Hi! Sorry I didn't update this sooner. Life is busy, as always. Thanks for all the favourites, follows and reviews! Keep them coming! This chapter was beta'd by Not A Ghost3. Here is Chapter Five. . .
Chapter Five:
THE NOTE
Paris, March 15th, 1881
Christine's POV
"The Point of No Return. . . Yes, that's it."
The words are furiously scribbled under the score I have just written. I'm near completion of Don Juan Triumphant, with only three or more arias to go, four if the newly named The Point of No Return is included. I'm quite excited about this song in particular, as it features the most tense and climatic scene of the whole opera, the one where Don Juan starts to seduce the maiden Aminta. She then, in turn, seduces him. In the finale of the song, they rush toward each other and embrace.
The song itself is quite alluring. The music is influenced by the flamenco culture of South America, traditionally using violins, flutes, clarinets and of course my beloved organ, though it is played quieter, to make the other instruments take dominance. However, I've rewritten so that the organ takes full possession of the song, enabling the piece to be performed alone.
The Point of No Return is basically a tango, the music reflecting the choreography of Don Juan and Aminta. Starting off mezzo-piano and andante, the music increases in tempo and volume, with a large, drawn out crescendo ending with a compelling, climatic finish, in fortissimo and allegro!
With the score completed, now it is time for the lyrics. For writing, it all depends on my mood: good one particularly increases productivity, whereas a bad one I feel like all my creative juices stop with an abrupt halt, only continuing when it improves. Tonight, circa eleven o'clock, they are in full flow, and I'm ecstatic about it.
Today was. . . perfect. I slept for an uncharacteristically long time, not rousing until midday. I then set about finishing The Point of No Return music, which took eight hours, ones which I did not move from my organ the entire time. When it came eight o'clock, I got up and treated myself to a small meal of bread and cheese, before preparing my voice for Erik's lesson. This was only his second lesson, but I was determined to teach him not the notes or the words of an aria, but how to sing it. At the moment, Erik can sing quite brilliantly, but he must learn the art of singing to truly become a star. And to do that I must show examples, and use my own voice.
I've never had proper singing lessons, but from even the early days living under the opera house I listened in to the voice lessons above in the theatre part of the opera house. Also, having been taught piano at the gypsy camp – I started at five, and had progressed significantly by the time I was abducted – I could sing the notes on the piano already, humming along to my own compositions and whatever sheet music I could find dwelling in my lair.
From there, it's taken me a few years shy of a decade to develop my voice into what it is now. The hardest part of it all was discovering my range, as I've heard that straining your voice to reach particularly difficult high notes actually damages it. Luckily, this was never a real problem; the high notes were quite easy, but I know now how high my voice can go, and I don't attempt to go any high. On the other end of the scale, I can't sing low notes – the lowest is A, two keys below middle C. But I don't mind: none of the songs I've written require me to go out of my range. And I'm happy to keep it that way.
Erik arrived at nine exactly, which didn't allocate me much time to journey up from my lair to the theatre, where I light all the lights in quick succession. Doing that is the result of a little trick I learnt one day, having overheard a conversation between a veteran operator and a new employee he was training. He told him all about ways to do it quickly with least effort; I've now adopted those ways and continue to use them to my own advantage. It's important that I do the light trick, as it retains the angel element.
The Angel of Music is the most challenging persona I've ever taken on. The Devil's Child wasn't my choice anyhow; the Phantomness of the Opera isn't hard at all – in actual fact acting as the Opera Ghost is quite fun – but the Angel of Music? That's quite complicated. The 'Music' part is easy – music runs in my blood and courses through my body – but an angel is the opposite of anything I've ever been. Throughout my struggling life I've been a monster, and always will be, so have never thought much else of myself. It's a battle to stay an Angel; I have to sound heavenly and delicate, loving and beautiful. But, most importantly, I have to make Erik believe that his parents have sent me to give him the gift of song. Putting the lights on, making my voice seem omnipresent using a ventriloquist's trick of throwing your voice I learnt at the circus, not appearing will all help him and I believe that I am the Angel of Music.
But he can't remain ignorant forever. One day, he will find out that I'm simply a deformed human being, both in my body and in my heart. He'll figure it out when he gets a little older and more knowledgeable. I dread the day he confronts me.
But. . . What if, in the slightest chance, we grow so close he just decides to not care anymore? That he'll love me for myself, not the Angel –
What? I'm not in love with him. I barely know him! All I've heard is his voice, and as heavenly as it is, it doesn't mean love! Can it . . . ?
No. Surely not. And how would I know? Who have I ever loved? Who will ever love me? I am worthy of no affection, therefore how can I expect someone to take of the terrible, arduous act of loving me? And how could I ever return it? I am made for a solitary life. And a solitary one I shall live.
And, while on the subject, who will Erik fall in love with? If he ever does, that is. I can tell, just through our two meetings and a little knowledge learned through eavesdropping on his conversation with Madame Giry, that like me, he is broken. Damaged through loss. In his mind and in his heart.
