Gaband Erik have made it to the Lyric Opera House. What awaits them besides Erik's sublime music?
Ch 49 Woman In The Box
As an entertainment reporter in Chicago, I had covered many an opening night, grand gala and posh affair. Years of world traveling for work and education had still not prepared me for the opulence of a 19th century Grand Gala opera.
Erik guided the brougham past lines of carriages waiting to discharge their gilded occupants for a night of hobnobbing among the well heeled and titled admirers of cutting edge opera.
The air crackled with an energy that even Erik could not ignore.
"My word, Monsieur de Montpensier told me the house would be filled, but I had not lingered on the number of actual bodies—impressive indeed."
I twisted my neck around to catch the last bit of excitement on the Place Vendôme as Erik drove the brougham around to a more secluded entrance where Monsieur de Montpensier, the Lyric's co-owner and manager, had promised to be waiting to escort us to our box.
Glancing around warily, Erik scoured the narrow street for signs of danger. Only when he spied Monsieur de Montpensier leaning out of an open door did he pull up the reins to the carriage.
"Ah, Monsieur DuPuis, there you are!" Montpensier leapt from the door to greet Erik. "Welcome to my opera house, monsieur."
Erik climbed from the driver's seat and the men met with a bow. Montpensier then offered his hand to me in assistance, freeing me to maneuver my skirts safely through the minefield of sloppy puddles from yesterday's heavy rain.
"Our stable manager will look after your brougham and horse personally; you and your lovely fiancé need only bother with enjoying a splendid evening at our fine new opera house."
Montpensier indicated a willowy fellow of about thirty standing nearby awaiting instruction. Erik handed the care of his rig over to the stable manager and followed us through the wooden door leading into a back hall, which, empty as it was, trembled with the sounds of preparation for tonight's musical spectacle.
After barring the door behind us, Monsieur de Montpensier began to expound upon how honored he was to open one of Erik's new operas at the Lyric.
"Monsieur DuPuis is a true vanguard among composers, Madam Thomassen," the man informed me, as if I knew nothing whatsoever about my fiancé's occupation. I simply nodded in polite acquiescence, not speaking in hopes that he would hurry up and seat us as my new slippers had begun to pinch the fire out of my little toes.
"Please follow me. This staircase leads up to the boxes, and do watch your step." He turned to caution us as we ascended the narrow staircase. I imagined box attendants scurrying up and down the narrow passage effortlessly in the course of their evening's work.
At the top of the stairs, light stabbed the dim stairwell when a woman, dressed modestly in black, pushed open the single arched door. She started at the sight of our little group. "Pardon me, Monsieur de Montpensier," she said placing her hand at her throat.
"Think nothing of it Madame Varese," he said, banishing her misgivings with a casual wave of his hand. "If you would please, promptly deliver a bottle of fine champagne to box six. Be certain the box is well tended to as the composer and his fiancé will be my guests for this evening's performance."
The woman hurried on her way and we were ushered into the mezzanine hall.
This new opera house, the Lyric, was amazing. Reminding me of a famous theatre I'd once visited while covering the Kentucky Derby, the Lyric surpassed the charm and grandeur of the Louisville Palace significantly.
Modeled on the Spanish Baroque motif, the Lyric featured many arches and arcades, turrets and balconies, little coves and niches, often occupied with sculptures of Gods, Goddesses and birds. High above the Spanish treasures in the main lobby, a curved, vaulted ceiling bore the sculptures of hundreds of great personages.
Monsieur de Montpensier ushered us to box six, parting the box's dark blue velvet curtains for entrance.
"Whatever your needs are, do not hesitate to request it of Madame Varese. Should you experience any difficulty with anything at all you must call on me immediately, although I do not anticipate such an occurrence. Monsieur DuPuis, Madame Thomassen, I bid you a pleasant evening."
He then backed out with a bow, letting the curtains fall softly after him.
Box six afforded its occupants the best view in the house; close enough not to require opera glasses and every angle of the stage was visible. Beautifully ornate chairs upholstered in thick blue velvet trimmed in gold and a small gold leaf table sat to the side for holding one's reticule, opera glasses or refreshments.
"Nice digs!" I whispered.
"Please my little amusing one, sit here," Erik chuckled and patted the seat on the left. Erik preferred to sit at my right so he could hide in the shadow of the box's swagged curtain.
Removing the opera cape and carefully sweeping my long skirts under, I sat with my knees turned in his direction, seeking as much contact as my layers of clothing would afford. Erik handed me a program from the little table and then took my hand.
I looked at him, wide-eyed.
"Are you nervous, chéri?"
