By Allison E. Lane
"What new surprises lie in store?"
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene Eight
"What are we going to do in regards to the Opera Ghost?"
"What about him?" Firmin muttered in reply. It was half an hour to the opening curtain of Il Muto, and the two managers of the Opera Populaire were busy mingling with the cream of Parisian society in the Grand Foyer. Firmin nodded at a passing count and countess while keeping an eye trained on his wife, who was at the bottom of the staircase trading gossip with a group of her friends.
Andre nodded at the count and countess as well, his own eyes flickering restlessly over the crowd. "Don't pretend not to know what I'm speaking of," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. "You know what—Box Five and the twenty thousand francs! All our plans to catch the Ghost in the act have failed. And you saw yesterday's charming little note. He still wants his money. Aren't you the least bit worried over the consequences of seating Box Five?"
"Not particularly," Firmin grunted, and pasted a smile on his face as Madame Firmin and her cadre ascended past them, no doubt off to engage in some schmoozing of their own. "What could the crook possibly do about it? Harass the concierge? No, we've sold the box, and we're better off for it. Good evening, monsieur, madame, welcome to the Opera Populaire," he added in his most genteel tones, bowing at the waist to a splendidly dressed couple who returned the gesture haughtily.
Straightening from his own bow, a frown crossed Andre's face as he murmured, "Perhaps we ought to invite the vicomte to sit in our box tonight."
"Rubbish, he's already paid for it," Firmin grumbled. "He has every right to sit in that box if he wishes. Unlike our ghostly friend." He spat out the last word with a glower, but as Andre watched the man's facial expression magically morphed into something approaching gracious servitude. "Ah, vicomte! How delightful of you to come to the performance this evening."
Raoul de Chagny had appeared next to them, immaculately dressed for a night out on the town. "But of course," he replied politely, with a smile. "I'm looking forward to it."
"And Box Five is prepared and ready for when you wish to be seated," Firmin assured him.
Andre fought the urge to put his head in his hands.
"They say that this youth has set my lady's heart aflame!"
Quite the opposite, Christine thought sourly, perched on the bed that was the centerpiece of Il Muto's opening scene. At the moment a curtain hid her and Carlotta from the audience's view, which meant they were sitting side by side, without touching, and Carlotta was radiating all the warmth and affection of an Antarctic glacier. Thus far, the diva had not deigned to speak or to look at her. Unfortunately, that would all change in a moment's time.
"His Lordship sure would die of shock!" the conservatory kid sang gleefully, prancing about with the others in their jewel-encrusted costume finery. Christine couldn't help but smile a little at the enthusiasm in his voice, though her stomach churned.
"His Lordship is a laughingstock!" the other dandy crowed.
The trio—assisted by Meg, who twirled about with yet another container of prop jewelry—began to conclude their introduction, and Christine could sense the stagehands preparing to draw back the curtains surrounding her. Her stomach lurched queasily, and gamely setting her face with the proper expression, scooted closer to Carlotta to lean into their opening pose.
"Don't touch me, you disgusting brat," Carlotta hissed as she brought up her fan, and the curtains parted.
From then on it was a contest to see who could outperform the other and emerge victorious in their battle of wills. Carlotta almost instantaneously transformed into the giggling, adulterous countess, and Christine, into her mute paramour. The confidante and the two dandies let out highly scandalized gasps and giggles as the curtains around the bed withdrew to reveal Serafimo and the Countess engaged in an extremely inappropriate embrace. The two broke apart, the Countess giggled, and Serafimo gazed at her adoringly.
"Serafimo, your disguise is perfect!" Carlotta trilled.
Please let this end quickly, Christine prayed silently.
Backstage, Monsieur Reyer watched the proceedings with a steely eye, glaring unseen at Carlotta. He had already decided that if the woman so much as looked at Christine the wrong way, there would be serious hell to pay, and had informed the management as such. Firmin had merely snorted, while Andre at least had quirked his eyebrows in what appeared to have been agreement. Tapping his foot in silent agitation, Reyer had to concede that things were going well enough thus far, but reminded himself that the performance had only just begun—there were three entire acts for the situation to go south.
The sight of Christine's anguished, tear-streaked face refused to leave him. That had been the second time he'd seen her reduced to such a state by Carlotta's hand, and he never wanted to see it happen again. Carlotta had ruined too many people for him to sit idly by any longer. The petty cruelties, the casual injustices, the sneering insults—Reyer was thoroughly sick of it.
