Hi! So Sorry haven't updated this in a month, but life had been busy! Should updating once every two weeks now because I've started another story, Resist Me. It's another E/C story so if you have time please R & R it, and also this one. This was beta'd by the amazing Not A Ghost3. On with Chapter Four!
Chapter Four:
THE FIRST LESSON
Paris, March 14th, 1881
Erik's POV
"Erik Destler!"
My heart quickens; my breathing reacts to this change, and follows suit. I'm a shaking, hyperventilating, erratic mess. I've been like this since last night, when my Angel came to visit me.
My perfect, beautiful angel.
She has told me things I have never even dared to think myself, told me that I could be someone I did not think myself capable. She is convinced that there is some beauty in me, when there is none. Why does she believe that I could be the maestro of the Opera Populaire, that I could be the star, the one that everyone came to see? It's unbelievable, inconceivable, unimaginable. . .
But now is not the time to try to interpret such ludicrous notions. Now is the time to do the thing I most love in this unforgivable, twisted world: sing.
"Monsieur Destler – are you there?"
My mind almost goes into overdrive as I process it is now my time to audition. Whilst taking a few deep breaths, I stroll as confidently as I can manage to the middle of the stage, travelling through the narrow side passage that links backstage to the vast wooden platform, where in the past many magnificent singers have graced so elegantly. I feel so inferior to them, therefore shouldn't be standing here, yet somehow, fate has allowed to take the position I've only dreamed about.
Sitting on the seats in the middle of the first row, there is the new managers – Messieurs Firmin and André – who are sitting fastidiously upright, both mirrors of each other, right down to the colour of their ties. It is quite conspicuous that they are trying to look professional and powerful; however, this backfires terribly, as they actually look quite pompous and laughable. It is quite hilarious really. I have to concentrate quite hard on not laughing.
"Erik Destler, is that you?" The one on the left, M. Firmin I think, asks me, completely unaware about the fact that ends of his moustache are sticking up most terribly. Deciding to mention it as that would make me seem insolent, I choose to confirm his question with a brief nod.
"How old are you, boy?" The other manager – who must be M. André – inquiries in a haughty tone, which I do not like at all, however I do the exactly the same thing as before: choosing to ignore the thing that irks me in order to secure the best possible chance of joining the ensemble. It's my only choice – either this, or the streets. And I have no intention of having to beg for my dinners.
"I'm twenty-one, Messieurs. I believe my birthday to be the twelfth day of July."
I hear the managers snort after I finish informing them on the details of my birth. I don't expect them to be impressed with either piece of information. I can tell, from the way they looked at me as I first walked on the stage, that they both would rather an older person be their new choir member. As to why, I can't say I know. However, I intend to amaze them.
"Yes, Erik. Thank you. What song have you chosen to audition with?"
"'Le veau d'or est toujours debout', from Faust."
"You intend to sing that? Especially when – I assume – you're quite aware that this piece is vocally challenging?"
I smile – it seems that the managers will be impressed by at least one thing.
"I know." My answer is simple and straight to the point.
If I'm honest, every question and every answer just adds to the tension bubbling inside of me. If I do not sing soon, as God is my witness, I swear I'll erupt in blazing flames of anxiety.
Fortuitously, the next time Monsieur André opens his mouth, it is to do with my performance:
"Very well then, Erik Destler, you may begin. Oh – but one last question: will you be requiring the services of our resident pianist? Or will you be singing a cappella?"
"Oh." My eyes go wide with horror and my jaw drops unsophisticatedly open.
I did not realize that was an option. Was I meant to?
"Um, I must apologize, Messieurs: I have no music for the pianist, so I am not in need of the pianist's services."
"A cappella it is, then," M. André sighs.
For a few seconds I worry whether singing without accompaniment has compromised my chances, but what can I do about it now? Nothing. So I must deliver, and hope it is enough.
I center myself so that every inch of my body is facing the managers, and fill my lungs with the stuffy air around me, before exhaling ever so slowly. I turn my head upwards, up to the heavens. This is for you Angel, I think while a slow smile appears on my lips. This is for you, only you, and no-one but you. I hope I do you proud.
I bring my head down and look the managers straight in the eye, as if to unnerve them. Unlike most, eye contact makes me feel better. I breathe another breath quickly, before I begin.
And then I open my mouth, fighting for the chance to stay here, to have a place in the ensemble, and prove my worth to my Angel of Music:
"Le veau d'or est toujours debout!
On encense sa puissance,
On encense sa puissance,
D'un bout du monde à l'autre bout!
Pour fêter l'infàme idole,
Rois et peuples confondu,
Au bruit sombre des écus,
Danse une ronde folle
Autour de son piédestale,
Autour de son piédestale,
Et Satan conduit le bal!
Le veau d'or est vainqueur des dieux!
Dans sa gloire dérisoire,
Dans sa gloire dérisoire,
Le monstre abject insulte aux cieux!
Il contemple, ô rage étrange!
A ses pieds le genre humain,
Se ruant, le fer en main,
Dans le sang et dans la fange
Où brille l'ardent métal,
Où brille l'ardent métal,
Et Satan conduit le bal!"
