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 77
Sitting in the chair at her dressing table, Christine placed her arms on its ornate surface and let her head sink down.
For what felt like the zillionth time, she found herself wishing she'd never agreed to this. Hannibal had been difficult because of the pressure of learning two roles. Il Muto had been unbearable because of Carlotta constantly crowing over her, not to mention the disaster of the actual 'performance'. This . . .
Don Juan Triumphant was impossible!
The music was beyond the capacity of half the orchestra, the choreography was exhausting, the sets extravagant, and the costumes . . . she still blushed when she thought of when she'd first tried hers on. The white blouse, low corset and peasant skirt should have been charming, but the neckline was so low she felt as though she was going to fall out of it, there was no way those sleeves were going to stay up – making the problem worse – and the skirt was not only transparent, but slit practically to her waist! And based on the comments she'd been receiving since, she really did feel like a piece of meat on display. On display for him.
Every day began with the notes that had been 'left' after the previous rehearsal, which usually amounted to half an hour of reading time that they simply couldn't afford. At least, not since the rehearsal following that . . . unusual weekend when Christine had last seen her Angel and the announcement had been made that for the first time in the history of the Ravelle, there would be no Christmas concert.
Instead, they had six weeks before Don Juan Triumphant made its debut.
Owing to the difficulty and complexity present in all aspects of the opera, they had yet to reach the end of the first run-through when the announcement was made. Were it not for the fact that she was caught in the thick of it, Christine would have found the whole situation hilarious. As it was, she was one rehearsal away from giving in to a completely different kind of hysterics.
When she'd agreed to the 'plan' it had been with the strict instruction that she not tell anyone about it. Not that there was much to tell: get the police in on opening night, make sure all the exits were sealed – against fire safety regulations – and hope for the best. As they'd laid out the 'details', she could practically feel the full force of their prey's indignation that this was the best they could come up with to challenge him. Of course, it hadn't been long before she'd broken their rule – Mother Giry had taken one look at her when she'd visited, wrapped her in a hug and it had all come pouring out. Christine's French was a bit rusty, but she was fairly certain that her second mother's diatribe against those 'fools' (one of the few translations fit for polite conversation) could have made even a hardened sailor blush. Still, Christine was grateful that at least one person knew who could understand a bit more of what she was going through.
Madame Giry took every opportunity she could to get word to her other charge that a trap was being laid, but given the discretion that had been imposed by the managers and that his notes were not being conveyed solely through her anymore, it was no easy task. Actually, it was as impossible as the opera. When she heard this, Christine promptly tried placing a note underneath the door under the stairs, warning him not to come – a hopeless endeavour given that she was asking him to miss the premiere of his own opera – but the slip of paper was still exactly where she had left it days later. Though his communiqués were coming thick and fast, it appeared that the Ghost had otherwise completely cut himself off from the outside world, burdening Christine anew as his rejection sank in deeper, confusing her all the more and furthering her anticipation as his final words to her returned over and over again.
Remember, Christine: I will never leave you.
It didn't matter where she went or what she did in the Ravelle, she was reminded of that. As at the Masquerade, all eyes would stare at her in curiosity, accusation, expectation, or a mix of the above. Everywhere she went, she heard them whispering. Half of them believed her to be in league with the Ghost – some of whom went so far as to suggest in ways both subtle and blatant that she was sleeping with him – whilst the other half believed her to be a tragic victim to be pitied. Either way, it was difficult not to loathe the majority of the Ravelle. Meg and Madame Giry were as supportive as they could be, as were Professor Gardiner and even Dr Poligny, but given the frantic schedules everyone had been given; more and more, Christine found herself alone, and when she wasn't, she was isolated by the gossip and mockery of everyone else.
Sometimes, she couldn't help but wonder if this was why her Angel had chosen to live underground, hidden from the world. In those moments, she longed for him all the more, to teach him that he wasn't alone. Then she would wonder if perhaps this wasn't what he had intended with his actions: to teach her what he knew; to show her what her rejection had done to him. It was in moments like that when all at the Ravelle realised why she had been given the lead; it was in moments like that when she blew them away; that was when she tried to reach him the only way she could: she sang for her Angel and her voice did indeed reach the heavens. Though he was refusing to communicate with her, to teach her and guide as she would have thought he would, particularly as it was for his own opera; in spite of all that, the lessons he had given her leant her a skill that was not taught at the Ravelle; and though she made mistakes like anyone else, she was clearly the only member of that Institute close to being on that stage who was capable of handling a lead role.
