When Carmen was a week old, Christine drove me out of the house to meet my doom with the Perros-Guirec Amateur Players' Guild. I felt a cad leaving her completely at Miri-ange's mercy, but I promised her it wouldn't be for long. As a special Big Brother outing, Masson and Christine (the cat) accompanied me. Masson was duly armed with snacks, paper, and pastels to occupy his time.
As we wended our way through the streets to the theater, I felt a fluttering in my stomach akin to the opening night jitters I'd always felt on Christine's behalf, mixed with a strange anticipation--my mind was already turning over staging ideas, and wondering what sort of resources we had for set construction, and lighting, and—I realized I was thrilled to be at it again. I had to talk myself down against a possible crushing disappointment, in case I arrived to find nothing but a dozen fat old women and a couple of musty velvet capes.
The theater was modestly-sized, but it was its own building, so that was a good sign. Masson, Christine and I went round and rapped on the side door as I'd been instructed. I'd barely finished knocking when Madame Lallande flung the door wide, beaming breathlessly as she hustled us inside. She blathered incoherently about how thrilled they were.
"Everyone is here, our best turn-out ever! Well, of course we have you to thank for that! And how are the Comtesse and the new little one?"
Before I could draw breath to answer she was off again.
"Oh dear, I can scarcely imagine what you must think of our dreary little theater, accustomed to the best as you are."
Yes. The best rat-infested dungeon in France. I felt a twinge of panic, wondering what she expected of me, the way she was going on. Then we moved into the theater and thirty-odd pairs of eyes turned on me, glowing as if they were witnessing Christ Transfigured. My panic blossomed.
Madame Leclerq approached solemnly, looking like someone who'd prepared a speech. Which she had.
"Welcome, Monsieur, to our humble theater, which we are honored to place in your more than capable hands. Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to present our new Artistic Director, Monsieur le Fantome, of the Paris Opera."
The assembled players erupted in applause as I turned magenta behind my mask and glanced around the floor, hoping against hope for a trap door to vanish into. It was all too much for Masson. He raced around squealing "Phantom of the Opera! Phantom of the Opera!" It was just the touch the scene needed, the notorious phantom darting after his giggling bear, settling him with paper, pastels and a chocolate coin.
When I turned back to my players, the applause had abated. They were all gazing at me; I realized a speech was expected.
"Madame Leclerq, Madame Lallande, thank you. Thank you all. I am…gratified to see so many here. I look forward to our pleasurable, productive association, and if we are to work together, if I may—" I glanced at my president and treasurer; they nodded. I drew a breath and continued.
"I am not the Phantom."
There were murmurs of dismissal, as if I was just pleading modesty, if you can imagine it.
"No, I am not. That was a lifetime ago, truly," I insisted. "I am just Erik Rouen…Erik. Please."
The silence stretched on, as if no one knew what to do—as if they were disappointed that I was no longer a ravening monster. Then there came a raspy grumble from the back of the theater.
"Oh, for pity's sake, he's just a man, after all!"
The crowd parted and a slight, scrappy little fellow scuttled up to me and caught my hand in an uncommonly powerful grasp.
"Rouen," he nodded, "I am Raine, your property man. I manage this place, too." He offered me a quick wink and turned away. Though it would have taken three and a half of him to make Jules, I thought I saw something of my sensible old bull in him, and it comforted me.
Raine's welcome seemed to jar the others to their senses and introductions were offered all around. (How long would it be til I remembered them all?) We had a handful of young ladies in the troupe—though none so young as a proper Juliet, but our supply of potential Romeos was sadly lacking. The youngest men we had were around Raoul's age, but I was undiscouraged. If I've learned nothing, I hope I've learned to make do with what I have at hand.
We moved on to auditions. I broke things off quickly, however. Some people are naturally better at projecting their voices than others, and so I gathered everyone around for a quick lesson in projection and enunciation. I sent them home to practice, and all would be ready to audition next week. I didn't want to rule someone out of a part just because they didn't have a naturally powerful voice, since it was a thing so easily remedied.
After the rank and file was dismissed, I had a quick tour of the facilities with Raine—all in good order actually--and reviewed the books with Madame Lallande. The little players of Perros actually had a few sous to rub together!
I was in a jubilant mood when I went back to the stage where I'd left Masson happily drawing. He'd abandoned his pastels for better things; sitting in the front row, swinging his feet and regaling two lovely young ladies with tales of lord knows what. I was afraid to know. The young ladies were two of our players, Mademoiselles Fournier and Girard, a pair of nubile blondes who were—at least to look at them—definite front runners for the part of Juliet.
"I apologize, Mademoiselles; my son is an irredeemable ladies' man at the tender age of five, as you've learned."
"Oh no!" they demurred in unison. "Masson is such a darling!" exclaimed Mademoiselle Girard. I suppressed a knowing chuckle. "He was just telling us about his day under the opera with you, and all the magical things you showed him."
