the two girls set off down the hall. They were so wrapped up in their conversation that it wasn't until Christine ushered Meg into the dressing room that she remembered the Angel of Music.
There was a feeling in the air, the same she felt whenever they had their lessons. She knew he was there, but she didn't know if she should acknowledge him in Meg's presence. She hadn't told anyone but Mamma about the Angel, and she didn't think she should. She had a feeling the Angel wouldn't want it.
Christine glanced anxiously at the mirror as she headed towards the changing screen. Meg kept up a happy stream of chatter, and Christine responded when necessary. She hated to think that the Angel might feel shunned by her behavior after everything he had done for her. She dressed quickly, hung up her costume, and put the wig on its stand. Her hair came out of the braids in waves, and Meg laughed when she saw Christine's bangs poking straight from her forehead at all angles. As Christine pinned them back, she had an idea. She swept some powder across her face, grabbed her purse, and the two girls headed out of the dressing room. They were a few feet down the hall when Christine patted her pockets as if she couldn't find something.
"Hold on just a sec, I left my phone in there."
Christine ran back into the room and straight to the mirror. She couldn't tell if she could feel the Angel any longer, but she had to try.
"Maestro," she stage-whispered, "It went so well! I can't wait to discuss it with you. I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
She swiped her phone off the desk and ran back out to Meg.
The club was loud and shiny, all sleek edges and chrome and pulsing lights. They found Lyla and some of the other girls from the chorus and ballet in a tight knot on the dance floor. The club played a fun mix of top-40 hits and 80's power ballads, and though Christine's 'dancing' could be better described as 'joyful jumping,' she enjoyed herself immensely. The music turned to a slower song, and the girls took the opportunity to sit down.
"I love this song," Meg said over the music, "but it's a better ballad than a dance number, you know?"
"For sure, unless it's like, an interpretive number?" Lyla said.
"Totally!"
"I'd love it even more if I could breathe!" Christine fanned herself. "I'm not as in shape as you ballet girls."
Lyla went up to the bar and came back with three waters. A tall, dark-skinned man with a jaw like chiseled stone threw his arm around Lyla's shoulders and the two started speaking in low tones. Christine sipped her water and gazed around the club. She recognized several people from the opera, but almost choked on her water when she saw La Sorelli twined around a man in a suit. The two were, for lack of a gentler description, sucking face like teenagers. One thing was absolutely certain:
That man was not Raoul de Chagny.
"Meg," Christine hissed into the girl's ear, and pointed towards Sorrelli. "Who. Is. That?"
"Uh, Sorelli and her boyfriend?" Meg shot her a weird look. "I told you about him the other day. Why?"
"Um. No reason." Christine said quickly. Too quickly. "I just thought she was seeing Raoul."
"Who's Raoul?"
Christine felt her whole body go rigid. Oh no.
"Wait," Meg's eyes grew wide. "Do you, like...know the de Chagny's?"
Oh. No.
"CHRISTINE!" Meg gasped and slapped Christine on the arm. "You've been holding out on me! Tell me EVERYTHING."
o...o0o...o
Christine nodded to the security guard and the occasional custodian as she made her way through the opera early the next morning. She knew she was hours earlier than the rest of the company, but she had realized just before bed the previous night that the new rehearsal and show schedule would eat into the time she usually spent at lessons with the Angel of Music. It was worth a shot to show up early, even if she might not hear the Voice until after the show that night. She couldn't wait. She needed to be back at the opera.
There was a loud clatter as she unlocked her door, and she paused for a moment to listen. Strange. Someone must have been cleaning in the other rooms, but for a moment the sound had seemed to come from behind her door. She pushed into the room.
"My, my. Such a dutiful student to arrive so early after staying out so late." The Voice was flat.
"Maestro! You're here, I'm so glad!"
"Are you? I am surprised. It seemed you had no time for your Angel last night."
"Oh!" Christine felt a stab of worry. "I'm sorry, Maestro. Everything happened so fast last night. Meg and I were talking about the show and she said it was tradition for the cast to go out, and then I didn't want to talk to you in front of her because I wasn't sure if you wanted anyone to know and I'm sorry. Please forgive me, Maestro...I should have come straight here."
The Voice was silent.
"I didn't mean to cause any offense. I couldn't have done any of this without you, and that's why I'm here. I couldn't wait to hear what you had to say about the show."
The Voice was silent.
"Please, Maestro…"
"You did well not to reveal my presence," the Voice finally said after a long moment. "It would not do for unworthy persons to know of our lessons."
"Of course!" Christine said eagerly, but her face grew worried a moment later. "I hope...is it alright that I told Mamma Valerius?"
The Angel chuckled, and the room seemed to grow warmer.
"Yes, my dear girl. You may tell your guardian anything you please. There is one thing you must promise me Christine."
"Anything, Maestro."
"You must promise to come to me after every performance."
"Of course, I just–"
"No. No, Miss Daaé. No 'I just,' no excuses. I want you to return to the dressing room immediately after curtain call. You are my student. I am training you to be a great artist, possibly the best the world has ever seen."
