You are a joke.
It was some time after Carlotta's very public dressing down of Christine Daaé. Reyer sat in his office, behind his desk with his elbows propped up on the edge and his head in his hands, his bowler hat tossed and forgotten in a corner. His mind kept replaying, as if trapped in a mocking loop, the words Carlotta had spat at him in the corridor outside the rehearsal room. He knew he shouldn't think anything of it, and indeed usually managed to brush aside the majority of the diva's calculated insults, but today… today those insults cut closer to the quick than usual.
"You have no business in attempting to influence the casting at the opera house, signora—you are merely a contracted singer and you have no say—"
"And you imagine you do?"
"Well, yes. Have you conveniently forgotten that I'm the chorus master here? I have to make sure the singers have at least a modicum of talent before the idiot managers hire them, in which case you never would have gotten past me if you'd come here later than you did, and I advise—"
A condescending chuckle. "Ah, you never fail to amuse me. You sorry little man, you believe that you are needed here?"
Indignantly: "Yes, I do! The singers can hardly be trusted to learn the music themselves, and Lefévre would not have hired me if he didn't think—"
More laughter. "You were not hired for your ability, dear Reyer! You were hired out of pity! The management would have released you entirely, but Monsieur Deschanel convinced him that you would starve without the Opera's charity, because you were not on speaking terms with your family. You did not know that? Tsk, tsk, I thought you did! Oh, do not look so red-faced, it is not good for the health. Learning that one is useless is always hard—"
"As if you would know!" The exclamation was heated. "You know, you're really being very vile today, even for your standards—did those oh-so-true reviews rankle you? Well, I'm sorry that the truth has been revealed, but—"
"They were not true! Paris loves me, not that scheming little trollop! And you—you wanted to be famous also, did you not? I am sure you could be—in a village pub somewhere. Why don't you go and seek your fame there, where you will be needed, if only to make background noise for the drunks?"
Reyer was nearly speechless. "You're hardly fit to sing in a pub yourself, you wicked profligate!"
"But who is the star now? Certainly not you, to no one! And you would be wise not to speak to me in such a manner again, Monsieur Reyer, or you could lose this appointment like you lost all else."
"Y-you can't do that!"
"Ah, but I can—fame brings with it power, something you have never had here. You can lose your appointment as chorus master, and then you will have nothing—no employ, no money, no use to anyone, not even your own family. You are not needed, and you are useless! You are a joke, a pitiful joke of a man!"
Carlotta's threat—not to mention her manner of presenting it—had left Reyer stunned, and in a humor so unbelievably black it made him appear nearly catatonic. Piangi had wanted to sneer as well, and got in more than his usual half-witted mouthful before it became clear that Reyer wasn't really hearing him. And to add insult to injury, he hadn't been able to gather his wits back about him in time to stop Carlotta's tantrum. Yet another reason to mentally flog himself—like a fool, he'd allowed Carlotta's taunts to get to him, something he hadn't done in a long time. He tried not to take the insults seriously, but then, Carlotta wasn't usually so personal… "I wasn't hired out of pity," Reyer muttered wrathfully at the desktop, the words sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. "I was hired out of necessity. That evil witch, on the other hand…"
Unwittingly, he found his thoughts drifting back to the early days, years ago, when he was younger and actually somewhat optimistic, and Carlotta Giudicelli had been a largely unknown member of the Opera Populaire's chorus…
Spring 1872
"Looks like Old Man Deschanel is late again." Martin Reyer, then in his mid-twenties, gave a little cackle of derision and settled back into his chair. "Why doesn't the management get someone new? The man is a fossil. He can't keep us quiet long enough to teach us anything!"
Jean Villenar, sitting next to Reyer, cracked a grin. "He's been with the Opera Populaire since before they rebuilt the House. Deschanel's a relic of the old glory days—of course they won't let him go. Unless he dies or retires. Whichever happens first."
