Chapter 8 Raoul #2
As for me, I feel stricken, unmasked, deeply and uncomfortably perceived. Christine gets it. She gets the character…and me. Because, let’s face it, all characters carry a splinter of their creator inside them, some bloodied shard of the writer’s soul.
“Sing for us.” The words jerk out of me abruptly. “Sam!”
The pianist sits up straight, hands poised on the keys.
Christine walks over and hands him the sheet music. “It’s quite short. This is ‘I Saw Him Once’ from Les Misérables.”
The song title surprises me so much that I say “fuck” without meaning to. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
It’s rare to meet anyone who knows about that song, much less someone who would audition with it.
“I Saw Him Once” was a short piece sung by the character Cosette during the first English production of Les Mis in London.
After that, it wasn’t performed or recorded again.
It’s a beautiful little song, like a tiny gem lost in a forgotten cave.
Christine returns to the middle of the stage.
She hesitates, and for a minute, her face turns so pale, I think she’s about to vomit.
Her fingers are visibly trembling. She scans the shadowed theater behind me like she’s looking for someone.
Then her fingers curl into fists, and she closes her eyes, inhaling through her nose.
“What’s she waiting for?” Gil whispers loudly, but I shush him.
After another long breath, Christine glances at Sam and nods.
The moment she starts to sing, I am transported, transfixed by her clear, pure soprano.
It’s like listening to light itself. On the lower notes, her voice possesses a golden richness, and I know instinctively that she could sing in multiple musical genres and sound just as captivating in each one.
Her phrasing could use a little work, but there’s a wild, winsome longing in every note that transports me outside myself into a heaven where only two things exist—music and her.
As she spreads her arms, palms up, and lifts her face to the stage lights, I’m reminded of the avenging angel who rescued me in that middle-school hallway.
Forever isn’t long enough to listen to that heavenly voice, and when the last note ends, I’m ready to get down on my knees and beg her to accept the part. I think I might die if I can’t hear one of my songs from her mouth.
“We’ll, um…” I clear my throat, trying to drag my thoughts back down to earth, to reality. “We’ll be in touch.”
Christine smiles at me.
And I fall in love with her.
No—I fucking leap into love with her. Or maybe I’ve been in love with her since that day, and the love has been dormant, like bulbs under the soil, waiting for the sun to warm them so they can unfurl and burst into bloom.
She’s gone. Disappeared backstage.
I have to see her again. Her email, her phone number—they’re both on the audition form. I grip it with my sweating hands.
Marj pokes my arm with a long nail. “You seem smitten.”
When I don’t speak, Gil interjects. “Her song was too short. But she’s pretty, and she can dance. I say we use her for the chorus.”
“We’ll go through the options later after we’ve heard everyone,” Marj counters. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in thirty years of show business, it’s never to decide until you’ve seen the whole bunch. Sometimes, the best one will pop up right at the end.”
But though we see and hear plenty of talent throughout the rest of the day, no one compares to Christine. When she appears for the dance auditions that afternoon, I am feral for the way she moves.
Some dancers are technically perfect, and some possess not only the skills and training, but also an extra sizzle of passion in every sweeping movement.
Christine is the latter. She dances like she’s on the brink of madness, like she’s holding back a stunning amount of power, like there’s a suppressed fire coursing through that slender body.
She doesn’t just perform the steps—she interprets them.
Every flowing gesture, every arch of her spine, every extension of her leg is clean, crisp, beautiful.
I can’t get enough of her dancing, and I desperately want to hear her voice again.
She’s brilliant, compassionate, charming—a fucking muse.
And it maddens me that neither Marj nor Gil seem as enamored with her as I am.
I try not to gush about her when we’re sitting at the Leroux bar afterward, talking through the auditions over drinks.
“What do we think about Carlotta for the role of Eugenie?” says Gil.
“I’d thought of her for Ovina,” Marj counters.
“Then who’s our star?”
“That one with the nose ring, Chanel,” says Marj. “Raoul, what do you think? Chanel or Carlotta?”
I take a deliberate sip of my drink. “I can see Carlotta as Ovina—or a version of Eugenie, but she’s more bold and brash and saucy than I’d imagined. And Chanel…I don’t think she’s a strong enough dancer. To be honest, I’d prefer casting Christine as Eugenie.”