Oh god. I smiled, or grimaced, or something. "Come along, Son. We must get back to Mama and your sisters."
"Masson told us about his new baby sister; she must be adorable," cooed Mademoiselle Fournier.
"I would be the most fiendish of fathers if I did not find her so," I admitted. The ladies exchanged a glance; I feared perhaps I was coming across as too much of a doting father, so I gathered up Masson and headed home.
-0-0-0-0-
I listened at the bedroom door; when I heard nothing, I reasoned that Christine and Carmen were napping. As I tiptoed over to the bed, an icy hand gripped my heart; Carmen was nowhere to be seen. I plucked the covers back and peered beneath them: no Carmen.
I left Christine sleeping and dashed into Miri-ange's room. There the sisters lay, together in Miri-ange's bed. Miri was wrapped all around her baby sister; it was quite adorable, actually, but I doubted Christine would have been willing to overlook Miri-ange's absconding with the baby no matter how adorable it was. I scooped up both of my girls, carried them into the bedroom and settled them in bed with Christine.
After a quick snack and wash-up, I tucked Masson into bed and returned to my girls. Christine was awake, feeding Carmen. I settled next to them with a sketch pad. Now that I had seen the physical space, my mind was awhirl. It only took Christine asking, "So, how was it, Angel?" and I was off on a tear. I gabbled on about everything mercilessly, until I realized that my darling had turned over and passed out cold in the middle of my monologue.
Still much too excited to sleep, I took myself and my sketch pad downstairs for a brandy.
"Well, here he is!" Reza smiled. "How was it?"
Realizing I'd just bored Christine comatose, I tried to keep my exuberance at a respectable level while I gave him a cursory rundown. "So," I finished up, "all in all, I think we'll be able to make something of it."
Reza chuckled, gazing at his cognac as it swirled around in his snifter.
"What?"
"You, Erik. You're like Masson on Christmas Eve, you're can barely contain yourself!"
"I'm trying to help some people with their silly little project, Reza, that's all!"
"All right, old friend, whatever you say," he grinned. He patted my shoulder and tottered off to bed.
-0-0-0-0-
The auditions went off without a hitch. Our Juliet turned out to be Mademoiselle Girard, after all. The part of Romeo went to a 34-year-old doctor, Hector Dupre. I met with our wardrobe mistress, Madame Bernard, and Raine, and showed them some of my sketches. So rehearsals began and things got well under way. The first night of rehearsals, I lost Masson briefly. He'd clambered up into the flies. My heart all but leapt out of my mouth when I discovered him up there, giggling and waving at me. Lucky for him Christine wasn't there, or she would have insisted on polishing his bottom. Thus began my career of 'Don't tell Mama what happened, Son, or we'll both be for it.'
-0-0-0-0-
The little amateur players' guild turned into more of a full-time job than the catacombs under the Louvre ever were. In addition to the full-company rehearsals, I had to rehearse the musicians separately, and then there were the regular check-ins with property and set design and costuming…fortunately Madames Leclerq and Lallande acted as management when it came to the fiscal end of things. All I had to do was design and execute the advertising posters; they say to the printing and et cetera. Christine and Reza insisted it had more to do with my obsessive, perfectionist nature than the inability of anyone else in the guild to do their jobs. Well, it was easy for them to say that; it wasn't their reputations on the line.
In addition to the regular rehearsals, it soon became clear that my romantic leads needed additional, personalized shepherding. I suspect that, not being true theater people, it was…uncomfortable, to say the least, for a respectable married father of two to make relatively public love, and vice versa for our wide-eyed, sheltered Juliet. I spent several additional hours with them each week, jointly and separately. Still, there remained the strolls around Perros that my children demanded, and Masson's violin, and baths. So in no time I was staggering in and falling over, too tired to eat, and nearly too tired to sleep.
One Sunday afternoon, Christine appraised me and announced that I'd lost weight, if you can imagine anything so absurd.
I was nonplussed. "Where?" I demanded, scanning my rickety frame.
"What do you mean, where? You're clutching your trousers right now to keep them from falling down!"
"Bah!" I waved her off and dug in a drawer for my braces.
She vanished, but only briefly. When she returned, she was pressing a plate of ham and pickled onions on me. "Erik, eat this."
"I don't have time, Christine, I—"
She was making those eyes at me, the big watery blue ones. There was nothing for it, I plopped down on the bed and ate, washed it down with a nice burgundy.
"Better?" she smiled at last.
"Mm. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. Thank you, Angel."
"Erik…" She began unbuttoning my shirt.
"Christine…"
"Erik, I miss you," she wheedled. More big eyes as she pressed me down on the bed.
"I shall be late, Angel," I warned.
"Mmm, yes, you shall."