Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 3

  She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Asgard is the golden realm above the clouds where the gods live—Niflheim is where most people go when they die.” She shivered at the thought and tried to push it away.

  “Very well,” he said slowly. He really was acting quite thick today. “When I visited…Niflheim…I was met by your father, who told me about you, I hurried so quickly to make up for lost time that I did not ask him what he had taught you.”

  “Can’t you just fly back up whenever you want?” she queried, fascinated.

  “I cannot—my task is to remain with you until you have achieved the success that your beauteous voice deserves.”

  “And then you’ll have to leave?”

  There was another pause, and she wondered if he was trying to decide whether he could stay with her after she had become a diva. It would be nice having an Angel by her side, but she supposed she could handle fame and fortune once he had helped her attain it. It was very pleasing to her, however, to think that he wanted to stay with her when he should be attending to his occupation as Angel of Music.

  These flattering thoughts were interrupted as he replied, “Only the Lord knows what the future holds, my dear Christine.”(She assumed he meant Odin, the most powerful of the gods, when he said “the lord.” Odin had many, many names.)

  Christine was forced to be satisfied with this cryptic answer, because the Angel refused to speak of it further. She soon forgot about the matter entirely, however, in light of a much more pressing question:

  “When can I use the beautiful voice you’ve given me?” she asked, for about the fiftieth time. “It’s unfair that I should have to pretend to sing poorly when I have an Angel of Music helping me—you have no idea how horrible it is to see the—the smirks on their faces!” she cried.

  “‘They,’ Christine?”

  “The chorus girls and the ballet rats—they think I’m a terrible singer,” she said sourly, crushing a sheet of music in a petulant, shaking fist. It was unbearable to even contemplate seeing those vicious, contemptuous smiles again. “And that Carlotta—! When I left the stage today, she said, ‘Zat girl—vat’s her name? Die-ay,’” she mimicked, tossing her head and affecting the Spanish diva’s high, pathetic excuse for French, “‘She sings like—like a dying bull as ze mataflor strikes ze final blow!’”

  “That’s ‘matador,’” the Angel corrected gently.

  “I want them to hear my voice now!” Christine snarled. “I want to see the looks on their faces when they hear how much better I am than them!”

  “That’s a rather unchristian thought.”

  “I’m not a Christian,” she snapped.

  “Very well,” he relented. “You will be given a chance to show the world your heavenly voice—soon. You can wait a few days, can you not, for such a gratification?”

  “Well, fine, but hurry it up,” she demanded, gesturing with an emphatically imperious hand. “I can’t take much more of this!”

  “Don’t worry, Christine—we’ll soon astonish all of Paris.”

  It annoyed Christine, of course, that she could not show everyone that she was not the worthless singer that they all thought she was. Once or twice she couldn’t help herself and let her new voice sound forth during rehearsals. Fortunately, as she was only a member of the chorus, no one noticed. One time she hadn’t caught herself fast enough, and Meg Giry gave her a strange look; but thankfully, she said nothing. The Angel seemed to know about all these occurrences, somehow. “Soon,” he reminded her. And she would have to be content with that.

  Erik closed his eyes, leaving his fingers to play out Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8, and allowed his mind to wander. Normally he had to concentrate hard to lose himself in the music, to forget about who and what he was, but the act of forgetting didn’t seem so pressing to him now as it had a month ago. It was wonderful to allow his mind to relax and dwell on what it would—usually lesson plans for Christine—without it constantly returning to dwell on his own worthlessness and ugliness. Helping Christine Daaé to divahood had given him a purpose in life, and he had been surprised to discover that, in improving her life, he was improving his own as well. No matter how hideous he was, as long as she never saw his face, he was wanted—he was needed.

  Though she was very impatient, and often quite demanding, she was coming along very well. Her father, Gustave Daaé, had left her with a strange and incomplete musical education, having taught her up to a level of mastery to recognize notes based on pitch, and to remember melodies after hearing them only once, but the man had completely neglected to teach her how to read sheet music or anything about music theory. Instead of dismaying him, however, each gap in her education drove him on to greater determination to teach her everything he knew—finally, after a lifetime devoted to the study of music, his knowledge would be worth something.