“The Daaé girl?” Gil chuckles. “She’s sexy, sure, but we need a star with a big personality, not some mousy little virgin with a pretty voice.”
“Okay, I’m done.” Marj gets up and gathers her things, bracelets clinking on her wrists. “I’ve had about as much of you as I can take for one day, Gil.”
“Come on, Marj, you know I’m right,” he calls after her, but she only flutters her ring-laden fingers at me as she breezes out of the Leroux.
Her words echo in my head. Grow some balls, Raoul.
“You’re wrong,” I say quietly.
“What’s that?” Gil says, smiling even as his brows bend.
My heart is beating insanely fast, and my palms are sweating again. But I speak a little louder, despite the panic racing through my veins. “I said you’re wrong. And you should show Miss Daaé more respect. The comments you’ve been making about her are not appropriate.”
Gil gives a short, incredulous laugh. “Sure, okay. So you’re one of those, huh?
A male feminist? The kind that can’t just hang with the guys?
Good to know.” He gulps his drink, slams down the glass.
“I think Marj had the right idea. Let’s get some rest and talk about this tomorrow.
Think it over, Raoul. You’ll come to the right decision. ”
He rises and pushes in his chair.
My hands are shaking, so I hide them under the table. “And the right decision is doing whatever you want?”
He grips the back of the chair and leans down, his voice low.
“Let’s put it this way. You’re lucky to have the New Orpheum for your little musical.
And we’re happy to support you as a favor to your sister, so long as this arrangement remains mutually beneficial.
I’m a patron of the arts, sure, but I’m also a businessman.
I didn’t get where I am by being politically correct or ignoring the bottom line.
I know you’re this dewy young artist, and you want to be true to your creative side or whatever the shit, and I respect that, I do.
But when it comes to marketability and turning a profit, you should listen to the big boys. Okay, son?”
He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, then strolls out of the bar.
I’m sweating so much that my glasses have slid down my nose. I push them back up with trembling fingers.
At least I said something. Defended Christine. And it had the effect I feared it would.
I have to walk a fine line with Gil Leveque, or I’ll lose everything I’ve worked for. If he tells my sister I haven’t been cooperative, the musical will be the last of my worries.
Philippa lets me have some freedom—as long as I do exactly what she wants.
She’s like Dad. If I told her that, she’d consider it a compliment, when in reality, it’s the worst condemnation I can deliver.
Even now, several years after his death, I can’t shake the sound of his voice or the piercing insistence of his eyes.
You’re not trying hard enough, Raoul. You’re shaming the family, Raoul.
You need to change. I’m doing this because I care about you, about your future in this family. This is for your own good—
My heart rate is skyrocketing. No, no, no—I can’t have a panic attack right here at the bar.
I grip my knees as tightly as I can, feeling the material of my slacks, the bones beneath.
I focus on the clink of glass, the gurgle of liquid being poured.
The faint jazz being played over the speakers.
And I haul in deep breaths, picturing my heart, imagining its pace slowing to a steady, normal pulse.
This time, it works.
Swallowing the rest of my drink, I shove together the papers on the table and straighten the stack.
Maybe we should have done online applications, but I have this weird obsession with doing things old-school, on paper, whenever I can.
Now I’ve got to cram this mess into my laptop bag and tote it all home.
Then I’d better go for a run to release the anxiety that’s currently buzzing in my veins and knotting my muscles.
If I don’t purge the tension, I’ll go to a very bad place.
Besides, a run is a good excuse not to go home just yet.
When I leave the New Orpheum, it’s dark, and a chilly fall breeze whisks crunchy leaves across the sidewalk.
The New Orpheum is a massive building with what seems like acres upon acres of parking around it.
In the gloomy distance, I spot other buildings, like monumental gravestones, relics of an era when mills and factories kept this city alive instead of microphones and guitars.
Those buildings haven’t yet been renovated.
I wonder if Firmin Richards and Gil Leveque plan to expand their empire throughout this neighborhood once they’ve finished outfitting the New Orpheum.
That could be why Gil is so keen to turn a profit with my musical.
I wonder if he knows the statistics about new musicals, how few of them break even, much less earn extra money.