The opening of Elektra was a mere two weeks away. The tension and excitement that ran throughout the cast and crew was palpable. Rehearsals were long and arduous, everything needing to be perfected and polished before the curtain rose. Christine had at last learned her small section of singing and felt bolstered by the fact. Still, she had other cause for nerves and concern.
The managers were attending nearly every rehearsal. Sometimes, she could feel their eyes on her, and she would look to see them muttering to themselves. It made her face heat up and her skin prickle. What if they took her role away again? Or what if they did decide she was pretending to be the Ghost to get her roles? Oftentimes, she stared at the doors, expecting the police to come bursting through and arrest her.
But it seemed as if Erik had kept his promise, because although the managers muttered, they never spoke to her, and no policeman ever appeared in the theater. She sang her role dutifully, trying her best, and once Mr. Gabriel even applauded her afterward. It was hard to fight down a wide grin after that.
However, as the days continued, and the opening of the opera drew near, the anxiety settled in. What if she messed up? What if she forgot her lines? What if she tripped going on and off the stage? Her concerns were not unusual, yet since this was her first real production, they were more acute than the others'. Meg had smiled and hugged her and told her not to worry, but Christine had stubbornly and wordlessly thought that Meg didn't understand—she was a dancer, not a singer.
After one particularly-long rehearsal, Christine made her way to her lessons with Erik, yawning a little. She had had a very restless night, kept awake by her worries. Rehearsals had been difficult, as Mr. Reyer and Mr. Gabriel were being exceedingly detailed and particular about everything, and it had been hard to take it all in with a courteous smile. Her costume had been heavy, and she had been uncomfortably-warm all day. She wasn't up to being snapped at by Erik all afternoon.
Tired, hungry, and sore, she entered the practice room. And as she expected, Erik dove right in. He wanted perfection from her on opening night, and now that it was so close, he was not forgiving of mistakes. Even though she knew her part well, there were the occasional slip-ups: slight mispronunciation of words, a small tightness in her tone, or the eternal possibility of a note going sour.
It wasn't long before he was picking out everything, stopping the accompaniment to snap at her and then making her start all over again. Already emotional from a long, grueling rehearsal, she began to feel frustration build up, and tears were stinging her eyes. The negative emotions only served to make her voice flat and angry. And when Erik stopped yet again to nitpick, she immediately burst into tears.
It'd been a long time since he had caused her to cry during a lesson—she had gotten used to his criticism and his want for her to be perfect. It usually didn't bother her too much anymore, but being so tired and criticized all day left her feeling vulnerable and hurt by his short, annoyed comments.
"Why are you crying?" he demanded instantly, never one to offer comfort.
She shook her head wordlessly, wiping away tears and trying hard to stop.
"It's too h-hard," she then said thickly, feeling childish but still wounded. "I can't d-do it."
"Of course you can," he said curtly.
"I don't want to." The statement came out like a petulant, whiny child, and she gulped down tears in a sort of mute horror, waiting for his reaction.
For a long time, he didn't reply, and she was afraid. Talking to Erik like this never usually led to good places.
"I'm sorry," she whispered after a moment. "I'll sing in Elektra. Of course I will. I was being stupid."
"You are anything but," he said in reply, nearly shocking her tears away. "I…Oftentimes I find myself forgetting just how young you are. I push you very hard and expect a great deal from you. I know this."
She sniffled and looked up at him, beyond surprised. He spread his hands out in a somewhat pleading gesture.
"I have said this many times, but you are limitless. I would not push you so if I didn't think you could achieve spectacular results. You've already come so far in these few short months."
This praise was the highest she had ever received from him, and she continued to gaze at him in baffled wonderment. Maybe it was all a ploy to soften her fear of him, but he looked sincere.
"Thank you," she said quietly, hiccoughing a little on a lingering sigh.
He pulled his handkerchief out and handed it to her, and she mopped up her wet face, her eyes aching. Erik reached into his pocket once again, and this time he took out a small, crumpled piece of paper, which he held out to her. It was a clipping out of a newspaper.
