Chapter XVIII: Angelic Intervention

Rehearsals began, and they were quite a spectacle. M. Reyer did his best to keep it all together, but he was usually overshadowed by Signor Piangi, who had opinions about everything. Carlotta floated around the stage like a queen whenever her scenes were rehearsed, and to my astonishment, I realized that she could hardly read music and had to learn all her phrases by imitation and endless repetition, a proceeding which slowed down the rehearsal pace considerably. While we were all waiting for Carlotta to get it right, I sometimes glanced at Christine, who usually looked quite composed, but if you knew her well it was clear that she was nearly ready to spring up from her chair in frustration. Once or twice, I could hear her softly humming the correct notes.

Marcel and Pauline, on the other hand, were perfect in their roles and exemplary in their professionalism. They had both taken the time to study ahead, so that they knew their parts fairly well already and could start acting and taking directions almost immediately. It was clear that Pauline would make a wonderfully funny Baba the Turk, and I couldn't wait to see her in costume. As for Marcel, he was very believable as the sly devil Nick Shadow.

I think everything would have continued the way I just described right up until the performance, if it hadn't been for Erik. In retrospect, I should have been able to anticipate his next move given his obsession with my cousin and her singing voice, and I think he may even have got the idea from a stray remark of mine. Anyway, after what happened things started moving relentlessly towards the tragic culmination which I have yet to relate to you.

Carlotta was in the habit of occupying a certain practice room from early morning until late afternoon, even though she didn't use it all the time she was supposedly there. This was known to everybody and a source of annoyance to many, as it was a blatant violation of school policy, but whoever entered "her" room claiming that her time was up had to listen to such a tirade of Italian oaths, insults and threats, that they never tried reasoning with the soprano again. It was this very room I was passing one day when I heard the most terrible scream from within.

I ran to the door and knocked.

"What's going on?" I called out. "Are you all right in there?"

There was no answer, so I flung the door open and rushed inside. Nothing could have prepared me for what I found there. Carlotta was lying on the floor, staring wildly at me with frantic terror in her eyes. Her mouth and neck were smeared with fresh blood, and she tried to speak, but the only thing that came out was a horrible gurgling sound. I knelt by her, trying to make out the words.

"Carlotta, what's happened? Are you ill?" I said, trying to stay calm but failing.

She just shook her head and pointed towards a table by the wall. On it was an overturned bottle of mineral water. As I rose to examine it, Carlotta gave a shriek of alarm and gesticulated towards her throat. She was nearly choking on her own blood. I took out my cell phone and dialed the emergency number with trembling fingers. A kind voice answered and went on to ask me a number of questions, very methodically, as if this was just another day at work for him. Where was I? Who was I? Who was in need of help? How old was Carlotta? Was she conscious? Had she swallowed something? In response to this last question, I went once again towards the table with the water bottle. I sniffed the remaining liquid in it gingerly, and was at once aware of a peculiar pungent odor.

"I think she has drunk something corrosive", I told the operator.

"The ambulance will be there in just a few minutes", he replied. "Meanwhile, try washing out her mouth and give her something to drink if she is able to."

I hurried to get some water from the bathroom and brought it to Carlotta, but she wouldn't let me come near her again, even though I explained to her that I was only trying to help. By now, some other students had started to gather outside the practice room and expressed their agitation with intense whispers and horrified gasps.

Soon, the paramedics arrived, lifted Carlotta onto a stretcher and carried her off. I sat down on the floor in the corridor outside the room, feeling sick to my stomach with what I had just seen. I was still sitting there when the caretaker came by a while later, locking the room and telling me that nobody must disturb it until the police had examined it. At first, I didn't understand what he meant, but then I realized what should have been clear to me from the start: a crime was suspected. I rose and left, since I was already late for the opera rehearsal. Of course, I wasn't sure there would be much of a rehearsal today. There might not even be an opera, for all I knew.

Strangely enough, the classroom was packed with people when I arrived. Everybody had gone to the rehearsal, probably because they needed to talk to each other about the terrible thing which had just occurred, rumors of which had already spread throughout the college. M. Reyer was wiping his forehead and looked very shaken, while Signor Piangi was nowhere to be seen. I assumed that he had gone with his daughter to the hospital. The atmosphere in the room was tense, and the students all seemed to be waiting for some new information. When they saw me walking through the door, I immediately became the center of their attention. They bombarded me with questions:

"Meg, it was you who found her and called the ambulance, wasn't it?"

"Is it true that she got acid on her? Was she disfigured?"

"Was there a lot of blood?"

"Did it look like it was done on purpose?"

I answered everyone as best I could, but in truth, I didn't know much more than anyone else at this point. None of us had any idea what would become of Carlotta, and it was clear that we wouldn't learn anything more that day. We were all sent home early, but a lot of people lingered in the cafeteria to discuss the dramatic event.

The next day, we were instructed to come to an extra meeting to find out what would happen to our opera project. Apparently, the college had received some fresh news about Carlotta during the morning, and we were all anxious to find out what it was. I had not slept very well the night before, since I kept seeing Carlotta's face, with wild panic in her eyes, and hearing her desperate but fruitless attempts to mouth a few words to me. Not long before, I had detested Carlotta Piangi for her smugness and condescending attitude and would have been the first person to delight in any small misfortune that might have happened to her. But now, all I could feel was pity.

