Tea and Sympathy
by Stine
Two
The coming days were miserable. I had to go to the Commissariat and talk to the gendarmes. Raoul kept accosting me every time I stepped out of my room and all of the staff in the Opera House regarded me either with a sick curiosity or with ill concealed pity. Whispers and pointing fingers followed me wherever I went. Terrible rumours were flying around, and my honour had been compromised.
And my Angel had disappeared.
It still frightened me to think about the way he had yelled at me, the violence with which he had gripped my wrist to take me back to my room. It made me uncomfortable to remember the dark tunnels, the secret corridors in which he dwelled and to know that at any moment, at any place he could be watching me, hearing my every word. I had always dreaded to think that I could, because of my laziness or clumsiness, displease my strict teacher, and some of that fear lingered at the back of my mind every waking moment now.
But at the same time, that fear was mingled with other feelings. Guilt was one of them. Instead of thanking him for everything he had done for me, instead of being grateful for the hospitality he offered at his house, for the beautiful dresses and many trinkets he had given to me that same evening, I had been utterly rude to him, tearing away the thing that shielded him from the world…
And when I thought about the dark tunnels again, about his sparkling eyes and quiet manner, about the many, many candles he had lit just for me, something else sprung inside me.
Madame had said he had lived in those tunnels most of his life. I remembered with a shudder the cobwebs and the drafts, the water dripping down the walls, the smell of dampness and moss and decay. And the darkness. Despite all the candles he had lit, it had been dark.
I absolutely disliked the darkness.
And suddenly I was angry.
It wasn't fair.
It wasn't fair that my talented teacher, with the quick brains and the beautiful voice and the genius to compose haunting melodies, the one who made me laugh with his vocal impersonations of la Carlotta and Piangi, had to live down there in those damp, dark, cold tunnels. It wasn't fair that someone like him, quiet but caring, with the patience to listen to my every petty woe, had to live all alone, with no one to listen to his complaints, to ask him how he was, to cheer him up when he was feeling low, just as he had done countless times when I was but a little frightened girl. Whenever the other girls laughed at me or called me names, whenever Madame Giry had reprimanded me, he had listened to me. He hadn't said much, but it had always been a comfort to know that he was there, that I could tell him everything.
And now that I had many things to discuss and to sort through, he wasn't there to listen. I couldn't voice my thoughts aloud to try and clear them.
It wasn't fair, I thought as I sat, all alone, in the darkness of my dressing room, and nibbled at my nails, and waited for him to appear.
But although I waited and waited, and nibbled and nibbled, he didn't call out to me. By the sixth day, my fingertips had started bleeding. I had enough of pointing fingers and interrupted conversations wherever I went. I had enough of Raoul waiting to leap on me at every corner and offering to whisk me away. I had enough of silence.
It occurred to me that if my Angel didn't call out to me I could call out to him.
It occurred to me that I would have to call out to him, since it was me who owed him an apology. An apology and an invitation, one that would compensate for the disaster of my visit to his home.
I certainly couldn't invite him to stay the night over in my dressing room. There was barely any place for myself in it as it was. I couldn't offer him a romantic ride on a boat, or fine wine, and I certainly couldn't play the piano for him, but I could invite him over for tea…
Tea as an offer of peace.
Tea and conversation.
That sounded very nice to me, who was already starved for his company.
I could only hope that he also missed me a little bit, and that he hadn't given up on me… and that he liked pain au chocolat.
So that same afternoon, after surviving an endless rehearsal, after having put up with Carlota's tantrums, after having successfully evaded Raoul, I sneaked out of one of the side entrances of the Opera, and headed at a brisk pace towards my favourite bakery. Clenched in my sweaty palm were a few coins, the last of my monthly allowance. I had thought long and hard about it, and had come to the conclusion that simple pain au chocolat wouldn't do.
I had a lot to apologise for.
The situation merited —at least four or five raspberry petite gateaux, with whipped cream, the most expensive, and the most sinful pleasure a chorus girl could wish for.
I hoped my Angel would appreciate the effort.
Besides, he also needed some fattening up.
I felt a stray tear cross my cheek as I remembered how gaunt his silhouette was, how his elegant clothes hung from his thin frame. I wondered how and where he obtained his food. Did he go out to the markets and cooked his food down in the cellar? I thought it highly unlikely. Did he go to a restaurant or a café nearby? I shook my head. Silly girl. The idea was absurd. Did he steal it from the kitchens, then? Did Madame Giry take food to him, as she had done for me the morning I came back from the cellars?
Those two last ideas made some more tears trail down my cheeks. I wiped them away in irritation. If I didn't stop crying I would have to face the Angel with red, puffy eyes and a stopped nose, and then he would abandon me altogether. Better to focus on practical things. Besides the gateaux, I was also in need of milk, and lemon, and sugar.
Author's note: This is a very short story... It only has three chapters. The next one will be posted tomorrow. Thanks to all that have reviewed!