Elektra: the Opera House's Hopeful Ticket to Recovery
Following the fire which destroyed not only some of the building but a brand new production, the Opera House is trying to remain optimistic about its next show, which opens in next week. Elektra, written by Richard Strauss and first performed in 1909, is a one-act opera with which the Opera House hopes to draw back its devoted audience.
"Of course we feel terrible about the accident," said Mr. Poligny, co-manager of the Opera House. "The public has our sincerest apologies for any distress we may have caused them. Thankfully, no one was hurt, the damage was repaired, and our system has been improved. Elektra is going to be a new start for us. The show must go on, after all!"
Still, there remains lingering doubts over the Opera House's production value, which some critics have called "stagnant." Familiar faces have begun to bore the regular attendees, and requests for new talent to be brought in have fallen on seemingly-deaf ears.
However, with the recent success of the Opera House's annual gala, this reporter feels it necessary to pose questions as to why the Opera House management is not using its apparent ample talent to its fullest. Many performers are showcased to general acclaim and then are never seen again. The mystery behind the surprise performance at the after-party by an unknown soprano remains to be attended to and leaves this reporter wondering why the Opera House insists on reusing the same tired performers while hiding away promising talent. Perhaps an overhaul of casting will be displayed with this fresh start, yet for now, the public can do nothing but expect the same faces in the same old song and dance.
"You see?" Erik said when she looked up. "You have already been noticed. After this show, I will not have to see to your roles. They'll be given to you without question. You simply need to 'get a foot in the door,' as some people say."
She nodded again, wiping away the rest of her tears and taking a calming breath. She felt embarrassed for breaking down in front of him—yet again.
"I'll dismiss you for the rest of the afternoon so you can rest," he said, taking the clipping back from her and sliding it into his pocket. "Remember to drink plenty of water."
"All right," she said, gathering up her music and feeling immensely grateful toward him for letting her leave early. "Sorry about my temper tantrum."
"Understandable," he said.
As she was opening the door, she paused and looked back. He was straightening his music quietly.
"Hey, Erik?" she said. "I'm—I'm sorry. About…that day. About taking off your mask. I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry."
He did not look up, but his hands stopped moving. She didn't wait for him to respond, instead hurrying out the door and into the hallways.
She wasn't sure why she said that and why she said that now. Ever since Mr. Khan had told her what had happened to some of Erik's music, a sad sort of feeling had begun to emerge regarding Erik. Bad things had happened to him, and it made her upset to think that he hadn't really been able to fix it, like he had so many other things. She wasn't planning on discussing this story with Erik, as it was obvious that he didn't like Mr. Khan telling her anything about his past, but she had tried to be more understanding now. Hearing things about his past made him more human, made him more relatable, and it was easier feeling something toward the sad, lonely man with stolen music rather than the cold, violent, cruel, impenetrable Phantom.
And she really did feel sorry for doing it. Before, she was only upset because he had been angry at her. Now…she was genuinely sorry that she had hurt him.
As she entered the back hallway that would lead her outside, someone called out to her, and she groaned quietly before turning to see who it was. To her shock and immediate fright, it was Mr. Poligny, the short, rotund manager. He came waddling toward her, sweating a little in the summer heat.
"Miss Daae!" he said again. "I've been hoping to catch you. Can I have a word?"
She hesitated, but it wasn't as if she could refuse, and so she nodded and followed Mr. Poligny back into the heart of the Opera House. They passed several rooms and entered into a wing she had never been in before—the administrative offices.
The co-manager led the way into a small antechamber, in which was a desk and several filing cabinets, along with a various array of miscellaneous items: broken instruments, old props, ripped costumes, damaged scores, and the like. She looked around interestedly before Mr. Poligny opened a door there and ushered her in.
It was obviously the managers' office. Two large desks faced each other from opposite ends of the room. A few windows streamed in bright sunlight, illuminating the further filing cabinets and other furniture—a large, soft-looking couch, a pretty cabinet filled with liqueur, an end table with flowers on it, and other such things. Mr. Moncharmin was in there as well, sitting at his desk, absorbed in a newspaper with a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily into the air.