That of course, made life even more difficult.
Carlotta, having been relegated to a role that was barely above the chorus, having been subjected to the back-handed sniggers of all those familiar with the diva's temperament; in spite of the very convincing argument Christine had made after the Masquerade, she was still determined to undermine her 'rival' as much as possible. There was not a member of the company, least of all Christine, who wasn't aware that Carlotta was convinced she didn't have the voice for the lead. As in earlier productions, she found herself spending as much of her time as she could away from the temperamental diva, immersing herself in the music in an effort not to drown. Although, given the nature and source of the music, it probably wasn't the best course of action.
Matters weren't helped any by her male counterpart. Piangi – being the only male performer who came close to being described as 'half-decent' by the Ghost – had of course been given the role of Don Juan. And of course, being as infatuated with Carlotta as he was, he became a key player in her ever-continuing scheme to unnerve Christine – a part he seemed to take a great deal of relish in. Whenever they rehearsed together, he took full advantage of his role of seducer – the attentions of his hands having about the same effect on her as Buquet's had, distracting her to the point where she could barely get a note out. Of course, when she tried to complain, Piangi was only praised for 'getting into character' and her professionalism was censured. No matter what she did, it seemed as though someone – usually everyone – was against her. And she had no Angel to turn to.
She froze.
Did she . . .? Was that just her imagination? Shifting her fingers slightly up her arm to check . . . no . . . she hadn't imagined that coolness in the air. Raising her head slowly, she tried to calm her breathing before looking around. No.
NO!!
The startling red skull's menacing grin stared up at her, laughing in a twisted mockery. He had been there. He had been there! And he had left a note, hadn't even bothered to let her know that he was there. Or was that draft deliberate? Had he wanted her to know, wanted her to be reminded that he was beyond her reach? As she reached for the note . . . there! She felt it. He was still there. Watching. Just a few feet away. It might as well have been an entire world.
Frustrated to the point of madness, Christine launched herself at the huge mirror with a wordless cry, pounding against it furiously; hot tears coursing down her cheeks as she finally allowed some vent to all that had been building up within her for months. No matter how much she wanted to, she didn't beat the glass hard enough for any damage to be done, though her breath and tears meant that it was less than its usual pristine state of cleanliness. Eventually, her sobs turned into a single word, a question she uttered over and over again: 'why?' Finally, having run out of energy, she sank down against the glass, her hand resting there in one last silent plea.
How long she sat there was anyone's guess. Eventually, she rose, not bothering to look at her reflection, knowing it probably wasn't something she wanted to see, and retrieved the note, breaking the seal without ceremony, feeling some small satisfaction when that gruesome face was torn out of its grimace. She stared at the words written in the familiar script that she had come to hate recently. Putting the note down on the desk, she placed her hands in front of it, where they had been before and let her head fall again.
Sing for me
What exactly did he think she'd been doing all this time: ballet? After all this time and all her efforts, he finally deigned to reply to her with a cold command that she didn't even need to receive. Still, it was better than what he'd said at Halloween. . .
Wait.
It was what he'd said to her that first night . . .
At Halloween, it had been an order from the Ghost. That first night when he'd taken her down there, it had been a command, but it had come from her Angel of Music. True, she had felt compelled to obey, but that had come from the magic of Music, from the complete faith and utter devotion she held for her tutor; it hadn't been the dictation of a Ghost, to be fulfilled by fear. He must know that it was only when she sang for him that she was at her best, so it could have been sent solely for the sake of his music, as a reminder. But then why had he bothered sending it at all, knowing that she would be performing anyway, knowing what happened to her when she was on stage? Was it possible . . .?
That first night, those words had been a prelude to something incredible: to the moment when he had shown her all that he was, when he . . . Was that why he was sending it now? Was that why he had finally broken the silence?
"Last chance, Daaë." Not bothering to raise her head and sick of pretending, Christine asked with a weary voice:
"What do you want, Carlotta?"
"Well I was going to congratulate on making it through the production, but now I'm not so sure. You don't look as though you're up to it." Christine raised her head at the not particularly subtle challenge.
"Carlotta, tell me honestly, why do you want the lead so badly?" Her rival looked at her as though she'd grown a third ear on top of her head.
