Chapter 17
My apartment was too quiet.
The air inside was stale and musty, as if the rooms had been boarded up and left uninhabited.
Had it not been for the queues of would-be audience members outside the theatre clamoring for Hannibal tickets, I would have wondered if I’d spent weeks hidden away with my Angel.
Months, even. It seemed impossible to believe that I’d been home only just yesterday, rushing out so I wouldn’t be late for my costume fitting.
I leaned heavily against the door, surveying my space. I hardly remembered how I’d made my way back.
The Angel had led me through so many corridors and waterlogged passages. There’d been a twist of cogs and a whirling wall which had opened to a darkened corner of one of the trap rooms hidden beneath the stage.
When I’d caught sight of Joseph Buquet and a pair of chorus girls reclining on a heap of folded scenic drops as they passed around a bottle of foul-smelling green liquid, I’d immediately turned, ready to back into the shadows and hide away with Erik.
But the wall had already spun around again, hiding both its secret and my Angel.
I’d had to duck behind a stack of leaning flats and listen to every horrible word the flyman had uttered, bemoaning the new managers, his empty wallet, and his even emptier bed.
“Perhaps that’s something we might help you with,” the blond woman had said, giggling, before letting out a great hiccup. “The bed part, at least. We can’t do anything about management.”
“I need my job as much as you need yours,” the redhead had agreed. “Perhaps you ought to more closely tend your post.”
“That drop wasn’t my fault!” Joseph had roared, snatching the bottle from her hand. “I’ve been saying it for days! It was—”
“The Opera Ghost,” the two women had intoned together, bored by the story’s frequent retelling.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“I don’t believe in things I’ve not seen,” the red-headed woman had said with a dismissive tsk. “And no one—no one,” she’d repeated loudly with drunken emphasis, “has ever seen the Phantom of the Opera.”
“I have,” Joseph had growled. “You see all sorts of things up in the flies. Why don’t you come up there with me now, and I’ll show you a beast of truly incredible size.”
The redhead fell into a burst of titters as the stagehand slapped at his thigh, guffawing loudly. But the blonde had looked up warily, as if she could see all the way up to the loft in question.
“Did you really? See him, I mean?”
Joseph had nodded seriously. “He’s a monster. Truly.”
The women had scoffed, dismissing the tale as another of the flyman’s lurid jokes.
“I’m telling the truth! His skin is like yellow parchment, cracked and crinkled.
He keeps on him a magical lasso that he’ll catch you with, like so.
” Pulling out a length of fly rope from his pocket, Joseph had demonstrated throwing it into the air before yanking it back.
“Then there’s the great black hole of his nose. It—”
Just then, a giant rat had run over my foot—the backstage area was overrun with the horrid rodents—and I had to put my hands over my mouth to keep from crying out in terror.
Joseph had heard me anyway and signaled for silence.
“It’s him!” he’d declared, using the opportunity to grab both of the women, holding them close as he unabashedly ran his hands over their breasts.
“The Phantom of the Opera! You’d better come with me, somewhere dark where we can hide away, and I might… protect you.”
Flushed with knowing giggles, the intoxicated trio had stumbled off, leaving me alone to find my way out of the trap room and through the maze of corridors beneath the stage.
Now back at my apartment, I crossed to my window seat and flopped down on the worn cushions, completely exhausted.
Outside, the sun was rising over gray stone buildings with a shade of citron that felt garish to behold. My time with the Angel had left my senses spinning. They felt frayed and overtaxed, and I longed for the dark shadows of his world.
My eyes swept over my apartment and the threadbare possessions it contained. It was such a stark contrast to the opulent world Erik had created that I felt a strange wave of embarrassment, though he was not here to see it.
He’d built a shrine to his passions, filling the space with music and art.
I’d not bothered to hang curtains. My furniture was all secondhand, a collection of necessity, hodgepodged together from generous, if pitying, friends.
It seemed impossible to believe that anything inspired could come from such humble origins.
But last night had happened. I had taken the stage, sung to the highest society Paris could offer, and I’d delighted each and every one of them. They’d applauded for me: little unknown, orphaned Christine Daaé. All because of him. All because of my Angel.
Such a miracle should have been all the proof I required to confirm his divinity. Such a triumph could only be Heaven-sent. Yet that one small seedling continued to prick at me, catching my thoughts and irritating them so much it was impossible to ignore.