Mr. Poligny grunted irritably. "You know I hate it when you smoke in here," he said.
Mr. Moncharmin shrugged and took a pointed drag of the cigarette. Christine didn't think it was even legal to smoke indoors anymore, but she kept her mouth shut, feeling incredibly anxious.
"Have a seat," Poligny then said, pointing a large chair which sat between the two desks. She quickly did as he said, seating herself silently and clasping her hands in her lap. Mr. Poligny returned to his own desk—his chair being much larger than Moncharmin's—and all was silent for a good long while.
At last, Moncharmin put down his newspaper and looked at Christine carefully. She remembered that he had been skeptical about her during her audition, and she looked at the floor, blushing now.
"You've been here for several months now, Miss Daae," Moncharmin said. "How have you liked it?"
"It's nice," she replied instantly. "I like it a lot…Thanks again for—for hiring me on."
She could see him wave a hand. "It was our pleasure. Finding talent like yours is what we live for."
Mr. Poligny was nodding in agreement. "Yes, you're quite talented. Mr. Gabriel and Mr. Reyer have been telling us that you've improved drastically since coming here."
"That's nice of them to say," she said, anxiety twisting her stomach. She was unsure of what else to say, what to reveal.
The three of them fell into another lapse of silence, and she stared at the clock on the wall, the ornate gold hands gleaming in the bright afternoon sun. All she had wanted was to go home and sleep…
"How do you feel about the upcoming production?" Poligny said.
"Fine," she replied. "Good."
"This is your second role, isn't it?" Moncharmin said after a pause, and she felt her heart skip a few beats—this was what they had wanted her for. They were both staring at her, their gazes focused and intense and steely.
"Yes, your second role in your second production," Poligny added. "It's uncommon for such a young, inexperienced performer to be offered such things."
"Heh," she said uncomfortably.
"Some might even say it's unfair," Moncharmin said. "We have a lot of talented women here—many of whom have gone years without a single named role."
"Oh," she said, continuing to stare at the clock, afraid they would look into her eyes and somehow see Erik floating behind them. He was lingering in her thoughts. "I don't…want to make anyone upset. I was offered them by Mr. Gabriel and Mr. Reyer, and I thought it would be…be rude if I didn't accept. I'm just grateful for the opportunity." That sounded okay, didn't it? She tried not to point fingers, but she was scared of the way they were looking at her.
"Oh, yes, understandable," Mr. Poligny said, nodding his head. "We're just curious as to why you were offered them. We mean no offense—you're a pretty, talented girl—but sometimes we as managers have to ask certain questions to keep everyone happy." His voice was light, but she could hear the accusatory undertones.
"Maybe you should ask Mr. Reyer or Mr. Gabriel," she said blankly. "I don't ask them to cast me."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them glance at each other meaningfully, and she felt like something small and easily crushed, being cornered and overpowered by something much larger and stronger. They were ganging up on her, and she had to fight down an instinct to recoil into the couch.
"We'd like to discuss this with you, Miss Daae," Moncharmin began. "If you would just tell us—"
He was interrupted by a loud knock on the door, and it opened without invitation. Mr. Reyer stuck his head in and looked around before spotting her.
"Oh, Miss Daae," he said, ignoring the scowls from Moncharmin and Poligny. "I've been looking for you. It's very important—I'm sure you two won't mind…?" He looked between Moncharmin and Poligny, who both looked like they minded a great deal, and then smiled a little.
"Actually, we would rather—" Poligny tried to say, but Reyer drowned him out with a loud, "Thank you." He motioned for Christine, and she scuttled out of the office, beyond grateful to be removed from the managers' presence. The door shut behind them, and she let out a little sigh.
Mr. Reyer led her through the antechamber and back out into the hallway, walking down past a few rooms and doors. She followed him, beginning to become a little nervous again. They hadn't spoken since the gala. What did he want? What if he told her that her role had been given away again?
