Chapter 8 #3
“You’re both as bad as him!” she yelled.
“ ‘These things do happen.’ ” She let out a long laugh, all but cackling against the managers’ absurdity, but then fell silent, her expression dark and dangerous.
She looked like one of Wagner’s Valkyries descending upon a winged steed, blazing with murderous indignation.
“Until you stop these things from happening, this thing does not happen!” She balled up her scarf and flung it in Monsieur André’s face.
“Ubaldo! Andiamo!” she declared before grabbing his hand and storming off the stage.
Half a beat later, the tenor returned, staring down the new managers with a dark glower. “Amateurs!” he shot at them before abruptly turning on his heel and hurrying after Carlotta.
There was a long, uneasy silence as every company member, from performers to crew, shifted their attention to the new management. Even in the pit, some musicians poked their heads up to watch with rapt interest.
Monsieur Lefèvre cleared his throat. “Well. I don’t think there’s much more I can do to assist you now, gentlemen.
” He shifted his weight, looking from the men to the rest of the company.
“I do wish you all the best of luck…If you should happen to need me…” He took another flurry of steps toward the wings.
“If you should happen to…well…I shall be in Frankfurt!”
And without another word, he hurried away, heedless of the new managers’ protests.
They chased after him, but when it was clear they would not catch up, the men stopped, just on the far edge of stage right.
After some quiet conferring, they turned, looking at the rest of us with sheepish expressions.
“Certainly not the way we wanted to begin our tenure,” Monsieur André began with a laugh that fell away flat. “But La Carlotta will be back. Certainly,” he repeated, looking pained.
“Do you think so, monsieur?” Madame Giry asked.
A little white envelope fluttered down from the fly loft, causing a fervor of whispers to ignite through the cast. It landed near Madame Giry, and she picked it up before breaking open the red wax seal.
“A message, sirs, from the Opera Ghost,” she announced after scanning the missive.
“God in Heaven, you’re all obsessed!” Monsieur Firmin scoffed.
Madame Giry offered out the letter, but when neither of the men motioned to take it, she withdrew the note and began summarizing it aloud. “He merely welcomes you to his opera house.”
“His opera house?” Monsieur André tittered nervously.
“He commands that you continue to leave Box Five empty for his use—”
“Commands?” Monsieur Firmin bristled.
“And reminds you that his salary is due.”
She paused, watching their confusion with an amused half smile.
“Monsieur Lefèvre paid him twenty thousand francs a month, but perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your new patron?”
I froze, unsure if I should look to Madame Giry or the managers for confirmation.
Chagny…
It had been years since I’d heard that name. Years since I last saw the family. Years since I’d thought of the vicomte’s son, Raoul…
“Madame, I had hoped to make that announcement myself,” Monsieur André snapped, looking entirely put out.
Both of the new managers had lost all trace of their former bravado.
They’d entered the theatre like conquering heroes, eager to see what treasures they’d laid claim to, but now…
now, I realized, they had the same nervous look that had weighed so heavily upon Monsieur Lefèvre.
They looked haunted…
Madame Giry only blinked, unrepentant. “Will the vicomte be at the performance tomorrow night?”
Monsieur Firmin ground his teeth. “How the devil did you know that? Yes, in our box.”
Monsieur André broke away from his partner, crossing down to the lip of the stage to shout at Maestro Messenger. “Who is the Elissa understudy?”
The conductor gaped in disbelief. “Are you in jest? Carlotta has no understudies.”
This was it. This was exactly what the Angel and I had been waiting for. I wanted to step forward and claim it myself, but my heart was suddenly racing, thudding painfully high in my throat, and I couldn’t squeak the words out. I was frightened, frozen in place and unable to move.
“What do you mean she has no understudies? That’s absurd!
” Monsieur Firmin gripped the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache.
“Can you believe this, André? First set pieces falling from the heavens, then a ghost who demands a retainer, and now…this. A full house, and we’ll have to cancel!
Why did we ever think it was a good idea to—”
“Christine Daaé could sing it.”
Meg’s voice rang out in the air, soaring over the beleaguered manager’s diatribe.
Both of the men turned to look at her. “Who?”
She gestured toward me, urging me to take a step forward. I was too stunned at her bravery to move, so the ballerinas around me all scurried back instead, leaving me exposed and alone.
“A chorus girl?” Monsieur Firmin looked justifiably dubious.
“She’s been taking lessons from a great tutor,” Meg said, nodding brightly at me.
I could feel her urging me to speak up, but my throat still felt closed off. The words would not come.
Madame Giry placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, offering strength in numbers. “Let her sing for you, messieurs. She has been well taught.”
From the pit, Maestro Messenger sighed. “Do you know the aria, girl?”
I faced him, feeling panicked, but managed to nod. With a whisk of his hand, the members of the orchestra began flipping through their scores once more. He peered up at the new managers, awaiting their decision.
“What will the patrons think? They’re coming to the gala expecting to hear greatness and instead we give them a mute ballerina?” Monsieur Firmin hissed.
“Richard, I don’t see what other choice we have.”
The taller man grumbled but finally nodded. My knees trembled as they both turned, assessing me.
“Very well. Go on, girl,” Monsieur André said, and waved his hand to the orchestra.
The piano began, and Meg raced over, foisting Carlotta’s Elissa scarf into my hands as she offered me a hopeful smile. I wanted to cry out for them to stop, to give me a moment. I wasn’t warmed up. I wasn’t mentally prepared. I just needed one—
But the bars had played out, and I was meant to be singing.
“Think of me,” I began, breathy and breathless, and why couldn’t they at least let me warm up? “Think of me fondly, when we’ve said goodbye.”
I’d never before stood on this stage, trying to fill the house with my voice. It was cavernous, nearly two thousand seats strong. I felt as if I stood before an enormous beast, a behemoth ready to swallow me whole.
From the corner of my eyes, I could see Monsieur Firmin shake his head, and I caught the tightness of Maestro Messenger’s lips as he readied the strings.
This was my chance, my one chance, to prove to all these men that I could do it.
This was my opportunity to seize my dreams, and I was making a mess of it all.
Soft palate, strong posture, unlock your jaw.
The Angel of Music’s notes flooded through my mind.
“Remember me, every so often—promise me you’ll try.”
Tall vowels, sing with your heart, sing from your diaphragm, relax your throat.
As I eased into the song, I felt myself grow loose. I knew this aria. I knew this role. I knew how to do this. I just needed to connect my body to the music and stop letting my mind overthink it.
“On that day, that not so distant day, when you are far away and free…”
The melody swelled out of me. My voice sounded strong and warm, like golden honey.
Even Maestro Messenger brightened and attacked his conducting with a more inspired effort.
I saw the moment the managers heard the change.
They stopped fidgeting and simply watched.
I wanted to smile in triumph, but instead I let the emotion color my voice, gathering it all up and casting it into the auditorium, filling the space with everything in me that was bright and beseeching.
“If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me.”
The two men glanced at one another and, in time with both the music and each other, nodded.
I felt as if I might burst. I wanted to shout and cry out my joy, loudly enough so that the Angel of Music could hear me wherever he’d gone.
I’d done as he’d wanted.
I’d done what I’d dreamed.
We’d done it, together.
Would he ever return so I could show him?