CH 9
The dean of students seemed particularly displeased to see me in his office the following morning, and the feeling was mutual. After a late night, I would have preferred staying in bed, alone, a while longer, doing absolutely nothing save for staring at the ceiling.
Instead, I was seated in an uncomfortable chair in a large office with the shades drawn as the dean apparently hated sunlight and preferred to live like a mole burrowed in its den.
Monsieur le Behr was my age or close to it and had been appointed to his position via nepotism. He was not interested in the art department, preferring science and math despite allegedly failing from his major in chemistry well before I had joined the faculty.
From every conversation we had ever been forced to suffer through, I was fairly certain he thought my artists had the collective talent of primates from the city zoo.
He truly should have been sweeping floors rather than making important decisions. It galled me that I needed to have him sign a form for the Opera Populaire to give my six Bohemians the opportunity they desired.
"You want permission to take six of your students to the Opera Populaire?" la Behr asked in his usual, monotone voice with a bit of a rasp which gave him the only ounce of character he would ever proudly display.
The man had a tone that could put the fussiest of infants to sleep, and as I sat across from his pristine desk, I was glad to have been offered a strong cup of coffee. It was truly the only thing keeping me from falling asleep while sitting up.
"To paint sets, yes."
"Starting tomorrow?" His glasses were on the very tip of his red, flaky nose, his dark eyes hooded and eyebrows so thick they almost met in the middle of his forehead. What he possessed in eyebrows, he lacked in actual hair, and his bald head was peeling, same as his bulbous nose, and red from the single day of sunlight.
It was difficult to tell if the sun disliked him more than the university staff. I waged the sun was at least winning for the time being.
"Correct."
"Why are you asking for my permission with twenty-four hours notice?" He held out the release form and looked down his nose at the small print, squinting and widening his eyes as he struggled to focus. "You are surely aware of the rules, Monsieur Kimmer? You've been here three years now."
It was actually twenty-six hours of notice, and I had been employed by the university for six years, not three. As annoying as I found la Behr, I was aware that a snide comment would do me no favors in obtaining the proper documentation.
"Because, Monsieur, the Opera Populaire has run into a bit of a conundrum."
He lifted half of his caterpillar of a brow. "I see," he rasped.
"Their previous set was destroyed."
"Is that so?"
"Indeed."
"Oh my."
"My thoughts exactly."
"Unfortunate."
He was an irritating twit of a man, but I merely smiled and took a sip of coffee from the mug held so tightly in my hands that I was surprised it didn't crack in my grasp.
"Out of all the artists residing within Paris, these six students are an excellent example of the quality art program the university runs," I explained. "I am certain that the Opera Populaire will be quite grateful to you, Monsieur la Behr, for rescuing their prestigious theater."
His eyes appeared more alert as he considered my words of outright flattery. Such an unimportant little man desired a taste of being placed on a pedestal and admired.
"You are aware that there is typically a seventy-two hour turnaround time for these types of situations."
Dramatically I gave a solemn nod, my eyes respectfully averted. "I am well aware that this is not ideal and burdens you."
He took a deep breath, pretending to think it over. "Hmm. It is very short notice, Kimmer. And I quite frankly am not the sort of man who particularly likes exceptions to the rules…"
"One of the many reasons you were selected for the position. My apologies, Monsieur la Behr, but I hope you may find a way to give these students this unique opportunity."
"It would bring attention to my art department," he agreed. "And you know how fond I am of the arts."
So fond that he had not made an appearance at the annual spring art show Monsieur Raitt and I hosted, at least not in the six years I'd been part of the department.
"Absolutely," I praised, thinking that I should have started auditioning for the fall and spring plays. My acting was far superior to some of the leads I'd seen in the last few years at various theaters both large and small. "You have done an excellent job admitting only the finest students."
He smiled at last and nodded, satisfied by the compliment. "Yes, I have, haven't I? It's never easy, wading through the sea of candidates in search of the very best. There are so many applications. It's absolutely dreadful."
I couldn't continue looking at him with a straight face and downed the last of my coffee in two gulps. "How are the current applications for next year?" I asked. "Anyone stand out to you?"
