Desolation Dreamed Of

Of Sight and Subito

It was dark. There was no natural sunlight in the room, only the dim and faint hint of a candle at the far end of the room—a speck of light in a sea of darkness. It was damp and cold, far more humid than any rainy day above ground. She had visited the Salzburg salt mines many years ago on a vacation and they had felt just like this—air thick with moisture, the smell of earth overwhelming her senses…Yes, she was underground.

Gradually, the events of the night before ran through her mind and panic seized her. It wasn't that she was taken by her angel that scared her. No, it was that she was in a mysterious place with no sense of direction or space. Quickly, her fingers grasped at her surroundings. She was in a large bed covered in silk and velvet sheets. Her fingers ran delicately along the velvet lining, momentarily savoring its indescribable texture. The duvet was large, probably goose down to combat the chill of the underground. The bed and pillows had not been slept in before. They were so very different from hers in the Opera House that were so lumpy and overused, springs broken and pillow stiff.

He is rich. How else could he afford such luxuries? But he was God sent. Does that mean he was sent with money? Why do angels require so much? I must not question. I must find him. Swing feet from underneath covers to floor. Cool hardwood on toes. Shivers. Hands ahead, take small step. Stop. Something is moving the air. Something is in this room. There is a presence.

"Who's there?" There was no answer, and she brought her hand out to find the bed once more to steady herself. When she couldn't feel it in her immediate reach, she gulped nervously, completely disoriented.

"Where am I?" she called out, closing her eyes slowly. "Angel, it's you, isn't it?" Her breath caught in her throat and she hoped and prayed it was not some other unknown being.

"It is I." His voice was soft, carrying from the far end of the room opposite the candle.

"Angel!" She made a move towards him, but her foot met a large rug and she stumbled. Her hand caught the ground to steady herself and she carefully stood back up, vowing to stay still.

"You must be careful, my dearest." He made no move towards her.

"Where am I?" she repeated, surprised at how clearly her voice reverberated through the room.

Just when she thought he was not going to answer, his voice rang out. "That is for another day."

"What?" she asked bemused, almost daring to take another step towards him. "Then you must tell me why I am here…At least that!" She thought of the impertinence of her tone only after the words had escaped her lips.

Another moment before he spoke. "It is time to go beyond tedious hour lessons once a day."

"What about my work? Meg, Madame Giudicelli, Raoul!" she exclaimed as her stomach knotted nervously.

"Distractions," he responded simply, tone mildly aloof. "We were not getting enough done with those…three…always on your mind."

"Why now?"

"Also for another day, my darling." The tone of annoyance that had just begun to creep into his voice when referring to Raoul had all but disappeared, and his voice was filled with pure adoration. "Come. We begin now." Christine was about to ask how she was to find her way when she felt his hand grasp hers as he led her out of the room.

The days that followed were each the same. She awoke at her will, and he was always there to lead her to a music room where they sang for hours and hours, breaking only for food. They ate in silence—or more so, she ate in silence and he remained there, watchful. And then, as soon as she had finished, they went back to rehearsal.

She sang everything. Scales, runs, solos, duets, arias. Music she was very familiar with and music she had never heard, accompanied by every instrument she could imagine. He could play anything she wanted on violin or piano or organ or clarinet or oboe. Anything under the sun was at her fingertips.

Soon, Christine began to lose track of the days. Without the rising or setting of the sun to keep track of time, she had no sense of how long she was there. They could have rehearsed at the wee hours of the morning for all she knew. She worried for the first few days of her stay of her position at the Opera House and of Raoul, but when she heard no word of them, her worries disappeared. Afterall, her angel assured her over and over that her job would not be forfeited and that she had no reason to fret. It took all the faith she could muster to trust in him.

She slept for so long. The drugs kept her unconscious, wasting so much time, but it was a precaution that had to be made. I sat stock still in the corner of the room all night, just in case she woke up. I knew she would be so frightened if no one was there for her, unable to navigate this new place. An all night vigil… But then, when have I ever slept?

