Chapter One
Dawn saw the stirring of the stage crew of
the Palais Garnier, as boys young and old hurried to the kitchen to eat before
they had to begin their day’s work. Dress rehearsal for the opera, Faust, was to begin today, and all the
stagehands were required to be present at least thirty minutes before the cast.
Joseph Buquet would be giving out assignments on this day which caused a ripple
of unrest throughout the crew. It was well known that Buquet was a lecherous
old drunk whose penchant for little girls was only slightly less than his love
of blue ruin. It was also well known that he gave his favorite cronies the best
jobs, while those who’d crossed him were relegated to the top of the fly tower.
Chris, a slim lad of between ten and thirteen, was popular amongst the men, for
he would exchange whatever job he was given for one high up in the flies. The
boy spoke little, but rumor had it he was once a sailor who’d run rigging on a
smuggling vessel before it was shot from the water by pirates. Since most folk cared
little for his background and left him alone to do his job, he chose neither to
affirm nor to deny the claims. If the crew were talking about him, they weren’t talking to
him and that suited him just fine.
As soon as they were dismissed, Chris
contemplated those who were given the fly jobs. An older stagehand, Larry, had
thwarted the pervert’s latest conquest giving the little ballet rat time to
scurry back under the protective wings of Madame Giry. Knowing that the man’s
vision had been failing and his balance wasn’t what it used to be, Buquet
deliberately placed him at the top of the tower for costing him his bit of fun.
When the senior stagehand left to unearth his secret stash of cheap rum, Chris
approached Larry and offered to take his place on the flies. Thanking the boy
profusely, the old man promised him an extra portion of lunch and sent him on
his way. Satisfied that he’d retained his favorite job, Chris began scampering
nimbly up the ladders and ropes to the top of the fly tower. As he passed the
rest of crew during his ascent, he slowed his pace slightly to listen to the latest
gossip about the infamous Opera Ghost. Like most of the cast and crew, it
appeared the apparition had a keen distaste for La Carlotta, their newest diva.
Chuckling softly at some of the tricks played on the temperamental soprano,
Chris found he liked their ghost more and more. And though Monsieur LeFevre,
the current manager, had resisted his demands at first, he’d learned the hard
way that things would be done the ghost’s way in what was considered his opera house. After the lesson was
learned, the Palais Garnier ran the more smoothly than it had in years, and
brought a fine fortune to the management.
Settled comfortably at the top of the
tower, Chris had little to do during this first rehearsal. Since the cast were
finalizing the blocking of the ballet and chorus, the various backdrops would
remain locked in place. As he watched Madame Giry put the girls through their
paces, he thought he saw a shadow below him move and held his breath. Would he
finally get to see the infamous Fantôme
de L’Opéra for himself? Staying as still and quiet as a church mouse, the
boy carefully watched the suspicious shadow to see if it moved again.
Interested he may be; stupid he was not. Just because he wished to see the
ghost didn’t mean he wished to be
seen by the ghost. Coming to the ghost’s attention often had permanent
consequences. Just as he thought he’d imagined things, a man’s form emerged
from the shadows and quietly ran along the catwalks towards stage right. As the
ghost agilely navigated the web of ropes that made up the flies, it was clear
to the boy that this was no true poltergeist. For one, he was certain that
ghosts did not cast a shadow. Also, this ‘ghost’ was quite confined to the
material world’s usage of solid objects upon which to travel. Chris pondered
what would cause a man to hide in an opera house to play ghost. It was quite an
interesting conundrum.
Lunchtime approached and Chris quickly
descended, his leather gloves protecting his hands from the rope when he chose
to slide down rather than climb the ladders. His swiftness was rewarded when he
was the first one to get his lunch. A bowl of hearty stew and a chunk of crusty
bread were accompanied by a glass of water. The other men teased the boy about
not drinking wine or beer like the others his age, but he shrugged them off.
Preferring to work the fly tower, he wanted nothing that would impair his
balance so far up. He was on his way out when Buquet staggered in, already
smelling like he’d bathed in his rum instead of drinking it. Upset to discover
that old Larry had been replaced by the young man, the stagehand grabbed Chris’
shoulder as he tried to slip past.