"That's very kind, but–"
"I do not trouble myself with petty kindness and trite compliments," the Angel interrupted, almost harshly. "I am speaking the truth. I have said I will not waste my time on someone unworthy. I have decided that you are worthy, Miss Daaé, but I must know that you will come to me immediately after the show."
"O-of course."
"Promise me, Miss Daaé."
"I promise."
"Good. Now, if you ever receive invitations like the one last night, please request my permission first. I know what is best for your voice, and I will know if it is an appropriate time to stay out all hours of the night."
"I didn't stay out very late! We just–"
"You will run the invitations by me, Miss Daaé."
"Yes, Maestro."
"Excellent. Now, would you like to hear my thoughts on the show?" The Angel asked, and Christine nodded. As the Voice spoke, a part of her continued to mull over the Angel's requests. Something about it struck her as odd, but she couldn't quite discern what. After a moment, she dismissed the thoughts. They were reasonable requests, and she knew the Angel of Music had only her best interest at heart. She owed it to him to give music her all.
"Since you are already here, and the schedule has changed, what do you say we move lessons to this time each day?" The Angel asked, to which Christine readily agreed.
The lesson went longer than usual and Christine, high on the feeling from the night before, gave herself over to the music. The Angel pushed her, and she soared. Her voice spilled out of her, decadent and lovely, better than she had ever sung before. She felt drained and shaky by the end of the lesson.
"You must rest before rehearsal," the Angel said once she had finished a vocal cool down. "There is plenty of time. Set an alarm for an hour on your phone and lay down on the settee."
"Oh, I don't need to–"
"Miss Daaé?" The Angel's tone held a warning. Christine set the alarm and lay on the small couch, draping an old curtain or table cloth of some sort over herself as a blanket.
"It takes me a while to fall asleep," she said softly, "I don't really know if it's worth it for me to lay down."
"Do not worry about that, my dear. You will sleep." The Angel said, and then began to sing. The notes danced around the room in lazy circles, light, caressing. Lavender and lullabies and safe, soft things.
Her phone beeped an hour later, and the room had a feeling of cool emptiness. The Angel was gone. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, surprised she'd managed to fall asleep at all, but was grateful for the nap. She felt rested. She stood up and stretched luxuriously. A salad and a few chapters of a book later, she arrived at rehearsal a few minutes early. When the clock struck one, Reyer called the company together.
"Thank you, everyone. You put on a great show last night." The crowd clapped, and a bass somewhere let out a deep whoop. "Yes, it's very exciting. The season is off to a great start."
Reyer shuffled the papers in his hands and peered down his nose at them.
"A few notes. First, the tenors came in late at the opening of the third act, so be prepared. Second, a reminder that now that the season has officially started, rehearsals will start at noon and go until 5:30, which should give you enough time to break for dinner and be back, in costume, by curtain."
"What about days with a matinee?" A voice said from somewhere in the crowd of people. Christine turned and saw it was the man who had been speaking with Lyla at the club. She figured he must be New-Guy-Nate, and she was grateful he'd asked for clarification.
"Yes, I was getting to that. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, there will be no rehearsal, but you will still need to arrive at the opera by noon for a warm up before our 2:00 pm matinee." Reyer looked at New-Guy-Nate over his glasses. "Does that answer your question, young man?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Final note. Next week we will continue rehearsals for our other shows, but for the next few days we will be rehearsing the pieces for the Gala. This will a very exciting show, with a lot of moving parts and big names, so we need to be at our best. That being said, let's get to work!"
The day went quickly, and the choral numbers began to shine. Christine watched happily from the wings as Meg practiced her solo number onstage, and listened in awe as some of her operatic heroes performed live (in front of her!) on stage (a stage they were sharing with her!). They broke for dinner. Christine ate her PB&J and apple in her dressing room as she had the night before. She was less nervous for the show than she had been the previous night, but the joy of being onstage was as strong as ever. Immediately after curtain call, she hastened to her dressing room. She could tell the Angel was there as soon as she opened the door.
"You did well tonight, Miss Daaé."
"Thank you, Maestro."
The Angel proceeded to give her a few notes and pointers to improve her performance. He had her sing a few measures of one of the songs to make sure her inflection and timing were correct.
"Are you very tired, Christine?" the Voice was gentle.
"I'm doing ok." Christine said as she yawned. "I'm sorry, you're right, I stayed out too late last night."
"Yes. Well, I will not keep you for very much longer. I wouldn't want to strain your voice. If you are up to it, would you care to go through the number from Romeo and Juliet once or twice?"
Christine nodded her consent and the Angel led her through the number. Yet again, as she had in the morning, she felt her voice pouring forth in a way that was new. In a way she had never experienced. She felt breathless and spent when the song came to an end, and the Angel dismissed her for the evening.
The next day went much the same. Her lesson with the Angel was startling and wonderful, but she noticed during the matinee that, although she was still singing well, much better than she had when she began at the opera, she was not singing as she had during her lessons that morning, or even the night before. They broke for dinner, and Christine mulled over this thought as she hurried off the stage.