When she began to stir, I felt as if I could read her mind. I watched the cogs in her head turn slowly as the night came back to her. Taking in the darkness, the air, the bed… What she thought of all this, I had no idea. I watched the dread cross her face as she worried about her disorientation and I felt a pang of some emotion—surely not guilt—for not making myself known.

She struggled to get out of the bed and I stood. She heard the shift in the air and froze. A smile came to my face, proud of my Christine's keen ears. She caught every noise, every movement with that impeccable hearing. She called out and I remained silent, wanting to see any reaction I could.

After a few more cries of confusion, I finally made myself known. My poor Christine nearly fell to the ground when she tried to follow my voice, but still I made no move towards her. She would catch herself and learn to move slower through unknown places. Dear child…

She asked questions and I couldn't answer her just yet. If I made her aware of my plans, she might try to escape in fear, lose her trust in me. No, I would keep my master plans secret and just tell her about her lessons. Of course, she objected at first, worrying about those things she thought took priority in her life. It took all of my being not to growl at Chagny's name, for I knew that he was still dear to her. She didn't understand. She was naïve and ignorant.

She will forget about them in due time. For now, we will rehearse.

Time passed without alteration, and Christine slowly felt herself being lost to the music. Only when she had ceased to think about the Opera House above did Christine's world finally change. She woke up, was brought to breakfast, and as she finished, he did not lead her to the music room. Instead, he told her, "I must bring you somewhere." She didn't question, but simply stood and followed his guiding hand.

They crossed the lake, where she was careful to keep her hands folded neatly her lap. They walked the labyrinth once more, ascending back to the real world. They reached solid ground and the air thinned, the thick humidity gone. They walked and walked through darkness, no words passing between them and no noise emanating from her surroundings.

Christine didn't gain her bearings until she entered the backstage door that led to the stage. He was bringing her to the nearly bare stage that was being prepared for Aida. She listened to her feet pad across the masonite before she heard the noise echo as she reached the house. Her keen ears could hear her breathing echo slightly throughout the vast and empty hall. It had to be some obscure hour, for there seemed to always be someone on the stage during the work day.

"We are on the stage," she said softly, afraid to disturb the still air.

"Yes we are."

When he gave no explanation, she continued. "Why?"

"In two weeks time, Aida will premiere at the Garnier. Every person of wealth and class will sit in these seats to observe the tragedy. There will be ovations and roses and gifts for the Prima Donna, who will graciously bow after her triumph. She will be adored and praised long after the curtain has closed. That Prima shall be you, Christine. Madame Giudicelli will meet with an unfortunate accident in ten days in which she will be incapacitated past the point of performing. You will take her place with four days of rehearsal time with the rest of your cast. And, at the end of that last night, we shall astonish Paris ."

She didn't speak. Thoughts raced through her mind as she replayed his even-toned, calculated words through her head over and over.

That Prima…That Prima shall be you, Christine. Ovations and roses and gifts. Graciously. Adored and praised. You, Christine. We shall astonish Paris.

"That would be impossible," she said as she finally conjured up the composure to speak.

"And why is that?" he asked calmly. She could feel his body displacing the air around her as he moved slowly behind her, observing her.

Christine had lost the ability to speak once more, the words choking in her throat. After several moments of silence, she felt his wrist against her back, gently leading her.

"Our rehearsal begins tonight. I will teach you the blocking when the theatre is empty and we won't be disturbed, and you shall perfect your singing with me, below the Opera House." She opened her mouth to object, but he spoke again. "No questions now. We have too much work and time is ticking away."

They began at the top, marking out every step and gesture she would make. He only barely touched her, his fingers feather-light against her arms and back as he guided her along. It seemed that every time those fingertips touched her skin, involuntary shivers ran through her limbs, though he either did not notice, or he simply did not comment.

As they reached the third act, fatigue had begun to set in as Christine began to find it harder and harder to remember his instructions. There were lengths of time where she would follow him in a daze before realizing that she couldn't remember a thing she had done. Her thoughts were interrupted by his reprimanding voice behind her.

