August 8th 1892: Erik
There were far more fascinating ways of spending one´s afternoon than watching the chorus girls practice on stage. They resembled a flock of sheep, standing together in small groups, bleating about some unimportant gossip. Mme.Giry was the only one who could actually make them work every now and then. Yet since neither she nor her daughter were here today, none of the girls knew what to do, which only caused them to bleat more loudly.
One of the older ballet rats, a pale girl with freckles and hair the colour of straw, tried in vain to start the rehearsal. "All right! Let´s begin with the warm up!", she called, but only about a third of the sheep moved to the front and followed the instructions of the helpless-looking shepherdess. The rest continued chatting, ignoring the fact that they were mainly paid to work with their arms and legs, not with their mouths. But then, with all the patrons most of them had encountered I couldn´t blame them for believing the opposite.
Quickly I wrote down a few more words on the piece of paper on my lap and looked at the stage again, stifling a yawn with my hand. It was a dull work, yet I regarded it as my duty to check the chorus girls about once a month and tell Mme.Giry about my observations. After all, I couldn´t let the managers pay me for nothing, could I? Besides, I didn´t want to ruin my opera´s reputation by having incompetent dancers.
"Oh, stop acting like a teacher, Nadine!", another girl was just shouting. "This is our chance to have a little fun!" "But they said Mme.Giry will come back today, and if she finds out that we´re not practicing-", the shepherdess argued, only to be interrupted by the other girl. "She should have been back yesterday, and do you see her anywhere? I bet there are so many new dancers that she won´t return until next week."
I made a note of the names of the rebellious girls. Maybe their ballet mistress could talk some sense into them. The argument on stage grew noisier, and I brought the fingertips of my unoccupied right hand to my temple and massaged it. A dull throbbing announced the beginning of a headache. I had no idea how Mme.Giry survived hours of this bickering every day; not even fifteen minutes had passed, and I already longed for the quiet of my home.
Fortunately I was spared any more of the quarrel for in this moment Signora Marchesi appeared on stage, wearing a dress in a garish yellow and her brightest smile. The latter, however, disappeared quickly when she noticed that all the people around her were female. "Dai! Perché quelle ragazze sono qui?", she exclaimed. "Vorrei lavorare!" I couldn´t help shaking my head. Actually that woman spoke French very well – I had heard her do so on a dozen occasions. She just didn´t seem to care about being understood by the members of the chorus, whom she regarded as little more than peasants.
The girls looked at each other, completely puzzled. After a few moments the pale girl who had tried to replace Mme.Giry addressed the diva. "I beg your pardon, Madame? What did you say?" Signora Marchesi threw her a scornful glance, and the girl shrank back. "I want to practice here.", she was informed. "As you are not doing anything important I can as well start right now, can´t I?" "Of course!", the girl muttered. Within just a few moments all the ballet rats had left.
I decided to do the same. The singer was dragging a timid-looking pianist onto the stage, and I practically fled from Box Five. Once or twice I had had the questionable pleasure of hearing her murder a few arias. It had been ten times worse than the chorus girls and would doubtlessly only serve to increase my headache. What I needed was a little fresh air and the ability to stretch my legs. I´d go for a walk.
Normally I didn´t leave the opera before sunset, but with my fedora pulled down and the cloak covering the lower part of my face it would work. Of course such an appearance would look peculiar on a hot summer day, yet after a few minutes in the street I realised that there weren´t many people out anyway, probably due to the heat. With every step I made away from the opera my head felt better.
I didn´t quite know why I suddenly ended up at Christine´s house. Maybe it had been fate, just as it was fate that she was sitting in the garden with her children. None of the glanced in my direction. It was a simple matter to climb over the wall and hide behind a tree. I was even close enough to hear them talking.
"Poor Philippe!", the little girl called Antoinette said. "Now that you also have a teacher there won´t be much time left for playing. Instead you´ll have to stay inside, writing words or practicing to read." "My teacher isn´t like your boring old Mme.Tadaux.", her brother argued. "He´s great. You should have seen all the things in his house! And the bird…" I couldn´t keep my heart from swelling with pride. Philippe hadn´t met me more often than a dozen times, and yet he was defending me. He truly was his mother´s son.