"Me? No, I'm excited! I cannot believe that I, Gabrielle Thomassen of 21st century Chicago, am here at this theatre, sitting next to my fiancé and lover, Erik DuPuis, aka POTO, composer of the evening's masterpiece—God I'm a sucker for a rock star."
With a tilted head, he observed me with electric green eyes, his furrowed brow speaking more of confusion than disapproval. "Rock star, Madame? Whatever is that—a sort of architectural reference?"
I leaned forward to take his hands in mine, "I suppose it could be, however the type of which I speak is a charismatic artist at the pinnacle of his success, worshiped by the multitudes for both talent and sexual prowess."
"I am hardly the archetype for such a man," Erik snorted.
"Think on it for a moment, Erik. We know that you know you are a musical genius, and you can't deny your considerably strong charismatic powers of persuasion. And you must realize I struggle to act the lady and keep my hands off of you. If I were in charge of additions to the English dictionary, it would be your name after the word virile."
"Dear God woman, I must truly be the sorcerer I was once accused of if I have so completely managed to brainwash you."
My words must have invoked Erik's sense of modesty, because he appeared slightly flushed.
"Pardonnez-moi Monsieur, it is I, Madame Varese, with your champagne. May I enter?"
"Please, Madame," Erik said with more enthusiasm than was necessary for such a mundane task.
The attendant took but a flash to situate our champagne and crystal glasses on the table. She poured a splash for Erik's approval.
"A fine vintage, this will do nicely."
"If you'll not be needing anything else right now, I'll be checking back after act one."
"That won't be necessary, Madame. I am sure we shall be fine with just our privacy," Erik replied with polite firmness.
"Of course, Monsieur, enjoy your evening," she nodded at both of us and disappeared through the curtains.
The theatre was now full and I could hear the strains of the orchestra tuning up in the pit.
Erik scanned the expanse of the house, his masked side partially hidden in the shadow of one of the velvet drapes.
I took the opportunity to glance over the program. Printed on fine ecru parchment, the raised black lettering announced Le Femme du Nord.
On the inside were the words, Opéra en prologue avec trois actes
par Erik DuPuis / Musique de Erik DuPuis.
Erik feigned indifference to seeing his name and work displayed in print, but I felt like a proud mother hen. Erik's talent was unparalleled and grossly over due for professional regard.
"Oh Erik," I nearly pointed to the man now appearing on stage in front of the gold curtain. "There's that weird Monsieur Vincenzo. For some reason he creeps me out."
Erik considered the man silently before commenting aloud. "Yes, he seems amenable enough, but after I introduced you during rehearsal, he's been hanging about and trying to stir up conversation about you. Are you certain you have never laid eyes on this man, Gabrielle?"
"No, never; I mean, sure, maybe he saw me at market one day, he might visit the bakery every Monday and Wednesday as I do and he's seen me there. I haven't made any notice of him. If he's aware that you and I are to be married soon, why on earth he would continue to pry? It doesn't make sense, Erik. I hope he's not a stalker, I haven't had any of those since I inadvertently left the entertainment business two centuries forward," I snorted.
Erik affected a dark foreboding glare, "Well, if that man does not cease his meddling, he shall meet a most unpleasant reminder to rethink his manners."
"With your vigilance, I shouldn't worry, should I dear?"
"Not in the least, my darling Gabrielle. I would as soon split his skull as let him harm a hair on your pretty head," Erik soothed leaning over to place a properly chaste kiss on my cheek.
Monsieur Vincenzo was waving his hands in an attempt to shush the buzzing crowd. Once moderately quiet, he bowed deeply and launched into his rehearsed speech about how wonderful it was to have everyone's patronage of the new opera house, and of the Opera from Paris's newest contemporary composer, the enigmatic Erik DuPuis. "And now, Mesdames et Messieurs, I am pleased to give you, l'extraordinaire Le Femme du Nord d'opéra."
With that, brief applause followed the prelude and finally, the rising of the curtain.
Erik remained calm and indifferent when the curtain rose to act one, whereas my heart leapt with my every breath.
I smiled at Erik and winked. "Thank you for this, Erik."
His appreciative smile back was worth its weight in gold, "My pleasure, my little dove; you may heap your gratitude upon me later."
Later indeed; I suddenly had a most lascivious thought.
Le Femme du Nord is the tale of a young orphan girl who finds refuge and guidance from an unlikely benefactor. We followed her trail of woe from the idyllic Norwegian seaside through the gutters of Paris, to the stages of Italy and back again. Eventually, she turns from her savior's caring aegis to a life of her own foolish choosing.
