A/N: Thanks so much, my phriends! (Note: All lyrics used belong to Charles Hart, Richard Stilgoe, and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Also, the word "diva" came into being in 1880-85, but since ALW used it for his 1870 version, so am I. Actually, last night while researching a reference book I have (called English Through the Ages)- I found that there are a lot of other theatre words often used in PotO phanphics that weren't around until the 1880s and 90s, but then, that's what artistic license is for… ;-))… and now…
XVI
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Once she finally found and introduced herself to the rotund woman in charge of cleaning, Christine was given a uniform, a brush and a bucket, and in heavily accented English told to change, then to scrub the floors of the main foyer. Claudette's only other words to her were to be quick about it and report back when it was done.
So began Christine Daaé's illustrious new career at the magnificent Opera House of Paris.
Shaking her head at the fallacy, she shoved all girlhood dreams far behind her and looked for a place to change. Her query of where to go was answered by a passing dancer in costume who pointed toward a sparse room without mirrors. To Christine's relief, it had solid walls and a door she could close - and was not made up of flimsy lengths of any material imaginable and suspended from taut ropes, like some of the other makeshift rooms she had glimpsed within the maze.
The bruises were now only a matter of ugly discoloration, no longer painful, except for one area on her shoulder blade that she could not reach or see. At The Heights, she had quickly learned to work with small aches so gave the niggling irritation little thought. She supposed she should be thankful that the slightly oversized chemise issued to her was not scratchy against her skin like the dress, though it's neckline rested a bit low for comfort. For modesty sake, she pulled up a slipping sleeve that barely settled below the curve of her shoulder. Nor was it as well constructed as her lace-trimmed shift of fine linen, which she also wore; but even that was showing signs of wear, the threads loose in places.
She dispensed with the boned corset, the tedious work expected of her impossible to manage if one could not breathe. A simple black woolen skirt, matching stockings, and a pair of ugly lace up boots completed her uniform. She pulled her hair back in a loose bun like the other cleaning women, or tried to, the thick mass of long springy curls having their own mind, even with the chenille net that should keep them in place. She was no fashion statement, not like her days at The Grange, but that was another world behind her. With a wry smile, Christine reasoned that should anyone who had known her come to the Opera House, she would not be recognized, so the dull uniform achieved her purpose well.
Rolling up her belongings in a bundle, she pondered what to do with them, then decided to leave them on one of the barrels against the wall. If someone took them, then good riddance! She wouldn't miss the dress and tight slippers that had belonged to one of Arabella's servants, and she certainly could bid farewell to the constricting corset, perhaps inspired from a tool used in a medieval torture chamber. That standard of cruel fashion Christine wouldn't miss in the slightest! There was only one item that she cared to keep from what she'd brought with her, and it was safely tucked deep in the slit pocket of her skirt. She was just thankful she had thought to slip the scrap of cloth in her inside cloak pocket before pouring water for her bath on that horrid day, and had not left it behind.
As the terrible memory of what had then occurred threatened to follow, she sucked in a sharp breath and hurried from the room to lose herself in the chaos and search for water.
The first person she asked, a man wearing everyday clothes and a clown's face paint, gave her long-winded directions, and she eventually found herself in an empty stable like room devoid of hay. It was filled with barrels and wooden crates and had a deep shallow basin in the middle, the length and size of a trough, filled to the brim with water. She wondered if she had taken a wrong turn, if this wasn't meant for the horses and whatever other animals the Opera House owned, and whether there might also be a well nearby. But with no one to ask, and seeing the water was clear, she decided it was sufficient for cleaning and skimmed her pail along the surface to fill it.
She returned to the crowded corridor, again asking directions, to the main foyer this time, from a petite woman carrying bundles of taffeta dresses over one arm who rustled as she walked. After following her brief answer in broken English, Christine was soon lost. In the jumbled maze, she felt completely discombobulated, with no idea of which way was front or back, north or south. She soon discovered that many of the performers, though not all of them, spoke English, some only smatterings while others were more fluent, and she finally found her ultimate destination.
Gaping at the huge expanse of parquet floor and the presence of only two other women cleaning in the distance, she shook her head.
"It's what you wanted, Christine Daaé, to hide within this opera house. So you might as well reconcile yourself to your fate."
With a little sigh, she knelt down and set to scrubbing the patterned marble.
The work was taxing, but her body was accustomed to labor from nearly two years of helping Berta. Hardened calluses already covered her hands and the muscles in her arms had been toned by scrubbing floors such as these - though made of wood and on a much smaller scale than those of this massive theatre.
The other women paid her little heed, which suited her well. She kept to herself, speaking only when addressed, not wanting to draw unwanted attention.
Finishing her task hours later, Christine again finally found and reported to Claudette, and was immediately assigned another chore. The only rest she had throughout the day were her few trips to the privy and eating the meal supplied to the workers, of dark bread, cheese, and fruit, some of it spoiled. There was no meat but there was plenty of wine.
