By Allison E. Lane
"A disaster beyond your imagination will occur."
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene Eight
The following morning, Christine stood awkwardly in front of the door to Monsieur Reyer's office, shifting on her feet and biting her lip nervously. She'd reported to ballet rehearsal once arriving at the Opera, and Madame Giry had been midway through leading the dancers in their warm-up exercises when Monsieur Gabriel appeared, stating that the chorus master wished to see Christine Daae at once. Christine had followed the conductor with more than a bit of trepidation; however, Gabriel wore no air of doom and gloom but instead was his usual collected self. He'd excused himself with a kind smile once they'd reached Reyer's office, leaving Christine alone to wallow in her anxiety. She'd been trying to prepare herself for the worst since the previous night, since a meeting between them was inevitable, but still…
Finally, she drew in a deep breath and knocked on the door, more timidly than she had meant to do.
From within, there was a great rustling of papers. "What?"
At least Monsieur Reyer sounded like his usual irritable self. "May I come in?" Christine asked, looking down at her feet and feeling ridiculous for having to speak to the door.
There came the sound of more rustling, followed by a muffled thud. "By all means, do," the dry voice replied, and Christine twisted the door handle with a white hand and hesitantly stepped inside.
Monsieur Reyer was seated behind his desk, studying some papers with his customary can't-be-bothered air. At her entrance he looked up, paused in the act of placing aside a pen, and made a noise that—oddly enough—sounded as if he were choking back laughter. Christine froze, stricken. Reyer's sides shook ever so slightly for a moment before he regained control of himself. "That doesn't suit you," he said finally, the barest hint of a smile playing about his lips.
"What?—Oh." Christine looked down at herself, realizing she was still clad in her white practice costume with its fluffy skirt, and blushed scarlet.
Reyer indicated the guest armchair, obviously further amused by her discomfiture, and said, "Sit down. We have a few matters to discuss."
Heart sinking, Christine sat. Had he asked her here only to laugh at her, then dismiss her entirely?
Folding his hands on the desktop, Reyer cleared his throat. "Firstly, the managers will wish to see you at a later time this week to finalize the details of your new contract. You are aware that there will be a two-week break between productions once Hannibal is finished?"
Christine nodded mutely.
Reyer selected a few papers from the top of a stack on his desk and handed them across, then began rooting around the debris surrounding his desk in search of something else. "Those are the notes I made on your performance as Elissa," he said distractedly, as Christine examined the choppy, clipped handwriting. "Of course, they're rather pointless now from a progress point of view, but you should still find them useful." At long last, he unearthed a thick score and pushed it across the desk towards her. "Our next production will be Il Muto. I don't know yet what role you will play, but since Carlotta will undoubtedly be given the role of the Countess, I should like to begin working on that with you as soon as possible."
Christine's heart leapt—she could scarcely believe her ears. "You mean you still wish to teach me?" she blurted.
Reyer gave her a look that suggested, in his eyes, she had just sprouted wings and a beak. "Of course," he said, a bit shortly. "What did you expect?"
Given your behavior, I expected that you never wanted to speak to me again! Chagrined, Christine stammered, "It's just that—well—I—I'm sorry for disturbing you yesterday—"
Reyer waved a hand sharply. "Don't apologize," he snapped. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say something more, or perhaps bite back what he had just said. Instead, he reached down to pick up a package from beneath his desk and fairly shoved it towards Christine as if holding it burned his hands, saying stiffly, "This is for you."
Christine blinked at him in surprise, but he was suddenly absorbed in scribbling something on a piece of paper. Curiously, she set aside the score and notes and reached over to pick up the box. It was a medium-sized box wrapped neatly in brown paper and tied with string. Carefully undoing the wrapping, glancing up at Reyer every other second, Christine lifted the box's lid—and gasped.
Nestled inside was a brand-new pair of toe shoes.
Nearly speechless, Christine swiftly looked up at Monsieur Reyer, but he was still studiously writing across the paper before him. "F-For me?" she managed.
"They'll last you through the rest of this week, I expect," he replied, as if his buying her toe shoes was a perfectly normal thing. He set down his pen and folded his hands once again on the desktop, glancing up at the ceiling as he did so—in fact, it seemed to Christine that he was purposely attempting to look anywhere but at her. For some reason, it made her smile. His gaze flickered towards her but shot upwards again the moment their eyes met. With a start, Christine realized that he was almost acting contrite.
He's apologizing, she thought suddenly. Apologizing the only way he knows how—without words.
"Thank you," she said warmly, fingering a ribbon off one of the shoes, and saw Reyer's shoulders relax infinitesimally.
"You're quite welcome," he replied roughly, and in his posture Christine could sense the unspoken addendum: And don't you dare mention this ever again. But then he smiled at her, briefly—and it was the only truly genuine smile he had ever given her.