ChristineI didn´t know how to feel about my son´s words. On the one hand it was good that he liked his teacher. But on the other hand it made me worried. Like most children he talked a lot about the things he liked, and given the boy´s normal eagerness Raoul would have found out everything five minutes after his arrival. Unless… "There´s something I forgot to mention.", I said in a loud voice, drowning out the argument of my two little ones. "This whole subject is a big secret. We mustn´t tell anyone about it."
Both children looked at me in surprise. "Not even Papa?", Philippe asked. "Especially not Papa!", I replied. Hastily I tried to find an explanation. "You know, your father and… erm, Uncle Erik don´t like each other. They… well, they once had a huge quarrel about… something you wouldn´t understand anyway. Hearing that Uncle Erik will be your teacher would only make Papa upset." I was quite pleased with myself because I had managed to get out all this without a single lie.
"Of course you can tell other people that Philippe has a private teacher, but you mustn´t say who it is.", I repeated urgently. "Do you promise?" My son nodded, yet Antoinette seemed to have something else on her mind. "Maman?", she started slowly. "Philippe told me that this man lives in a house under the opera and wears a mask over half of his face. Is that true? Why does he do that?"
It wasn´t as if I hadn´t expected such a question to occur sooner or later. I had only hoped it would be later. Yet before I could answer my boy had already done so, in a completely casual voice. "Because people would hate him if they saw his face." For a moment I gaped at him open-mouthed. Then I pulled myself together. Surely Erik had spoken with him about the topic on a previous occasion; it sounded like something he´d say.
"Why? Is he that ugly?", Antoinette asked. She seemed more curious than shocked by the news that her brother would be taught by a masked man with an unusual place of living. I swallowed hard, not knowing what to reply. Again the task was taken over by Philippe, who called: "Then our cook should also wear a mask! She has such an ugly wart on her nose.". Quickly I glanced at the house, but fortunately the windows of the kitchen were closed.
Then I shook my head. "No, Erik isn´t ugly in the normal sense.", I told my children. "The right side of his face is… deformed since his birth. He´s like the beggar we´ve once seen in the street who was born with only one arm. Do you remember that some people stared at him and called him unfriendly names? Erik is afraid that this could happen to him as well, so he hides behind a mask."
"But doens´t he also hide by living far away from other people?", Antoinette pointed out. "Why does he have to hide twice?" For a moment my gaze grew distant as I recalled the few things Erik had told me about his youth. "He has been hurt very often.", I muttered, petting my daughter´s head absent-mindedly. "People don´t like him because he´s different from them."
The girl´s eyes grew wide. "That´s terrible!", she whispered. "He must be so lonely…" "Does he have no one who plays with him or reads to him, no one who says nice things to him when he has had a nightmare?", her brother asked, moving slightly, so that he could sit on my lap. The children´s concern for a man they hardly knew nearly brought tears to my eyes. "No, there is… no one…", I replied slowly.
"Does nobody like him, nobody at all?" This time the question came from Antoinette again. "Oh, some people do.", I hastened to answer. "Aunt Antoinette likes him, and Meg likes him…" "And you?", Philippe asked. His voice sounded a little sleepy. "Do you also like him?" "Yes.", I breathed, and for some reason my cheeks flushed. "Yes, I like him as well."
My daughter noticed the change in my face at once. "Maman, why are you-", she began, but was interrupted by the sound of snapping twigs. Turning around we saw a shadow jump over the wall. It was gone within a second. "What was that?", she cried timidly. "A cat.", I replied instantly. "Just a cat that came into the garden to search for food… We should better get inside now. It´s becoming too warm." By now Philippe had almost fallen asleep. I stood up without disturbing him and made my way to the house. Antoinette appeared relieved about my explanation; she was already chatting about something else. I only wished I could believe it as well. If it hadn´t been a cat, I´d face a lot of trouble tomorrow.
Author´s note: Signora Marchesi´s exact words are: "Oh no! Why are those girls here? I´d like to work." I apologise for any mistakes I might have made. My Italian isn´t too good.