Chapter 2: Shattered Lantern
Erik waited with the usual scowl on his masked face as Joseph Buquet struggled to lift a scene from Faust and replace it with a newly painted canvas from Il Guarany. The man was indeed an upright and sober man, but his managerial and cognitive skills left something to be desired.
"M. Erik, they are here," Mme. Giry called. Several people of varying heights and nations followed behind her brisk dancer's feet. He turned, giving his red satin cape a dramatic swish and positioning his head just so that the light caught his mask. In his hand, brandished like a court summons, he held the small stack of resumes. There was no one else to hire, of course, but each had to audition…just to make things official.
Towards the back of the short line marching down the leftmost aisle, Christine shivered. She had seen the cape the moment she'd entered, and now, this 'M. Erik's' mask could be seen. It was white, but not shining porcelain like the expensive dentures the wealthy possessed. This was a bleached, dead white; as matte and forbidding as bone. It made him look rakish and quite at home in a darkened theatre. That look was having a strange, burning effect on her face and ears… She cursed her pale complexion and hoped she would blanch in fear once she was truly face to face with this impresario.
Silently, they followed Erik's simple, slow gestures and sat front and center. Unfortunately, this only made Christine blush more; she was nearest this tall, silent, dark-looking man. Was he a man at all?
Ahead of her, someone coughed. It was the Irish girl clearing her throat as Erik studied the dark-skinned, savage woman who was first in line. She spoke: "I am called Eter Candan, M. Erik."
Erik didn't so much as blink, and replied in a language Christine had never before heard. "Şu andan itibaren, ben sizin efendiniz ve öğretmenim. Sahnede alın ve bir şarkı, bu sizin seçmelere olduğunu." The woman nodded and climbed onto the wooden platform of the stage. Oh, so he wants to see how proficient we are… Christine tried not to gasp as Eter began a wavering, sweet ballad with no particular, repeating melody. After a minute, she turned her eyes to her soon-to-be employer.
He was standing stock still, except for his lightly flowing cloak; one might suppose him a statue. His eyes…they shine. Why does he hide? He looks like an Egyptian god, almost. She found it hard to concentrate on the singing while in full view of those metallic, magnetic circles. It seemed like only minutes before all the young people before her had gone to their respective dorms with the guidance of several dancers. She had only just managed to grasp their names: Marcus, Anna, and Artur.
"Next. Or have you lost your wit, Mlle. Daae?" The girl almost jumped out of her seat and blurted the first thing that came to her mind, blushing yet again.
"Your voice sounds nice when you speak French, M. Erik." Erik tried to decide whether to laugh or flirt with the delicate creature. Is she insulting my Turkish, Gaelic, and Greek, or is she complimenting my French? A quick glance at the last paper in his hand assisted him in deciding in what to do next. With an irritatingly wide smirk, he bowed low and asked in a playful, light tone, "Skulle damen behaga glädja öronen med en privat återgivning av hennes favoritlåt?"
"N-naturligtvis." And his voice sounds even better in my tongue… Now, what do I sing? Christine glanced around. Mme. Giry had gone someplace, but somehow the air in the room was more intimidating without the stoic old lady. Everything centered on the masked man now. At last, she was able to concentrate well enough to pick out a song: the last thing she had sung to her father. For you, papa, I will look at life through a pink glass…
…
A resounding crack split through Christine's brain as she watched from the edge of the training base. Her papa had just been punched across the jaw, and was stumbling back with his hand to his grimy, bristly face. Tears threatened to fall from the girl's eyes, but she bit her lip and scrubbed them from her eyes. I will not cry in front of these rough-handed bastards. I will not cry…
The drill sergeant blew a whistle and all the foot soldiers-in-training jogged inside; that is, all but Gustave Daae.
"Papa!" He was nursing his bruised jaw, sitting in the mud. There was blood on his hand. No… She thanked God that she had worn trousers on this occasion and began to scale the fence. The sergeant was marching up to Gustave. "Papa, I'm coming!" She was halfway up the fence. This captured the other man's attention.
"You are his French- vad är ordet? Ah, ja- you are his French daughter, then?" he asked in accented French. She pulled herself up to the top of the metal fence and glared down at the military man with anger that would have made a tiger hide in a rabbit hole.
"I am more Swedish than you if this is how you treat the men who protect this nation with their lives," she answered, cold anger washing through her veins. "And if you so much as touch my papa again, you will answer to God much sooner than expected." Hatistk avskum.
A sadistic glint entered the man's eyes. He pulled a dart gun on Gustave, who was struggling to his feet. "Are you threatening me, wench?" She gasped, suddenly terrified for her father, and fell the rest of the way down the steel gate.
"You will not hurt him!" She sprinted towards the two men.
"Won't I?" Click. Gustave Daae crumpled, suddenly struggling for breath. In a blast of fury, Christine tackled the sergeant, kicking and clawing at his face. Speech failed her in her wrath, and for a few minutes everything was grey and the red of the man's fluids as she gouged at his neck.
At last, he was unconscious, and Christine was lucid enough to turn back to her papa. Hot tears dissolved the droplets of blood on her cheeks as she knelt over the air-starved man. "Papa?"
"Ah, little angel… Sing to me?" His voice was hardly above a whisper, and his breath came in horrible, rasping hisses. So she sang. And when she was done, he croaked in her ear, eyes already closing. "You will have an Angel, Christine. I swear it."