A musician knocking on a woodblock in the orchestra pit heralded the entrance of Don Attilio, husband of the Countess. Leaning on his cane and caked with comical white stage paint, Joseph Arsenault came shambling onstage. Both the audience and the Countess's entourage tittered. Christine, as Serafimo, set about pretending to straighten the bedclothes.
Joseph, in his booming baritone, sang of his imminent departure for England and his regrets that he had to leave his wife behind with her new maid. "Though," he snickered lecherously, "I'd gladly take the maid with me!"
I would gladly go with you, Christine thought glumly, almost forgetting to strut coquettishly as she fluffed pillows. Alas, such was not the opera's plot. She would continue to be trapped with Carlotta for a good deal many more scenes. With an effort, she managed to keep her bright, not-quite-innocent expression affixed to her face.
"The old fool is leaving!" Carlotta squealed to her entourage, which elicited another round of tittering.
In the managers' box, Firmin was already leaning back in his seat in contentment. "Splendid, splendid," he commented aside to Andre. "What did that scoundrel say this performance was supposed to be? A disaster beyond all imagination? Hardly! Things are proceeding quite swimmingly."
And then a voice murmured sardonically in Firmin's ear, "Are you so certain of that, monsieur?"
Onstage, Carlotta had just removed Christine's false skirt, revealing Serafimo's masculine attire for all to see. Don Attilio, who had elected to stay and spy on his wife's suspected trickery, brandished his cane in cuckolded outrage. The Countess and her confidantes sang gleefully of their plot while Serafimo kissed his lover's hand. And then, in the middle of a trilling arpeggio, Carlotta delivered what could only be described as a loud and resounding croak.
The effect was almost instantaneous. Christine's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. In the pit, Monsieur Gabriel dropped his baton in shock, and the second violinist broke a string in surprise. Backstage, Reyer was torn between the impulse to gape or snicker. Firmin let out a kind of strangled cry, while Andre looked around in consternation. The audience collectively gasped.
Amazingly, Carlotta actually recovered from the gaffe first. Clearing her throat, she hissed "Maestro!" at Monsieur Gabriel, who shot back to his feet after recovering his baton. "The beginning, da capo, the beginning!"
Christine, who was in a state of near-shock herself, stammered, "But—"
Carlotta rapped her across the arm with her fan. "Shut up, you little chit!" she spat, and yanked Christine back to the bed, where Madame Giry's blocking had placed them at the beginning of the interrupted verse. His mirth instantly gone, it took all of Reyer's self-control not to hurl his score directly at the woman's head.
In Box Five, Raoul de Chagny had just half-risen to his feet, face flushed with anger, when he distinctly heard a voice whisper, "Monsieur, I do believe you are in my seat!"
"Serafimo, away with this pretense!" Carlotta was singing, a little too brightly to be comfortable. She moved to pluck Christine's skirt away, but paused when she remembered that the skirt was long gone and in the hands of the Hairdresser. Kicking Christine in the ankle, the two awkwardly pantomimed the act. Backstage, Reyer's face turned an interesting shade of puce. "You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's ab—"
Again, instead of a perfectly pitched note, the inexplicable croak issued from Carlotta's throat.
One of the musicians audibly spluttered with laughter through his horn, and the audience erupted into a storm of whispers and snickers. Even the stagehands were craning their necks to see and guffawing amongst themselves. Christine's hands flew to her mouth. Reyer looked as if he were doing his best not to choke; Andre had fled from the managerial box, leaving Firmin who now seemed incapable of anything but gaping with incomprehension. Raoul could only stare.
Flustered, Monsieur Gabriel hastily indicated for the orchestra to continue, and sloppily waved his arms to cue them in on the next phrase of the song. Carlotta, who had gone deadly white underneath her stage makeup, desperately struck a pose and tried again.
"Poor fool, he makes me laugh, ha ha ha ha ha—"
No sooner had Carlotta broken out in a fit of hacking and coughing than the theatre descended into a state of utter pandemonium. The audience and half the backstage staff were roaring with laughter, with the orchestra coming to a prolonged and noisy halt to either join in the mirth or look helplessly about for direction. Gabriel looked as if he were about to faint. Firmin, having gained his senses, had dashed after Andre. Piangi waddled onstage despite his state of civilian dress to attempt to console Carlotta, who had begun crying hysterically at the top of her lungs. In the background Joseph Arsenault was leaning against a set piece for support, tears of laughter rolling down his face.
