Chapter 8 #2
“I can now tell you that these were all true.” Monsieur Lefèvre paused dramatically as several chorus members gasped.
Carlotta darted a glance to Ubaldo, raising an eyebrow, but her expression was impossible to read.
“Therefore, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who will be replacing me at the Opéra Populaire: Monsieur Richard Firmin and Monsieur Gilles André.”
There was a smattering of applause, but I sensed an uneasy reticence in the company, as if everyone was waiting for their neighbor to react first.
Carlotta cleared her throat, and Monsieur Lefèvre made an odd little bow, a courtier forever showing deference to his queen. “Gentlemen, I would be remiss if I did not first introduce you to our leading soprano, Signora Carlotta Giudicelli.”
She smiled coyly but made no motion to approach the trio, forcing the men to come to her.
I bit the side of my cheek as I watched Monsieur André fall over himself as he did. He kissed the monstrous lion ring on her finger as if she were the pope himself, and an acerbic ache thrummed in my ribs. They were just as besotted by her as Monsieur Lefèvre was.
“And, of course, Signor Ubaldo Piangi,” he went on.
“An honor, signor,” Monsieur Firmin said, touching his hand to his heart.
Ubaldo straightened his posture, all but preening. “Piacere.”
Monsieur André rubbed salt in my wounds as he tilted his head, offering Carlotta a fawning smile.
“If I remember correctly, Monsieur Lefèvre was telling us Elissa has a very fine aria later in Act III. May I be so bold, signora—as a personal favor to Richard and myself—would you oblige us with a private performance?”
Carlotta’s eyes lit up, triumph flashing in them like cursed topazes. She tilted her head, playing at bashful. “If my manager commands.” Her smile faded as she turned to the pit. “Maestro Messenger?” she snapped.
The conductor gave her a little bow from the pit. “As my diva commands.” He tapped his baton, signaling for the orchestra flip through their scores. The rustle of turning pages filled the air. “Will two bars be sufficient introduction?”
Carlotta nodded as she made her way to center stage, narrowly avoiding a collision with the elephant as stagehands rushed to clear the deck. She waved her long scarf at the beast as if shooing it from her presence. The rest of us all shifted too, forming a large semicircle around her.
“Signora?” Maestro Messenger asked.
She dropped her chin in a disingenuous bow. “Maestro.”
The opening bars played, and Carlotta fixed a distant expression on her face. Instinctually, my own vocal cords flexed, ready to begin the aria. I caught myself just as my lips parted, and feigned a stretch in case anyone had noticed.
“Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye.”
She played the role with a far heavier hand that I would have, attacking phrases and laying into the delicate melody, turning the wistful aria demanding and brash.
I schooled my face into a mask of pleasant neutrality while watching the new managers’ reactions from the corner of my eye.
Now that Carlotta was downstage of them and unable to see their faces, they’d eased up, releasing a bit of their nervous zeal. I tried hard to not let hope kindle, but did Monsieur Firmin look…bored?
As if sensing their waning interest, Carlotta rounded back, losing sight of Maestro Messenger’s baton and falling out of tempo with the underscore.
“If you ever find a moment,” she trilled, and threw the length of scarf round Monsieur André’s neck, pulling the little man in close enough that she could briefly caress his cheek, “spare a thought for me.”
With a grand flourish, she released him and traveled farther upstage, sweeping the heavy fullness of her bejeweled skirts out of her way. My fingers itched to mime her gestures as she moved fluidly from one pose to the next.
“Think of me,” she sang, beginning the next verse. “Think of me warmly—”
Without warning, one of the Act IV backdrops, hung high and out of sight in the fly loft, plummeted to the stage, acting as a massive guillotine as it cut off Carlotta from the rest of the company. The yards of falling fabric piled up, entangling her in their folds.
She let out a bloodcurdling scream that knocked the air from my chest.
Other shouts rained down as the crew scrambled to action.
“On the rail! Hoist the eighteenth batten! Now, man, now!”
We heard the clunk of a break being unlocked, then the racing whizz of something zipping through the air.
Everyone startled at the sound of metal crashing into metal.
The batten—a long length of pipe used to hoist drapes and other scenic pieces—had struck the uppermost section of the grid, but the heavy canvas drop remained onstage.