“Hey lads, look. It’s the pretty little fly
boy.” Buquet’s cronies all laughed and started crowding around the boy. The
rest of the stagehands watched in horror but didn’t rise to help; fighting
meant their jobs and fighting Buquet often meant their lives. “Tell me, fly
boy, you and old Larry got a thing going we should know about? Are you keeping
his cot warmed at night?” Making a lewd gesture, the elder stagehand leaned in
close, causing Chris to wrinkle his nose at the smell of stale rum. “You look
so much like a girl; it’s probably all the same in the dark.” The small crowd
roared again. Finally feeling the grip on his shoulder loosening, the boy
slipped under his arm and fled up the ropes. Rubbing his bruised shoulders, he
cursed softly. One day he was going to kill that lecherous old drunk.
After lunch, Monsieur LeFevre gathered all
of the cast and crew for an announcement. He confirmed that the rumors of his
impending retirement were true and that he’d secured the new managers of the
opera house. After introducing Messieurs Andre and Firmin to the cast, he
called over La Carlotta and Ubaldo Piangi, their lead tenor. The managers said
all that was polite but their eyes strayed more to the ballet corps than their
leads or their conductor. Chris almost felt sorry for them, for the Opera Ghost wasn’t known to have patience
and these men looked like the kind that felt only they knew what was best. It
was going to be interesting in the coming weeks until they learned who really
ran the opera house. La Carlotta was requested to sing to the new managers and,
unfortunately for anyone who wasn’t tone deaf, she agreed. Running a cat down a
washboard couldn’t have sounded any worse. Believing herself to be
‘impressive,’ she was more creative than usual with the high notes. A sudden
movement on the catwalk above the stage caught his eye and Chris watched as the
ghost displayed his displeasure for their current lead soprano by cutting the
ropes to a backdrop so it fell almost on her head. When the expected tantrum
ensued, Chris couldn’t stifle his laughter at the ghost’s trick. Suddenly, he
was no longer just watching the ghost; he was being watched by the ghost. Though the stark white of
the mask on the right side of his face intrigued the young crewman, he figured
that was a puzzle for another day. Smiling, he gave the ghost a small salute
and was surprised by the elegant bow that was returned. A sound below
distracted him for mere seconds and, when he looked again, the ghost was gone.
xxxxxx
Erik quietly walked through the dimly lit
tunnels as he pondered the boy who had seen him from the flies. Unlike the
others on the crew, he neither drank while on duty nor did he chase after the
ballet rats; but stranger than that, he’d laughed and then saluted the pranks
of the Opera Ghost instead of giving away his position. Strange. What did he
know about the young flyman? He’d noticed the lad when he’d first started—he
knew everyone in his theatre, after all—and had been struck by the boy’s apparent
frailty. To be approaching his teens, he was still extremely small in stature.
He estimated the child was no taller than 5’3”, if that, and might weigh 100
pounds soaking wet. He always dressed rather shabbily in patched trousers, an
oversized shirt and suspenders. Only the boots and ever present cap looked
fairly new, but even they weren’t in prime condition. Perhaps he was an orphan,
then, or a street rat trying to leave a life of crime on the streets? No one
knew for certain, for the lad rarely spoke and spent his time up in the
uppermost flies. In fact several of the older men in the crew watched over the
boy, believing him to be younger than what he claimed. It was only that
disgusting Buquet who gave Chris a hard time. Once he’d discovered the boy was
popular amongst the rest of the crew, Buquet had delighted in tormenting the
child on a regular basis. A strong, burly man who was more beer gut than
muscle, he especially loved comparing the petite boy to a girl and suggesting
all sorts of crude reasons for his popularity. Erik frowned. Perhaps it was
time to pay a visit to the Chief of the Flies?
Back in his underground home, Erik tossed
his hat and cloak into a chair and walked over to the large pipe organ. It had
taken him several nights to bring all the pieces to the landing by the lake,
and then several more days to transport them all to his home. The gondola was
too light to carry many pieces at a time and the lake too deep to simply walk
them across. Another week had passed as he reassembled and tuned the instrument
and now it was a glorious thing to behold. The music that flowed from his
talented fingers to the pipes reverberated around the cavern and filtered up to
the world above. Most of those who heard the haunting song crossed themselves
and kissed their rosaries, praying for the lost soul that haunted the theatre.