Pushed off center stage by Carlotta and Piangi's combined histrionics, Christine felt as if she were floating, suspended, in some bizarre alternate realm of reality. Everything was moving so slowly all of a sudden. Though she knew it was impossible, she couldn't help but think that she had somehow managed to project her worst nightmare—complete and total public humiliation—onto Carlotta by the sheer force of her loathing. The whole situation was insane. Year after year of perfect pitch and intonation, of never missing a performance due to ill health, and now that Christine was suddenly her understudy Carlotta was playing the toad in front of the entire world?
Andre skidded onstage then, signaling for the audience's attention, as Piangi and the Countess's entire entourage minus Meg and the conservatory kid bustled Carlotta away, no doubt for a lie-down, a cold compress, and a stiff brandy. Firmin appeared at his side a moment later, puffing from exertion.
"Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen!" Andre shouted over the din of the audience, clearly scrambling for something to say. "Er, the performance will continue in… ten… minutes' time with Christine Daae in the role of the Countess!"
Christine's world sped back up to speed. Firmin, who was obviously out of his depth, cast about for something authoritative to do and ended up seizing her by the arm, dragging her forward to display to the audience. Christine, utterly adrift, barely managed a jerky nod of acknowledgement before the wardrobe mistress descended upon her.
"Come along, cherie," the plump woman instructed, replacing Firmin's grip with her own and shepherding Christine backstage. Pushing down a surge of mute panic, she mentally searched for an anchor to keep her steady—it was all happening too fast to comprehend.
She locked eyes with Monsieur Reyer as they passed him in the wings, and he immediately fell in step beside her as if it were the only natural thing to do. Christine hadn't even finished sighing in relief before the wardrobe mistress tutted at him and shoved her behind a dressing screen, already snapping her thick fingers for the understudy wardrobe as the ballet dancers streamed past them. A dresser began to strip her of her Serafimo costume.
"Do you have any questions, Mademoiselle Daae?" Reyer asked from the other side of the screen.
"I—I don't believe so," Christine babbled, her voice hitching as the dresser laced her into a corset. Please, say anything, anything to keep me from going mad from all this…
"Do hold yourself together," Reyer responded, his muffled voice slightly acidic. Christine latched onto the oft-heard tone with a desperation born of rapidly stretching nerves. "You are perfectly familiar with this role and have no reason to panic. Take a deep breath and count to ten, if you feel it will help."
Christine only ended up gasping as the dresser finished with the corset and and the wardrobe mistress lifted the costume gown over her head. As they shifted and hooked it into place, she silently counted ten to the strains of the Act Three ballet coming from the orchestra pit. Meg was undoubtedly twirling about like a forest nymph at the very moment.
The dresser slipped a pair of heeled shoes on Christine's feet, and the wardrobe mistress, finished with stuffing her hair into a cap, set about pinning the elaborate gray wig in place.
"Any better?" Reyer's mildly sardonic voice inquired.
Not very. "A little, yes," Christine mumbled.
The wardrobe mistress jabbed the last hairpin in place and pushed Christine out from behind the screen, nearly toppling her into Reyer. "Off you go, cherie," she said briskly, as businesslike as ever, and rushed off with the dresser to attend to the understudy Serafimo.
Reyer instinctively steadied Christine on her feet with his free hand. "Just a moment before you go slather that awful paint on your face," he said, looking her intently in the eyes. "I know this isn't quite the most sterling of opportunities for you, but I trust you will make the most of it." His lips quirked briefly. "After all, it's not every day that one has the honor of filling in for an amphibian."
Christine couldn't help but gape at his choice of a tension breaker before a small giggle escaped her, and the moment afforded a much-needed ease on her nerves. Reyer nodded and cleared his throat. "My work here is done," he said lightly. "Now off with you to the greasepaint bottles."
"Wait," Christine blurted, catching him by the arm. "Would you mind staying just offstage? I—"
Her eyes focusing on something past his shoulder, her face abruptly drained of color and she tottered a half-step backwards just as screaming broke out in the audience. Mouth working soundlessly, her hands began shaking uncontrollably.
"What the devil…?" Flabbergasted, Reyer turned to see what was causing the commotion—only to have his score fall from suddenly nerveless fingers as his stomach plummeted to the center of the earth.
Seconds laters, having made his way backstage to inquire on Christine's welfare, Raoul de Chagny rounded a side curtain and stopped in his tracks at the sight that met his eyes. Christine, shuddering violently, had her face buried in Monsieur Reyer's shirtfront; Reyer's arms were wrapped protectively about her shoulders as he tonelessly uttered "Don't look, don't look…" over and over again, staring horrorstruck at the still-twitching body of Joseph Buquet as it dangled from the rafters.