Author's Note: Thanks again for reading and reviewing! This chapter was quite heavily inspired by the bistro scene in the 1990 television version of the Phantom of the Opera starring Charles Dance. I hope you enjoy reading.
Chapter Five: Stage Fright
As soon as she entered the Café de l'Opera, Christine found herself regretting her decision to accompany Meg and Cecile to the first night party. They had arrived late, partly because Cecile had taken over an hour to get ready, and partly so they could, in Meg's words, 'avoid eating the revolting lobster.' The party had now moved beyond its formal dining stage, and the café was filled with raucous voices and laughter. Christine would have preferred to eat with her friends at a quiet table, but there was little chance of that now.
To make matters worse, Meg had just spotted the Vicomte de Chagny. She gave a little squeak of excitement and seized Christine by the arm.
"There he is!" she exclaimed. "That's him, isn't it? Raoul de Chagny. Oh, Christine, he's so handsome!"
Christine wished she had never told Meg that she had known Raoul as a child. She could not even remember how the subject had arisen, only that they had been enjoying a gossip in their dressing room one evening. Christine had somehow let it slip that Philippe de Chagny was her singing teacher, although she had not had a lesson with him for a while. Meg had been impressed, and had immediately wanted to hear more. How on Earth did she know the Count? Of course, Christine had then been obliged to explain the history of her friendship with Raoul.
She could still remember the awe-struck expression on Meg's face. "You're friends with the Vicomte de Chagny?" she gasped. "He's the most eligible man in Paris!"
Christine had thought nothing of this, until she had walked into the rehearsal room a few days later only to be confronted by half a dozen members of the corps de ballet. They had immediately started bombarding her with questions.
"Is it true you know the Vicomte de Chagny?"
"Is it true he's in love with you?"
"Has he really written you a love letter every week for the past four years?"
Christine had been deeply embarrassed, but had tried to answer the questions as calmly as she could: Yes, the Viscount was an old acquaintance. No, he did not love her and no, there had never been any love letters, just the occasional friendly letter while Raoul was abroad and Christine was studying at the Conservatoire.
Knowing these rumours could only have come from one source, Christine had taken Meg to one side and demanded an explanation.
Meg had looked almost tearful. "I'm sorry, Christine. I didn't know what else to do. They were laughing at you."
Christine was upset by this news, but not surprised: the Paris Opera chorus, especially the corps de ballet, had a long tradition of making fun of new members of the company.
"Laughing at me? Why?"
"They were saying that no one will want to dance with you at the first night party because you don't have any admirers. So I told them you knew the Viscount and he would dance with you." Meg looked sheepishly down at her feet. "Then it got a bit out of hand."
Christine sighed. "Oh, Meg. Why did you tell them that?"
"I didn't like to see them laughing at you." Meg brightened up a bit. "And you never know, maybe he will dance with you!"
Christine had laughed at that, and forgiven Meg, who had clearly meant well. It had been such a silly incident, but over the following days she had noticed a change in the attitudes of the other chorus girls towards her. They began to treat her with a new respect, slightly tinged with jealousy, which led Christine to suspect that some of Meg's tales had been taken seriously.
Meanwhile, Meg had refused to let the matter drop. She was infinitely apologetic, but she also seemed to believe her own fantasy. She never tired of telling Christine how wonderfully romantic it would be if she and the Vicomte were to fall in love at the Hannibal first night party.
And now, in the middle of the crowded café, Christine found that her worst fears were coming true: Meg was trying to play matchmaker.
"Do you want me to tell him for you?" Meg asked, glancing furtively towards the Viscount's table.
Christine stared at her friend. "Tell him what?"
"That you'd like to dance with him, of course!"
"But I don't want to dance with him. Let's just find a table, shall we?"
Meg looked disappointed, but joined Christine and Cecile at a small table near the door. They shared a bottle of wine and chatted about the evening's performance. Christine found herself throwing an occasional glance in the direction of Raoul's table. After half an hour, she began to feel rather disappointed. They were old friends. Surely he should come over and say hello? But Raoul seemed to be deep in conversation with his brother, and Christine began to suspect that she was being deliberately ignored.
Another ten minutes slipped by. Some of the chairs and tables were cleared out of the way. The violinist and accordion player began a merry tune, and several couples got up to dance. Two young men from the chorus came up to ask Meg and Cecile to dance, and Christine found herself alone, sipping her wine resignedly.
"Miss Daae?"
The voice was familiar, and for a moment Christine was convinced that it was Raoul. She turned around hopefully, only to feel her smile fade.