"Good, very good," he said far too quickly. I was certain he hadn't looked at a single one. Perhaps I would have time to sneak in some forged sketches on Marco's behalf. "I will have them on your desk before the start of April so that you and Monsieur Raitt can see what I have in store for you."
"If there is consideration available for a first year student next year, please let me know as I have an eager applicant," I said, pushing my luck a bit further.
"I certainly will," Monsieur la Behr said, preoccupied with giving the release form one last look. He signed the sheet for the Opera Populaire with an illegible scribble and handed it back to me. "I trust, Monsieur Kimmer, you will make me proud."
I stood and accepted the form, attempting to appear humbled by his words. "You are appreciated and admired," I said, hoping he didn't notice the sarcasm in my voice.
"Ah, Kimmer, before you return to your class, what is the name of the production?" he asked.
"Don something or other. Triumphant Don Juan, I think."
"Ah. Sounds lovely."
That was hardly the case, especially considering the banners, but arguing meant spending more time in his office.
"Indeed."
"You wouldn't be able to secure me two tickets to the production, would you? As a gift for bending the rules a bit."
"Monsieur la Behr, not even I was able to obtain tickets."
He frowned. "Unfortunate."
oOo
We met on the steps of the opera house at twelve-fifteen. Or at least that was my proposal to my Bohemians. Two students allegedly got lost on their way, one decided she needed a croissant or she would 'starve to death' and the other three were there before me, braiding each other's hair and playing a game that involved slapping each other's hands.
It was twelve-twenty-nine when we walked inside the stage door and a full twenty minutes before anyone collected us to begin our project.
"At this rate you could have brought us all croissants," I quipped.
The stage hand, Charlot, who informed us once we took a wrong turn that had only been on the job for a matter of weeks, led us through the building and down a series of passages that led to the wings.
What struck me first was the sheer size of the opera house. From the street it appeared large, but inside it seemed more like a maze with different entries and stairs leading up and down.
It was certainly not like the lobby with its ornate walls and opulent domed ceiling. That part of the theater was blindingly bright and spacious, whereas the passages used by the performers and staff was like wandering through a tunnel.
"Does anyone ever disappear in this labyrinth?" I asked as I gazed up at the flies with its catwalk, ropes and pulleys.
There were large backdrops stored above the stage, at least six that I could see, with props stashed out of sight in wooden bins and on large iron shelves.
"That is nothing I wish to discuss," Charlot said nervously.
The stage hand had instructions for the sets and what needed to be completed within ninety minutes each day.
"Why are we limited to ninety minutes?" I asked.
"Because the ballet needs the stage in the morning and again in the afternoon."
"Is there no private studio where they rehearse?"
"There is, but…"
I raised a brow. "But?"
"It isn't in use currently due to a...conflict."
He refused to elaborate. Considering we had lost a full thirty minutes on the first day, I could tell Charlot was nervous as he handed out six booklets to the students and one to me, stating that the instructions were directly from the composer and no modifications could be made without the permission of the creator.
"Where are the rest of your designers?" I asked.
"Not here," Charlot said vaguely.
"Are they returning at some point?"
"Unlikely."
Everything in the booklets was written in thick red ink with crudely drawn images and notations filling the available space. The handwriting itself was barely legible and scratched out in many places with other remarks added and arrows pointing from the top of the page to the bottom.
"This doesn't even qualify as organized chaos," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. How I detested disorganization. There was simply no excuse for it, in my opinion. "It's simply chaos."
"I would lower my voice if I were you," Charlot said through his teeth. "He is listening. Always."
I held my tongue, despite thinking it rather odd that any ghost would be eavesdropping at twelve-thirty on a Wednesday. Ghosts took up their business of revenge and terrorizing people beneath the moonlight.
With the instructions handed out and cans of paint lined up besides buckets of brushes, I took a seat off to the side and watched my bewildered bohemians attempt to make sense of their task.
"How do we know if we've done it correctly?" they asked the stage hand before he disappeared through one of the many doorways.
"He will let you know."
The artists fell silent for an eerily long moment before their animation returned. They murmured back and forth, voices barely above a whisper, some with their hands on their hips while others gestured or pointed at the sketches that were meant to guide them.