"Chris, hey! Christine!" Meg called from behind her. "Would you like to grab dinner between shows with some of us?"
Christine froze. Was this the sort of invitation she was supposed to run by the Angel? It was technically after a show, even if it was just the matinee. She thought of eating the same PB&J for a third day in a row. Maybe it would be ok?
"Uh, I did bring food…but let me get changed real quick. I'll text you 15 minutes and let you know?" Christine said.
Meg agreed, and the two parted ways. When Christine got to her dressing room, she could tell immediately that the Angel was not there. The dressing room was empty. Christine worried over the question as she took off her costume and wig. She put on a knit cap rather than unbraid her hair, and debated on removing her stage makeup. She couldn't go to dinner looking like a 18th century street urchin, but if she stayed, she wouldn't have to re-apply it, just touch it up.
She looked at her PB&J, closed her eyes to try and feel any sign of the Angel, and grabbed a makeup wipe. It would be fine. This was dinner between shows, this wasn't staying out all night, and it's not as if the Angel wanted to keep her from having friends. She quickly wiped the thick makeup from her face and texted Meg that she would meet her out front.
"Angel? I'm heading out to dinner with Meg." Christine said from the doorway. There was no response.
Meg and Christine joined Lyla and New-Guy-Nate at one of the cafe tables. Nate and Christine began to discuss the best foods to eat before a show, while Lyla and Meg complained about their plain salads.
"So, has anything new happened with Buquet?" Lyla asked Meg.
"Oof," was all Meg said in response.
"That guy is just so..." Lyla trailed off
"What, did someone send you flowers or something?" New-Guy-Nate asked.
"No, no. Not a bouquet. Joseph Buquet." Lyla patted Nate's hand. "He's a stagehand who keeps causing issues."
"What's going on?" Christine said.
"Well, you know how he's been trying to lure girls over to that place under the stage where he said he saw the ghost?" Meg said,
"Yeah?"
"I know not everyone believes in the ghost, but my mom does. She's super worried something bad will happen if Buquet doesn't drop this whole thing."
"Something bad?" Nate sounded incredulous. "I mean, even if there is a ghost, it's not like it can do anything, right?"
"I don't know." Meg looked suddenly uncomfortable. "I just know that things have happened in the past, and my mom felt the need to pull Buquet aside and tell him to leave the ghost alone."
"What happened?" Christine asked.
"He blew her off."
"Oof," Lyla and Christine said in unison.
"I think you guys are making a big deal out of nothing." Nate finished his water. "Come on, we all need to get ready."
o...o0o...o
He wondered what her excuse would be this time.
He should not push it.
He should not make demands that would raise suspicion.
But this girl seemed to insist on spending her time in the company of others. Could she not simply be content to spend her time alone? Or with him? Was an angel's company not good enough for her?
He was between pre-show tasks when he checked the monitors and noticed she wasn't eating in her room. A search of recent footage on his phone showed her leaving with that Giry girl. He tended to his remaining tasks as best he could, but kept checking the feed of her hallway until he saw her. He quickly selected her dressing room on the display and raised the temperature.
He was rather proud of that idea. It really helped sell the whole "angel" shtick.
Often, when time allowed, he would watch her through her mirror. He didn't really question why he did it. Why he allowed himself to do it. If it was smart for him to do it. He liked looking at her. He liked seeing her thoughts play out on her open face. He liked watching her interact with people. He discovered just yesterday how much he enjoyed watching her sleep.
That had proven quite the distraction.
It had really been a struggle to pull himself back into his work after that.
He noticed she had a habit of getting startled if he spoke without first announcing his presence. Time after time! It just kept happening! He enjoyed startling people, of course, it was truly a cherished pastime, but not her. He didn't want to startle her.
The girl just got remarkably lost in her own thoughts.
He had realized he needed to create a new system. Some way to alert her, some way to make the Angel seem more real. He was growing rather fond of this little game and it's intricacies.
He quickly made his way to the space behind the mirror. She paused thoughtfully as she entered the room. He hummed softly. Not an actual melody, nothing she could really hear, just a long, low note. He threw the soft sound toward her as a sort of signal.
She looked at the mirror, just as he knew she would.
"Maestro?"
"I am here."
"Oh, good! I hope you don't mind, but I got dinner with Meg. I tried to tell you before I left, but I don't know if you heard me."
This stopped him short. Hm. He hadn't thought she would bring it up first thing. He had thought she would try to hide or excuse it, or perhaps be so blissfully unaware of her actions that she wouldn't realize she had broken her promise so soon after making it.
"Of course I heard you, child."
Of course he had not. He quickly rewound the footage of her room to just before she left, and he could see her lips moving. Something must be wrong with the mics in her room. Wait. Had he ever put the mics in her room?
"I can always hear when you speak to me." Or he would once he double checked the mic situation and came up with a solution for responding. He much preferred the human touch of throwing his own voice, but in this situation it might be beneficial to install an intercom of some sort, since he was, despite his best efforts, not omnipresent.
He gave her his notes on the matinee and "withdrew" by lowering the temperature in her room by four degrees for an immediate chill upon his departure.