Quick as a flash, it was gone. Reyer began shifting papers again. "I won't bother you the rest of this week," he said, and his voice was once again short and indifferent. "However, I would like to start your lessons again next Monday. Is that acceptable?" He raised an eyebrow at her in query.
Christine nodded and smiled, looking back at him with an entirely new look in her eyes.
Andre looked at the envelope lying in the center of his desk, and his right eye twitched.
"Richard…" he began.
Firmin didn't even look up from his perusal of the morning newspapers. "I don't want to look at it," he growled. "You read it."
Sighing, Andre picked up the envelope and shook out the single piece of folded paper within. Snapping the letter open with one hand, he adjusted his spectacles with the other and apprehensively began to read. My dear messieurs Firmin and Andre:
I was most disappointed to see Carlotta returned to her starring role last night. Neither was Piangi a sight for sore eyes. I had hoped you would have better artistic judgement—you do your more drastically talented replacement leads a great disservice. Perhaps in the future you will see fit to place Monsieur Arsenault and Mademoiselle Daae in more appropriate roles.
It further displeases me to note that I have not yet been paid. Kindly leave the twenty thousand francs in an envelope in Box Five. I will give you until the end of the week, and if you have not paid me by then, I assure you that you will most certainly wish that you had.
Sincerely yours,
O.G. Andre put the letter down and looked across at his fellow manager. Firmin was very pointedly reading the paper, and obviously did not want to know what the letter contained.
"He wants to be paid," Andre said at length. "And he didn't like Carlotta."
"Blather," Firmin spat. "Everyone loves Carlotta. The critics all agree. Have you not seen the newspapers this morning?"
"No," Andre replied curiously.
"Well, it's unanimous." Paper flew as Firmin sought out the pertinent columns. "La Carlotta a triumph, Hannibal returns in splendor, the glory of Carlotta's golden throat, c'est magnifique! And no refunds. Last night's performance was splendid."
"How odd," Andre murmured, thinking of the abrupt turn in favor from the opera critics. It was as if Daae and Arsenault had never performed. He cleared his throat. "Now, Richard, about this matter of the Opera Ghost—"
"You mean extortionist—"
"—I really don't like the tone of this letter." Andre picked it up and thrust it towards Firmin, who took it grudgingly. "What should we do? Of course there's no question of payment—we won't hand over a sou. But I can't think of a single way to flush this man out and force him to reveal himself, besides alerting the Surete. But that's not an option," he added hastily as Firmin's expression darkened. They had been over this before; it was Firmin's insistent opinion that calling in the gendarmerie would only cause them to look like fools. "Perhaps we could set a trap in Box Five? Leave an envelope stuffed with blank paper there, and find a place to hide and observe?"
Firmin's mood lightened almost imperceptibly. "Would this work? When can we put this plan into effect?"
Andre considered. "After the run of Hannibal is finished, I should think. And during the day, when no one will be about the stage."
Firmin regarded the letter a moment longer, snorted, and tossed it into the wastebin. Andre winced. "I like it," Firmin said gruffly. "And that will be the end of this nonsense for today. We need to be considering the Opera's next production. What about this girl—Daae? Has she signed her new contract yet?"
"No." Andre shuffled papers, arranging them into neat piles, the subject of the Opera Ghost temporarily forgotten. "I can have Remy send for her now, if you like."
"I would like. Yes, yes, let's get this over and done with." Firmin cleared the newspapers off his desk with one sweep of his hand. "What a wretched, ridiculous business."
"What's wretched?" Andre asked, confused. Was Firmin voluntarily bringing up the Opera Ghost?
"This business with Daae is wretched, that's what!" Firmin exclaimed. "Honestly, Andre, do you believe it? A chorus girl! A dancer! Thinking she can be a diva! She was fortunate—that's it. Plucking her from the ballet corps and making her understudy to Carlotta will only cause trouble for everyone."
Taken aback, Andre raised his eyebrows at Firmin. "Are you implying that Mademoiselle Daae does not deserve to be Carlotta's understudy? For heaven's sake, the girl was amazing! She deserves much more than that—"
Firmin harrumphed. "We absolutely cannot afford to place her in leading roles. Think of all the money we would lose without Carlotta Giudicelli as our headliner! Carlotta is a star. The public loves her. Replacing her with an unknown, untried dancer would be beyond the realm of folly—it would be financial suicide."
It was on the tip of Andre's tongue to say that Carlotta didn't emerge from the womb a lauded soprano, but he chose to keep that particular comment to himself. Instead, he sighed and reached for the bell pull. "I'll have Remy fetch Mademoiselle Daae," he said. "And afterwards you can haggle all you wish over the new production."
The bell was pulled, and a moment later Remy poked his fair head in the door. "Yes, messieurs?"
"Go and find Christine Daae, if you would, please, Remy," Andre said. "We wish to see her over the matter of her new contract."
"Yes, monsieur, right away." Remy closed the door behind him with a soft click.
"I still say it's a disaster waiting to happen," Firmin grumbled.
