As we strolled down the marble staircase, Gustave de Chagny told me a little of his tale… Well, when I say 'a little' I mean I've abridged some of it. Well, most of it… It was a long walk.
"de Chagny? As in, like, Vicomte de Chagny?" I must say, I was a little flabbergasted. I had never even considered the possibility that the family might actually have existed. Or still exist for that matter.
"Believe it or not," he continued, "my great-great-something Grandfather was Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny mentioned in Leurox's novel and he was the patron of the Opera Populaire until the place burnt down in the 1870s, I think it was. I don't recall him marrying a Christine Daae though he did marry an opera singer. Sophie or Suzanne, I think her name was. Might have been Helen... Anyway… and as for the Fantome, even before Leurox there had been stories of an apparition haunting the halls. Every little accident or misgiving was considered the fault of this ghost. Why, even last week the power went out halfway through the second act of Faust and those who believe in such things blamed this Famtone and those who do not still blamed the Fantome – but more in jest than in conviction. You could say it has become a tradition. I say, you've gone rather quiet."
The Vicomte's stride faltered as we descended into the main foyer.
I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets, fiddling with the earphones at the bottom. "I was kinda expecting to rock up, see a fake chandelier, a few dodgy looking things called art, find a lot of locked doors and barriers and signs saying 'DO NOT ENTER', 'PRIVATE', 'NO PUBLIC ENTRY' then either leave when I got bored or got thrown out," I confessed, "But instead I've run into THE REAL Vicomte de Chagny who tells me half of what I know to be fiction is based in truth, who dresses like my mates from Newie AND to top it all off, I've missed seeing Faust. AGAIN! But I suppose when you've got an opera house to yourself you can wear whatever you bloody well like and watch whatever you bloody well like whenever you bloody well want to..." And with that I glared pointedly at an armless statue. To my annoyance, he merely laughed.
"You Australians are very truthful, are you not? Now tell me, would you pass up an opportunity to see the Opera House as you would like to see it?"
I glared up at him and asked what the catch was. He called to the security guard behind the counter and within minutes I was fitted out with a CV radio, a sturdy flashlight (and by 'sturdy' I mean you can hear your muscles scream as you lift it) and a master key to the majority of the opera house. I rolled the key between my fingers. "You give master keys to any tourist who speaks her mind?" I asked, sceptically.
Again, he laughed. "Only the ones poking around Box 5. Besides, I have read your books; I am somewhat hoping this working progress of yours will bring new blood to the opera. Live blood that is; ghosts need not apply."
I sniggered and made some throwaway comment about free publicity and how it figured. And with that I began to make my way towards where I thought the general backstage area should have been.
"Oh yeah," I shouted back across the foyer, "If I'm not back by four, I'm either having tea with the Phantom… or I'm dead. Either way send a search party."
"Don't you Australians carry large knives in your oversized boots?" The Vicomte hollered.
Needless to say, I was suitably impressed by his Paul Hogan reference.
I had once heard tell that in the space beneath the stage all manner of props and scenery pieces are stored. So that became my primary port of call. Behind the stage itself, in an alcove away from the dressing rooms, I found an old service lift. The sides were rusted and in some places completely corroded through. The metal grate had seized in the runners and took a fair bit of shoulder force and kicking to get open. Most worryingly were the lift cables that appeared to be coated in God knew what. Looked like decades of congealed grease and yet more rust.
"Skippy to Frog. Skippy to Frog. You got your ears on? Backstage service lift: death trap or ten-four over?"
I wasn't going to wait until the metal box became a metal coffin to radio someone about it.
"Lift is a ten-four, Skippy." The Vicomte replied. "And as an aside, where did you learn… that?"
"Smokey and the Bandit." I verbally shrugged. "It's pretty quiet down here. If things should get noisy… you'll probably hear about it."
The lift was deceptively roomy on the inside. A few old managers' notes still clung to the walls along with half chewed pieces of gum. The single winch switch would not have looked out of place in Dr Frankenstein's' laboratory. A thick layer of dust and cobwebs coated it yet it still served its function. The tin box plummeted into the darkness below with my flashlight and I riding shotgun.
The safety gate opened into near total darkness. The air was thick with dust and stale as mummy bandages. The whole place was rank with damp, mould, rats and misuse. The thin tunnel of light generated by the flashlight bounced off uneven stone walls and the occasional arachnid as I searched the wall for a light switch. Conveniently, a whole row of old fashioned circular switches were mounted not four feet from the lift.
"And. Let. There. Be. Light." I emphasised each word with a switch.
Five rows of fluorescent lights flickered into life on the underside of the roof above. Definitely retro fitted. Quite pleased with myself, I turned from the wall and came nose to nose with a snarling grizzly bear. It seemed moth eaten Yogi wasn't the only hidden object in the dark. Props, bits of sets and scenery from seemingly every play, musical and opera known to France cluttered the space. It was the theatre equivalent of Grandmas' attic. There were painted trees and cardboard castles; Tutankhamen's sarcophagus propped against the wall beside a Victorian dressed mannequin holding a skull aloft; the mast of a pirate ship with a rat nibbled Jolly Roger jutted out from beneath a pile of carts and benches from a makeshift barricade. As I moved through the room I came across trinkets and baubles dumped carelessly in a heap, a smashed vial and chemistry set and more relics than the British archaeological museum could catalogue in a year. In the relative centre of the chaos rose a tall gothic mirror. Taller than the tallest man with inch thick glass dulled from grit, grime and dust. The silver stand was tarnished almost charcoal but it was still a splendid sight to behold. Three feet before the mirror, its face to the glass was a music box. THE music box. A lead figurine of a monkey in Persian robes and a Fez, playing the cymbals sitting atop a papier-mâchébarrel organ. It looked like something Dr. Seuss would draw after having a nightmare about a childhood day trip to the zoo. It wasn't exactly sinister but neither did it scream 'hug me'. I was not going to pass up an opportunity to take a picture of that. Or to have a go winding it up.
Amazingly the old dust collector still worked – somewhat. I'll say one thing about automatons, creepy though they are; they sure as hell built them to last. The crank handle protruding from the side, like everything else in the room had become a haven for web weavers. Yet still it played. A tinny, haunting refrain from Masquerade echoed off the stone surrounds. I crouched, phone in hand before the monkey box, back to the mirror, attempting to line up that perfect shot. In hindsight, not the smartest thing I've ever done. Completely absorbing myself in the music and photography and paying sod all attention to anything else, that is. Not to mention the whole 'back to the mirror thing', but I am getting ahead of myself… Being observant of my surrounds was never my strong suit to begin with.
"Masquerade. Paper faces on parade." The fez wasn't quite in shot.
"Hide your face so the world…" A moving reflection in the corner of the screen caught my eye.
"…will… never… find you…" My voice was stilled by fear. The reflection in the dark screen was no longer that of the mirror alone. There was suddenly a man in the mirror. A man who was quite casually stepping forth and out from within said mirror. Right be-smegging-hind me!