Eventually, they gathered around me, wide eyed and arms crossed.
"How may I be of service?" I asked.
"May we ask for your guidance?"
I flipped through the pages, attempting to decipher erratic lines and words like wall, rock, climb villa cracks Spanish style, red and compared it to the rough sketches. "I believe it is a stone wall," I said, pointing at the horizontal scribble of lines."And this is the outside of a Spanish villa. Here are the climbing roses."
The backdrop measured six meters by twelve meters, the likes of which none of them had ever worked on previously. Neither had I, but sensing their trepidation, I stood, left my guidelines on the stool, and walked toward the blank canvas at the back of the stage.
"Move those," I said, motioning to the costume racks lined up on the right side. The wheels were in need of oiling and both racks made the most horrific screech as they were wrestled away by two of the painters.
With our area cleared, everyone remained gathered around me in silence. They glanced up at the rafters as if a specter would fly past us, tattered cloak waving as it shrieked in the most menacing fashion.
"Pay attention," I ordered. I clapped my hands and all six of them jumped. "You have forty-five minutes," I said. "I suggest you use it wisely."
Once we had the canvas divided in six equal portions, they deliberated on who would start where. Before their plans were finalized, I had the only left-handed student switch sides with a right-handed painter and suggested the best at creating depth switch with their fellow artist who was excellent at smaller details as the sky and roof needed to be better distinguished and the rose petals, cracks in the stone, and blades of grass required finer detailing.
By the time it was two, they were half-finished with creating a large-scale sketch to the correct scale. It was a bit disappointing as they had expected to be much further into the process, but at least a start.
The corpse ballet gathered in the wings, all of them crowded together in their white tutu and matching leotard and tights. In stark contrast, the ballet mistress stood in the middle wearing all black, a shepherdess with her little flock.
"The composer is pleased," Charlot said as he nodded at the backdrop and had it hoisted along with the rest for safekeeping until our return the following day.
"The composer is in attendance?" I asked.
Charlot paled. "As I said, he is always here."
"Will he be making an appearance?"
"Monsieur, please–" the stagehand said under his breath, his gaze fixed behind me. Before he finished speaking, a door somewhere on the second balcony slammed shut and all of the lights in that section went off at once.
The flock of ballet dancers all dressed in white like little sheep shrieked and took off running in different directions, leaving their frustrated mistress to stand in the wings shaking her head. I noticed her staring up at the balcony and felt assured that she, too, believed the ghost haunted the theater.
oOo
I stood in my apartment, pencil held between my teeth, and looked over my calendar. I had circled the next fifteen days, which brought me to the twenty-seventh of March, which I drew several circles around before taking a step back. I took a deep breath and tucked the pencil behind my ear. Fifteen days was survivable, I reasoned.
Valgarde's words, as damnable as I had found them, lingered unwelcomed in my mind and refused to be evicted. As much as i desired to think of him as a witless fool I began to worry that he was correct and my desire to find Erik was doing me more harm than good.
"Is thirty years too long to hold out hope?" I asked Elvira, who stood on the back of my favorite chair pulling out a long string.
She bobbed her head and said, "What are you doing?"
I inhaled and took a step back. "Moving," I said. "Forward. I think."
Saying the words aloud made me feel no better. I felt as though a limb had been severed, some vital part of myself that I used so frequently and could not imagine being without.
But it wasn't serving the purpose I had long imagined. If only for fifteen days–half the month–I would not think of my brother or utter his name. I would let him go, briefly, for my own sanity. After that, I could revisit my stance and decided what I wished to do: continue what had been a fruitless search or release him from my every day life.
Minutes into the first day and it already felt overwhelming and impossible.
I considered contacting Val and asking if he would meet me for coffee, but I was still angry with him even if I found a bit of truth in his words. There was a lot I wished to tell him, mostly about the opera house and the ridiculous situation regarding their phantom. Given what we had said to one another, however, I doubted he would wish to speak to me.