"Monsieur Carriere," she said, trying and failing to hide the disappointment in her voice. "Good evening."
Erik Carriere gave her a lop-sided smile, but there was something tense in his manner. It took Christine a moment to notice that the man was trembling. His left hand was curled around the stem of a champagne glass, and the glass was shaking, the pale liquid swaying about within. Christine wondered if he was ill.
"Are you well, Monsieur?" she enquired.
"Yes, thank you." Then he lapsed into silence, the unmasked side of his face regarding her warily, as if he was waiting for her to say something more. She hoped that he had not come to ask her to dance: the very thought was frightening. But he was the director of the opera company. Was it even possible to refuse to dance with him?
Erik raised a hand. "Miss Daae, would you like…I mean…"
"Yes," said Christine quickly. "I'll dance with you, if you wish. But I'm not very good."
She was sure his left cheek coloured slightly at her words. "No…I don't want to dance."
"Of course not," said Christine, embarrassed. "I'm sorry."
Erik gave a forced-sounding laugh. "No. Forgive me, Miss Daae, I didn't mean to offend you. Of course I'd be delighted to dance with you, but…" he tailed off, and for the first time Christine saw a strange expression cross the left side of his face. For a moment he looked almost vulnerable. He gave a deep sigh. "I'm so sorry. I'm not very good at this. I just noticed you were on your own, and I thought you might like a glass of champagne."
He offered her the glass, his eyes hopeful.
Something softened inside Christine. She looked at Monsieur Carriere, and felt a new understanding dawn. She had feared him and thought him arrogant. Now, in this strange environment away from the Opera House, he appeared less sure of himself, almost gauche. Christine realised that what she had mistaken for arrogance was actually shyness. Was it really possible that Erik Carriere was as shy as she was?
She took the glass of champagne from him with a smile. "That's very kind. Thank you. Won't you sit down?"
Erik hesitated for a moment, but then finally sat in the chair which Meg had so eagerly vacated. Christine watched as his trembling subsided.
"You must think me very awkward," he said. "I suppose I am, at events such as these. I feel much more at home in the Opera House."
Christine nodded. "Me too."
"How are you finding life there? Are you enjoying it?"
"Very much," she replied, realising immediately how unconvincing her words sounded.
Monsieur Carriere narrowed his eyes. "Is there something wrong?"
"Sometimes I wonder if I really have the talent to be an opera singer," she sighed. Then she cursed her stupidity. If Erik saw that even she doubted her own abilities, he could quite conceivably fire her. Christine already felt that her acceptance into the company had been the result of a fluke. No doubt Erik thought the same.
Christine tried to recover herself. "That is, I know I can sing, but it just all feels slightly overwhelming at the moment."
To her surprise, Erik nodded. "I don't think I've met a single performer who has not been plagued by doubts at some point in their career," he said.
"So it's normal for me to feel this way?"
Erik smiled. "Certainly. I would not have hired you if I didn't think you had potential. By the way, there's something I would like to ask you."
Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of someone rapping something against a tabletop. Christine turned in the direction of the noise, and saw that Count Philippe had risen to his feet.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Thank you for coming to my little gathering. I am pleased to inform you that it's time for the event which you've all been waiting for: the proud tradition of the First Night Duet Contest."
There were excited cheers from the company. Christine glanced at Erik. "No one told me about this. What is it?"
Erik gave her a pained look. "You'll see."
With a dramatic flourish, Philippe de Chagny produced a black top hat from behind his back and held it high in the air.
"If, during the course of the evening, you have written your name on a slip of paper and dropped it inside this hat, you will now find out your singing partner for the contest. You and your partner will then have to decide upon a song. I will now draw the first two names."
Philippe reached into the hat and withdrew two folded pieces of paper. He unfolded them and smiled. "Our first duo of the evening will be Meg Giry and Anatole Garron."
There were more cheers, and Erik gave a soft groan.
"The names are drawn at random, but somehow we always end up with the worst possible combinations," he said, with a wry smile.
Meanwhile, Philippe had selected two further pieces of paper. Christine watched as his face broke into a broad smile.
"Our second duo for the evening will be Christine Daae and Erik Carriere."
Christine watched in horror as the entire company turned to stare at them.
"But I didn't enter!" she exclaimed. She looked at Erik, who had gone completely rigid in his chair.
"I think someone has entered my name without my permission, Monsieur le Comte," he said accusingly.
Philippe grinned. "I'm ever so sorry, Erik, but there's no getting out of it. The hat has spoken."
Erik covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry, Miss Daae. You can sing if you like, but I'll have to withdraw."