Reyer's snicker mirrored that of Georges Dubois, the young man seated on Jean's other side. Reyer and Georges had been at the conservatory together; he had made the acquaintance of the older Jean after joining the company of the Opera Populaire two years previously. Reyer was not particularly great friends with the two men—his slightly caustic personality seemed to be a birth trait rather than an acquired one—but he found them agreeable because they all had like minds. Jean was a career practical joker, and often took claim for little happenings attributed to the Opera Ghost. Georges was a natural mimic. Together with Reyer's years of honed sarcasm, they made a formidable team against anyone they might target for ridicule.
Today that target was Monsieur Deschanel, the old chorus master. While not exactly doddering, the man was getting up in his years and was no longer able to exert sufficient control over the often-rowdy, fun-loving company. It was said that he had been a real firebrand in his day, but now Deschanel was past his prime. At present, he was late to begin the afternoon rehearsal.
A grin still on his moustache-free face, Reyer glanced up a row and down the line at the aloof figure seated in the very last chair, back proudly straight, hair expensively done, bundle of music placed primly on the rich cloth of the skirt. Reyer's grin grew even wider.
"Oh, Lotta…" It was almost a singsong. "Are we attempting to play diva as usual?"
Carlotta Giudicelli, a year-old import from Italy, slowly slid her gaze from her music to Reyer in obvious disdain. "I am a diva," she replied haughtily.
Georges rolled his eyes; Reyer's grin remained plastered on his face. "Yes, you certainly are," he said in the same singsong, layered now with a patronizing undertone. "And pray tell, just where are you a diva, again?"
Carlotta glared daggers at him. "You do not understand. I am very famous in Italy. Only, my fame has not yet reached here."
"Translation: It will never reach here." Reyer and Georges shared a good laugh. Carlotta colored in anger and turned her attention back to her music with a little 'hmmph!'
"Can you believe it?" Reyer chuckled in a low voice, abandoning the singsong tone. "She thinks she's better than the rest of us lot just because her family has money and she received a few good reviews back home!"
Georges bobbed his head in agreement, but Jean looked a trifle uneasy. "Maybe you oughtn't tease Carlotta so much, Martin," he said. "I hear her family has powerful friends even here, and that influence could mean bad things for you when she becomes more successful."
Reyer looked at him incredulously. "Whose side are you on here? Carlotta has no future in Paris! I don't pretend to know how things work in old Italy, but here you need talent to succeed, and she has none—"
"She has a voice, and she has ambition," Jean said seriously. "Just be a little less nasty to her, is all I'm saying. You never know what will happen in opera."
"Well, I do know what will happen here." Reyer smiled and stretched in his chair. "Mark my words, gentlemen: When Carlotta finally realizes that Paris doesn't love her half as much as Rome, she will leave. Her star will never rise at the Opera Populaire."
Reyer had cause to regret those words several months later, in the fall. The Opera was just preparing to begin a new season; Reyer was fresh off a minor success in one of the last production's featured roles, while Carlotta had graduated to supporting roles. Usually, a few members of the company departed at the end of each season for various reasons, but this year an abnormally large percentage was leaving, many of the female. Many new conservatory graduates were being called upon to replace them. It was amidst this casting shuffle that Reyer found himself called to the manager's office.
When he arrived, Monsieur Lefévre was regarding a few papers laid out atop his desk. Then he looked up. "Martin Reyer? Good. Please, have a seat." Lefévre waved him to one of two chairs placed in front of the desk; Reyer sat. The portly manager glanced one more time at the papers before him, then folded his hands and looked across at Reyer, clearing his throat as he began.
"As you may know, the Opera has been undergoing some changes as of late, namely in the company of singers. Many longtime members are leaving to seek out new endeavors elsewhere. This has necessitated the hiring of some new faces to the world of opera. Decisions have been made, and we… I… feel that a fresh, new company would be good for the Opera Populaire. Now, I know your tenure here has been relatively short, though successful and productive, but…"
Here Lefévre paused. Reyer said nothing. He merely stared back at the man, stony-faced. He didn't have to be an idiot to intuitively know what was coming. Surprisingly, he remained calm; although his stomach was sinking, Reyer felt curiously empty for someone who was about to be declared unemployed.
