September 9th 1892: Erik
"Why are you not eating, Uncle Erik?" Philippe asked, pointing at my plate. I had hardly touched the carefully prepared dinner. "I'm not hungry," I muttered. I had been looking forwards to the meals with my little guest, imagining cooking the most extraordinary dishes. Although I myself didn't like food in general too much, I had assumed it would be nice to eat with someone else to keep me company.
Yet now I wasn't a good company myself. All I could think of was revenge. I hadn't liked Signora Marchesi from the beginning, simply because I'd never be able to accept another singer in the position that should have been Christine's. And the diva's arrogant behaviour hadn't exactly improved my opinion of her either. But today she had gone too far. She probably wouldn't even have noticed it if she had pushed Philippe down the stairs. My hands clenched into fists as I recalled the complacent expression on her face when she had walked away, as if nothing except her own well-being was important. No one treated my boy like that without having to deal with the consequences.
It was her bad luck that she had done such a thing on a day like this. Over the years I had grown rather indifferent towards sideways glances and whispers. They accompanied me as soon as I left the safety of my home. Yet today I had experienced them from Philippe's point of view, and suddenly they had hurt me again. I wouldn't let anything hurt the boy. And to achieve that goal, I'd have to make people respect him. Signora Marchesi would be the first to learn it.
Suddenly a little hand was waved in front of my eyes. "What are you thinking about?" the boy wanted to know. "I was thinking about what I still have to do before the dress rehearsal," I replied. "Those are boring things, and I can't take you with me. But I'll give you a sheet of paper, so that you can practice writing till I'll be back. Then we can go upstairs together." "All right," he said, smiling at me. Unlike most pupils, he actually enjoyed studying.
Although I felt like leaving immediately, I knew I had to put away the left-over from our dinner and do the dishes first. It was a strange thought that such things were more important than my duties as Opera Ghost, but they simply had to be done. After all, I didn't want to be a bad example for the boy. Besides, I could use the time to ponder over some details of my plan.
When the kitchen was tidy again I went to fetch the promised sheet of paper and a few other items I'd need. Then I made Philippe sit down in the living-room and gave him a pen. "I'll be back soon," I promised, leaning down to dishevel his hair in an affectionate gesture. In a way it reminded me of… No! I forbade myself to finish the sentence. Turning around abruptly I left the house. "Goodbye, Uncle Erik!" he called after me.
I marched away quickly. It was only when a considerable distance lay between my home and me that I dared stop for a few moments to catch my breath. As I lifted my hands to put on the gloves at last I noticed my fingers were shaking. I stuffed them into the soft leather gloves, angry about the obvious sign of weakness. It had been a narrow escape. I had almost thought of… her.
Christine. The name had sneaked to the front of my mind silently and was sitting there now. It seemed to sneer at me, to mock me. ´Did you really think you could get rid of me just like that?´ it asked. ´I'm only the beginning. And it was right. Moments later her picture arrived in my head, closely followed by memories. Long chains of them filled my whole body. They were in my lips, whispering ´Do you still remember what it felt like to kiss her?´… and in my hands, muttering ´Do you still remember what it felt like to touch her?´… and in my heart, murmuring ´Do you still remember what it feels like to love her?´.
"Yes!" I cried, my voice breaking. I remembered everything, her voice and her face and her scent. It felt so good to think of her; I had missed it very much, even though I had only suppressed it for a few hours. Yet it also hurt unbelievably strongly. The most painful part was the knowledge that the next time I'd see her, she'd no longer belong to me, not even in my mind. One could only delude oneself for so long.
The first sobs shook my chest, but I forced them down. I didn't want to collapse on the ground, weeping like a child. Summoning up all the energy I could muster I focused my thoughts on revenge. It was astonishing how quickly I grew calm again. Revenge varied in its reasons and consequences, yet the basic feelings, hatred and disdain, were rather simple. With determined strides I continued my way to the main part of the opera. Work had always been a good distraction from sadness.
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About an hour later Philippe and I sat in Box Five. Even with all the trouble about Signora Marchesi I had kept my promise to take an additional cushion. Now the boy had a very good view on the stage. However, he seemed more interested in the scenery and the lighting than in the opera itself, and I couldn't blame him. It was one of those terrible plots in which after fifteen minutes no one could tell who was in love with whom. Back in the old days the managers wouldn't even have thought about staging such nonsense, yet at the time of their decision I had been too busy preparing everything for Philippe's birthday to interfere.
During a particularly boring part I let my gaze wander over the auditorium. Officially nobody was allowed to watch a rehearsal, for the managers were afraid of secrets being given away before the first night. As if there had been any secrets! Besides, their rules were never quite as strict when it came to patrons. Many of them used the dress rehearsal to see dancers they were especially fond of without the glares of their wives. They mostly sat in the private boxes, but a few had also found their way into the auditorium, probably to be closer to the stage.
Both M.Andrè and M.Firmin were present, so was Mme.Giry, who watched the performance of every chorus girl closely. And there was someone else… I could hardly believe my eyes. It was Signor Marchesi, the diva's husband. The tall and slim man wasn't interested in the opera and hardly ever attended a performance. Yet today he was here. It couldn't have been more perfect if I had invited all of them myself.
A change of speed in the music announced the first big aria of the evening. "Who is that woman, Uncle Erik?" Philippe asked. "Her name is Donatella Marchesi," I replied readily. "She's the leading soprano… one of the most important singers," I added, seeing his questioning glance. "Moreover, she's the woman who nearly threw you down the stairs this afternoon." I didn't expect him to recognise her under all the make-up and in her costume, and indeed it seemed to take him a few seconds to recall the incident at all. "That was not nice of her. I grazed my knee," he then remarked. "Don't worry. I'll make her pay for it," I muttered. "How?" he wanted to know at once. I gave a soft chuckle. "Just keep watching…"
We focused on the events on stage again. "What is she singing about?" Philippe asked after about two minutes. I could understand that he grew bored; the opera was in Italian. "She's overjoyed because she has fallen in love with the man who has sung before," I explained. "But in the next act he'll – " I interrupted myself, saying "Look!". Signora Marchesi had just reached a very important part of the aria. Starting a long note she stretched out her arms in one of her famous gestures… and ended it with a screeching sound as her dress ripped over the whole width of her chest and fell to the floor, revealing her flesh-coloured corset and underskirts.
Then everything happened at once: Signor Marchesi gasped in shock and covered his eyes with his hand. Chorus girls giggled, and patrons stared at the diva's chest with undisguised fascination, once more very glad that their wives weren't present. The managers yelled for someone to fix the costume, while Mme.Giry, who was used to all kinds of catastrophes by now, finally sent a stagehand to fetch a dressing gown. Meanwhile the unhappy singers had found refuge behind an artificial tree. "This was just a little foretaste," I shouted, making my voice echo through the auditorium. "Apologise!" Quickly I drew the curtains, blocking Box Five from view.
"Was that really you?" Philippe whispered. I nodded, half proud and half embarrassed. For a moment I wondered whether it had been right to take such drastic actions. What if the boy didn't like it? But when I glanced over at him, I saw that his little body was shaking with silent laughter. "It was so funny," he told me. "Will I be able to do things like that one day, too?" "Of course," I answered, putting an arm around his shoulders. "You can do anything you want. After all, this is our opera house."