Word of warning: I'm going away next week so there won't be any updates from Saturday. Plus, I have a lot of preparation to do for it, and a graduation ceremony coming up, so I may not be updating as regularly as you'd like. I will try, but if nothing appears, you now know why. Rest assured, I won't be abandoning this story.
Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.
Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.
Chapter 50
Carlotta was seething. The Dean was worried. The managers were panicking. Raoul was frantic.
After hearing that strange voice coming from inside Christine's dressing room, and finding the door locked, Raoul had gone straight to the managers. Upon great persuasion, they had tracked down someone who could get into the room, only to find it empty. Raoul had had to satisfy their scepticism that yes, Christine had been in there and yes, he had definitely heard a man's voice coming from inside.
Firmin and Andre had left, assuring their young patron that she had probably gone to look after her costume or greet a few well-wishers, and would no doubt return soon. A few hours later, when there was still no sign of her, he had called them in again, reporting that their lead soprano was still missing. Thoughts of the ghost flashed across the managers' minds; Raoul began to wonder if perhaps there had been something in it when Christine had mentioned her 'angel'. He had thought that perhaps she'd had a dream, and coupled with her vocal teacher who was obviously doing a good job, she'd assumed it had been an angel – she did have a strong belief in such things when they were little; to her, they hadn't simply been stories. They had all gone home, resolved to call the police if she still hadn't turned up the next morning. Raoul hadn't gotten all that much sleep.
The next morning, Firmin and Andre returned to the theatre, extremely put out.
My dear gentlemen,
The orchestra was a shambles; I sincerely doubt the first violinist understands the concept of group performances. The second cello ought to be told that rosin is to be used on a bow; the lead bassoon was consistently off key. Does the Ravelle no longer advocate tuning before a performance is given? I can not allow such imbeciles in my Opera House.
As for those on stage, your ballet mistress has already received my recommendations. The chorus is in dire need of training; far too many of them were straining for notes beyond their calibre. Piangi needs to learn that whilst swaggering about the stage like a buffoon is acceptable in pantomime, this is opera. And he really ought to watch his weight. A rotund tenor does often find himself limited in terms of the parts he receives.
Miss Daaë was, in a word, sublime. I recommend she continue in the role of Elissa, unless you wish the Ravelle to be ridiculed henceforth. Having tasted heaven, no audience is likely to accept the barnyard's offerings.
One final note: my salary has yet to be paid. You will find the entry in your accounts. No one likes a debtor, gentleman. I trust my orders will be obeyed in future.
Your obedient servant,
O.G.
The note had been left in their office, placed neatly on one of the desks. It was a white piece of paper with black trim, the large blood red skull lending it a singularly ominous air. It was the same as the others had been.
"Who the blazes is this 'O.G.'? We cannot let ourselves be ordered around by some prankster!" Firmin exclaimed.
"And what sort of ghost needs a salary?" Andre returned. They looked over the note again.
"I suppose he does have a point about the lead." Andre ventured. "She was very good"
"How are we supposed to turn down the daughter of Luciana Guidacelli? We'd risk losing her support, and what the Deanery would think about that, I do not know"
"I do. They'd sack us without thinking." Andre conceded. "Suppose we guaranteed Carlotta the lead in the next production. Walking out is frowned on by the old boys, so she can hardly expect any role in Hannibal"
"That might work. Although I think it best if the board were to decide exactly how to deal with that situation." Firmin conceded, not particularly wanting to face either of the Guidacellis again. His partner agreed.
"Where is she?" Raoul stormed into their office.
"Carlotta?" Andre asked, that girl having been the most recent on their minds.
"Christine Daaë, where is she? Have you heard anything"
"No, not a word." Andre replied.
"But we've only just arrived ourselves. No doubt we'll hear something soon." Firmin interjected, taking the boy's arm and guiding him to a chair. It wouldn't do to risk losing two patrons in one day.
"Then you didn't send me this note?" He asked, holding out a very familiar looking piece of paper, the red skull staring up at the two older gentlemen menacingly. Firmin took it and read,
I advise against seeing Miss Daaë again; the Angel of Music has taken her under his wing. She no longer belongs to your world and therefore has no need of your concern.