He was nothing if not a showman.
Now, to work.
He hurried down the tunnel away from her room and slipped soundlessly through the walls. The understage was crowded with set pieces and machinery, and he slinked through the shadows they cast, practically a shadow himself. He squeezed through a false wall and moved along a narrow corridor. He knew he was there when he could smell the perfume.
He could barely smell anything at all and the scent was overpowering. How anyone with a . . . better sense of smell could handle it was a mystery.
He looked through a discreet peephole, craftily hidden in the design of the wallpaper, and saw the room was blessedly empty.
The perfume was giving him a headache. What a reek there must be of musk and geraniums and sandalwood if she was not even nearby and and the scent was this strong. Had she doused the rug in the stuff?
With a series of gentle taps in specific places he cracked open a panel of the wall. He withdrew an envelope of creamy paper and checked the name on the front before reaching through the panel and propping the missive prominently on her desk.
A first warning for Miss Lana Carlotta.
He snapped the panel closed, slipped down the hall, and pulled himself up a knotted rope until he was high enough to slide into the vents. He slid through these with practiced ease, chimneying up a vertical shaft and sliding carefully through the vents high above the lobby, where all the world below was gathered in their finery. He let himself down another vertical shaft in a controlled fall, and navigated through the vents until he was directly above the outgoing mail basket in the main office. He slipped another note for Lana Carlotta from his jacket pocket, this one addressed to her home, and dropped it from the vent where it landed in the box with a soft rustle of paper.
He exited the vents and worked his way towards the private offices. In the office of his dear, departing managers there was an armoire "too heavy to move" (i.e. screwed into the wall, years ago, by him), with a false back that opened into his tunnels.
It truly was a shame that Debienne and Poligny were leaving. He knew how to play the buffoons so beautifully. The thought of training two new simpletons wearied him. How long would it take to break them? What chaos would it wreak upon his opera? How many accidents until they learned they were not in charge?
It was all so exhausting.
But whatever happened, he had his star. His ace up his sleeve, and if all went according to plan, which it would, she would make an impression that the new management would be unable to ignore.
He pushed into the closet and listened through the closed doors. When he was sure the room was empty, he crept into the office and left his final notes. One prominently displayed on the desk, the other taped to the whiskey bottle in the bottom drawer.
He would miss these two idiots and their predictability.
The door to the office rattled, and he bounded for the armoire, pulling the doors almost closed just as the office door opened. The secretary put something in a filing cabinet before turning off the light and locking the door. The doors of the armoire latched with a gently pull, and he slid the false back shut behind him.
He twisted and slid through the narrow halls until he arrived in the hollow space next adjacent his box. He grabbed a lint roller from a small shelf and tidied the dust from his suit and cape. He loved a good cape like he loved a lair, and he would never attend his opera anything less than impeccably dressed. He owed it to himself.
He sat in the velvet chair he had moved into the hollow space and slid open a panel that looked down to the stage. Studying the audience, he tried to guess what sort of crowd they were. He felt for a latch on the wall near him and sprung open what looked like a mail slot. Without taking his eyes from the crowd, he slid the program left for him on the shelf through the slot and left a tip in its place.
The audience seemed like it would be an attentive one. He flipped through the program. There was a grammatical error on the seventh page that would need to be corrected, and he did not like the layout of the ads on pages nine and twelve. They cheapened the look of the program. The businesses would need to submit a new design or he would have the spaces sold to someone else. The pages fell open to the cast bios, and he trailed his finger across her name.
Christine Daaé.
He traced the letters absentmindedly as the show began. Traced them again and again until the letters felt carved into his brain. He closed his eyes and tried to pick her voice out from the chorus.
There.
She was in good voice tonight.
The curtain rose and fell, rose and fell. Bows were taken. He moved from the hollow chamber into the shadows of the box and cheered for her, in the open, as any other man might. She was flushed, smiling, as she came into the dressing room, chattering away in that pretty voice of hers while she removed her makeup. He traced her profile absentmindedly on the glass, traced it again and again as she shook her hair from it's braids and talked about her plans for her day off.
He had her sing Carlotta's number from the Gala. This was the most important aspect of the plan.
"Give yourself over to the music, Miss Daaé! Let it sweep through you, power you, run away with you! Passion is the heart of music!"
She made a visible effort to sing...louder.
"No! Not volume! Feeling! If you feel nothing, the music is empty! A shell. You are not an automaton. You are Juliet, and your lover is dead. He is gone forever! How does that feel?"
Her eyes snapped to his as though she could see him, and his mouth went dry.
"How does it feel, Christine?" His voice thundered through the room.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, and when they opened again, she was Juliet. She was sorrow incarnate. Her eyes filled with tears. Her whole body seemed to tremble. Her voice ripped him to shreds. It poured over him, through him, tracing his veins again and again until the sound was carved into his marrow. He knew her voice would be a part of him until the day he died.
The song ended, and there was silence for a long moment, the sound of their combined breathing all he could hear. She seemed to deflate. It was late now, later than he should have kept her, and her eyes were weary.