Andre said nothing, only frowned.
The week passed predictably enough. Hannibal played every night to an enthusiastic audience, which Carlotta took every opportunity available to revel in. Christine's triumph as Elissa seemed all but forgotten. The managers spent the majority of their week in conference with the Opera's top creative staff, smoothing out the particulars of the new production. On Friday, a general announcement was made that the cast list for Il Muto would be posted for all to see on Monday morning. Monsieur Andre looked faintly as if he'd swallowed a lemon. Monsieur Firmin looked oddly satisfied for once.
Christine saw very little of Monsieur Reyer. If she did it was usually backstage during the performances. There was no time for words, but Christine found herself smiling at Reyer each time he happened to glance her way. For his part, he would merely nod in return, but there was no stiffness or arrogance in the gesture. She sensed it was as friendly as he would get.
She missed her lessons terribly. It almost felt like her days were incomplete without a little of Reyer's goading and dry, scathing humor. In the past she had feared him, terrified of bringing his wrath down upon herself; but now, after having spent so much time in his company over the past three and a half months, Christine realized that Reyer wasn't nearly as terrible as she had thought him to be. Indeed, she found him curiously likable. Underneath the irritable callousness, the man had a heart. Granted, it was deeply buried, but every now and then Christine would catch a glimpse of it—in Reyer's insistence at escorting her home at night after lessons, the rare unguarded compliment, his gift of the toe shoes.
She wished that she knew him better. After all the time they'd spent together, in lessons and during the rides home at night, she still did not really know her teacher at all. It was a thought that had been occurring to her with increasing frequency as of late, as it had at the beginning of the week in Madame Giry's office. Somehow, she felt guilty for it. Surely, though, Reyer considered her a friend? Did he consider anyone a friend?
Christine wanted very much for Monsieur Reyer to think of her as a friend. Perhaps it was because she had so few friends beyond mere acquaintances at the Opera. Or maybe it was because his tutorship meant so much to her. Whatever the reason, it was nearly laughable. She never would have imagined, four months ago, that she—much less anyone—would be agonizing over Monsieur Reyer's opinion of her! But suddenly, inexplicably, how Reyer thought of her was very, very important.
She spent the weekend in nervous anticipation of Monday, tracing paths across the threadbare carpet of her small sitting room until she was certain she would explode. When Monday morning finally arrived, Christine fairly flew to the Opera House, excited yet afraid of what the day might hold in store for her.
Almost immediately upon entering the Grand Foyer, Christine was set upon by the conservatory kid. "So there was a minor explosion in the managers' office this morning," he chattered excitedly, his youthful face flushed. "It was incredible! I don't think—"
Christine had stopped and was looking at the kid strangely. "An explosion?" What could he possibly mean? No one was running about, there was no confusion or excitement, the Opera was perfectly quiet… an explosion?
The kid understood her confusion and started laughing. "Oh, no, not that kind of explosion!" he exclaimed as he and Christine began to head up the staircase together. "What I meant was, there was a huge row in the managers' office. Monsieur Reyer came out breathing fire—I don't think I've ever seen him look so furious! I met him in the corridor as I was coming to collect my payroll and he nearly flattened me. I don't think he ever even saw me, he was so angry." The kid paused for breath as they reached the landing and started for the rehearsal rooms. "You don't suppose this has to do with the casting for Il Muto, do you?"
"I don't know," Christine replied thoughtfully. So Reyer was in a particularly volcanic today… wonderful. What a wonderful way to begin her lessons again. "Have you seen Joseph this morning?"
The kid opened his mouth to answer but was silenced by the sight of Joseph Arsenault hurrying down the corridor towards them. "Monsieur Remy's just posted the cast list!" he announced breathlessly, drawing even with Christine and the kid, then turning and shepherding them along with him. "Come, let's have a look, shall we?"
A few other company members who'd turned up early were already gathered around the typewritten list that was tacked up to the notice board beside the door to the largest rehearsal room. "Oh, look," Joseph said dryly, his eyes automatically looking to the top of the list, "Carlotta's playing the Countess."
"What a shocking surprise," rumbled the bass standing next to him.
Christine was quick to point to the name directly below Carlotta's. "Joseph, you've got second billing—you've been cast as Don Attilio! That's wonderful!" Then she noticed her own name. "Third billing… playing Serafimo?"
Joseph suddenly choked, his face coloring an interesting shade of pinkish gray.
"That explains the explosion," the kid muttered, oddly subdued for once.
Christine looked at the two of them in confusion as the bass gave her a sympathetic look and moved away. "What? What did I say?"
Joseph cleared his throat with what appeared to be some difficulty. "Christine, are you familiar at all with this opera?"
Christine shook her head. "Not particularly… why?"
"Serafimo is the title character. The mute! Do you know what that means?"
Christine mutely shook her head again.
Joseph heaved a heavy sigh. "Christine, dear… it means you have to kiss Carlotta."