"Well if you're seriously asking me that, I don't see why you were ever considered-"
"Why do you want this lead so badly? Why do you want to be the subject of the most intense scrutiny the Ghost has ever given to a part? Why do you want to be the one to disobey his orders when he means them more than ever? Why do you want a part you haven't even rehearsed? Or do you just want three acts of Ubaldo feeling you up for everyone to see?"
"What makes you think I haven't rehearsed it? I suppose the Ghost told you that?" Carlotta sneered, not having much of an answer to any of the other questions.
"Show me." Carlotta looked at her, slightly dumbfounded. Christine simply folded her arms and waited. She didn't have to wait long. Carlotta launched into one of Aminta's songs from the second act, a sweet and joyful aria, filled with the hope of love. At least it was meant to be. Carlotta cast aside all restraint of modesty and sang as Carmen. Christine merely sat there, trying to keep a straight face, and hoping that the composer had left. Seeing no reaction from her audience, Carlotta stopped after the first refrain and raised an eyebrow, as though daring her rival to criticise. She just stared back. Once Carlotta was sufficiently unnerved – she had had a great teacher after all – Christine quietly asked:
"How do you sing when no one else is around?"
"What are you talking about?" She tried to sound haughty, but she failed to hide how much the question had caught her off guard.
"When no one else is around, like when you're in the shower or just singing for the sake of it, what does that sound like?"
"Why on earth would you ask a thing like that?"
"Because I want to hear you."
"Why, so you can laugh at me for sounding like an amateur?"
"For the sake of hearing you." Had it not been attached, Carlotta's chin would have quite literally hit the floor. Clearly such a request was unusual to the young redhead. "Shut your eyes, pretend I'm not here – it shouldn't be difficult – and just sing something, anything you like." Carlotta looked at her for a few moments, mistrusting, before finally shutting her eyes and softly singing In the Bleak Midwinter. The first verse was a little shaky, but by the second, she had gotten the feel of the music and was singing unlike anything Christine had heard before. For once, she didn't object to sitting through all the verses. When she was finished, Carlotta opened her eyes, and seeing the look of shock on Christine's face, quickly turned hers into one of contempt.
"Nice try, Daaë. But if you think you can make a fool out of me-"
"You'll never be your mother." Carlotta's mouth snapped shut and she turned for the door, affronted, but froze as Christine went on. "The day you realise that is the day you surpass her."
"What are you talking about? My mother is a great singer." Carlotta turned, again daring, yet also pleading Christine to say anything to the contrary.
"She has a good voice, but from what I've heard, you can't tell because she shows off too much. Even if you mirrored her note for note, you'd never be her. But you could be better than her."
"What makes you say that?"
"My mother was a singer. She taught me that lesson when I was four. I doubt I've ever surpassed her, but I've never tried to be her. I've only ever tried to use my voice and be the best that I can be. She pushed me on instead of holding me back because I learnt and I let her."
"Somehow I doubt our mothers are in the same league." Carlotta sneered, uncomfortable with the conversation.
"No. Mine's in Heaven." She had the decency to look slightly ashamed. "Whatever you think of your mother, you know I'm right." Again, Carlotta turned to leave.
"Carlotta, I've never heard you make anything sound so beautiful before. I was honoured to hear it. Thank you." The door opened and Carlotta stepped out. Before she shut it behind her, she said quietly.
"Good luck tonight, Christine."
After a few moments, Christine took her eyes off the now closed door and looked at herself in the mirror. Removing her robe, she re-applied her make-up, both on her face and her body, covering up her red eyes and the scars. Tucking the note in the table drawer, she looked at herself in the full mirror. Stood alone in the silence, she stared at the reflection, but only saw Christine dressed like a gypsy. Turning back to the dresser she opened the drawer again and took out one of her treasures: one of her Angel's roses that she'd dried. Using the crimson flower to pin back a section of her hair, she looked again. And saw Aminta.
Surprised as she had been by the sentiment given where it was coming from, she was truly grateful for Carlotta's final words of good luck.
She was going to need it.
The opera was astounding. No one sat in the audience at the Ravelle had ever heard anything like it. From the very first note, the music affected all who had gathered to witness the daring new production, reaching into their souls with the most potent of all human emotions, refusing to settle for anything less than their complete surrender. Having been over it so many times accompanied by unprecedented levels of tension, the performers and crew were not quite so given over to the music, though it certainly had a greater effect than in rehearsal; now that it was finally manifested in its true glory.