"You have done well, Miss Daaé. Go home and rest."
He waited for a few moments after she left the room before making his way quickly down, down, down and to the subway tunnel. He watched her from a distance until she was safely home, then headed deeper into the city.
There was one, final failsafe to arrange, and as he handed a small vial to a tired looking woman in a maid's uniform, he allowed satisfaction to wash over him.
o...o0o...o
The day of the gala arrived, and Christine breathed in the crisp morning air as she walked across the plaza to the opera. A nervous energy hummed through her as she made her way to her dressing room, a queasy sort of excitement. She thought of her last few lessons with the Angel of Music and her heart seemed to turn over in her chest.
She hadn't known she could do that.
She hadn't known she could sound like that. Sing like that. Even when her father was alive she had never done what she had done.
It was strange and wonderful and . . . terrifying, if she was being honest with herself. The music she created frightened her. She had stood in front of the mirror, she had watched herself sing.
she didn't recognize her own reflection
but she couldn't stay away
she wanted more
More of the music. More of the release. More of the power she felt as the music thundered through her. Music she created. For so long she had felt adrift. Weak. Small. Alone. But this. This made her feel strong.
Her dressing room felt empty, and she took a moment to stretch and enjoy the tea she had brought from home. There was a sudden rush of warmth and a feeling in her bones that she wasn't alone.
"Good morning, Miss Daaé." The Angel's voice floated through the room
"Good morning, Maestro."
She went through a series of warm ups, and the Angel instructed her through a few tricky measures from The Marriage of Figaro. For the majority of the lesson, however, the Angel focused primarily on the piece from Romeo and Juliet.
"That will be all for today, Miss Daaé. You've shown remarkable improvement."
"Thank you, Maestro."
"Yes, remarkable improvement," the Angel repeated as though he had not heard her. "I suggest you prepare. It will not be long before some opportunity or another presents itself."
"Are you sure I'm ready?" The nervous energy had settled into a hard ball in the pit of her stomach.
"Oh, yes, my dear. You are ready. And when the opportunity presents itself, you must seize it." There was a fever-colored warmth in the Angel's tone. "Do you understand, Christine?"
"Yes?"
"Even if you are frightened. Even if you are unsure. You must seize the chance when given to you. Will you do that? Will you do that for your Angel?"
Christine studied the mirror, wishing she could see the Angel of Music. Wishing she could understand why the question felt so heavy. She nodded.
"Good. That is good."
With a rush the room cooled, and Christine knew the Angel was gone.
Rehearsal went as usual, save for the palpable excitement that flooded the company as star after operatic star came to the stage for their numbers. Plácido Domingo, Andrea Bocelli, Renée Fleming, Measha Brueggergosman and more. When Reyer called for rehearsal to wrap, the chorus swarmed the singers.
Christine was in the huddle surrounding Audra McDonald when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned.
"Miss Daaé? You are needed in the manager's office," the stagehand said.
Christine nodded and left the stage, perplexed. What could the managers want with her? She couldn't imagine. She knew she was singing better now, pulling her weight. Would the managers bother firing anyone on their last day? Perhaps they were pulling everyone aside.
Christine greeted the secretary, who shot shot Christine a bemused look before showing her into the office.
How it had changed! There was a starkness to it now that the photographs and plaques had been removed. A series of boxes sat against one wall with the names Firman and Moncharmin scrawled in sharpie on the sides.
Debienne stared out of the office window, hands in his pockets, and did not turn when she entered. Poligny was pale and drawn, his hair disheveled as though he had been recently tugging at it. Two empty glasses were on the desk, and as Christine drew closer she thought she could smell whiskey.
"Please be seated, Miss Daaé," said Poligny. His voice was cold. She sat. "You may have noticed that Lana Carlotta was not at rehearsal today."
Christine thought for a moment. She'd been so excited to see the renowned singers perform that she had not noticed the diva's absence. She nodded.
"According to her assistant, she has fallen ill-" Poligny paused a moment as Debienne scoffed from his place at the window. "She has fallen ill and will not be able to sing tonight."
Christine said made a sympathetic sound, but she was still unsure as to why she was there. No one spoke for a moment. Poligny stared at her expectantly.
"Did you want...I mean...would you like me to relay that message to the chorus, or Mr. Reyer?"
Debienne let out a single, harsh laugh. He crossed to the desk and pulled a bottle of whiskey from a drawer, poured himself a glass, and threw it back in one swallow. He slammed the glass on the desk before finally looking at Christine.
"You will be taking her place."
Christine looked from one man to the other. No one spoke.
"I don't understand," she said.
"Carlotta is ill. You will be singing in her place. It's not that difficult." Debienne crossed back to the window.
"I can't do that." Christine's head started to buzz.
"I'm assuming you know the aria from Romeo and Juliet?" Poligny said, ignoring her.
"I mean, I do, but-"
"Then be ready at curtain."
"I…" Christine trailed off. Her face grew hot as Poligny stared coldly back at her. She looked down at the floor, tears starting to prick at her eyes. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, forcing the feeling away.