When the music stopped, Madame Giry, the stern ballet mistress, delivered his
letter welcoming the new management and establishing that his salary would be
paid as usual and was, in fact, due. Had he remained a while longer, he would
have seen them dismiss the tales of the ghost as mere superstitious rubbish. He
would learn of their disbelief later, to their
dismay. A tune danced from his fingers and he itched to write the notes only to
discover his supply of paper was woefully short. With a sigh, he rose to grab
his cloak and hat once more. It was time to venture to the world above to
resupply his larder as well as purchase new inks, quills, and paper.
The shopkeeper at the music store was more
dense than usual and it took him twice as long to get the items he needed.
Clutching the package under his cloak, Erik continued to the market in hopes of
finding at least one merchant who hadn’t shut down for the night. Taking the few
things he’d need for tonight, he arranged to have the rest crated for pickup
the following morning with an extra bonus if the merchant would be available
shortly before dawn. Grumbling softly as he entered through the Rue Scribe
gate, he was almost to the house on the lake when he heard singing. Pure and
heartbreaking, the voice, though obviously untrained, was pitch-perfect.
“Wishing you were
somehow here again, wishing you were somehow near…”
Swiftly setting his purchases in the
gondola, Erik moved quietly through the tunnels in search of the voice that could
only belong to the angels.
“Wishing I could
hear your voice again, knowing that I never would…” A sob interrupted
the beautiful flow of words and he could barely make out the whispered plea.
“Oh, papa. Why did you have to leave me? I miss you so much.”
It was no surprise to him when the song led
him to the small chapel. There, kneeling before the altar, was an obviously
female cloaked figure, whose bent body shook occasionally with quiet sobs. Erik
turned to leave the girl in peace but something in droop of her shoulders and
the despair in her cries spoke to his cold heart. Her grief and loneliness was
so familiar, so heartrending, that he couldn’t just leave her so unhappy. There
had never been anyone who had comforted Erik as a child when he was alone, but
maybe he could be that person to this unknown child. Calling himself every sort
of fool, he decided to speak to her through the angel statue that floated above
the altar. Throwing his voice so it appeared to come from the statue, Erik sang
quietly.
“Wandering child,
so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance…”
“Who’s there?” The cloaked figure rose
quickly to her feet, nearly knocking over the battered miniature of a man
holding a violin. Though her cowl remained low to cover her face, he could tell
she was looking around rather anxiously.
“Do not fear me, child, for who could ever
harm such an angel?”
Snatching the portrait and slipping it into
a hidden pocket, the girl slowly backed from the altar. Once she hit the wall,
she reached behind her searching for the door’s handle. “Angel? Oh, no, Monsieur,
I fear you are confused. It is you who are the angel for only the heavens could
create a voice so lovely.” Her hands gripped the handle tightly, ready to flee
at a moment’s notice from her unseen visitor.
“You flatter me, child. Why do you sing in
this lonely chapel so late at night? Surely so lovely an instrument should be
polished to shine for the world to see!” Erik watched her carefully. He knew
that if he made the slightest misstep, she would be out the door and gone
forever.
“A lovely instrument is, indeed, a gift to
treasure and share; however, polish costs more than bread and even so-called
angels must eat, Monsieur.” Her quick wit endeared her to him even more.
Talented and intelligent, if only he could see her face…would she be lovely as
well?
“For you, my angel, I would be honored to mold
your voice into an instrument that would make even the angels in heaven weep.”
He could see her considering his offer though her hands never released the
door’s handle.
“And what of payment, monsieur? There are
some things even angels are unwilling to do in order to soar.”
“Your voice shall be payment enough,
angel.” At her hesitant nod, he had to bite his knuckle to keep from shouting
with joy. He would mold her voice to be a perfect instrument and she shall sing
for him, only for him, though she stand on the stage in front of thousands.
“What shall I call you, angel, and do I get to look upon the face of my pupil?”
“Non!” The change was instantaneous. She
had begun to relax in his presence but now she tensed up once more and was
ready to fly out of the chapel. “Non, Monsieur, I will not remove the cloak. If
you cannot teach me as I am now, then I fear I shall remain unpolished.” He was
slightly disappointed for he could think of only one reason why she’d keep her
face a secret from him. Did she suffer the same harsh fate as he did?
“As you wish, Mademoiselle. We shall meet
here tomorrow night at 10:00pm for your first lesson. Do not be late.”
a different erik and already he's soo likable!
ReplyDeletei'm hooked already