Chapter Two:
And so it begins…
The second day of rehearsals was pure
hell on the crew. Buquet had been caught drinking between the curtains after
lunch and the managers had reprimanded him for being drunk on duty. In addition
to the humiliation of a public dressing-down, they docked his pay for that
entire day and informed him that if caught again, he’d be out on his ear
without a reference. Being the spiteful man that he was, he took out his
displeasure on the rest of the crew the next morning. Sneering into Chris’
face, he assigned five of the boy’s staunchest supporters to the fly tower,
knowing he could replace only one. The tormented look on the lad’s face was all
Buquet needed as a reward and, laughing, dismissed the crew to their positions
as he wandered off to find a new hiding place in which to drink. Not wanting to
make a choice and upset the other four, Chris made the offer to the group as a
whole and accepted the first who came to him. After much debate, old Larry once
again was the man he replaced and, with a heavy heart, the boy slowly climbed
the tower once more.
Rehearsal went pretty much the same as
the day before. Carlotta threw several tantrums until the managers stroked her
ego enough for her to actually get some rehearsing accomplished. The ballet
corps was excellent even though one or two were off step. At the loud bang from
Madame Giry’s walking stick, Chris winced and felt sorry for the girls; the
ballet mistress was a stickler for perfection. The biggest difference, however,
was the absence of the Opera Ghost. As the orchestra played through the aria
once more, the boy cringed and wished the ghost would put in an appearance if
only to save that poor bassoon from being further tortured by its unworthy
owner.
“Dreadful, is he not?” The soft,
amused voice sounded just behind him, startling Chris so badly he nearly fell
from the catwalk. The gloved hands that pulled him back from the edge were
strong, with long fingers that wrapped completely around the boy’s upper arms.
“My apologies, child, I didn't mean to startle you so.”
Chris waved away his apology,
embarrassed to have been caught so off guard that he had slipped. Glancing back
down at the orchestra pit, the boy braved a look at the infamous Opera Ghost.
“Please tell me you plan to rescue that poor instrument, Monsieur Le Fantôme.” The man was exceedingly tall, well over six
feet, and carried about him an aura that was both ominous and intimidating. If
Chris hadn't felt the strength in the ghost’s fingers, he’d swear the man was
frail due to how very thin he looked. His black hair was slicked back from his
head, which brought into prominence the stark white porcelain half-mask that
covered the right side of his face. The ghost’s eyes were what caught his
attention, however; an unusual golden amber color, they reflected his every
emotion from mirth to sadness to anger.
“What do you expect me to do, Monsieur
Chris?” What could have passed for a grin flitted across the ghost’s deformed
lips at the boy’s surprise. “Of course I know your name, child, this is my opera house.”
“I never expected the resident
poltergeist to waste his time with the boys in the flies, Monsieur Le Fantôme, that’s all.” Chris bristled at the mocking
tone even as he wondered if the impertinence of his reply would prove
detrimental to his health.
“You’ve got a bit of spirit, boy. I
find I like you for some reason, which is why you’re not descending from the
flies in the quickest way possible.” Satisfied when Chris’ face drained of all
color, the ghost nodded towards the offensive bassoon player. “I had planned to
speak to the new managers about the appalling state the orchestra is in, but I
fear they are even more foolish than LeFevre.”
“Could you not bring your displeasure
with the quality of the musicians to the conductor, Monsieur?” Dragging his eyes from the volatile yet fascinating
ghost, Chris watched as Reyer attempted to organize the players after yet
another of Carlotta’s tantrums. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it’s like herding
cats.” He hadn't been aware he’d spoken aloud until he heard the most beautiful
sound; the laughter of a ghost.
“Quite an accurate assessment,
Monsieur Chris. As you say, perhaps I shall take my concerns to the conductor,
but only if the managers continue to prove themselves uncooperative.” The flash
of anger in those golden eyes unnerved the boy and he felt a momentary twinge
of pity for the new management. That is, until those same eyes shifted to bore
into his. The boy suddenly knew what it felt like to be a bug under a
microscope. “You are an enigma, monsieur. You dress like a street beggar yet
talk like a noble; appear to be the youngest and frailest of all the stage crew
and yet you stand here conversing with the infamous Opera Ghost without fear.”
“Why would I not speak to you, Monsieur Le Fantôme?” Chris shrugged and
chose to ignore the first bit of information his towering companion pointed
out. “I have yet to see you hurt anyone that didn't deserve it in some way. I
don’t believe I've angered you, Monsieur, therefore I am most pleased to make
your acquaintance.” He was proud that his voice didn't waver, as the man was unnerving and, at the disbelieving
arch of the only visible brow, decided on honesty and hoped he survived the decision.
“And yet, I would be a fool, Monsieur, to deny that you are a most imposing and
dangerous man. And perhaps I am foolish to trust that you will not harm me;
only time will tell.”