"We didn't send this." He said, facing his partner in bewilderment.
"Then who did? She could be in danger! What does 'she no longer belongs to this world mean'? Is someone hurting her?" Raoul asked panic-stricken.
"Christine is well. She is resting." The three men jumped. They'd been so busy arguing, they hadn't seen Madame Giry come in.
"Can I see her?" Raoul asked eagerly.
"She will see no one, young man. Last night was tiring, and she must rest if she is to be ready for today's performance." This last comment was said more to the managers. They looked at each other, and nodded.
"Yes, we must allow our stars a chance to recover. Do give her our best wishes, Madame, and tell her we're looking forward to another stunning performance"
Typically, each production the Ravelle put on was given three performances done over a long weekend, from Thursday to Saturday, thereby granting them larger audiences and the chance to have everything put back in order for when classes would resume the following Monday. It also gave the students who were able the chance to try out more than one task for each night. It was usually mostly the crew who had this opportunity, as performers – no matter how multi-talented – could rarely be spared to fulfil more than one duty. Plus, switching performers' roles between the nights would mean altering costumes which had to be cleaned and pressed anyway – suffice to say the staff and management knew better than to cross the wardrobe department by even attempting such a thing. Coupled with the fact that Firmin and Andre had been right: the board certainly would not allow Carlotta to be in Hannibal and were considering suspending her for walking out; it all added up to mean that Christine had another two performances to give. Two performances at the Ravelle, in one of the two leading roles, with an incredible opening night to follow up on. Any true performer would have been going over the show, looking at mistakes that needed to be corrected, things that needed to be improved, getting into the feel of the character again.
She wasn't.
Not that Christine wasn't a true performer – far from it – but the show paled in comparison to what had followed. She barely remembered getting home or into bed, she was in that much of a daze; she only remembered staring up at the ceiling, and eventually moving over to sit by the window and drink in the night sky. It didn't seem so frightening now.
Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour . . . Grasp it, sense it – tremulous and tender . . .
She smiled, remembering the ecstasy and passion those words had inspired. She always did end up obeying that voice. And now?
She didn't know. The man who had taken her down to those caverns had had her completely enchanted. Part of her had recognised the fact that he was a man, but most of her had been following her Angel, having succumbed to his magic once more. He had shown her the beauty of all that she had doubted or feared; offered a world to her she could not even begin to dream of.
And she had destroyed him.
He had been sat broken before her, unable to look at her where he had previously shown utter devotion. Memories came back of things that she had seen: the drawings of her – so many; the model of the theatre, done with such care and detail – and with her centre stage. Everything had been planned so carefully, so beautifully, and she had ruined it all by betraying him. She had been so consumed with her own thoughts that she had failed to consider his. She thought of the mannequin and shivered – not from the chill coming in through the window. That was how he saw her; it was a picture of his devotion, his admiration . . . his hopes.
Had she put herself beyond his trust, beyond his care by unmasking him?
She started as an idea came to her. Quietly, she slipped down the stairs and into the living room. Opening the desk she took out a sheet of paper and wrote. Carefully, she sealed the note and slipped it into the crack under the stairs, hoping it would be received.
My Angel,
Please be there tonight. Let me sing for you again.
Your Christine.
Did she doubt him that much? Every time he had tried to think of her as she had surrendered to his song, each time her face had distorted in his mind until it was that look of horror she had worn as he'd raved at her. She had cowered before him. Grown men had cowered before him, and he had triumphed in his power. Christine had cowered before him and he had wept his first tears in an age.
He looked at the note. She had been singing for him after all. Her voice had risen to the heavens last night . . . and it had all been for him. And he had cursed her, insulted her, and thrown her to the floor. If he'd hurt her, he wouldn't forgive himself. Yet here she was, asking to give him her song again. She hadn't changed her mind. He had been astounded when he'd found it, expecting it to be a missive asking him to leave her alone. Instead, she was renewing her request.
Your Christine.
She was still his. By her own lips, she needed him, by her own hand, she was still his. Of course he would be there. He would restore her faith in him.
And on the closing night, he would grant her request.
And this time it would not go wrong.