"Miss Daaé?" Poligny's tone was a modicum warmer. "You weren't expecting this, were you?"
Christine shook her head, and the manager's shot each other a look she could not read. Debienne shook his head and looked back to the window.
"I'm sure you will do splendidly, Miss Daaé," Poligny said, kinder now, but resigned. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Christine careened down the hallways without really seeing. She couldn't do this. She couldn't do this. She. Could not. Do this. A woman with a measuring tape draped around her neck stopped Christine near the stage and pulled her into the costume room. The woman held a variety of dresses up to Christine before settling on a long, sparkling sheath dress in red. Christine changed into the dress and smoothed her hand over the material, shedding glitter as she did so.
"Turn," the costumer said, observing Christine with a critical eye. "Do you have another bra here?"
Christine reached behind and swept her hand across her back. The dress dipped too low and she could feel her exposed bra. She shook her head.
The costumer asked her size and rifled through a selection of undergarments before shaking her head.
"I don't have anything here that will work. Just remember high school theater." The woman smiled and handed Christine a pair of long black gloves, dangling earrings, and black heels. "Never turn your back to the audience."
Christine tried to smile, but didn't know if her face obeyed. The woman told her someone had been brought in for hair and makeup that night, and to report to them right away. Christine hurried a few rooms down the hall. As she sat in the makeup chair, she thought vaguely of dinner, but her stomach cramped at the thought. Once finished, she tried to make her way to her dressing room. She needed a minute to breathe. She needed to speak to the Angel. His words from earlier tumbled around in her mind, but it was too soon. This couldn't be the opportunity he meant.
Reyer pulled her aside before she got very far. He had her run through the song. Christine sang mechanically, but hit the proper notes. Reyer didn't seem terribly impressed, which made her feel even worse. Before he dismissed her, he gave her several pointers that fell out of her brain almost as soon as she heard them, and told her when and where she would be coming in.
"Wait, don't I need to get changed for the group numbers?" Christine said, desperate for any excuse to get to her dressing room. Talk to the Angel. Breathe.
"No. You're excused from the choral numbers this evening. Now, you know when you go on, but stick close to the stage." Reyer smiled and patted her shoulder. "You're our wild card, and we might need to do some shuffling."
Christine nodded wordlessly and Reyer hurried away. Oh gosh. Oh no. This was happening and she had no way to stop it.
Backstage was crowded, and Christine could hear the murmurs of the audience. There was no time to do anything. The show began.
Christine stuck close to the wings, near the stage manager. Her stomach felt hollow, her limbs the same. Her heart echoed in her empty body and her shallow breaths knitted knots in her lungs.
Some of the chorus members shot her strange looks as they filed on and off stage, but there wasn't enough time to explain between numbers and costume changes, and even if they asked, she didn't know if she could speak.
She tried to focus her breathing, as the Angel had taught her. She tried to remember the advice the Voice had given her on opening night. Everything was a blur, but this was happening. She needed to pull herself together, and she only had one thread clasped in her fist.
The Angel thinks I'm ready.
The stage manager was saying something to someone nearby. As Maria Agresta, one of the world's foremost Italian sopranos, strode onstage, Christine managed to dimly grasp that intermission would be called when the song was over.
Air. She needed air. She need to be alone. Gather her thoughts. Maybe there was still time to-
Meg began to work her way towards Christine, a worried look on her face.
No, she couldn't speak right now, not even to Meg. Not to anyone, except maybe the Angel, and she needed air. She needed space. She needed light.
Christine pushed off the wall and darted towards the stage doors. She opened them slowly to keep them silent, and closed them behind her more slowly still.
She began to breathe easier in the open hall. She was on the opposite side of the opera from her dressing room, and she could not stand the thought of crossing backstage. The more circuitous route through the lobby was her only option.
Her heart rate slowed as she began to cross the mostly empty lobby, her heels clicking a staccato beat that echoed faintly in the open space. She focused on that sound until a man slipped through a door to her right.
The slope of his shoulders was as familiar as home, and the way he put his hands in his pockets shot her back to another time. The staccato beat stopped.
She had to get out of there.
She backtracked a few steps then wheeled away from Raoul de Chagny.
Doors opened all around her, people spilling into the lobby for intermission. Christine worked her way back towards the stage doors against the current, praying he didn't see her. Wishing that he had. Hating herself for wanting the impossible. She thought she heard someone calling her name. Maybe it was Raoul. Maybe it was the Angel. Maybe it was no one at all.
Christine darted to the left and pushed open an employee-only door. She took the short flight of steps as quickly as her heels would allow, and pushed open the door to the understage area.
She closed her eyes and leaned against the dark wall for support. A million thoughts flitted through her mind. She needed to get to her dressing room. There might be time for her to go and come back. Isn't this where they said the ghost lives? Raoul looked very handsome in grey. The basement was dark. How much time had passed? Enough? Too much? She needed to be quick. Intermission would be over soon if she wasn't quick.
She picked her way carefully across the dimly lit space, not noticing the huddled group of people until she was almost upon them. She tried to squeeze past them politely until she saw him.