Silence fell between them then as both
became lost in their thoughts. Chris returned his attention to the rehearsal
and didn't notice when the masked man faded into the shadows like the ghost he
pretended to be. It was many hours later when a letter, written in a
distinctive red ink and sealed with a red wax death’s head, fluttered onto the
stage. Seeing it, the ballet rats ran shrieking and huddling close to Madame
Giry, who handed it to the managers. Monsieur Andre took it like it would bite
him and the boy grinned. Maybe they were learning after all? Reading the letter
once to himself he then read it aloud. The ghost was not as kind as in the
first letter; pointing out the pitiful excuse for a first bassoon as well as
some of the chorus members. He ended it with a reminder that his salary was
overdue and he wouldn't be responsible for any accidents that might occur until
it was paid.
xxxxxx
As the night fell on the upper world,
Erik once more sat at the organ while pondering his conversation with the
strange boy. Chris had been at the opera house long enough to be aware of what
he could do and still the boy calmly spoke to him as if he were normal, as if
he were not a monster. As the notes poured from the large bronze pipes, it
occurred to the ghost that he had skillfully avoided the issue of his language
contrasting greatly with his garb and position. He was both annoyed and
impressed with the child; it wasn't many who outsmarted the Phantom of the
Opera. Perhaps it was time to pay a visit on an old friend who might know a bit
more? Glancing at the clock, Erik estimated he had just enough time to ask
Madame Giry about the boy before joining his new pupil in the chapel. Grabbing
his violin, he entered the tunnels once more.
The ballet mistress was sitting at her
desk when the mirror silently slid open to reveal the imposing presence of the
opera ghost. Angelique Giry looked up and then shook her head disapprovingly.
“If you’re going to make an entrance, Erik, at least impress me with flash and
smoke; otherwise, use the door like a normal person.”
“I take it the newest gaggle of silly
geese are trying even your extensive patience, Angelique?” Unaffected by her
sarcasm, the ghost stepped through the mirror and draped himself elegantly over
the only other chair in the room, which served as both bedroom and office.
“You have no idea,” she replied dryly.
Rubbing her temples, she watched the man who sent most of her girls, and many
of the men in the crew, scurrying for cover. “It’s a bit late for a social
visit, Erik.”
“You wound me, Madame,” the hint of a
smile twitched at the corners of his lips before he proceeded to the reason for
his visit. “I was hoping you might be able to find out everything about one of
the stage crew. The only name I could discover is Chris.” He ignored her
surprise and described the boy thoroughly, including the dichotomy between his
clothing and method of speech. Once she’d assured him she’d discover what she
could, he rose and slipped back through the mirror, leaving the ballet mistress
to wonder what he wanted with a boy who worked the flies.
As Erik silently made his way through
the hidden passageways towards the chapel, he knew Madame Giry would grill him
as to why he wanted information on the boy. He considered asking her to leave
the information in Box Five as she did his salary but knew that only postponed
her questions and would earn him a tongue-lashing as well. He cringed at the
thought of being on the receiving end of her ire and wondered how her little
rats survived her training to become graceful ballerinas. Chuckling to himself,
he also wondered what they would think if they knew she managed to intimidate
even the infamous Opera Ghost. Arriving at the chapel with a mere fifteen
minutes to spare, he was surprised to see his pupil already waiting.
Impatiently, if he had to make a guess.
“Patience is a virtue, angel.” He couldn't help but goad the girl. Like the boy, she was another puzzle he was
determined to decipher.
“So it is, Monsieur. Shall we begin?”
The cheeky little chit!
“We will start with the scales.” Taking up
position in the tunnel hidden by an intricate grate and the stone angel, he
watched his pupil straighten into somewhat of a proper singing position. Placing
his violin beneath his chin, Erik played the short lead and then waited for her
to join him. When she missed her cue, he frowned, annoyed. “Did you wish to
learn or not, Mademoiselle? I am a busy man.” The words came out harsher than
he’d intended but he shrugged.
“Forgive me,” the child sounded like she
had started crying once more and he wondered what set her off this time. “If
you start again, I’ll not miss my cue.” Standing straight, the girl, who was
once more fully concealed by her cloak and hood, joined the music on cue and
they ran through the scales with only minor adjustments.
“You will need to work on breath control if
you hope to hold a note for more than a few seconds. Hold your head up higher
as well; it will help your projection unless you plan to sing only to the
floor. I now have an idea of your range and will bring music for you tomorrow.
You can read sheet music, yes?” At her nod, he continued. “For this week, we’ll
work strictly on your scales to improve range and breathing. Next week, we’ll move
to the music I’ll bring you, so I’ll want you to have it memorized by then. Any
questions?”
“Why are you doing this, Monsieur?” Her
question was nearly inaudible. “If I am unwilling to show my face or reveal my
name to you, a disembodied voice, what makes you think I have any desire to be
on a stage?”
“The stage means less to me than seeing
your voice reach its full potential. Not every artist hangs his paintings in a
gallery, but that makes him no less dedicated to his art. I ask only that you
show me that same dedication.” Erik placed the violin in its case as he spoke.
Hesitating only slightly, he posed a question of his own. “Would you prefer a
different instrument to accompany you, Mademoiselle? The violin seemed to upset
you.”
“It’s fine.” The words were flat,
emotionless. “Au revoir, Monsieur,
jusqu'à demain.”
He stared in confusion as she quickly left
the chapel with what sounded suspiciously like another sob. Waiting a few
minutes to ensure it remained empty, Erik eased open the grate and stepped into
the empty room. The faint scent of roses hung in the air and he felt they
suited his unusual pupil, prickly with the potential for beauty. As he turned
to leave, the small miniature on the altar caught his eye. Reaching for it,
Erik remembered her kneeling before this very painting the night before while
crying for her papa. He studied the picture and instantly understood her
earlier distress. The man was seated on a small stool wearing evening clothes;
beneath his chin he held a violin as he played. Etched into the frame were the
words ‘Gustav Daaé’.
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