Yet as the opera progressed, so did the feeling of unease amongst those assembled. As far as the audience was concerned, it was clear that the opera was taking an unprecedented direction – as the title had suggested – and given the sensuality and power of the music thus far, it was with no small amount of discomfort that they awaited the final act when all would be revealed. For those of the Ravelle who weren't aware, it was clear that something was going on, beyond that the Ghost's opera was being performed. There were far too many people backstage for the production, plus the managers and their young patron kept talking conspiratorially in hushed tones, sending each other meaningful glances whenever something happened. For said managers and patron, they were risking the Ravelle and one of its performers for the sake of a trap that – owing to a few careless moments of ineptitude on the part of the police – was looking as though it might not be what they were hoping for. It had taken long enough to convince the authorities to help them, particularly after the lack of success in their last investigation. That they were going off 'superstitions' and 'outlandish theories' didn't help much either. They had eventually been persuaded, however, but their reluctance to follow the instructions of a pair of over-excited managers and a rich boy was showing. Suffice to say their presence had not gone unnoticed. The doors had been locked as soon as the overture had finished. The full force of the available officers had been let in when the second act was underway with instructions not to move into position until the final act – unless it was absolutely necessary. But all the secrecy in the world could not keep hidden those who did not belong in the theatre – especially not when something unusual was expected. The three main conspirators were distinctly uneasy, given that their plan – the course of action which they had pinned all their hopes and a lot more besides on – was beginning to look extremely fallible. Their only hope was that one man – no matter how cunning or brilliant – was no match for so many trained, armed police.
No matter what the level of tension within the audience, the performers or even the police, it was no match for the turmoil Christine found herself in. Thus far, she had played the innocent Aminta with all the faith she could muster. Her voice rang out with a purity and clarity unrivalled by any that had trodden the boards before her, echoing the nature of her character perfectly. And yet, she had yet to surpass any of her previous performances as those who had witnessed them had come to expect: still she held back.
He wasn't here.
It was his opera, his music. This was what he lived for, what he gave himself up to, and yet she knew he was not here. She had yet to feel his presence, and each time she was able to chance a look at Box 5, she still saw Raoul boldly sat there. Song after song, scene after scene, still there was no sign of him. Surely they hadn't succeeded in frightening him away, keeping him from seeing the fruition of all his work?
Standing in the wings, she listened as the now familiar music burst upon the air with the opening of the final act. This was it. This was the last chance . . . for so much and so many. Listening to the words, truly listening to them, Christine felt the knot in her stomach tighten again. They sang about her from Don Juan's point of view: as a piece of meat; the deserving victim of a cold, heartless seduction, for all the passion and fire on the stage. Was that what he really thought of her? That she had ignorantly thrown away everything that they were for some idle fancy? How many more torments could there possibly be in one opera? As if it wasn't bad enough that every prop, every costume on stage at present was meant to reflect the pit of fire at the heart of it all. How many times had she had to conquer herself because of that in order to make it through rehearsal?
At the sound of Piangi plotting with his Passarino, she cleared her mind, trying to remember why she was doing this, realising just how fitting her next words were. Distracted as she was, it was not difficult for her voice to have a far away air to it.
"No thoughts within her head, but thoughts of joy! No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!" All feelings of unease in the house were temporarily abated as the angelic voice rose and enchanted all who heard it. But the quiet strains of the orchestra meant that it did not last, rather the apprehension returned all the greater as the masked Don Juan emerged from behind a curtain where he had been hiding.
Having received what was meant to be a nod of encouragement from Raoul as she sang, she knelt down and placed the basket she carried before her, astonished to find a startlingly red rose there – the basket of flowers had been noticeably lacking in those during rehearsals. Carefully, she lifted the fragile bloom out and set to work on cleaning the stem with her fingers, wishing that a black ribbon had adorned it instead of the thorns.
"Passarino – go away! For the trap is set and waits for its prey . . ."
No . . . surely . . . he wouldn't . . . And yet there was no mistaking that voice. There was no way on this earth that Ubaldo could sing like that. Slowly, Christine turned her head. And there was certainly no way on this earth that Piangi had such a mesmerising presence.
"You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish, which till now has been silent, silent . . ." He raised a finger to his lips, bidding her be silent, as though his presence there was a secret meant for her and her alone – like at the Masquerade. Slowly, he moved across his side of the stage, like a panther. Dark and dangerous, he stalked her as she remained transfixed.