Clapping. . . I hear clapping. . .!
I open my eyes wide sharply, blinking a few times to refocus my vision. It is only then I realize that I had my eyes closed for the entire song. I gaze around frantically at my soundings, having completely forgotten where I am. When I was singing I was in another place entirely: one where my voice soared and had made its own alluring music, the place in the heavens where I was free, where I was side by side with my Angel. . .
I'm on stage. That fact alone frightens me. Why am I here?
To try to answer that question, I look around, ascertaining that I'm in the Opera Populaire. Why on the stage though?
And there's that deafening clapping sound. . .
My eyes land on two men, who are simultaneously banging their hands together in an excited motion. Who are they?
Then I look into their eyes.
And recognize them.
"Well done Monsieur Erik! That was truly marvellous!"
"Yes! Wonderful!"
The managers. . . clapping. . . smiling. . . complimenting. . .
That can only mean one thing:
I've done well. . .
I've done well!
Oh, my Angel. . .
"Thank you!" I gasp, almost croaking, suddenly finding myself not able to breathe.
I'm too full with confusion, shock, and ecstasy. No-one has complimented me with such vigour before! Well, not since. . .
"No, thank you!" Firmin's rich voice rings out in the large, unoccupied theatre.
"It was splendid!" André agrees.
I beam at the both of them, having finally recovered my composure. I truly am at a loss for words. My Angel was right! I was good! I am good! Finally, I have found the thing I am meant to excel in.
I look upwards once again and silently thank my Angel of Music. Without her, my success would have never been possible. And Madame Giry. She's the one who put me up for this in the first place. She wouldn't have done if she thought I had no talent. Which means she must have some faith in me. . . I wonder how she found out. . .
My thoughts are interrupted by the managers' voices:
"Well, Erik," M. Firmin begins, his applause having fully died out – so had M. Andre's – "I must admit I was not expecting such brilliance from a man of one-and-twenty years! You could rival Signor Piangi, our current maestro, with your tremendous ability!"
"Yes," says Monsieur André. "It seems you have quite a. . . rapport with singing. You of course have the part in the ensemble, and I am sure that, with time and training, you could develop a voice which would be second to none. Tell me, do you have a teacher of the finer arts?"
"I have a –" I rush out impetuously, but luckily stop myself before revealing my teacher; it would be unwise to mention the angelic nature of her. It would make me seem rather insane, which is an untruthful diagnosis which I'd rather not bestow upon myself. "I had a teacher; she taught me everything I now know."
"May I ask her name?"
"Viola Canterbury," I lie, saying the first name that comes into my head.
I did not expect him to ask me that question after I carefully worded my previous answer to make sure no further questions would be asked. However, it seems the exact opposite occurred.
"Oh. . . It seems I have not heard of her. Then again, I have not been in this business for much time. Anyhow, we will ensure that we can get you an instructor, won't we, Monsieur Firmin?"
"Yes, very much so. We may even see if you can get some of the lesser parts in the opera, which I suppose is a very big step up from the ensemble."
"Thank you, so much," I gush.
"It is your own talent that has got you here, Erik. We are thankful that you auditioned and have secured the part. You will need to reside here at the Opera Populaire –"
"I already do."
"Oh yes, you're that boy Madame Giry took in eight years ago," remembers Firmin.
My blood freezes at his words.
In all the setbacks I could possibly have had, I did not think my living arrangements would be one of them.
"Yes," I confirm hastily, trying to keep a positive in my voice. "I do, and please accept my most sincere apologies on the subject. Madame Giry took me in as a little boy because of personal matters which left me an orphan – and she has allowed me to live here ever since. I am not aware of the person who informed you of me but this is my way of redeeming myself for living with her for free for so long."
"Oh no, don't apologize boy, please," says M. Firmin. "I am actually quite glad on two accounts: One, because it means we do not have to make room for you in the dormitories, which is fortunate as there is no room left at all, and two, it brought you here to us. I am actually quite pleased with this outcome."
I let out an internal sigh of relief: I am so thankful that it is not a problem. For a moment, I thought it could cost me my place, my everything. But for M. Firmin, not just to say he refuses my apologies, but to also say he is quite glad of the entire situation, it is truly a stroke of luck.
"We want you here, nine a.m. sharp every day, excluding Sundays, for rehearsal. Is that clear?" instructs M. André.
"Yes, perfectly."
"Good, good. We shall see you tomorrow."
Taking this as my cue to leave, I do just that.
"Goodbye, Monsieur Firmin, Monsieur André."
I start to walk towards the entrance of the backstage area when M. André calls me:
"Erik – one last thing!"
"Yes, sir?" I turn around to face him.
"Well done!"
It is nine p.m. precisely, and I am waiting on the stage for my Angel. Nervousness and anticipation are building up inside of me. I cannot wait to hear her again, but am scared of upsetting her.