…
Erik watched her assume proper posture and breath, expanding her ribcage as was proper. Well, at least she's trained. Christine's fingers tapped a count against her thigh.
"Des yeux qui font baisier les miens…" Good God above… She has the greatest potential of the lot of them. He watched, and at last lowered himself into the very chair she had been sitting in. Either she's a fantastic actress, or this song means something to her… His hunch was confirmed. When she blinked, a quicksilver tear streaked down her left cheek.
"…Mon couer qui bat…"
The normally sharp man registered that the song had ended. "Ah…" Then his professional demeanor returned, but not before Christine glimpsed the admiration in his eyes. "You may go now. Get one of the dancers to show you to your dorm."
No sooner had he finished his sentence than an energized blonde ballerina grabbed Christine's wrist and began dragging her backstage and through various corridors. Everything smelled of soap and wax. "Hi, I'm Meg, you are an amazing singer, and here's your dorm. Bye, I've got to practice now!" And she was gone in an instant. I didn't even get to introduce myself…
The door creaked as she pushed it open. How did my bag get here? I left it in the cab, didn't I? Her bag was indeed in her new room, sitting on one of the bunks with all the innocence in the world. Well, now that that's taken care of…
The room was quite small, but fit two narrow beds, a simple closet, and a writing desk. Everything was either blue or dark brown, a comfortable color scheme, though dramatically different from the plain white Christine was used to. It was suited for the theatre.
"Oh, hullo. I s'pose I'm your roommate, then." The redhead from earlier approached and held out her hand in greeting. "M'name's Anna Iseal." Christine grasped the callused hand offered her and shook it, remembering courtesy through the haze of an eventful day.
"Christine Daae. Did you not pack anything when you moved here?" Anna shook her head of thick, glossy hair.
"Dun need to. I can buy what I need with this," she answered, pulling out a thick wad of banknotes. Christine's eyes widened.
"Exactly where did you say you came from?" Her new roommate only gave a conspiratorial wink and stuffed the papers back into a fold in her form-fitting black dress.
"I didn't say where I came from, now, did I lass?" She waved cheerfully and backed out of the cramped dorm. "Well, don't want t'be late for supper, do ya?" With that, she skipped down the hall, following her nose to the mess hall.
…
Dinner gave Christine a chance to become better acquainted with the people she'd be living with for the next few years, if Lady Luck smiled. The girl with the knife, Eter, was actually quite nice and kept her blade 'for opening disobedient boxes.' She was a mezzo, apparently, and had come to Paris in pursuit of her dream of singing. She had lived on the streets, paid as a bard, until an earthquake had shaken her home island half into the sea. "All good, though. That is why I am here now, the government gave me money to travel," she'd told them as all five of the rookie singers sat at a separate , pockmarked table in the large kitchens.
"I was near there too, then. I was in Athens." It was Marcus, the shy, olive-skinned youth. "I'm living with my father now. He wanted to move because he didn't like the government's corruption." He hurriedly looked back down at his thick beef stew, obviously hoping the steam would be an excuse for his reddening cheeks. The tall man finally spoke up. His voice was deep, with a harshly accented growl to it. Christine could tell it was having an effect upon Eter, who was blushing and hoping her diminished height would render her invisible.
"Governments will always be corrupt, because there are always men to lead them." Anna, bold as ever, stood and leaned over the Russian in a challenging pose.
"D'ya mind my askin' where ya got the burns from, Artur?" she purred. He ignored her and motioned for the cook to bring more bread.
…
"Artur Glubokiy, you are a traitor to this country!" His father's screaming echoed in his ears as he was led, shoved, and jostled towards the tsar's palace. I am not a traitor! I want to save my land! His heart cried, pumping tears of blood as his entire being wept for the people.
The great wooden doors opened, and the temperature difference was so great that the frost on his fur-lined coat melted in seconds. A fire was roaring towards the back of the great hall, and tsar Alexander III stood before it.
"Get inside, revolutionary, before I execute you and undermine the tsar," the officer behind him growled. He complied, much preferring the warmth over a knife in the back.
The doors shifted closed with a groan. Outside, the police could be heard, barring them and locking the palace with a clank of iron. For three tense, trembling minutes, nothing was heard but the crackles and hissing in the oversized hearth. At last, the great tsar moved.
"I know who you are. The people know who you are," he said, moving to retrieve a glass lantern. Artur dared to take a step forward, wondering what this tyrannical ruler would do with a simple bit of wire and windowpane. "Therefore, you will have your life."
"I will, great tsar?"
"Yes, you will." The autocrat lit the lantern, careful not to spill the tallow, and shut the little door, securing the fire within.
"Thank you-"
"You will be an example to anyone with notions of interfering with my rule."
Artur Nikolai Glubokiy could not duck when the fireball flew at his face in a whirl of oil and glass. It would be months before the wounds would stop their fiery torment.
…
Back in his dorm, Artur examined the scars on his face with the small mirror he'd purchased just days earlier. His sideburn was completely gone, replaced by twisted, pink flesh. His right eyelid and patches of his cheek were discolored, rough, and still smarted where the shards of glass had cut deeper than skin. So much for his flawless Unshakeable Autocracy…