Still, I missed his company, as demeaning as it typically was when we were face-to-face.
oOo
The second day of painting had gone quite well for my six Bohemians. They fell into a rhythm and spent the first hour completing the outline and the last twenty minutes applying paint. With ten minutes left to allow it to dry, they were invited to sit with me in the wings while the chorus practiced. They gathered around cross-legged on the floor, delighted by the form of payment for their labor. As much as I would have preferred an actual check, the afternoon was astoundingly entertaining and for all of the most ridiculous reasons.
Twice La Carlotta broke down in a fit of despair and wailed like a child whose kite had become entangled in a tree. She stormed about, nearly stepping on the backdrop left to dry. All seven of us shouting in unison prevented a disaster, and eventually she collapsed on the other side of the stage where she remained motionless until the stage manager was forced to grab her beneath her arms and drag her back to the dressing rooms. She looked like a life-sized doll being returned to a toy bin, and although I meant to remain quiet, I couldn't help the snort of laughter I released.
"Flan," one of my artists whispered, shaking his head.
"The script is clearly a comedy," I replied.
From there on out, the rest of the rehearsal went well, other than a few missed steps and incorrect lines. When the chorus departed, the newly appointed stage hand appeared and offered to lead us to the exit.
"I don't believe six sessions is long enough to complete three separate backdrops," I told Charlot before we departed.
The artists were in the lobby, having received a complimentary tour by one of the ballet dancers, per the order of the ballet mistress, who appeared to be the girl's mother. I could hear their exclamations from where we stood outside of one of the many doors leading to various rooms, none of which we had explored. I was certain that without Charlot, we would have all been trapped in the servants' halls, never to be seen again.
"I'm afraid that is the deadline, Monsieur Professor."
"Then you will have to supply some of your own artists."
Charlot took a deep breath. "They will not return," he whispered.
"Because of the–"
"Yes."
"Are my students in danger?" I asked.
Charlot's eyes widened. I couldn't tell if they were brown or dark green given the lack of light from the wings. "I cannot say for sure."
"You had better say for sure," I insisted. "I will not put a single one of them in harm's way. If there is even the slightest chance that–"
A bird floated down from the catwalk–at least at first glance I thought it was a dove until it landed on the stage between us, unmoving.
Charlot jumped back as if the envelope would bite him. I furrowed my brow and bent, picking up the item that had come out of thin air.
"What is this?" I asked.
Charlot worked his jaw in silence. "The ghost."
I raised a brow. "He has quite the intriguing postal system," I said, handing him the large envelope with a red wax seal stamped with a skull. The skull was a bit dramatic, even for the theater, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes at their attention-seeking spector.
Charlot didn't open the envelope. He read the name on the front and looked as though he wished to toss it aside.
"Who is it for?" I asked.
"One of our patrons," he answered. "The vicomte de Chagny."
"Is he here?" I asked.
Charlot appeared more uneasy, a feat in and of itself. "I certainly hope not."
oOo
Raoul de Chagny was in the lobby when I finally retrieved my six students, all of whom were abuzz with the beauty of the architect and craftsmanship of sculptures and murals surrounding them. They thanked the ballet dancer who had been kind enough to be their guide before she departed, leaping across the length of the marble floor as lithe as a deer.
To my knowledge, none of my artists had ever attended a performance at the theater, as it was not within their meager student budgets, and it saddened me that despite the labor, they would not see the performance.
With Raoul de Chagny standing in such close proximity, however, I lamented their woes, knowing from each and every program I had ever been handed at an opera that the vicomte had a soft spot for supporting the arts.
I watched him from the corner of my eye as he took notice of the artists, whom I praised for all of their work and the labor which was yet to be done.
What a dream it would be to attend one performance, but alas every ticket was sold out for nine weeks. Oh, the shame! If I had been gifted a single ticket, I would have given it to one of my destitute artists to alleviate their suffering, if only for one night.
It was quite the performance on my part, considerably better than the diva, La Carlotta, who had graced the stage for what seemed like an eternity.
"Monsieur," the vicomte said as we filed out of the lobby, all six of my students trudging forth with their heads down.
I paused, hand on the door, and looked over my shoulder.
"You are familiar to me," he said as he approached. His cheeks were sun-kissed, and I imagined he had recently returned from some exotic holiday. "Have we met previously?"