That night, in a state of utter exhaustion she fell onto the small, hard cot given her in the workers' dormitory, so weary, she didn't bother to undress. Her first day in her new occupation was more fatiguing than the days' worth of travel in the private coach that had brought her to France! If this was an example of what her future would be, she wasn't sure she could survive it.
x
On her second day, Christine was soundly shaken awake by one of the women who shared her dorm.
"Levez-vous! Levez-vous!"
"I don't understand," Christine said tiredly.
"Levez-vous!"
The woman clearly spoke no English, however her hand signals made her intention clear. It was time to get up.
Christine's muscles in her arms and shoulders ached, but she sluggishly rose to join the others. After a breakfast of warm porridge, she felt better and less discouraged and was ordered to help polish the metal rims of the countless seats in the vast auditorium.
Meanwhile, on stage, practice for the newest opera commenced.
Dressed as medieval warriors in bronze armor, the chorus sang the final aria of Act Two. Christine listened with interest. The singing was professionally accomplished, if not emotionally engaging, but the movements of their dance flowed well. A redheaded woman with a tall golden hat strutted to the center of the stage. Christine noticed two of the other cleaning women rapidly pull from the pockets of their skirts tufts of what looked like wool or cotton which they stuffed into their ears. Curious, Christine stopped polishing to focus her full attention on what would happen next.
The opening chords began.
Christine felt as if she'd been slapped in the face.
The woman began to sing, perilously reaching for the notes instead of letting them come naturally. Christine winced at her screeches and warbles, but that was not what gave her the greatest distress, so much so, that her stomach turned and she felt she might vomit. She clutched her throat, moisture welling in her eyes. Even the dancers on stage had trouble concealing their winces of agony as the soloist continued to murder the aria.
As Christine dully watched, a tall statue at the back of the set seemed to waver. As if in slow motion it suddenly dipped forward, picking up speed with its momentum and came crashing down near the woman's head. The prop came only feet away from pummeling her into the stage floor!
An eruption of deep, booming laughter filled the entire theatre, seeming to come from all areas at once. Christine spun in a rapid circle, scanning the balconies and trying to locate the bearer of mischief.
"You will rue the day you do not follow my commands to the letter!" The threatening voice from nowhere announced. "That was a warning - the excuse for a diva must go!"
At the sound of the deep, male baritone, deeper than any voice she had ever heard, a shiver went through Christine at the same time a strange warmth filled her. Frowning, she rubbed her arms though she felt no chill.
Pandemonium broke out across the stage.
"It's him!" Meg screeched, pointing upward from within the line of dancers. "The Phantom of the Opera!"
Everyone quickly looked up, some crowding in, in an attempt to see better.
Christine hurried down a side aisle and close to the front, craning her head back to see into the dark flies, hoping to catch a glimpse of the notorious male ghost who haunted the theatre. She frowned when her efforts went unrewarded. From the disappointed faces and murmurs of the women's chorus, she was not the only one to fail.
"Did you really see him, Meg?" one of the dancers asked.
"Only from the back - and the twirl of his cloak as he sped away," she said unhappily.
The managers tried to pacify the bearer of the ridiculously tall golden hat, assuring her that they wished for her to remain their star. But the diva screeched at them about all the so-called accidents she'd had to endure for three long years and tore off her hat throwing it down for emphasis, her red-orange curls sticking out all over her head like a bird's nest.
"I hate my hat! I hate thees opera! And I hate you! Bring me my doggy and my boxy," she commanded of one of her servants nearby. "I will not come back until you rid the theatre of thees Phantom vermin for good! Bye-bye. I am leaving now," she declared and stormed off the stage.
"Another of the diva's tantrums," Christine heard one of the doormen nearby say to another. "Before tonight's performance she'll be back. He's tried to get rid of her before, but she's as stubborn as they come."
"Fifteen francs says you're wrong. She was insulted this time – that was the statue made for her character in the production – and it came close to squashing her like a bug."
"That's a wager I'll take. His pranks always come close but never harm anything other than her female vanity. Mark my words, she isn't going to let this stop her from basking in the limelight, even if she is ages past her prime and gets message after message that no one wants to hear her sing anymore as the lead. He may be a madman, but he's right about that."
The second worker nodded in agreement, and both shook hands in their bet.
Christine studied the broken statue on the stage then the flies again, before slowly resuming her task.
All day long the song haunted her.
xXx
Night had already fallen by the time Claudette ordered Christine to scrub the stage.
Fragments of the statue had shattered and though an immediate cleanup had been required, most of it by stagehands who carried away the heavy chunks of plaster, every bit had to be removed from every crevice, the wood scrubbed and polished smooth for the ballet dancers' soft soles.
And it had to be done before tomorrow morning's practice.