"I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge – in your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defences, completely succumbed to me – now you are here with me: no second thoughts, you've decided, decided . . ." With a flourish of the cape that was so undeniably him, he waited as she rose, silently obeying him: succumbing as commanded. He slowly circled her, keeping his distance yet tantalisingly drawing ever nearer.
"Past the point of no return – no backward glances: the games we've played till now are at an end . . . Past all thought of 'if' or 'when' – no use resisting: abandon thought, and let the dream descend . . ." He reached for her and in one movement was stood behind her, holding her so possessively, his hands arousing her in their caresses.
"What raging fire shall flood the soul? What rich desire unlocks its door? What sweet seduction lies before us . . .?" Running his hands down her arm softly where the scars were hidden, his lips hovered above her fingers as though he would kiss them. He sang of seduction and she felt desire; he caressed her and she felt desired like never before.
"Past the point of no return, the final threshold – what warm, unspoken secrets will we learn? Beyond the point of no return . . ." Once again, he was on the other side of the stage. He could be at her side within seconds – he had proved as much already – yet there was the distance. She felt a chill at his absence and pulled her sleeves back onto her shoulders.
This was the climax of the opera; the ultimate outpouring of all that he was . . . for her. Though he had commanded her with his movements, his music and his words from the instant he had appeared in Piangi's place; though he had to know that a trap was set, given the all too obvious police presence: still he stood there, waiting, letting her decide. She heard her cue, and of their own accord the words came pouring from her throat.
In truth, she did not know the reason why she was there, until he had appeared on stage beside her. Looking up at Raoul one last time, she shut her eyes as she uttered the next line, blushing as she realised that she had indeed imagined herself entwined with her Angel. But enough memories. The past was done, it could not be changed. Giving herself up to the moment instead, she surrendered to the truth that she had indeed come in pursuit of her deepest urge and she finally gave voice to the wish which had stayed silent for too long. Turning to her Angel, she absently felt those sleeves fall again. He looked at her in questioning wonder, and as she sang of her decision, she nodded in assurance. No matter what her Angel had done, no matter what he thought, no matter what he had planned, there was one truth that neither of them could deny.
She was his.
She did not sing as though she were trying to play Aminta. Finally, she understood: she was Aminta – no – Aminta was her. He had not just written the part for her, he had written her; and with him there, there was no pretending. Her voice returned in all the glory that he had bestowed and that she herself could muster. Surrendering to the music, to her Angel and to her own desires, for the first time in her life she deliberately, consciously became the seductress. As the pair moved to the stairs at the back of the set, climbing them, she sang with passion and delighted in his look of astonishment as she all but offered herself to him with her movements.
Finally, they stood on the bridge together, above everyone else, set apart from everything other than themselves and the music. He was before her, moving towards her and their voices blended as one in a glorious harmony that had hitherto had no audience. Falling completely under his spell as he bewitched her with his voice again, she should have felt uncertain, faltered in her role of seductress, and yet she went on, the flames consuming them, all bridges and barriers between them consigned to the fire that burned furiously for all to see.
They reached each other at the height of the crescendo, meeting in an abrupt but fierce embrace. Until he turned her, drawing her back flush against him, his hands on hers as they moved in the most seductive of caresses over her body – though he never quite touched her himself. It was just like that first night that she had been dreaming of mere hours earlier, and yet it was so much more. Though he bewitched her, she was under a spell of her own making: the spell of her own desires which he fuelled with every touch, every breath. The heat of their performance burned so fiercely, it consumed all, forcing the orchestra to fade away until there was nothing left, save they two alone. And Christine was blissfully drowning in the sweet sensation.
"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime . . . Lead me, save me from my solitude . . ." The hands that had not dared to touch her were now lightly on her face, her neck, caressing her hair. Dazedly, she took one of them in her own, encouraging him. At his next words her eyes flew open. Was he really . . .? After all the separation, the pain they had each inflicted, was he actually saying . . .?
"Say you want me with you, here beside you . . ." Turning to face him, he held one of her hands in both of his, pleading with her. She reached to touch his face, but the mask was in the way. Though she heard her Angel, it was not he who stood before her, it was Don Juan. She had to see him.
"Anywhere you go let me go too – Christine, that's all I ask of . . ."
The screams of the forgotten audience shattered the moment.