Joseph Buquet.
Strung up and swinging gently as though someone had just given him a push.
It took a long moment for the sight to register. Dead. Dead. He was dead. He'd been hanged and he was dead and there were a million people above them and nobody knew that there were dancing above a dead man. Her insides cramped. Her mouth went dry and just as quickly filled with saliva as her empty stomach heaved. She pushed away from the sight and stumbled against a wall, retching, but nothing came out.
She ran dizzily back the way she had came, falling against the door to open it, tripping up the stairs. She might have bruised her knee at one point, but she felt very little. She pushed through the thinning crowd towards the stage door, looking for someone, anyone, she had to report a crime. She had to report a murder. There was a dead man in the basement and no one seemed to care.
Someone grabbed her by her arm.
Her thoughts seemed to focus on the man's face. Did she know him? Could he help? Like a child putting together a simple puzzle with great difficulty, she realized it was one of the new managers.
"Joseph Buquet," she started as the man dragged her toward the stage, "he's dead! He's downstairs and–"
"I found her," the man called to someone. Christine could see the house lights dim and brighten, dim and brighten as intermission came to an end. The stage glowed brightly through the wings.
"He's dead! We have to help him!" Christine said. Had she said it out loud? Was anyone listening?
"You have to go on now." The new manager pushed her toward the stage.
"I can't sing, we have to get help–"
"There is a full house. You have sixty seconds to get yourself together."
"But Joseph Buquet–"
"Get. On. Stage. Miss Daaé. I will not ask you again! We know about the stagehand! Do want there to be a panic?"
Christine shook her head.
"Then I suggest you do your job," the man flung his arm toward the stage, "and sing."
The stage manager pushed an in-ear monitor into Christine's hand, which she stuck in her ear as the make-up artist powered her face. The host finished droning something she couldn't understand onstage, and there was a polite clapping.
She forced one step, then another until she reached center stage. The stage was bright, bright enough to blind, but darkness ate at the edges of her vision.
Joseph Buquet was dead.
She didn't even like him and he was dead. Was she allowed to not like someone who was dead? Was that disrespectful? Did that make her a bad person? Did wondering if she was a bad person in the wake of someone else's death make her a bad person?
She could see him swinging in her mind. She could see her father, cold and pale the night she found him. A thousand conflicting thoughts, a thousand memories flitted through her mind like bats or birds, wicked winged things.
Whispers trickled in through earpiece. The musicians knew? Her opening notes played and she heard someone say the rope was gone, missing, it had disappeared before the cops showed up.
The music swelled, and she fixed everything on one dim, fading star.
The Angel was listening.
She had to make him proud. The eyes of the audience felt like a physical presence. Let them stare. Her heart and mind screamed that she was not ready. Let them scream. She could not fail the Angel.
The Angel had never failed her.
So she sang to him.
She sang.
She sang.
She sang.
With everything she had inside of her, every passing thought, every reminder of Joe's face, her father's face, cold hands, blue lips, the horror of falling back to where she had been, the few moments of joy she'd wrung from life since, she sang to the Angel of Music.
She poured all of it out, to him, a gift, to him, a thank you, to him. All that mattered, the only thing that could matter, was music.
She felt herself fading as the song wound to a close, and she threw out her arms in the exuberance of the final moments, perhaps her final moments, because she could not breath and death was everywhere, and as the note echoed in the air, she opened her eyes and saw the audience clapping. Everyone standing. Raoul, in his box, dumbstruck and smiling and there.
She collapsed to the sound of thunderous applause.
o...o0o...o
The gray and the tulle and the whispers slipped away. The world was color and hard and real and the most beautiful boy she'd ever seen was holding her hand and looking at her with such gentleness, as if she was something precious, and for a moment, in that shimmering gloaming as she came back to herself, she allowed herself to look gently back. He asked her then, as he held her hand, if she remembered him, the boy who went into the sea to save her scarf.
The moment ended.
All at once she was aware of the cold eye of the mirror. She could not know him. She must not know him. He was an old friend from a different time, a different path, a different life where things were better and perfect and she wasn't so terribly alone. And she could not know him.
She told him no.
It hurt to see his face fall. It hurt to hurt him, but it was better this way. The mirror stared at her, hard and cold and smooth and he should leave. He should go. He needed to leave. He needed to go. But no, he was not going. Instead he asked, too earnestly, too sweetly, if he could speak, they must speak, and he needed to leave, her mind screaming, begging him to get out of here before he got her into trouble, before he ruined everything, and she loved the feel of his hand in hers but his hand was not hers to hold.
She got them all out of the room. The doctor and Meg and Raoul. The room was empty. She was empty. She was a little doll made of porcelain. She could crack at any moment, and the only thing she could think of to relieve the pressure building inside her was to say everything she was feeling out loud.
o...o0o...o
He watched her panic when she found the camera on.
Of course the camera was on.
This was an important moment.
Her first triumph.
She would want to remember this forever.
Everything went so perfectly. So according to plan. To a point. Every detail, every step, the note in the whiskey drawer and the "bad shrimp" in Carlotta's lunch.