Lefévre cleared his throat again and shuffled the papers on his desk. "I am unhappy to tell you that you were to be released from the Opera Populaire's employment. However, another position has just recently opened that we are in immediate need of filling."
Reyer found his voice. "And what position might that be?" he asked coldly, in a tone tinged with bitterness.
"You may be aware that Monsieur Deschanel, the chorus master, is retiring." Lefévre looked down at the top letter of the pile on his desk, then eyed Reyer in a most curious manner. "You have been, ah, recommended for the job."
A week later Reyer sat in his new office, staring at the score for Chalumeau's Hannibal that rested upon the otherwise empty desk. Morning rehearsal was due to begin in just a few minutes. It would be Reyer's first rehearsal as the new chorus master of the Opera Populaire.
He'd had a week to adjust to his new job and familiarize himself with Hannibal's score, an entire week during which news and rumors traveled quickly. That was how he'd heard of Carlotta Giudicelli's sudden rise in company hierarchy. A debilitating accident had befallen the Opera's leading lady; due to the absence of the company's other principal sopranos, Carlotta had risen to become the newest prima donna. By default, of course, but some whispered that the Italian singer had machinated the entire episode. Others claimed the accident was the work of the Opera Ghost. Reyer's own words simply came back to haunt him. Her star will never rise at the Opera Populaire…
He wondered if it was a coincidence that he had been fired—and then re-hired—just a day after Carlotta's ascendance to the top. And then he wondered if perhaps antagonizing her so in the past had been such a smart move after all. But at the moment that contemplation ranked among the least pressing of his issues. Ignoring the whispers about himself—that he hadn't been talented enough to make the cut to stay in the company; that the Opera Ghost itself had ordered him hired as chorus master; that Carlotta was indeed behind everything and planned to make his life a living hell—was more important than wondering if his past actions were foolish or not.
Another minute ticked by; Reyer continued to stare at the score on his desk, steeling himself for the events to come. He always hated to admit to any weaknesses he might have, but at the moment he was profoundly nervous. He didn't know a thing about running a rehearsal or teaching others to sing music, not really, though he supposed his own learning experiences at the conservatory would do as a basis. Part of him feared the inevitable whispering while his back was turned, and the possibility of more failure. Hell, he wasn't even thirty years old—no one would respect and obey a teacher so young!
Reyer shifted—a mite uncomfortably, a mite determinedly—in his chair. He may be nervous, but the one trait he possessed in a larger degree than natural sarcasm was pride. Well. I will no longer accept failure on my part. I must give them a reason to respect me.
He pulled a pocket watch—the only ornate thing about his mode of dress; it was a gold-plated engraved timepiece—out of his vest pocket and glanced at the time. Then he replaced it and stood, picking up the Hannibal score and mentally reciting a litany he had been repeating to himself for the last hour.
I am now the chorus master. I am now in a position whose former occupant was heavily ridiculed by myself and the rest of the company. I will not allow myself to be subjected to the same ridicule. I will not allow myself to be run over or be taken advantage of, as Monsieur Deschanel was. I will run productive rehearsals. I will not be a failure. I will forget that I was ever a singer, and simply be the chorus master.
Almost as an afterthought, Reyer picked up his favorite bowler hat and put it on. Then he opened his office door and walked out into the hallway, heading for the rehearsal room.
He made it a point to arrive exactly on time and not early, for he had no wish to be the object of gossiping eyes for any longer than was absolutely necessary. Upon entering the room Reyer saw that the entire company was assembled and that his presence had been noted; however, every single occupant of the room blatantly ignored him, continuing to carry on their own conversations. It was a rude breach of rehearsal etiquette, and a breach that Reyer had helped to commit on numerous occasions in the past, but Reyer was not Monsieur Deschanel. And Monsieur Deschanel was no longer running these rehearsals.
