Chapter 19
Our summer merriment didn’t last long.
Il Muto rehearsals began in earnest, and though Serafimo had no lines to be said or songs to be sung, he was in so much of the opera, sneaking in and out of armoires and hidden doors, I found myself putting in just as many hours at the theatre as I had when I was in the corps.
The days were long and hard. Carlotta made no attempt to rein in her disgust for me, even going as far as to loudly suggest the only reason I had this role at all was because Raoul de Chagny had taken me as his lover.
If my position hadn’t felt so precarious, I would have laughed right in her overly rouged face.
I’d barely seen Raoul since the day he’d arrived at my apartment with his hopeful heart pinned to his sleeve.
While he’d fallen headfirst into our courtship, sending flowers and chocolates and more boxes of gloves than I could ever hope to wear, we hardly ever saw each other.
We met for an occasional coffee at nearby cafés, wedged between my call times.
Sometimes I’d spot him emerging from the managers’ office and could offer a quick wave before being whisked to a costume fitting.
But our schedules were so at odds we hadn’t had the time to so much as share a kiss.
Lovers indeed.
But that was hardly the sort of thing I’d tell La Carlotta.
Days went by, frustratingly long and painfully fast.
I missed Meg, who was also caught in a series of grueling rehearsals.
She’d been given the featured solo in the Act III ballet and was taking the opportunity more seriously than anything I’d ever seen her do.
I heard her music tinkle down from the ballet’s practice room every night as I left the stage, heading to my dressing room.
Part of me wanted to climb up the winding staircase and watch as she perfected each twirl and pointed toe. We could giggle and trade secrets as we always had when we were starting out, two little dancers in the corner, lost in layers of tulle and wild dreams.
But no. I had more rehearsals of my own to attend…at least in theory.
Every night, long after the rest of the company had retired, I sat in my dressing room and waited for Erik to appear.
On the first night, I’d braced myself, jumping at every sound as I anticipated the storm of his fury.
I’d not been cast as the Countess. I’d gone out to a frivolous luncheon with a man, sacrificing hours that could have been spent on my craft in a reverie.
I’d unmasked him—I was certain he’d not yet forgiven me for that.
So many offenses had begun to pile up he was sure to be cross.
But he didn’t come.
Not that night or the one after that, or the so many others which followed.
Then one evening, just after midnight, as I sat at the piano, working through a section of the Countess’s fioriture, I felt a charge in the air, a sudden awareness of someone else in the space, even though the great mirror showed only myself.
I stopped playing. “Erik?” I dared to ask, feeling breathless in the silence that followed.
“Go on,” he encouraged.
“Where are you?”
I’d thought we were past this, the disembodied coachings, the pent-up frustration of having him so near yet so impossibly far away. I’d seen him, finally seen all of him. Why did he have to hide away again?
“I’m here,” he said, offering no further elaboration. “Go on.”
I stepped away from the piano, deciding to sing unaccompanied, and crossed to the mirror. My voice grew, filling the room with a flood of staccato notes and soaring runs. It was a difficult selection, technical and fussy, though I knew I’d performed it well.
But as seconds ticked by, with Erik saying nothing, doubt began to creep in.
Had I made mistakes? Was he disappointed in my choices?
An uneasy ache filled my stomach, and I began to worry that his silence was the prelude to an outburst of criticism.
When at last he spoke, his words nearly knocked me over: “You sang well.”
I was stunned, wondering if I’d misheard him. “I could have held out the middle section a touch more.”
“It was fine.”
I frowned. He’d never given such lukewarm feedback.
“Let me try it again. I was thinking if I took a breath just before—”
“If you wish.”
His clipped indifference left me reeling.
“Erik?” I reached out to stroke the surface of the mirror.
I would have given anything for it to dissolve beneath my touch and open the passage back to my Angel and his world, back to when everything had been so much easier and uncomplicated.
But it remained a hard and unyielding pane of glass. “Have I done something to upset you?”
Even as I asked the question, I knew it had not been phrased correctly. I’d seen him upset. I’d felt the heat of his barely contained violence, the waves of animosity which had rippled off him when I’d pulled the mask from his face. This…this was something altogether different.
“No.”
“It’s just that…you’ve not come for lessons in so many days, and now that you’re here…I feel as though you’re still missing.”