I offered my hand. Raoul de Chagny was far too young, good-looking, and confident for my liking. His hair was golden, his eyes bright and warm, and he looked like the type of person who enjoyed being told he was a God-send–which I assume he was told frequently by everyone in his wealthy little circle.
"Vicomte de Chagny, what a wonderful surprise. We've met before as we have been seated in the same row many times," I said.
He blinked at me. "Ah, yes, I remember you, Monsieur…"
"Kimmer," I answered. "Phelan Kimmer."
I could see him slowly realizing who I was and fully expected him to say he had attended my latest gallery show and wished to purchase the willow tree painting for thirty thousand francs while also offering me a villa in southern France and a key to the city.
"You had Rigoletto start twenty minutes late last season, I believe."
Ah. Yes. I had done that, too. My seat had been obscured by a pillar and I was not about to be inconvenienced for a full season with a less than desirable seat.
"I was moved to your row," I said to him, offering a close-lipped smile. "An absolute privilege, vicomte."
I neglected to say if it was his privilege or mine.
He seemed slightly less interested in speaking to me with this new information. Thankfully my last student to leave the lobby was a sad waif of a girl whose pouting lips and poor posture practically screamed 'unfortunate orphan'.
"These six young people," he said. It was a strange way to refer to my students, seeing as he appeared only a few years older than my students. His face still had the roundness of youth, his fair mustache comically growing in as if he had only recently reached puberty. "They are…?"
"Students from the university. First year art, Monday and Wednesday class."
"You are their professor?" he asked, sounding quite astonished.
Caretaker, keeper of their lost belongings, occasional provider of snacks, and an ear on loan for the latest gossip were also apt descriptions, but I nodded.
"A fortunate position to mold these young minds and help further their artistic endeavors."
"I do recall hearing you are also a painter. Not your primary occupation, correct?"
"Not yet," I said.
I knew Raoul de Chagny was an avid theater supporter. He was not always in attendance, but his money was always there.
The de Chagny name was among the top three donors consistently, and his mother and father, well before his mother's untimely death when he was quite young, donated a large sum to orphaned children.
Their annual donation of one hundred thousand francs was kept private, as they had no desire for publicity, unlike most other families of their means. However, for six excruciating years, I had the unfortunate necessity of making a living in finances, the only benefit of which was seeing how wealthy the upper echelon of the city's most prominent citizens truly were in comparison to those who slaved away six days a week in various occupations–and how those wading in pools of banknotes spent their riches.
Some men had discrete funds set aside for their mistresses. Some had separate accounts for their favorite son or daughter while the rest of their children had meager amounts. Some did not have nearly as much money as their counterparts would have assumed.
To me, they were all simply numbers, mostly a series of zeros that seemed to add up to their personalities.
Compared to most accounts, however, I had been impressed to see that his father, Philibert, wrote the sum into his will so that the donation to orphaned children continued after his death, ensuring the care of others.
Truthfully, the amount was trivial compared to their annual income and I doubted Raoul, the only survivor of the de Chagny children, batted an eye at writing out the check at the end of the year.
Raoul inhaled. "How did this arrangement come to fruition?"
"They were offered the opportunity to paint sets for the upcoming production of Les Triumphant Don Juan."
His jaw tightened. "It's Don Juan Triumphant."
"What is their compensation?"
"Experience. The labor expected of them is a bit more than they had anticipated and the compensation in the form of seeing some of the rehearsals, I'm afraid, has been rather lacking. Needless to say, they are a bit disappointed and I will admit that I am as well on their behalf. Artists have a way of being both celebrated and taken advantage of, Monsieur."
"I sincerely wonder if the composer of Juan–"
"Don Juan," he corrected me yet again.
"My apologies to the composer. Do you perchance know him personally, vicomte?"
Roaul's expression darkened. "I know of him."
"May I ask, is his debut opera any good?"
He inhaled sharply. "That is a topic I would rather not discuss at this time."
"Of course," I said, offering a small bow.
Raoul looked up at the chandelier high above the staircase, its hundreds of glass beads sparkling. "On behalf of the de Chagny estate, I apologize for the inconvenience. My parents and grandparents have always supported the arts in various forms. As of late, I'm afraid that my role as patron has been a bit different."
