Chapter 36
The practice room was set up for a music rehearsal.
The upright piano had been rolled in from its usual corner, and rows of chairs and music stands arced in a wide semicircle around the conductor’s podium.
Maestro Messenger’s stand was nearly twice as large as the rest of ours and was a littered mess of additional papers and long lists of trailing notes.
I took my seat in the front row between Ubaldo and Marc Haché, the bass playing Passarino, Don Juan’s servant. Despite her soloist role, just a few lines more than the chorus, Carlotta sat on the other side of Ubaldo, snarling at anyone who pointed out she shouldn’t be seated with the principals.
Behind us was the chorus. They chattered easily, until Maestro Messenger took to the podium.
“Welcome to the first company rehearsal for our newest production, Don Juan Triumphant,” he began, sounding impossibly tired.
He flipped through his thick score, searching for the right page.
“We’ve quite a lot to cover today, and we only have the chorus for the first half of this morning, so let’s begin with Act I, Scene iii.
Then we’ll go back and work on principal arias after. ”
Dutifully, we began flipping through our scores.
Maestro Messenger glanced across the room, checking to see that everyone was ready. “Monsieur Reyer?”
From his corner of the stage manager’s table, the répétiteur nodded.
“Monsieur Loggia?”
The pianist nodded and, with a flick of the conductor’s baton, we were off.
For a few measures, at least.
“No, that’s not right,” Maestro Messenger said, stopping abruptly after only a handful of bars. “Baritones, you’re early. And mezzos, late…I think. Again, from the top.”
They tried a second time. Then a third and a fourth. By the seventh attempt, the maestro had begun to loosen his cravat. By the ninth, he was dabbing sweat from his brow.
“Seven-eight time is a bit trickier than it looks, yes?” he quipped, eliciting nervous chuckles throughout the company.
In truth, the score was next to impossible.
Erik’s compositions were far more complex than anything the Opéra Populaire had ever produced.
The time signatures changed constantly, the syncopations were finicky, and the lyrics…
I’d stayed up for nights in a row, pacing about my apartment as I tried—sometimes through tears—to memorize their unusually sophisticated stylings.
It was unlike any opera I’d ever heard and, while it would be magnificent to behold and groundbreaking to perform, the rehearsals to get us there would be fraught. I honestly wasn’t sure the current company would be up to the immense challenge.
Beside me, Ubaldo was already beginning to struggle.
We’d arrived at the lothario’s entrance, and he’d stood, pulling his music stand up with him, readying to join the chorus. “Those who tangle with Don Juan—”
Monsieur Reyer leapt to his feet, waving for the pianist to stop. “Excuse me, Maestro, but no, no, no!”
Maestro Messenger gave the room a knowing glance as he sat back on his stool. “Chorus—rest, please.”
They collapsed into their chairs, taking great sips of water and tea from cups squirreled beneath their seats. Several of the women fanned themselves with their score pages.
Monsieur Reyer crossed to the piano and nearly pushed Monsieur Loggia from his seat to pick out the string of notes. “Don Juan—Signor Piangi—here is the phrase: ‘Those who tangle with Don Juan…’ If you please?”
Ubaldo tried again, but he was still flat, and out of time.
Monsieur Reyer’s face grew pinched. “No. Nearly…but no.” He played the correct phrasing over and over in demonstration. “ ‘Those who tan, tan, tan…’ ”
Ubaldo shifted from foot to foot as whispers began to rise from the chorus behind us. There was a flush of red peeking up from the collar of his shirt. I’d never seen the tenor look so flustered.
“Those who tangle with Don Juan—”
I winced at the rushed line.
Carlotta glanced toward me, finally acknowledging my presence. “His way is better, don’t you think?”
So stunned was I that she was voluntarily speaking to me, I could only shrug.
“At least he makes it sound like music,” she went on. “This is absurd.”
“It is a complicated score,” I allowed. “But I’d be careful what you say.” She stared blankly at me, and I wanted to squirm beneath her heavy gaze. “You wouldn’t speak that way if the composer were here, would you?”
I glanced around the room, looking meaningfully at the wall of mirrors the corps de ballet used for their rehearsals. Carlotta squinted at our reflections before rolling her eyes.
At the piano, Monsieur Reyer plunked out the phrase again. “Signor Piangi—after seven. Five, six, seven…”
Ubaldo was wrong again and stamped his foot as the room groaned.
At the podium, Maestro Messenger had all but given up. He’d turned his back to us and was chatting with the stage manager, openly lamenting their predicament.