I am also quite confused. In my daze last night I didn't realize she didn't mention a time for our rendezvous: all she said was 'Here, every night, same time'. Does that mean she will come when she knows I am here? I must admit, I spent some time deliberating at what hour to arrive; the ultimate factor which decided my fate was the knowledge that M. Firmin and M. André leave at the half-hour before the ninth hour of the evening, therefore the earliest time me and my Angel could meet again would be now.
My breathing quickens as I stand alone in the darkness. There is an unwarm, unsteady atmosphere circulating around me which makes me feel a little sick. When is she going to be here? I mean no insolence with the question, but the hope to hear her again is nearly killing me.
More moments pass. More moments alone.
Then suddenly- the theatre illuminates. One by one, the spherical lights surrounding the stage burst into bright flames, amazing me and terrifying me at the same time. Yet there is no time for questions about the event. I can only watch.
Every light continues in this pattern in a clockwise motion, making the audience's seats and boxes not only visible but effervescent, as if with an added supernatural element. Then, the lights on the ceiling, which reveal the ornate swirl decoration carved into it.
It seems she leaves the best till last. The chandelier is the only thing still in darkness. But not for long. With a massive bang, it transforms from this unimpressive object to a true spectacle, which is beautiful and brilliant, gleaming in all its glory. It is a true work of art.
Every light is on now, I can see clearly again. Viscerally, I know it is the work of my Angel; who else could have the power to perform such a colossal feat and pull it off so magnificently!
The only thing left is for her to make an appearance.
And I intend it to be soon.
"Angel of Music!" I shout as loud as I can, a desperate tone in my voice. I look gleefully around, trying to spot my heavenly songbird. "Angel, where are you?"
"I am here, my dear Erik!"
Her beautiful voice, like the peaceful waves of the sea, rings out calmly in the silence. It sounds slightly urgent, yet mainly tranquil. I decide to not object.
"Oh, Angel! How I've missed you this past day! I must tell you something very exciting: I have acquired the place on the ensemble!"
"I know, Erik! Your Angel always knows everything! And how I must congratulate you! You know so much, yet there is still a lot to learn!
"And I am determined to learn it all!" I say forcefully, whilst smiling. Her presence is enough alone to make me happy.
"I know you will, Erik; and I will enjoy every minute of it. . ." she trails off.
For a minute, neither of us speak. I begin to wonder if it's my fault. But I haven't done anything to upset her. . . I open my mouth to protest, but fortuitously, to my complete joy, I don't need to. For she begins speaking again with:
"Now, Erik, on to the main matter of tonight: please reprise the song you sang last night and at the audition. This time, I shall listen to it more closely. Then, we shall work on your techniques; but only some, as I'm afraid I shall have to leave the rest for days to come. You have to have your best voice and person tomorrow at rehearsals, therefore I feel it is my duty to remind you of such things and call time on the lesson when I feel it is the most appropriate."
"Yes," I agree with a shaky voice. Her words are a lot to process, but I will try to make sense of them. The next thing I say is:
"Would you like for me to sing it again now?"
"Please. Begin when you feel ready. Once again, you will be singing a cappella."
I am a little disheartened at this news; I'd rather sing with music, but maybe my Angel needs to focus on my voice alone, and music would prove a distraction to her. I take another deep breath, open my mouth, and let the words fall out as best as I can.
After I finish, I once again hear clapping. I open my eyes, realizing I shut them to sing like before. It must just be something I naturally do. However, the difference between this time and last is that I can fully enjoy every moment of my Angel's applause as I'm aware of exactly where I am, and exactly what I'm doing.
"Well done Erik; it was marvellous. On the contrary, though, I feel as if you are trying to hide something, because when you sing, you sing with no confidence. You sound as if you are scared of yourself. And you're not, Erik. I do not want you to be."
"I'm not," I confirm eagerly, quite surprised at the news. I don't have much confidence in singing; maybe that is the reason behind why I shut my eyes. "I won't be."
"Good – that's what I want to hear." There is a smile in my Angel's voice. "Now sing it again. I want confidence."
I sing it again, and again, and again, each time getting better, but still not at the level she wants me to be at. This is causing me dismay; however I shan't let it show, because that will only make my performance worse.
I finish singing it for the fifth time.
"Once more, Erik. This time, put everything you have into it."
I take the biggest breath I've ever known, and oblige her with my voice.
Every single part of me aches when I finish, having channelled every ounce of strength I have into the song. But it is rewarding, as this time, I hear my Angel clapping louder than ever.
"That was perfect, Erik; simply perfect! Your ability really shone that time."
Perfect! She called it perfect!
I smile widely.
"Thank you, Angel," I say happily, though quite tired. Because of this, I yawn.
"You are tired, Erik: I can see that. Therefore, I must leave you now."
"No, Angel, not yet!" I protest, but it is no use.
"I shall see you tomorrow, Erik," my Angel of Music says. And with that, she vanishes.
I call out to her a few times, to ensure she is gone, before letting out a small tear. I feel happy and safe in her presence, and in just a few seconds, it is robbed from me.
Still, I must look at the positives: I have a place in the choir, and she still wants to teach me.
The lights go out; I am left in darkness. But this time, I'm full of hope. Tomorrow is another day, and it is the start of my new life.
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