Confusion reigned as men called out to each other, checking in from their stations and reporting what they saw.
“There’s nothing on the pipe!” cried a voice from high on the pinrail. “The backdrop’s still down!”
A crew man ran out, inspecting the ends of the drop. “The ties have been cut!”
“He’s here!” Meg announced loudly, her eyes wide and fearful. “The Phantom of the Opera!”
The company huddled together in panicked groups as they hissed out whispers and warnings. I scrambled toward Madame Giry. She was always a steadfast presence and so resolute that I couldn’t imagine the Opera Ghost ever daring to cross swords with her.
“It’s the Ghost!”
“He’s with us!”
“It’s him, I know it!”
The wall of fabric shifted as Carlotta fought to free herself. Ubaldo was the first to rush to her, pulling at the backdrop as she wailed.
“Cara! Cara! Are you hurt?”
“Joseph Buquet!” Monsieur Lefèvre shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth to amplify himself over the commotion. “For God’s sake, man, what is going on up there?”
Ubaldo let out a howl of frustration as he too became entangled in the cloth, struggling against its weight. “Is no one concerned for our prima donna?”
Monsieur André sprang to action, racing to help. “Good heavens! Will no one save this woman?”
Joseph Buquet stumbled onstage with several of his crew, his eyes glassy.
Even from where I stood, cowering with the rest of the corps, I could smell the liquor on his breath.
It was no secret that the stagehands often played rounds of belote on the pinrail during slower moments of the evening.
Judging from their dull expressions, they must have been passing a bottle of spirits around today too.
“Get her out! Get her out!” Monsieur Firmin ordered, and the crew began to heave back the fabric lengths.
“Buquet!” Monsieur Lefèvre roared. “What the devil is going on? This is the second time this season that—”
“Please, monsieur, don’t look at me,” the stagehand began.
“I will admit that I was not at my post, but this…this,” he said, grabbing an edge of the webbing which was dotted with dozens of black corded ties.
The bows that had secured the backdrop to the pipe were still intact, but the cords themselves were slashed and unraveling.
“This was not my fault. Every one of those ties has been cut.”
Monsieur Lefèvre seized a section of the cloth, studying it with narrowed eyes. “You’re saying someone on the crew—”
“I’m saying,” Buquet clarified, speaking over him, “that it must be the Ghost.”
Several chorus members gasped, crossing themselves for protection.
“It’s the Phantom! The Phantom of the Opera!” Meg insisted, tugging at her mother’s arm.
Upstage, the last of the backdrop was pulled away, revealing the crumpled figure of Carlotta.
She was sprawled on the deck, panting and tear-streaked.
There was no sign of immediate injury, but it was obvious the experience had frightened her.
Though no love was lost between us, I felt the urge to pull her up and make sure she was all right.
Before I could follow my impulse, Monsieur André helped her to her feet, and she turned, throwing herself into Ubaldo’s arms, visibly trembling.
“I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Ubaldo!” she sobbed, and her voice cracked piteously.
He held her, stroking her mangled wig as if it were her own tresses, murmuring soft comforts. He seemed to be pleading with her.
“No. No!” she said, shaking her head.
“Signora, are you unwell?” Monsieur André asked, stepping too close to the huddled pair.
“What do you think?” Ubaldo snapped, shifting position so that he was between Carlotta and the new manager.
“Of course, of course,” Monsieur André said, all but falling over himself. “But it’s over now, and we’re no worse for wear.” He chuckled nervously. “Isn’t this what makes live theatre so…so…exciting? The drama! The danger! These things do happen, I’m told.”
The soprano went rigid, freezing in Ubaldo’s embrace.
Slowly, she turned her head, fixing her gaze upon the manager with an icy glare.
“These things do happen?” she echoed in disbelief.
“You’ve been here for five minutes. What do you know of it?
Si, these things do happen, all the time!
For the past three years, these things do happen, and did you ever stop them from happening?
” she growled, whipping toward Monsieur Lefèvre. “No!”
“Please, signora,” Monsieur Firmin said, joining his partner. They should have made a formidable wall, two important men dressed in fine, bespoke suits, but their stance was all wrong, cringing against the diva’s justified wrath. “All is now well.”