"Do now step that far! You are in the river, you've gone too far. Aida does not drown in the Nile ."

With a sigh of frustration, Christine took a step back. Lines of worry etched themselves into her face and she looked down, waiting for his cue.

"Why do you look so perturbed?" he asked her, unmoving from his place behind her.

"You are disappointed in me," she told him shakily, furious with herself for her petty mistake.

"I am nothing of the sort. This is your first time attempting this blocking. I don't expect you to be perfect; that comes later. Besides, you will have to work twice as hard as any other Prima because you have lost one of your most vital senses." A pause. "That being said, you are not being attentive. What happened at the end of the last Act?"

"I am told that Radames has died," Christine responded immediately.

"No! No, that is not the end of Act 2." When Christine made no move to respond, he sighed. "Begin again."

Christine began to make her movements, but only a few steps in, she felt his hands grabbing her arms.

"You are in the river again! Can you not concentrate? Shall we have to stop? I had hoped to go through the entire opera once! Are you not ready for that? Can you not handle being a Prima Donna?" His temper was flaring, but she could not control herself as he wished.

"No!" Christine finally exclaimed, pulling herself out of his grasp. "No, I cannot! I cannot see, I don't know where I am; I'll surely fall off the edge or run into the proscenium and become the laughing stock of Paris, not an astonishing ingénue. I cannot do this!" Her weariness had heightened her emotions, and she could feel tears stinging her eyes.

And then, in his usual fashion, his voice was once again soft and comforting. "Christine… When it is the darkest, that is when you can see the stars."

"I cannot see them, though!" Christine brought her hands up to cover her tear-filled eyes, ashamed.

"If you can trust me, I can help you see them," he said as he stepped forward, taking her hands gently and pulling them from her face. "You must have faith in me. If you do, we can do it, together." Slowly, he let go of her hands and she could feel his eyes boring into hers, waiting.

"I cannot do it," she finally said meekly, closing her eyes as several more tears passed the threshold of her eyelids.

"What is this word, cannot?" he asked her, moving about to circle her. "Why can't you simply trust me? Faith is easy—to have faith is to believe some power cannot be seen. You should know that better than anyone!" Patience was thinning once again.

"But I cannot even see you!"

"But nothing! Even your silly Bible says that you walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, you have faith in this petty god of yours. God killed your father. He left you blind. He left you in darkness! I gave you the voice of an angel, and I alone will make you the most extraordinary Prima Donna Paris—no, the world!—has ever seen, yet your faith still lies with him!"

"You said you were sent from God!"

"I lied."

The voice was just behind her ear, malign as ever, and she spun without thinking. Her hands came up instinctively; whether in protection or out of curiosity, she wasn't sure. Her fingers barely brushed cold porcelain before she recoiled, fast as lightning. He didn't move.

I'm wrong. Steady now, I did not feel that. There was no mask on his face. He is my angel come to me in human form. No phantom, just an angel. Just an angel.

Slowly, her fingers came back to the figure in front of her, for he still hadn't moved. She could feel the skin on his jaw and relief flooded through her body. He was stony still as her fingertips crept upwards cautiously, just to be sure. It wasn't until her shrieks rang through the Opera House that he finally stole away from her touch. No word. No sound.

"Mademoiselle Daaé!" She could hear Monsieur Firmin's feet as he ran up the aisle of the house.

"He's going to hurt her," she shrieked again without thinking. He had lied to her. What trust could she have in a deceitful man who spent his hours tricking ballerinas, toying with the Prima Donna, and weaving a web of lies? And all of this just to ensnare the imaginations of an

Opera House and to bend the will of a young seamstress. Her breath caught in her throat as she became light headed. "The Phantom of the Opera! He was here!" Yes, she would ruin his plan just as he had ruined her faith. She just barely heard the manager call her name again, this time in question, before she crashed to the stage floor, senses gone.

So sorry for the wait, folks. Graduation nonsense took up all my time, but I hope this was worth the wait! Review and let me know what you thought.

Until next time,

Christine