Christine didn't mind being singled out, though she wondered if Claudette held some personal grudge against her to make her do the job herself. But it felt almost comforting to be alone in the vast, noiseless theatre; at the same time it unsettled her with the memory of this morning's practice. In her mind, she could still hear that magnetizing, disturbing voice…
The stage was all that remained lit, several close lamp stands left burning so she could see to work. The upholstered crimson seats in the auditorium were cloaked in varied layers of darkness, as were the many nude golden statues on the walls, between the alcoves all around, and high near the ceiling above her. A musical den of flagrancy and opulence, she could well imagine what the dour old minister and sexton from The Heights would have to say about this opera house! The thought almost made her chuckle, though her heart felt far from merry.
The stillness was haunting, but at the same time it soothed her nerves after living with the constant mayhem of theatre life. Many activities went on at once – practices, different chords and compositions of music, frequent hammering, myriad conversations and shouting, laughter, cursing – so much, and all of it building into a great cacophony of confusion.
As she worked in the peaceful quietude, Christine again recalled the interrupted practice and the diva who had stood where she now scrubbed. She even felt a smidgen of gratitude toward the elusive Phantom for ending the song so swiftly, though she certainly did not agree with his methods. Yet she should not have been so startled to hear that tune.
Her father had been involved with opera companies before she was born and the arias he'd taught her had been from them. But that moment, today, had taken her back to one night on The Summit, held in the warmth of her Angel's arms…
Her Angel who was now a true angel.
She sighed, bringing her scrubbing to a gradual stop, and rested her shoulders while looking around the darkened theatre. Thinking of Erik while in this place that produced the music they both adored, she could almost imagine him here with her in spirit. At the opera over two years ago, sitting in Box Five, she had undergone the same experience.
She looked up at the quiet alcove, now concealed in deep shadow.
The strangest sensation tingled through her, to sing the aria the way it was meant to sound. She had not sung in almost four years, had not wished to, unable to summon the desire to lift her voice again, the wings of her music clipped. But suddenly, and for no apparent reason she could name – she wanted to sing.
It was shocking really. Baffling to the mind … which she tried to put back to her task, dipping the brush in the sudsy water and scrubbing harder, wishing to scour the inexplainable desire away.
The urge persisted, her pulse in her throat beating faster the longer she tried to curtail the need.
Perhaps, she wished to sing because for the first time in her life she was living her old aspiration of being center stage in an opera house, even if only in a maid's garb in the dead of night. Perhaps it was that she did sit alone in an empty theatre with no one to overhear. She could not describe the sudden compulsion to free her music that had been trapped inside, but it was powerful and growing more intense with each moment that she delayed.
She had often talked with Erik about singing for him, starring in his operas, sharing in a life of music together. When he died, that part of her died too. The dream of triumphant glory they once shared had blown apart with the malevolent precision of a fiend's bullet. Now, here, with no one watching, she wanted to resurrect the dream for one brief moment and sing again…
…For Erik.
And she could no longer curb the desire.
Closing her eyes, she straightened her spine and parted her lips, letting the first notes touch the air in tentative exploration:
.
Think of me, think of me fondly,
when we've said goodbye,
Remember me, once in awhile
please promise me you'll try …
.
Her voice was uncertain, rusty with disuse, and low in pitch. But as she sang the rest of the verse then went into the next, the words became her own; she had no need to feign emotion. Her song was an unwritten letter to Erik from her heart, of all they could have had together, all they could have been to one another, all he still was to her…
.
Think of me, think of me waking,
silent and resigned …
Imagine me, trying too hard
to put you from my mind …
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She rose slowly to stand, the tears falling unheeded down her cheeks. Softly she lifted her hands to her sides in a beseeching manner, lifting her eyes to the domed ceiling with its massive chandelier, hoping, praying he could hear her wherever he was. And during that one exciting, disturbing moment as she allowed the expression of their music to revisit her heart - she felt her wings unfurl, as if a small part of her soul had been returned to her.
.
Recall those days, look back on all those times,
think of the things we'll never do …
There will never be a day when I won't think of you!
.
Halfway into the crescendo, her voice broke. She ended the song there, unable to go on. The glorious release of finally giving reign to the music so long buried deep inside made her spirit soar. But at the same time she felt the agony of loss cut like a blade, sharp and deep and merciless.
"Oh, Erik," her lips sadly formed his name in veneration but she gave the words no sound.
A movement from above shocked her into turning her head slightly to the left. Had she dreamed it?
She looked up at Box Five where she had discerned the small disturbance. The private box was closest to the stage, the darkness not so absolute that she could not detect activity.
It was not her imagination.
The crimson drape stirred, fluttering softly, as if a hand had just let the velvet curtain drop back into place.
Her heart pounded against her breast, much as it had done in this theatre over two years ago.
"Hello ...? Is anyone up there?"
Silence met her nervous query.
.
xXx