He has dreams, too. And screams when he awakens from them. What are they about? He says that he always has them, therefore it's some catastrophic happening from his past that he can't escape from. He was involved, too. He can't sleep. I'd ask him about it, but I suppose I have to gain his trust first. I've already lied to him about knowing about his parents, therefore I figure that to know things about him that I don't deserve to too early would be quite vindictive and spiteful. Manipulating him in order to find out his secrets. No, I shall have to be patient, but not too obsequious either. I don't want him questioning me; I know that as his angel, I have to be caring toward him, but not too sweet. That's just too suspicious.
Therefore, until that time comes, I shall have to supress my urges by writing.
"All right, so the piece is called The Point of No Return. . . So, I think I'll start with Don Juan singing. . . Looking straight into Aminta's eyes. . . She is standing there, in a pink dress, in front of long banquet table, with lots of gourmet food piled up. . . She takes an apple, and sits down on the wooden bench. . . He appears, a black sheet over him to mask his identity, and he sings. . ."
You have come here
In pursuit of your deepest urge
In pursuit of that wish which till now
Has been silent
Silent.I have brought you
That our passions may fuse and merge
In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses
Completely succumbed to me
Now you are here with me
No second thoughts
You've decided
Decided. . .
"Perfect!" I exclaim, writing the words down. That was easier than I thought, but there's still an entire song to do...
"Ah André! Today was a splendid day! Might you join me in celebrating it with this bottle of champagne and a record on my new gramophone?"
"Oh Firmin, that sounds like a splendid idea! Just like last night! We should make this a daily rendezvous!"
What?! Daily? Not after last night. . .
I have no idea why, but it seems that Firmin and André really enjoyed yesterday, therefore they felt the need to get drunk, play loud music, shout at each other and stomp around the room. It disturbed me so much! They wouldn't stop – I couldn't write at all! I got so irritated, I almost visited them for the first time, but decided not to, as I felt that a menacing note would be of much better use. . . I even wrote the note today, and decided to give it to them today as well, after Erik's lesson. . . I slipped it under the door, like I always do. . .
Wait. . . did I?
I must have done it; however, I can't remember the actual act of putting the note under the door. Did I even go past the managers' door? I turned the lights off, I heard Erik leave, then I walked across the bridge to behind the lights towards the left door –
Wait – to behind the lights towards the left door? That's not right. It can't be. To get the managers' office, I obviously have to walk through the right door. . .
So that means. . .
I immediately pat my cloak pockets down, in a vigorous attempt to find the note, which must still be in my pocket if I didn't do anything with it. After another moment of patting, I hit something that rustles; I slide my hand in the pocket to retrieve the item that made the noise.
And sure enough, it is the note, the red skeleton stamp still intact.
Damn it. . .
I sigh loudly; at that moment I hear Firmin and André's gaudy gramophone record ascend in volume, reaching to an atrocious level, so horrible that I have to physically place my hands over my ears in an attempt to drown out the noise. Last night it lasted until one in the morning. I won't have it on any more; I want – no, I need to compose. The note must be delivered now.
I get up from the organ seat and go over to my cloak stand, where I deftly swap the floor-length one I'm currently wearing for a lighter one that falls to my knees. Luckily, my dress is only ankle-length, so I won't have to change that. I have to make sure my clothes are capable of allowing me to make a quick getaway after having slid the note under the door. Hopefully, they will both be too distracted to see the note straight away, enabling me to be back in my lair and out of harm's way.
I place my black fedora on my head and head over to my boat, which I immediately start preparing. Once it is ready, I begin to row; it takes me half the time it usually does as I'm rowing at double speed. I'm at the other side in hardly anytime; I disregard the boat and make haste for the stone hallway leading to the leading soprano's room, which is unoccupied as Carlotta, the person whose room it is, will have left for home by now. I also have an entrance into the maestro Ubaldo Piangi's room, but Carlotta's is closer to where I want to go.
I slide the double-sided mirror back, and rush through Carlotta's flower-adorned room. Honestly, how this woman does it I'll never know – she is an appalling singer, and an even more appalling person. She doesn't deserve any of these expensive gifts. I would complain – I've come close to it – but there's no-one else to take over her role. If they did give her part to someone else, who's to say that she could be even worse? Plus, it's fun to have backdrops 'accidentally' fall on her. It pleases me when she screams in that awful foreign tongue of hers.
Carlotta's door is open with one quick turn of the knob. I then run as quietly as I can through the Opera Populaire, past all the dressing rooms and ballet rooms, the vocal teacher's rooms and the storage rooms for scenery, until at last I'm in the theatre. I rush through that as well, and open the right door. At last, I'm there, in the room where the managers' door is. I stroll ever so lightly to the third door on the right. I can hear the abominable music and their loud talking even more now and it makes me shiver with fury. It almost makes me break down the door, but I restrain myself. This has to be the work of the Opera Ghost in note form, not Christine Daaé in person.
I'm so close to the door now my ears hurt, yet I don't run from there. Ever so slowly, I bend my knees to lower myself to the ground, where I can slide the note under the door.
My hand is practically resting on the door. I begin the action of sliding it. But something stops me. Something that makes my blood turn cold in my veins and my form start to shake:
"So then, André, whatever do you think of the Phantomness of the Opera?"
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