"Dear students", said M. Reyer awkwardly when we had assembled. "As you all know, Carlotta was severely injured yesterday... I have now received information that she will live, thank God. Apparently, she swallowed some hydrochloric acid and it was a close call. But, of course, she won't be singing in this opera. Her throat has been badly damaged by the acid and they don't know if she will ever fully recover. Now, I was debating with myself whether or not we should go ahead with the project given the circumstances, but the management insisted that we do so, and Signor Piangi seemed to agree that the show must go on, as the saying goes. However, this... unfortunate thing that happened will naturally be investigated by the police, to rule out that... well, any deliberate criminal act, and I am sure you will all be as helpful as you can."

M. Reyer took a deep breath. It was obvious that he was very uncomfortable with the entire situation.

"As for the role of Anne Truelove, it will have to be recast", M. Reyer continued. "Again, the management has suggested Christine Daae, which I think is a very good choice, that is, if she is willing to take on this responsibility on such short notice."

Christine looked startled. She glanced around her at the other students in the room. Most of them seemed very encouraging, except for a small group of Carlotta's devoted followers, who loudly proclaimed that it would be in very bad taste to accept such an offer.

"Christine?" said M. Reyer in a pleading voice. "I understand if it is too much to ask of you to start learning the role this late in the rehearsal process, but we depend on you if we are to go through with this opera. Will you do it?"

After a few moments' hesitation, Christine nodded.

"Yes", she said, "I will do it."

After the meeting I went over the events of the last few days in my mind. Ever since I had found Carlotta in the practice room, this one thought had swirled around my head: Let it not be Erik! Let it be a strange accident, a practical joke gone wrong, even some other student, but please, don't let it be Erik again! But the more I heard - the acid in the water bottle, Carlotta's inability to sing and the nameless "management's" insistence that rehearsals go on and Christine take Carlotta's role - the more convinced I was that Erik had indeed orchestrated the whole thing only to give Christine the chance he considered rightfully hers. The thought of it, and the memory of Carlotta drenched in blood, made me sick. How far was Erik willing to go? And what would happen the next time someone stood in his way, and the next? It might never end! This time, I had to tell the police, even if it meant I could never safely set foot on college grounds again. My word would not be enough as evidence, but if I could get Christine to tell them about her kidnapping and show them to his home in the sewers, then maybe they would find something incriminating there. I had to discuss it with Christine. But where was she?

While I had been busy thinking about what to do next, Christine had gone off somewhere. There was one place I sincerely hoped she was not, but in order to be sure, I had to go down there. Rummaging through my bag, I found the old Bach volume Erik had lent me until I could get a copy of my own. As I had done so a while ago it was only natural that I should want to return Erik's copy now. It's always good to have a pretext - at least this way he couldn't accuse me of prying into matters that didn't concern me. I had a perfectly legitimate reason to go to the basement corridor.

I descended the stairs and went directly to Erik's room, feeling sure that he would notice if I stopped and listened outside the room where Christine used to practice. I knocked on the door and called out Erik's name, but there was no answer. Acting the part I had given myself, I took out the Bach volume, put it in a plastic bag and hung it on the door handle. As I did so, I noticed that a name was scribbled in pencil in the top right-hand corner of the first page. It says a lot about my devotion to the craft of counterpoint at that time that I hadn't noticed it sooner. Music theory had, naturally, been the last thing on my mind lately.

What interested me about the name was that it clearly wasn't in Erik's handwriting. The music must once have belonged to someone else. Struggling for a while with the Russian alphabet, I deciphered the word "Ivanovich". Could this be the same Ivanovich I knew, the absent-minded piano professor? If so, how did a volume of his come into Erik's possession?

When I had disposed of the Bach music, I turned around to leave the corridor, deliberately slowing down my step as I approached Christine's room. This time, I could clearly hear voices from within. First I heard Erik speaking something in a soft voice. I could not make out the words, but when he moments later started singing the beginning of a scene from The Rake's Progress, I understood that it must have been an instruction of some kind. Then, Christine repeated the same passage and proceeded to sing a whole aria. I was stunned. If Christine's voice had been extraordinary when I had heard her perform in November, it was still nothing compared to what I heard now. Without doubt, there was no soprano in the country, student or professional, to match her! She still had all the technical and musical talent that had won her the scholarship, but now, there was something else in her voice, too. A haunting quality - something not quite of this world.

I didn't have to wonder how Erik had enticed her back into his power. The reason for her return was there, it could be heard plainly by anybody. She had come back to him because of the music he inspired in her. For Christine, who ultimately lived only for her art, it was a force impossible to resist. It went beyond logic, beyond fear, beyond right or wrong. And, I am ashamed to say, I too was influenced by it. When I heard the sounds Erik could bring out of Christine, my resolve to expose him to the police crumbled. This enigmatical man might have a dark side, but what I witnessed here was beauty in its purest form.

Who was I to destroy it?