Dear Journal,
Today, for an instant--and believe me when I say it was only an instant--I began to question my sanity.
Christine crashed through the door of her dressing room, sobbing. The last few rehearsals had not gone well. Twice she had been singled in the chorus for mistakes; the last one resulting in the entire company having to stay late to rehearse the final scene again. At the time, she had taken it all in stride, blushing appropriately, apologizing, and promising to concentrate better next time. There were no tears, no excuses, and no whining. She just smiled and played her part.
Inside, though, she was fuming.
To make matters worse, the rumors started by La Carlotta and fueled by the ballet rats had gotten worse over the last few months. The giggles, the whispers, the stares--while they were nothing she hadn't dealt with before, it was just another straw across the poor girl's already fragile emotional state.
Not knowing what else to do, Christine handled each individual situation as it came. Sometimes she pretended to be indignant, sometimes to be oblivious, or sometimes completely apathetic--she would tell each person exactly what they needed to hear to leave her alone for a few peaceful hours before someone else felt the need to single her out.
In this way, Christine Daae muddled through her first few months at the opera.
Christine would never refute the claims against her, no matter how odd they may sound; choosing, instead, to believe that everything would burn itself out when they had something more interesting to talk about.
The Opera Ghost, for example, was a perfect distraction.
She, herself, was a little more than skeptical. More accurately, she held to the conviction that those who believe in fairy-tales and ghost stories are either idiots, lunatics, or children.
However, gossip over the Opera Ghost often trumped any other scandal--real or otherwise. Actually, she often found herself giving silent thanks to the Opera Ghost (even if imaginary) for the slight reprieve his misdeeds had afforded her.
Not today, though. Today Christine just wanted to disappear.
I heard a voice in my dressing room. At first I didn't know what to make of it all--bearing in mind that there was no one else in the room.
After fumbling with the fastenings on her costume, Christine gave up and began working on her hair--hoping that the repetition of brushing out each curl might give her something to focus on until her tears subsided.
A few minutes went by and, as the sound of Christine's sobs diminished, they were replaced by a different sound entirely. A voice. More specifically, a male voice. The sound was soft as angels and just as ethereal. It was singing.
For a moment, Christine listened, completely entranced. Then, as her breathing became more regular, she slowly began to reclaim her senses and think rationally. Who is singing? It isn't from the opera… my dressing-room is too far from the stage… I don't recognize the song or the voice… oh, that voice! No, think! Someone is here… who? Where is it coming from?
"Who are you?" she finally asked.
What does one do when they encounter a disembodied voice? If this were the dark ages, I suppose I would have called it an angel and worshipped it. If I were of a clearer state of mind, I would have searched for an intruder or, better yet, called the police and went home. As it was, though, the first thought that came to mind was how thankful I was that I hadn't managed to take off my costume yet.
"Shhh, Christine… don't cry," was all it said. The voice was barely louder than a whisper, so very gentle… and pleading, somehow.
I realized that I needed information. I figured that asking him how he knew me would be a reasonable place to start.
"How do you know my name? Do we know each other?"
"You don't know me, Christine, but I know you. I have watched you here for some time."
His answers concerned me.
"Please, please, sir… leave me. I don't know what you want, but please leave me alone and I won't tell anyone. I promise!"
The more aware Christine was becoming, the more she was frightened. Who is this man? Where is he? How does he know me? WHAT DOES HE WANT WITH ME? Her mind began to race and she had to force herself not to panic.
"Oh, Christine…"
"Who are you?" she asked again, pushing back the tears that threatened to reemerge. Concentrate, Christine. Find out who he is. Find out what he wants. You can do this.
"Dear child, I thought you of all people would recognize the Angel of Music…"
His answers concerned me very much, indeed.
The answer elicited a sudden change in Christine. The Angel of Music… the stories her father used to tell her… her father…
The reminder snapped her out of her panic as a wave of intense anger washed over her. Every defense mechanism she had built since his death kicked in in this one instant and she began to order her thoughts with the cold, military precision that only comes with years of practice.
The Angel of Music
He knows more than I originally thought.
How much does he know? Where did he learn this information?
Could I have met him before? No, I would have recognized a voice like that.
Could he have known my father? Possible, but unlikely… Father didn't have many friends and he was too sick to socialize when we came to France.
I talk aloud sometimes… here in this dressing-room. Yes. That must be it! He truly has been watching me for some time.