And Christine…
She had been transcendent.
He had known she had talent. He had known she had promise. He had seen her improve, watched her grow, especially these last few lessons, but this…
This was something else entirely.
He could still feel her voice reverberating in his bones.
Everything, almost everything, had gone so perfectly.
She wasn't supposed to see Joseph Buquet.
She was supposed to find out about the opportunity he had painstakingly created and come back to her dressing room with that happy, excited expression on her face, the one that burst like a sunrise in his chest. She would be nervous, but he would have soothed her.
She never came to her dressing room.
Oh, he knew why, and he understood. It was an unexpected change, and the little people would scurry about in a panic. He could tell she was shaken by the offer, but he knew she was capable.
Then she had seen Joseph Buquet.
The man deserved it. It was not Erik's fault. The stagehand was always about, always in the way, always trying to see him. Erik could not risk it. The man should not have dared to tamper with trapdoors when he knew not what lay beneath.
Oh, but her face.
Her sweet face.
He had instructed Reyer to keep her near the stage. What had she been doing beneath it? She had no business being there. It was dirty work, but necessary, and he hated that she had seen it. He watched as she stumbled onto the scene, distracted and anxious, and for a moment, from the shadows, he wished he was man enough to smooth her brow.
The body did that for him.
Her face had gone completely blank. It was like Christine was gone. Vacant and vapid and staring until she fled. The dancers and stage hands soon followed, and as soon as the space was empty, he cut the rope loose and darted to his box.
She sang.
She fell.
It was terrible to see, like death, like himself, a candle snuffed out and he recoiled in horror.
But she was alright. She was fine. She was breathing, he could see that through the mirror. He wished again that he could smooth his fingers across her brow, brush the dark hair out of her eyes. He would wake her with singing. Just him. Just her. No doctors, no dancers.
No other men.
No other men holding her hand.
No other handsome men looking at her like that.
He watched the expression he so coveted dawn on her face when she looked at that boy. The simpering, earnest boy. He watched her remember. He watched her lie. He watched them all leave.
He pulled his violin from where he had left it earlier in the day and played to warn her of the Angel's arrival. She panicked at the sound, a little rabbit in a trap, grabbed a scarf, but not THAT scarf, and threw it over the camera.
His eyes tracked her through the room. Why she didn't simply turn the thing off was a mystery.
"You were a triumph tonight, Christine," he said. She tried to deny it, to claim she failed because she fainted. She wasn't stupid, but she could be exceedingly dim when it came to her own talents. He was not disappointed in her, she was not weak. He wanted to tell her so but the sight of the red scarf hanging on her changing screen was driving him mad.
"I believe your young friend Raoul was here tonight?"
'Raoul? What do you mean, I don't think he was..." she said. Lying again! As if she could fool him! Did she think the Angel could not see?
"He said he was the one who saved your red scarf? And," He pushed on, not pausing for a response, wanting the truth, wanting her to realize that Erik could not be lied to, "if Raoul is just an 'old friend,' if he means nothing to you, why didn't you say you recognized him?"
She said nothing.
"Were you lying to your angel?"
She said nothing.
"Do you want to leave your music and pursue him?" His heart was pounding in his chest as she looked at the mirror, not at him, never at him, and the words slipped out of his broken mouth before he could stop them. "Don't you love me at all, Christine?"
Love? Love? Had he just spoken of love? How could he say that. He was mistaken. He was her teacher. He had never, not since, he did not allow himself, could not, was not worthy, wanted but shouldn't, not a man not a real man not him not any woman and especially not her and her face crumpled at his question and
"How can you say that? How can you ask me that, when I sing only for you?" The truth. He could see it all over her open face. Did that mean she loved him? "You're the one who helped me find my voice when I thought . . . when I thought I'd never really sing again."
No. No, she loved the Angel of Music. Only the Angel. But he was the Angel, and she sang for him.
"Are you very tired?"
"Tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead." The words flung from her lips. He chose not to hear the harshness of her tone.
She sang only for him. Her voice, her music, tonight, that was a gift. It was his. She had given it to him.
"Your soul is a beautiful thing, child, no emperor received so fair a gift." The whole of the English language, all the dialects of the world could not convey the feeling rushing through him. "The angels wept tonight."
He played his tricks to make it seem as if he had left. Watched as she pulled the scarf from the camera and draped it over her shoulders. She left. He sank to the floor to bask in this evening. In his triumph.
Too soon his reverie was broken at the sound of the opening door. Had she returned? He stood.
No.
No.
It was not her. It was that boy. That boy entered. Entered this room! Her room! The room Erik had given her! Entered as if he belonged!
He might have to kill him.
Might need to rip the nose off his perfect face.
The idiot boy was looking for something. Someone. He seemed to think there was someone still in the room after Christine, Erik's Christine, had gone. He watched the boy explore the room. He watched him notice the camera on the desk. Watched him turn the camera off as if he had some right to do so. Watched him leave.
Did the fool boy dare to look for him?
Let him look.
Let him seek.
Dirty work but necessary.