"Oh?" I said, feigning surprise.
He hesitated. "As you are most likely aware, Il Muto closed unexpectedly."
"So I have heard."
"The theater has been in a bit of disarray, shall we say?"
Raoul took a breath. "I cannot make any promises, Monsieur Kimmer, but I will look into proper compensation for the…how many are there again?"
"Six students."
He nodded slowly without meeting my eye. "Six students. I am honored to be of service to them."
Behind him, a young lady stood at a distance, her hands clutching her hat. I assumed she was the chorus girl in question, the one who had unseated La Carlotta from her throne.
She was pretty with her thick curls of hair, heart-shaped face, and petite stature, but the look in her eyes was unsettling. She stared briefly at each marble statue in the lobby, then the paintings, and finally the large mirror in front of the double staircase where opera patrons were able to glimpse their own regal images, as if each and every one was royalty.
The mirror she stared at for longer than was necessary. At first she appeared almost wary, but then her posture slowly changed and she took two tentative steps forward. Slowly she reached out to the mirror image of herself, eyes wide and lips parted until her fingers grazed the smooth surface and she jumped. At last she drew back, her hand bunching the fabric at her neck as she skittered away.
"Congratulations, Monsieur," I said to de Chagny. As if he needed luck to kiss his already fortunate brow.
He looked to see what had caught my eye, then turned back to me. "Hopefully once we have survived opening night, it will feel like something to celebrate," he said quietly.
"If I may say so, Monsieur, you are truly a God-send."
"Heaven battling hell," he said under his breath.
"And Monsieur," I said before he stepped away. "The composer sent a note addressed to you. It's in Charlot's possession."
Raoul's expression darkened. "Thank you, Monsieur Kimmer."
With that, he excused himself and ran to the woman's side. Briefly he stood in front of the mirror, his posture one of defense, before he turned back to the young woman and draped his arm over her shoulders, sheltering her from whatever danger they both expected to spring out of the mirror.
Together they briskly exited the lobby, neither one of them bothering to glance back.
I stood for a moment, eyeing my own reflection, wondering what the young chorus girl saw that alarmed her.
oOo
It was peculiar, I thought as I exited the theater. This whole business of the phantom, the notes dropping from the catwalk, and the chorus girl, whom we had yet to see on the stage, but who was now the main attraction. Surely it was little more than some ploy for publicity, which the Opera Populaire desperately needed after the length of time without the lights on and seats filled.
They employed a substantial staff that kept the theater running from a bookkeeper to the stage director, cooks and seamstresses, their own private physician, and their host of actors, ballet corpse, and stagehands, the majority of which occupied the dormitories in the rear of the building.
I had no idea if those people were still on the payroll and I dreaded to see what their bottom line looked like once they were at the end of their three month hiatus. Dripping red, I assumed, hemorrhaging funds at the most alarming rate. Most theaters that closed for a matter of weeks never reopened, the buildings shuttered and signs advertising an auction sale plastered on the exterior.
There were clouds overhead when I walked out the door, and the difference between the brightly lit lobby and dreary Paris stopped me in my tracks momentarily as flashes of light appeared before my eyes, momentarily blinding me.
The air was heavy with humidity, the chill unnoticed due to the moisture that made it feel as though it clung to me like a damp second skin.
One I recovered my sight, I trotted down the ungodly long stairs that were too short to be of practical use and glanced back at the banners.
The scandal of the chorus girl usurping power from the diva, an unknown composer who was literally a ghost, the staff refusing to return to work…
Even if the production flopped worse than Verdi's Giovania d'Arco, the Opera Populaire would draw in a crowd based on rumors alone of this chorus girl's unexpected debut and all of their unfortunate luck.
I wondered if blocks of tickets would miraculously become available once the opening approached, but for twice the usual value as they were in dire need of recovering a quarter lost to the closing of Il Muto.
My thoughts wandered as I crossed the street and walked in the direction of my apartment. I felt fairly confident that the entire story of the phantom had been contrived and that perhaps even the vicomte was in on it. I couldn't imagine what he had to gain from such nonsense, but I was hopeful that in the course of six days, the truth would be more evident.