Carlotta let out a groan. “Ah, più non posso! What does it matter what notes we sing?”
“Cara, cara,” Ubaldo said, snapping his fingers at her. He tried the phrase again, then turned to me. “Is it right?”
I offered him a pained smile, and he let out a string of curses.
Monsieur Reyer played out the phrase again, striking the keys with far more force than needed.
“I do my best,” Ubaldo said miserably. “But I do not understand. Is it…is it…‘Those who tangle with Don Juan?’ ”
Monsieur Reyer let out a snarl of frustration. “For God’s sake, man!”
“No one will care if any of this is right or wrong,” Carlotta opined, pushing aside her music stand to rub Ubaldo’s back.
Again, I looked at the mirror.
The rehearsal had exploded into chaos. All around me, people were trying out the offending line to see if they could sing it correctly.
Monsieur Reyer continued to pound out his version while Monsieur Loggia tried to take back his seat.
Maestro Messenger had tossed a whole series of papers to the floor, and Ubaldo looked near tears.
“Don’t listen to them, caro,” Carlotta said, trying her best to comfort him.
“I just don’t understand why it is so hard. There is no beauty, no music.”
“Settle down,” called out the stage manager, desperate to regain control of the room. “We all need to calm down and regroup. Perhaps a five-minute break—”
Carlotta let out a pent-up shriek, nailing Ubaldo’s line with painful clarity. “Those who tangle with Don Juan!”
“Well, actually,” Monsieur Reyer began, and the entire room descended back into anarchy.
I wanted to cover my ears. Such bedlam was beyond belief. It disrespected everyone—the singers who had prepared, the creative team, Maestro, Erik…
Erik…
I wondered if he was beyond the mirror now, watching the insanity play out.
Was he enraged? Amused? For years, he’d sent notes and letters, criticizing the skill and professionalism of our company.
Watching such disordered madness must be gratifying somehow, even if it was his own music everyone now stumbled over.
My insides twisted, roiling as the protests grew louder and louder. I wanted to bare my teeth and howl against such unnecessary drama. I wanted to shout at everyone. I wanted to scream.
Then, predictably, Carlotta did.
“Cessate! Cessate! Mi torturata l’anima!”
Her voice screeched over the melee, as biting and commanding as her stage presence.
Suddenly, Monsieur Reyer let out a horrified gasp and nearly fell off the side of the piano bench as he pushed himself away from the instrument.
It was enough for the entire company to notice—and to realize that though neither Monsieur Reyer nor Monsieur Loggia was anywhere near the piano now, it had not stopped playing.
Ubaldo took a tentative step toward the instrument, creeping up to it as if it were a wild beast.
And in a way, perhaps it was.
I leaned over my music stand, watching in confused wonder as the keys pressed down on their own. It looked as though they were being played by a ghost.
My eyes flashed once again to the mirror: I was certain they were.
Erik was most definitely here.
Erik was most definitely enraged.
The piano continued on, tapping out the music with deft, if unseen, hands.
It set every hair at the back of my neck on end.
But even more disturbing was the company’s reaction. Immediately, the chorus rose, giving the song more reverence now than they’d had all rehearsal. Though Maestro Messenger did nothing to cue them in, they all began to sing, nailing the tempo and hitting every phrase with perfect precision.
Then Carlotta and Ubaldo chimed in.
“Poor young maiden! For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets, you will have to pay the bill—”
Slowly, as if being pulled on strings by a puppeteer, everyone turned toward me.
Their eyes all pointed in my general direction, but I sensed that none of them truly saw me.
Everyone’s expressions were glassy and dazed, as if they’d all collectively lost their train of thought at the exact same moment.
“Tangled in the winding sheets!”
There was more to be sung, more verses, more refrains, but the piano fell silent, and so did everyone else, suddenly freezing in place.
It was more than just a room of people standing still. They were completely motionless. There was no quiver of muscles, no swaying of feet. They didn’t even so much as blink. It was as if someone had turned them into dolls, into puppets or marionettes, into automatons…
The lights shifted, turning an otherworldly, haunting shade of blue. It reflected off the wall of mirrors, reducing the company to stark silhouettes.
I waited for something to happen, but there was nothing.
Nothing moved.
No one spoke.
But then…
Footsteps sounded at the back of the crowd, a soft whisper of soles scraping the floor. They paced from one side of the room to the other, and, though I couldn’t see anyone, I knew without a doubt who it must be.
“Erik,” I whispered, fear stabbing at my heart.