Chapter 37 #2
Or…it would, if we were to ever make our way through it.
My only consolation was that Ubaldo was making just as many mistakes as I was. After several false starts, Maestro Messenger dismissed the chorus and comprimarios with a sweep of his hand, and Marceau raced after them, hurrying to hand out their next call times.
Ubaldo paced in front of the music stands, going over and over his lyrics in a vain attempt to zip through them before Monsieur Reyer had the chance to stop him.
“No, no, no, no! It’s impossible! There are too many syllables and not enough notes!” the tenor cried, smacking his fingers across an open palm, trying to sort through the tempo. “See? See!”
Maestro Messenger shook his head. “It works if you attack the phrase here…” He clapped out the music. “Like this…”
Again and again.
We worked through every beat of the duet, picking it apart until my bodice was damp. My feet ached, and I felt as if I couldn’t see straight. Erik’s notes danced before my vision, even as I scrunched my eyes tight with frustration.
I wanted to scream.
I feared I would cry again.
And I wondered if Erik was somewhere near, watching on unseen as his music devastated and humbled us all.
After another hour of slow and grinding progress, Marceau called for the end of our morning session.
“Two hours for lunch,” he instructed, looking as wrung out as the rest of us. “And back at—”
“No,” Maestro Messenger intoned, and the single word sliced like a meat cleaver. “No more. I will only see the chorus tonight. You two,” he barked at us, “take the evening and look over everything. I will not have tomorrow be a repeat of today.”
Feeling like a chastened schoolgirl, I nodded, and Ubaldo and I silently packed up our things before turning tail and fleeing the rehearsal room.
“Would you want to keep working on this together?” I suggested hopefully as we all but staggered down the stairwell. I’d never spent much time alone with Ubaldo, but it now seemed as though we were comrades in arms, having been through a war of attrition together.
“Not right now,” he said, wiping at the sheen of sweat dotting his brow. “The only thing I can manage is a drink. Many, many of them. Will you join me?”
Downing a glass—or several—of wine was tempting, but Maestro’s sharp recriminations haunted me. “Another time. I think…I think I should go home and study all this.” I raised my copy of the score. It had never felt so heavy.
Ubaldo let out a bitter laugh. “Study it or don’t. The show will open, the show will close, and we will never have to think of it again. This is just three weeks of our lives. All we have to do is survive them.”
I was horrified. “You don’t think it our duty to do our best?”
“I’ve been doing my best for this company for nearly a decade, Miss Daaé. I think I’m allowed one flop.”
But I’m not, I thought, alarms going off in my mind.
We said goodbye, and Ubaldo headed for the exit, loudly whistling Tannh?user’s “O Du, Mein Holder Abendstern,” as if purposely trying to provoke the Opera Ghost.
I paused, watching him slip out into the gray afternoon. It was snowing again, fat flakes that looked wet and heavy. I imagined trudging home and curling up with the score and a pot of tea as the snow showered outside my bay window. It seemed like a perfectly cozy way to spend a dismal day.
Only…
I didn’t need cozy.
I needed to work.
And I wouldn’t get anything done, not truly, in my apartment, where distractions were many and the lure of rest was strong.
I bit the corner of my lower lip, weighing my options.
A café sounded heavenly, warm and lively, and I could get something stronger than tea, an espresso to revive my flagging energies.
But…there I’d only be able to study the lyrics, not actually sing them.
The opera had a fleet of practice rooms, small windowless closets only big enough to hold a decommissioned upright and an inevitably lopsided music stand.
They were the perfect place for true, deep concentration, but I wasn’t certain I’d work well in one.
They were so isolating, so solitary. And this was a duet…
I sighed and glanced down the hall toward my dressing room. I hadn’t returned to it since the night of the Il Muto disaster and didn’t know what state it had been left in through the restoration and repairs.
But there was a piano.
And the artists’ commissary offered coffee and tea on demand for as long as rehearsals were in session.
And…
I pushed that thought away, banishing it to the dark recesses of my mind before it had the chance to fully form and tempt me into consideration.
But its allure was hopeless to ignore.
It wasn’t just a quiet spot I needed, nor a piano, nor coffee. I needed—
No!
My inner voice pushed aside the treacherous, twisting thought for a second time with a vehemence that dazzled me. But still he returned…
Erik.
He was the only person who could help me. Not Ubaldo, not Monsieur Loggia, not even Maestro.
Erik had written this music.
Erik was this music.
He understood it better than anyone.
He understood me.
Before I could think through the reckless absurdity of my actions, before my brain could stop me with its reasonings and logics and doubts, I turned for the dressing room.
“Erik?” I called out, storming into the room and twisting the knob for the gas lamps. They flared high before settling to their usual glow, making it seem as if the shadows were tangible creatures, fleeing to the corner to cower and wait.
I dared to approach the mirror, watching its edges glitter. If I’d expected it to instantly transform, revealing him to me, I’d been mistaken.
The room was silent, with a careful watchfulness.
I tossed my reticule on a side table. I set the score upon the stand. I closed the door, shutting out the world and any chance for me to change my mind.
With gooseflesh all across my arms, I sat before the piano and began to pick out the opening notes of the Aminta and Don Juan duet.
It was a painfully slow process, as I stopped every few notes, pausing to listen for the telltale change in the air that would give away Erik’s arrival.
Nothing.
I tried again, purposefully missing a note in an attempt to draw him out with ire.
Still, the mirror remained as it ever had been.
I sat back, balling my fingers away from the keys.
What was I doing? If Raoul could see me right now, he’d think I’d lost my mind. Only days before, we’d fled from Erik as he hurled bolts of fire at us, declaring war upon Raoul, war upon me.
But now, here I was, summoning him to my side, begging for his return.
He was a murderer.
He was a monster.
He was—
I tried the run again, transposing the key so it turned messy and discordant.
Even as terrible as I was making it, the music still lit waves of shock and awe through me.
This melody, this song, this opera was staggering.
Erik’s phrasings were so unique—his stylings complicated and intricate, but undeniably brilliant.
This music would usher in a new era of art. These notes would inspire and transform. Erik’s creation would change everything and everyone it touched.
I wanted to be a part of that. I wanted my voice to be the one audiences first heard sing the role. My voice bringing Aminta to life. My voice filling the theatre with Erik’s music. It would be a perfect marriage of power and passions, talent and skills.
The muscles along my rib cage tensed and tightened. My limbs shook as hunger and need swelled within me. I wanted this so badly I could cry out.
And then I did, startled, as his voice swept into my dressing room, a breathless whisper, reaching out from behind the glass.
“Christine?”
“Erik!” I took in a great gulp of air, suddenly trembling before the magnitude of my request, the audacity of what I must ask him.
He remained silent, waiting, and I licked my lips.
“I…I need…” I hung my head low, studying the black-and-white keys before me. With an unconscious gesture, I reached out and played middle C, letting its pitch ground me. It was the note all musicians learned to find first, a north star that centered every other thing to come.
Like Erik was for me.
The truth of it was undeniable.
I could not do this without him.
Nor would I want to.
“I need…” I repeated, louder this time, finding both my nerve and my voice. “I need my Angel of Music.”
There was a long pause, pregnant with possibility. I kept my focus on that middle C, waiting, waiting, waiting, as doubts swirled within me, as fear and agony rose up my throat, ready to crystallize to a scream if he said no.
He drew a soft breath, and I looked toward the mirror, surprised to see how wan and worried my reflection was.
When he finally spoke, his voice was dark with satisfaction, husky and deep. “I’m here.”