He went through a hallway and then opened up the door to another room, which she entered carefully. It was another office, smaller and more cramped. An upright piano was jammed into a corner, and it was covered with scores upon scores of sheet music, many of them spilling over onto the floor. A desk was on the other side, and standing behind it, flipping through the score of Elektra, was—
"Erik!" she gasped, more surprised than ever. She was so relieved to be away from the managers and so shocked to see him standing there that she lost her head a little and ran to him, grabbing onto his thin arm.
"What are you doing here?" she asked breathlessly, glancing around. The door was shut, she noticed. Mr. Reyer hadn't come into the room behind her. She was alone with Erik again.
"I'm having a harder time tolerating those meddling idiots," Erik said, and she knew he was talking about Moncharmin and Poligny.
She laughed, feeling a little light-headed and giddy without knowing why. She was exhausted and hungry and very relieved to have somehow been able to get away from the managers—it was all making her head spin a bit.
Then she said, "You know Mr. Reyer? Is that why you're here?"
"We have an…understanding," Erik said, always vague.
They paused, and she suddenly felt awkward. The last time she had seen him she had apologized for taking off his mask and had then run out of the room because she had been too cowardly to wait for his answer. Quickly, she let her hand drop, realizing where it was.
"Sorry," she said, backing away a few steps.
"I dismissed you early to rest," Erik said. "The managers will not bother you again."
Taking that as her dismissal, she nodded. "Okay. Thanks again. See you tomorrow." She turned and headed to the door.
"Christine." He stopped her with a word, and she turned around as he said, "You will stay with me this weekend."
It sounded as if he was unsure himself whether or not he was going to tell her this—he had waited until the last possible moment, and his voice had sounded rushed.
"Okay," she agreed, not wanting to argue with him again. "I'll come down right after rehearsals on Friday."
His voice was softer as he said, "I have a surprise for you. It will be ready by then."
"A surprise?" she questioned stupidly. "What is it?"
"You will see," he said. He took a few steps closer to her, his eyes going to the ring on her left hand. "It cannot wait any longer," he continued, still quiet. "It must be done soon, before the opera opens."
"What is it?" she tried again.
He seemed to struggle bringing his gaze back to her. He was still looking down, and she felt uncomfortable with his eyes lingering like that. Surreptitiously, she shifted her bag in front of her, effectively covering her and shielding her. At last he returned her gaze.
"You'll just have to wait," he said again. "Now go rest. I need you ready to work tomorrow."
Without waiting for another word, she turned and hurried out, only relaxing somewhat when she left the Opera House. She walked slowly, her stomach rumbling and her head sore. Maybe she would splurge a little and order out tonight to save herself from cooking something.
Still, the pleasant prospect was marred by the thought of going back to Erik's yet again—and then this 'surprise.' She felt any traces of excitement being squished away by an ominous lump that seemed to expand throughout her midsection. What could he mean? She was a little frightened to even consider any possibilities.
Later that evening, she was curled up on her sofa, hot tea in her hands, and she sighed deeply and closed her eyes, leaning her head back. The afternoon to herself had been incredibly nice and relaxing. As she sat there, she began to faintly hum her lines from Elektra, envisioning her blocking and repeating the words in her head. Erik had said not to rush it too much, as many of the others tended to do in response to the music…
Christine sighed again and furrowed her brow, shifting a little and taking a drink of her tea. She didn't feel much like thinking about Erik and the opera right now, but her mind seemed to naturally drift to that very subject. It wasn't as if she had a lot of other things to think of.
The surprise. Well, whatever it was, it would certainly be a surprise, as she hadn't any idea as to what it would be. Maybe a new dress…or a role in the upcoming, unannounced production. But he had said that it needed to be done before the opera opened. So what would it be?
She stood and set her tea aside before stretching and heading to bed. It felt like heaven, and she lay down with a grateful, un-ladylike groan. There didn't seem to be any use wondering. Erik would keep his secrets until he wanted to tell her, so she would just have to wait until Friday. And he was sure to work her hard over the weekend. That would be good—one last, intense stretch before opening night, just as she had thought.
Her eyes aching and her mind slowly winding down, she settled in with a sigh and slept peacefully.