Joseph Buquet’s wretched words would not leave me be.
His description of the Opera Ghost—and his alarming lack of a nose—played over and over, filling my thoughts until I could think of nothing else.
Erik also had no nose.
Was it terrible coincidence or perhaps something more? Were my Angel of Music and the Phantom of the Opera somehow one and the same?
I couldn’t completely rule out the chance of it.
The only theatre the Opera Ghost was said to haunt was the Populaire, and Erik lived within the deepest levels of its very walls.
He knew everything about the theatre’s comings and goings, when I was in rehearsals, and what productions were coming next.
It even felt as if he’d known, somehow, that Carlotta would storm out of rehearsal just before opening night of Hannibal.
But was such prophecy divine omniscience or…
My blood went cold as I remembered what had caused Carlotta to abruptly quit the performance.
A painted drop had fallen on her, its strings mysteriously sliced. Joseph had blamed the Opera Ghost. And if the Opera Ghost and my Angel were the same being…
I startled as a hurried knock rapped on my door.
“Meg!” I exclaimed, surprised to see my friend standing outside. Her cheeks were pink, and she pressed a hand over her chest, looking flustered.
“Oh, Christine, what a morning!” she said, ducking past me in a breathless rush.
She took off her hat and her purse and dropped them unceremoniously on a small side table in the entryway. She wiped the back of her hand over her damp brow before turning to me.
“I’ve just come from the theatre. The Il Muto cast list was being decided, and—you truly won’t believe how wild it got. I’ve never seen Mother quite like…It was…Let me first catch my breath.”
Remembering the production list I’d seen earlier, I closed the door to hide my smile of delight.
Meg must have learned about being cast as Serafimo and raced over the moment she’d heard the happy news.
I wanted to jump up and down and share in her good fortune, but I wouldn’t deny her the chance to tell the story in her own words.
“Oh?” I asked innocently, my insides already dancing with excitement for her.
Meg grabbed my shoulders and pushed me toward the little settee near the window. It wasn’t exactly big enough for us both, but we squashed together on it anyway. She took a deep breath, looking far more serious than I’d expected.
“So,” she began, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “The managers have worked out the cast list for Il Muto, and…” Her eyebrows knit together, and she looked so unhappy my side hitched with sudden apprehension. “And…you’ve been given a part.”
I frowned. This was not how the conversation was meant to go.
My name had not been on the list. I’d assumed I’d be back in the corps, relegated to a country nymph in the Act III ballet.
But then I recalled the violent line slashed through Carlotta’s name, and a dizzying thought began to unwind within me.
Carlotta had stormed out of the final dress with such earnest fury…What if she’d truly decided not to return—not just for Hannibal, but for the rest of the season?
The idea sparked a wild rush of visions, each layering upon each other like a winning hand of cards falling upon a gaming table.
I could see myself as the Countess, with Meg playing opposite me as Serafimo.
Our comedic timing would be perfect. We had a natural rapport, and it was certain that audiences would fall in love with us both.
Sold-out performances would guarantee us more parts—bigger and grander parts—until we each were stars in our respective fields.
We would take Paris by storm. The newspapers would sing our accolades, naming us queens of the Opéra Populaire, touting our talents and inspired—
“You’re going to be Serafimo,” Meg said, interrupting my whirling fever dream by answering the question I’d not seen fit to ask.
So lost was I in the fantasy it took a moment for her words to fully sink in. “Serafimo?”
Meg made a face, commiserating with an emotion I did not yet feel. “I know it seems a step down after Elissa, but Carlotta was bound to get the role of the Countess,” she said carefully, and I wondered then if the managers had sent her over to my apartment to break the bad news.
Foolish cowards.
The angry thought came out of nowhere, swift and unexpected and sounding suspiciously like Erik. I rubbed at my temple to push the words away and concentrate on Meg.
“Carlotta. She’s back?”
“She couldn’t stay away, especially after reading all the wonderful reviews in the papers this morning. Haven’t you seen them?”
I shook my head, still feeling dazed.
Meg threw her arms around me, happiness returned. “They’re marvelous. Every single one. Christine, they loved you! We should go and buy a dozen copies of each.”
I heard her words but couldn’t muster the joy which they should have brought.