He made a small sound, a clearing of the throat, a distracted cough. “Forgive me.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong. I only…I worried I had.”
“Oh, Christine, no. No. I…Our time together set a fire beneath me. I’ve been working…
composing…creating something new…something entirely different.
I’m afraid it’s preoccupied me, even when I’m with you.
” His voice was warm in the shell of my ear, as if he stood just at my back, ready to enfold me into his arms.
“I thought I might have disappointed you,” I confessed.
“You could never!”
“But…Serafimo…I know it’s nothing either of us wanted.”
“A most grievous sin you had nothing to do with,” he said darkly. “It’s those asinine fools who’ve taken over. They’ve proven themselves even more inept at running my theatre than Lefèvre ever was. But things will change. Soon. You’ll see.”
“They will?” My mind felt slow, as if my thoughts were being pulled out of warm and sticky molasses.
“When my opera is finished,” he’d promised. “When my work is done, everything will change.”
“Erik? Are you…are you the Opera Ghost?”
The silence which followed felt horrifically fraught.
“Why would you ask that? You know who I am.”
“I do…But…you just said ‘my theatre.’ And…couldn’t you be both? Angel and Ghost? It wouldn’t…it wouldn’t have to change anything between us, but…couldn’t you be…” I wanted to say just a man, but the phrase dried in my mouth.
His sigh was as sharp as a scythe. “Continue to practice. Your time is coming, and I’ll need you ready, Christine.”
Then he was gone, leaving me without another word, leaving me in the dressing room, feeling cold and so very much alone.
With a tired sigh, I dumped another round of cups and saucers into the sink, letting them disappear under the soapy water.
Finally, finally, finally, the company had been given a day off while the stagehands switched out the season’s productions onstage.
All day long, they’d filled the wings with enormous pieces of scenery and props, adjusted lights, moved costumes in and out of dressing rooms, and prepared for the series of technical rehearsals which were scheduled to begin tomorrow.
I’d hoped I might spend my precious hours of unencumbered freedom with Raoul, but his schedule was cruelly packed with meetings too important to rearrange. He’d promised he would come by my apartment the moment they were done.
Eager for a quiet evening with him, I’d tackled the myriad of chores which always piled high while in rehearsals.
I wanted to make my apartment feel cozy and inviting for him, and I spent the day dusting, straightening, and cleaning, dancing from one task to the next and lost in fantasies of how our time might play out.
Once the last of the dishes were washed and put away, I paced, looking over everything with a sharp, appraising eye. I knew I had no hope of impressing him with beautiful furnishings or elegantly styled décor, but I was pleased with the humble transformation.
At seven o’clock, there was a sharp rap on my door. I hurried over to let Raoul in, my best smile already upon my lips.
“Surprise!” shouted an unexpected chorus of voices.
I stepped back, indeed surprised by how many people had gathered on my front steps.
There was Meg, looking radiantly happy, with bright eyes and color high in her cheeks. She was joined by Jean-Luc and Frederick, as well as several other men dressed in silk-lapelled tailcoats and top hats.
In the middle of them all was Raoul. Though he was wearing the same style of dress as the others, his suit was of the finest wool and tailored to his frame by an expert hand.
“Christine!” He stepped forward to press a swift kiss on my cheek. “Are you ready to be whisked away?”
I looked to the rest of the group for clarification.
“We’re adventure-bound!” Frederick exclaimed, and took a quick nip from a previously hidden flask.
“Adventure?”
“The vicomte is taking us out for a night on the town,” Jean-Luc added, swaying on his feet so much that I had to wonder how long all of them had already been adventuring.
Meg all but trembled with excitement as she scream-sang, “We’re going to the Moulin Rouge!”
A frisson of giddiness shimmered through me, immediately sweeping me into their boisterous spirits.
Situated at the base of Montmartre’s hill and christened with a spinning red windmill, the Moulin Rouge was one of the most storied nightclubs in all of Paris.
Though it had been the first establishment to be wired with electricity, it was said that those who performed on its sprawling dance floor shone even brighter than the lights.
There were revue acts, bawdy comedy routines, and contortionists so flexible that some in the audience fainted while watching. It was a dazzling world of debauchery, packed with frilled skirts and ruffled bloomers, exposed black stockings and spangled corsets.