"Oh, please sing, Monsieur Carriere!" piped up Meg. "We've never heard you sing, and you can't be any worse than me."
Erik looked at Christine, and for a moment his expression was oddly troubled, his golden-brown eyes deeply sad. But the look vanished as quickly as it had come, and Christine was left wondering if she had imagined it.
"Well, Miss Daae," he said. "Will you sing with me?"
Speechless with nerves, Christine could only nod.
"Do you know the Think of Me aria from Hannibal?" he asked. "I'll sing the first verse, you sing the second."
Again, she nodded her agreement. Then Erik and Christine sat in petrified silence as the remaining duos were selected, and Meg and Anatole sang their rather discordant duet. And then, suddenly, horribly, it was their turn to stand up and take their place by the café's grand piano, where Monsieur Reyer was in charge, as ever, of the musical accompaniment.
Christine felt dozens of pairs of eyes upon her. She glanced at Erik for support, but he was silent, unsmiling, his eyes closed, his face unreadable.
She began the first verse uncertainly, her eyes fixed on a point near the ceiling, so she would not have to look at anyone while she sang. She found that she was in good voice, possibly for the first time in several weeks, and she began to feel pleased with herself.
Christine's verse came to an end. Then a glorious, lyrical tenor voice began to sing, quite softly, by her ear, the high notes pure and soft as velvet. As the voice grew in volume and power, the rich sound seemed to engulf everything around it, bouncing off the walls of the café like the tolling of a great bell. Christine turned around in surprise, half expecting Monsieur Carriere to have vanished, only to be replaced by some mystery tenor. But it was indeed Erik singing.
An unspoken agreement found them singing the final verse of the aria together. Christine's voice faltered, but determined not to be left behind, she picked up the melody again. It was as if both of them were running a race: Erik's voice was always several paces ahead in its power and musical accomplishment. With any other singing partner, Christine would have despaired at the weaknesses evident in her own voice. But Erik's rich voice seemed to call out to her, to encourage her to join him. The experience was both exhausting and exhilarating.
The aria ended with a complex cadenza. Christine made a mighty effort, but her voice gave out long before Erik's. Christine listened, hardly breathing, as Erik's voice soared above her head, his final high note lasting for longer than she had thought physically possible, before fading, almost imperceptibly, into silence.
A heartbeat of stillness, and then the whole café burst into noisy applause, a sound which offended Christine's ears after the beauty which had caused it. She turned to look at Erik in wonder. His eyes were still closed, and Christine saw a tear roll down the smooth surface of his white mask.
"Monsieur Carriere? Are you all right?"
Erik opened his eyes and looked at Christine as if he had never seen her before. Then he seemed to become aware of the crowd surrounding him, and the faraway look in his eyes turned to one of horror.
"Excuse me," he gasped. "I think I need some air."
He hurried towards the door, apparently oblivious to the compliments and words of congratulations which surrounded him.
Meg tapped Christine on the shoulder. "He sings like an angel!" she said. "Where do you suppose he learned to sing like that? You were quite good, too."
Christine ignored her. Following some impulse she could hardly understand, she dashed out of the café in pursuit of Erik.
Erik ran blindly out into the street, desperately seeking a place to hide.
There was an alleyway tucked between the café and the next block of buildings, and he dived into it, wrapping himself in the shadows. Slumping against a wall in defeat, he brought his hands up to his face and covered his eyes, trying to forget the staring faces which surrounded him, the pitying glances, the cruel, heartless words, and the laughter.
The laughter was the worst thing of all. He felt the preceding years fall away, and suddenly he was back there, an object of pity and of ridicule, bathed in the glare of the sun or the chandeliers, trying to sing to them, to make them understand, but unable to hide what he was.
He heard footsteps, and attempted to let out a low growl of warning. But the growl emerged from his throat as a pathetic whimper.
"Monsieur Carriere?"
It was her voice. She had followed him. Erik tried to drag his confused mind back into the present. He lowered his hands from his face and looked at Christine through tear-blurred eyes.
"What happened?" she sounded concerned, almost fearful.
Erik attempted to wave a hand dismissively, but his limbs were shaking so much that he realised the gesture was futile.
"Nothing," he whispered. "I just needed to get out of there. I should not have sung in front of them. It was very foolish of me."
"Why do you say that?" her voice was so kind that he felt the tears threaten again. "You have a beautiful voice. I've never heard anything like it."
And then he started to cry. Through the haze of humiliating tears, he felt something brush against his arm, and realised with a jolt that it was Christine's hand. She was trying to comfort him, apparently.