The opera's dissonant elements transitioned effortlessly from the gritty bleakness of humanity at it's most vile to the soaring pinnacle of glory, cumulating in a bittersweet depiction of how mankind's refusal to recognize true beauty leads to its ultimate destruction, all taking place within the inverse environments of a Norwegian fishing village and the stages of Italy's most celebrated opera houses.
Erik found a way to work with the instruments so they mimicked the howl of an electric guitar within his most vehement songs, mixing them with ethereal melodies, plunging the listener into the depths of despair then lifting them upward to heavenly bliss.
It was the musical version of The Cyclone at Coney Island.
Opera is something one learns to appreciate, that is, if you were born a twentieth century Gen-Xer. In elementary school, I attended daytime productions of the Chicago Orchestra's Making Music concerts. Mostly a sway to get out of class at first, I became interested in the parts played by the individual instruments.
As I moved into the arts, I learned to appreciate the discipline of opera, but quite frankly, I often could not understand the soprano when she hit her highest notes. After hearing modern music on my mp3, Erik gained a better understanding of how my musical sensibilities could be so vastly different from his, and he had patiently explained the anatomy of an opera to me.
I marveled at the lead soprano's ability to throw her body and voice into the swirling emotions of her character. Erik insisted on a singer capable of more than the popular style of singing fortissimo; he demanded a diva with the substantial ability to sing pianissimo as well.
The tenor was uncharacteristically slender, but when he sang, his voice was rich and powerful.
"Erik, how much influence did you wield in casting the lead roles?" I leaned in to ask.
"A considerable amount; if a director does not agree to my suggestions, then I will not allow them to produce my work. Only I know what is required from a singer's instrument for my characters. For example, Signor Bononcini is an exceptional young tenor whose talents were being suppressed in smaller works of comic opera. It was by sheer chance that I happened upon him one afternoon during rehearsals at an opera house in Venice, where I'd been negotiating a contract for an earlier work of mine. Mademoiselle Micheau, my fine soprano, I had chance to witness in the role of Gilda in Rigoletto. Is she not superb?"
"I enjoy the way her voice floats from soft and lilting to emotionally powerful. That's a rare quality in a younger singer isn't it, Erik?"
"Indeed, Gabrielle, it is. Murielle is an exceptional new talent with the ability to handle a variety of styles from ssoubrette to dramatic coloratura."
"All I know is she is one of the few sopranos I can understand when she hits the high notes." I commented.
"You lack a well devolved operatic ear, something that comes with time and experience…especially after what I have heard of your music, dear." He patted my knee, leaving it there to rest, and turned his attention back to the stage.
From the corner of my eye, I would find Erik smiling at a well sung aria or closing his eyes in disgust over a misstep within the chorus or an ill-timed lowering of a French flat.
On occasion, I would remark on a particularly ridiculous looking outfit on an audience member.
"Bear in mind, Erik, I am making fun of their fashion sense, not those characteristics over which they have no control."
"Then I cannot possibly object to the fairness of your game Gabrielle, in fact, that fellow on the front row with the tall hair is most strange. What do you think he coiffures his hair with—a dung shovel?"
"Or maybe that woman with the feathers adorning her hair; I only hope the poor soul behind her paid less for that seat," I whispered in Erik's ear.
"If she has any luck, that chicken is a music lover and will bless her with a dozen eggs by the end of the second act."
"Ha," I blurted, quickly throwing one gloved hand over my mouth and swatting at him with the other. "Stop it before I embarrass us both."
He granted me a hearty laugh, "Forgive me dear, perhaps I have found yet another calling as comedian."
"I wouldn't quit my day job if I were you, Erik."
We settled back into watching the opera.
At one point, when my mind wandered as it often does when I must sit for lengths of time, I glanced around the auditorium and found myself staring directly into curious eyes of a stunning dark haired woman. She sat four boxes to the right of us where the rows began to curve around to the other side of the house.
Finding herself caught in such indecorous activity, the woman quickly averted her eyes. An elderly man, who I took for her father, wealthy husband, or special friend, sat beside her.
What was up with these odd people and their sudden interest in me? Weird—first Monsieur Vincenzo, and now this woman. Small wonder Erik doesn't favor these aristocratic types; they're uncommonly nosey.
Still, this dark haired woman, there was something naggingly familiar about her. It was her eyes; I'd seen them before, but where?
"Geez Gab, has your sanity been assimilated back into the twenty-first century?" I thought silently, as I watched Erik pretend not to enjoy his night at the opera.
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Ooh, what's up with the scary man? Stay tuned to find out. Thanks for checking out the fic. Please, please send me your two cents worth (or 5, or 20...)
Sincere thanks to all.
-Leesa