Reyer placed the score upon the rehearsal piano, observed the hubbub around him, and silently counted to ten. Then he briefly closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and roared at the top of his lungs, "QUIET!"
Every single conversation in the room died away in an instant as a sea of stunned eyes came to rest on the short, slight, yet still imposing figure standing by the piano.
Reyer waited until he had everyone's attention, then coughed, loud in the sudden silence. "I am Monsieur Reyer, the new chorus master. While you are in this room, you come under my command. I will not tolerate misbehavior. From this moment on you will conduct yourselves as befits as professional opera company. You are here to rehearse, not to socialize. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
A forest of heads nodded mutely. And thus the legend of the tyrannical, bowler hat-wearing chorus master was born…
Summer 1881, Present Day
"… Monsieur Reyer?"
Reyer blinked, jerked his head up from where it had been resting heavily in his hands; the fall of 1872 vanished into the mists of time and suddenly he was back in the gruesome present of 1881. Someone had been knocking on his door. With a start, he recognized the hesitant, slightly unsteady voice out in the corridor as belonging to Christine Daaé. How long had he been daydreaming? Long enough for her to recover enough from her psychological beating to venture from her own hiding place, apparently.
"Go away," he growled, loud enough for his voice to carry through the wooden door. Reyer stared around his office, taking in nine years' worth of accumulated detritus with blind eyes. He didn't want to see a single soul, least of all Christine Daaé, yet another reminder of his failures in life; she was most likely still weepy and puffy-faced as it was, and he had no desire to deal with such a creature. Not now. Not ever.
There was a short silence. Then Christine's wavery voice floated through the door again. "Are you all right? The… the managers need to see you…"
Something inside Reyer snapped. You are not needed, and you are useless… Abruptly pulled from his state of lethargy, he hurled himself out of his chair and across the small room to fling the door open so violently it nearly came off its hinges. As he expected, Reyer found himself face-to-face with Christine. Her gray eyes were large and watery, her hand poised as if to knock again, suddenly frozen by his thunderous appearance.
"Are you so infinitely stupid as to not understand my simply words, you little halfwit?!" he yelled in a curiously breaking voice. "I told you to go away! The managers do not need me—no one does! Now get out of my sight before I am forced to do something rash!" Reyer planted a hand square on Christine's breastbone and shoved her backwards so hard she hit the far wall of the corridor, then slammed the door shut with a force that seemed to rattle the entire building.
As soon as the door was closed Reyer found himself sinking into the overstuffed armchair in a daze. He was breathing hard. He'd never actually struck a woman before. Granted, he had imagined doing as such—and worse—to Carlotta in the past. But hitting his very own student had never entered his mind before, not even in her most trying moments, not even the day of her first lesson when she had snuck up on him as he sat at the piano.
And then it occurred to him that he was actually thinking about the fact that he'd hit Christine.
Normally Reyer went about without a second thought as to his actions, blithely ignoring the consequences and acquiring a reputation as a stone-hearted autocrat with a sharper tongue than La Carlotta's in the process. But as he sat there attempting to recollect his shattered dignity, he realized that not only did he feel his dignity injured over this incident, but that he was experiencing a vastly foreign emotion because of it… shame.
He was ashamed. He, Reyer, who had practically never taken another person's feelings into account in his entire life, was feeling ashamed for yelling at—not to mention hitting—a woman, something he did an average of six times any given work day. Nothing of consequence. But suddenly very consequential.
No sound came from the hallway. Reyer had a sudden urge to look and see if Christine was still there, and attempt to apologize. But if his dignity was in disrepair, his enormous pride was less so, and that pride would not allow him to even think about opening that door for at least half an hour. Add to that the fact that 'apology' was not a word that existed in Reyer's vocabulary. No, he couldn't possibly.
And yet, he still wanted to apologize to her somehow.
Why did that notion unnerve him so greatly?