He watches me. This is unsettling.
Is he a madman?
Possibly… no, probably. He is no angel. There are no angels.
Mad or no, he is still a man. Just a man. He must want something. Everyone wants something.
Find out what it is.
Right now, he wants you to believe he is an angel. Play along.
This is a game. Just a game. Always a game.
"The Angel of Music?" she asked innocently.
We continued to speak for some time. He claimed to be the Angel of Music my father promised to send to me. He said he wanted only to help me… to teach me and mold my voice into something spectacular. This journal is supposed to express my feelings… but I am not sure how I feel about this as of yet. I don't believe anything he has said to me. On the other hand, since he seems to have had easy access to my dressing-room for quite a while, if he had intended to hurt me--or worse, but I dare not think of that right now--he would have had more than a few opportunities.
"Why me, Angel?"
Because I love you, my Christine… "Curious child, do you truly think it is wise to question these things? I already told you that your father sent me."
The answer irked Christine slightly as she began to realize she would not get any answers from him tonight.
"Why should I accept your offer?" she finally asked, not daring to raise her voice above a whisper, lest she betray the tinge of irritation in her voice.
Because, if you did not, I would die… "Because, Christine, you need me. I can help you. I can make your dreams come true. And because I think that you could use a friend."
Beyond that, I feel strangely safe with him. That aspect alone should keep me away. Yet, even as common sense suggests caution, I feel compelled to find out who he is and what he wants from me. If that means playing the "angel" game for a while, I think I'm up for it.
"Alright, Angel. I accept. Tell me what it is you want me to do?"
There was a brief pause as the Voice thought of all the possible answers to that question. Christine, dear Christine… then he shook off his distracted thoughts and directed his attention to her once more. Stop it, you idiot, never think those things…just look at her--she is innocent and trusting, she believes you to be an angel. You are a demon and monster. If you knew of someone else having those thoughts about her would you even hesitate to kill them? Even now your fists clench at the thought. You are lucky, monster, that God has abandoned you or He would surely strike you dead where you stand for what you are doing to this divine creature. Do what you must, but keep your thoughts focused on her voice. Besides, she is waiting for an answer…
"I will meet you on Monday, here in your dressing-room, at 8 a.m., and every morning after that. I expect complete obedience and dedication to your music. You must never be late. You must concentrate completely--there will be no time for suitors and young men that care nothing for your gift…"
And so I ask again: what does one do when they encounter a disembodied voice? If the answer is, "take voice lessons from it", there is a serious problem.
As he continued to list the conditions of their arrangement, Christine began to get nervous again. The part about 'complete obedience' made her feel uneasy.
"…and, if you disobey me or fail to keep one of the rules I have laid out, I shall leave and you shall never hear of me again."
That 'threat' which, Christine supposed, was meant to frighten her, actually had the opposite effect. When she realized that the worst thing he would do was disappear (which, as she had nearly forgotten, was what she had wanted in the first place), she felt much more relaxed. If I get sick of this game, I will just break one of the rules and he will go away. This is good. I have some control here.
"I understand, Angel. I will do as you say."
The Voice smiled victoriously behind the mirror. He resisted the urge to shout out, not wishing to give away his hiding place. Instead, he retreated further into the shadows.
"Very well, Christine. Go home and get some rest, I will see you again on Monday."
"Goodnight, Angel."
"Goodnight, child."
Christine seemed dazed for a few moments as the weight of everything seemed to sink in. Then, suddenly noticing the late hour, she grabbed her bag and headed out the door, costume and all. I'll figure out how to take it off when I get home… last thing I need is HIM watching me undress. Christine blushed, paled, and blushed again when it crossed her mind that this mysterious teacher of hers could have seen her change a hundred times over the last few months. She banished the thought and ran home.
The Voice sighed softly when she left the room. He suddenly felt very tired. However, sleep would not come for a long while. He had a lesson to plan, managers to blackmail, 'accidents' to arrange, and an opera to work on. First, though, he had to follow Christine home. He couldn't have his little ingénue walking about the streets at night. There were dangerous creatures in the darkness. He smirked wickedly and, with a swish of his cape, leapt gracefully through the trap door that led to the closest tunnel to the street.
Often, I wonder why I do the things I do. I would do well to ponder this thoroughly before I meet with him next. I hope I am not getting in over my head.
Love,
Christine