"Please," she said. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Perhaps a stronger man would have told her to leave him alone while he pulled himself together. But Erik reflected bitterly that he must be a very weak man indeed, to hide sobbing in an alley, while a virtual stranger looked pityingly on.
"Would you stay with me for a few minutes?" he gasped.
She nodded. "Of course."
They stood together in silence for a while. Eventually Erik's tears subsided, and he regained control of his laboured breathing.
When he looked at Christine again, he was sure he must be a picture of embarrassment. Since his arrival at the Opera House, all those years ago, he had always tried to hide any sign of vulnerability from those around him. He was Erik Carriere, stoic and unreachable, arrogant and strong. Now he had allowed that particular mask to slip, and he despised himself for it. He fully expected Christine to return to the party, where she would have a good laugh with her friends about foolish Erik and his foolish tears.
But instead she stood quietly beside him, a sympathetic smile on her face.
"Are you all right now?" she asked.
He nodded. "Promise me you won't tell anyone about this. That I was crying, I mean."
"All right, I promise," she said. She paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"
He tried to think of a way to explain it to her, without conjuring the memories into being once again.
"Do you ever get stage fright?" he asked.
She nodded.
"It's like stage fright, but worse, because it's with me all the time. But tonight I made it worse by singing." He lowered his gaze so as not to meet her eyes. "I have the constant feeling that people are looking at me, staring at my mask, asking themselves questions. And usually they are. You did me a great kindness, agreeing to sing with me tonight. Not everyone would."
"Why not?" She sounded shocked.
"People look at me, and they're embarrassed. They don't want to be near me, to talk to me or sing with me. Have you any idea how humiliating that is, how lonely? I've always been able to sing, but I learned long ago that I should not try, because nobody wants to listen to me. Nobody wants to hear a gargoyle sing," he paused, feeling a wave of misery pass through him. "And if they do, if they stay and listen, it's only out of curiosity. They only wish to see the gargoyle's ugly face, and think to themselves how strange it is, that such an ugly creature can sing so well." He shook his head sadly. "Tonight, because of my own vanity, my inability to resist the opportunity to sing, I embarrassed you as well as myself. Forgive me, Miss Daae."
For a moment Christine said nothing. When he finally found the courage to look at her, he was astonished to see the tears in her eyes.
"You're not a gargoyle, Erik," she whispered, and it felt strange, hearing her speak his first name. "And you could never, ever embarrass me. I found it a great honour, to sing alongside someone with your talent."
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, Miss Daae. But you should be embarrassed. The others…"
"They think your voice is beautiful," said Christine, cutting him off. "I heard Meg say that you sing like an angel."
He gave a snort of laughter. "An angel? Impossible."
"You do," she said, smiling at him. She gestured towards the café. "Come back inside with me, and I'll prove that nobody thinks you're a gargoyle."
He shook his head. Her words had comforted him, had soothed his fears. He even felt the first stirrings of something in his heart, a vague feeling of warmth and joy. Of course she could not possibly know how ugly he truly was, not with the mask in place. Her comforting words were spoken out of ignorance. They meant nothing; and yet it was kind of her to say them. And she thought his voice was beautiful. The evening was suddenly not quite as disastrous as it had first seemed.
But he still could not bear the thought of entering that café again, the thought of all those people turning to look at him curiously.
"No," he said, trying to smile at Christine. "I think, under the circumstances, I should go home and rest. You go on. Enjoy the rest of the party."
Christine seemed to hesitate for a moment. "But you're all right now?"
"I feel much better, thank you," he said. "I'm sorry about making such a spectacle of myself."
"It doesn't matter," she smiled at him again, and turned to leave.
It was then that Erik remembered what he had intended to ask her earlier in the evening. At the very least, he was now almost certain that she would not refuse him because of his appearance.
"Christine?"
She paused and turned to look at him again. "Yes?"
"I was wondering…you have a wonderful voice, but…and I hope you'll forgive me for saying this…it has not been properly trained. You have fallen into some bad habits, and I think I can help you." He looked down at the ground again. "Would you allow me to give you singing lessons?"
For a moment she did not say anything. She simply stared at him in apparent confusion. "But I thought you didn't like my voice."
He laughed at that; he couldn't help it. Singing with Christine had given him all the reassurance he needed: her voice was beautiful, he had been right all along, and he would do whatever he had to in order to make this lovely, kind, compassionate woman a star.
He could not say any of this to Christine, of course.
"On the contrary, Miss Daae. Your voice is very good. Please will you let me teach you?"
He watched in delight as Christine's face was lit up by a broad, happy smile.
"I would be honoured, Monsieur Carriere."