  As he neared the end of the first movement of the sonata, he paused his contemplation to enjoy the crescendo of notes that marked its end, and savored their beauty as they echoed throughout his caverns. For a moment, he sat in silence before beginning the second movement.

  Christine’s father had also seen fit to leave her with a jumble of mismatched stories and rituals, confusion, and despair instead of a religion—apparently, the man had grown up in the small village of Upsala in Sweden, isolated from the rest of the world by impassable mountains and forests. When the rest of Scandinavia converted to Christianity, his ancestors had been overlooked. He was probably one of only a handful of nineteenth century men to be raised in the Norse tradition, believing in Odin, Thor, and numerous other Scandinavian gods, and in the existence of nine worlds and in fanciful creatures like giants and trolls. When Gustave married Christine’s mother, a devout Christian, he tried to give up his faith, but he had not been able to make the transition and instead mixed the two irreconcilable religions—and it was this that Christine had grown up believing in. She seemed to think that the Christian god was just a form of Odin, chief of the gods, and that Jesus Christ was possibly a version of Baldr, one of Odin’s sons, whose death had left the entire world in tears. The Angel of Music was, really, the only Christian-like thing in which she strongly believed (although Erik had never heard of such an angel. But then, he didn’t know very much about Christianity; he had always had a difficult time believing in God—how could any god have cursed him with such a face, such a miserable, hated existence?). Because of his own uncertainty concerning the divine, he had no intention of altering Christine’s beliefs, but he could see every day that she suffered greatly from the influence of her father’s stories, especially that of Niflheim, a sort of cold, desolate Hell in which the dead would wander alone forever. It was a cruel paradox that she clung to the broken fragments of those lost tales, though they condemned her to an eternity of loneliness.

  Dwelling on Christine’s dual-religion, he came to think about the Angel again. He tried to push away the guilt that plagued him, but it was no use. It would destroy the poor girl if she found out what he really was. But he was in too deep now—it would crush her just as much if her promised Angel disappeared (a possibility he had also considered and discarded).

  Her voice has improved so much under my instruction, he tried to tell himself. With the Phantom of the Opera Garnier behind her, she would be able to live her dream as diva.

  But his lies were still unforgivable.

  He sighed and rested his hands on the top of the piano, thinking. “I just want to help her,” he said aloud, listening with a pang of loneliness as his voice echoed through the empty caverns. If he told her who he was—if she saw his face—she would never agree to let him near her again.

  With a resigned expression, he let his hands drop back to the keys, and as the sonata picked up where it had left off, hesitant and full of emotion, he closed his eyes and hoped that he knew what he was doing.

  Christine stood on the stage, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited in line for her new copy of the script for Faust. The scripts had been distrib
uted quite some time ago, back when preparations for the opera had started, but some problems the managers were encountering had lead to a recasting, the cutting of a few songs, and other such changes, so a new script was being distributed. It was causing quite a commotion—after all, the opening of the opera was only two weeks away!—but the managers were so overwhelmed with problems that they felt it was necessary. Christine was the only one who knew that the recasting must be the result of divine intervention.

  Unlike the rest of the chorus girls, who were laughing and chattering and making nuisances of themselves, she was trying to calculate her chances of landing the lead soprano’s part, Marguerite. Carlotta had been giving the managers a lot more trouble than usual lately, after all.

  Christine had, because of the Angel’s reassurances, kept her divine tutelage a secret, but the closer she got to the front of the line, the more she regretted listening to him. If no one knew how fabulous and extraordinary her voice was (and about her heavenly backing), she wouldn’t even be considered for the position. On the other hand, she hadn’t managed to keep herself from showing off a little bit in the vocal practices of the chorus, and she was certain that at least a few people had taken notice. And the Angel had insisted that she learn all the lines and arias of Marguerite’s part—he refused to say that it was anything more than vocal practice, but the unspoken promise still rang in her ears.

  Meg touched Christine’s arm, and the would-be diva jumped. “What?” she snapped, annoyed at having her thoughts interrupted.

  “I just wanted to know if something was wrong,” said Meg softly. “You look anxious.”

  Christine felt immediately sorry for being rude and patted Meg’s hand. “It’s nothing.”

  “You’ve been being so secretive lately, always locking yourself in your dressing room—are you sure there isn’t anything wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong,” said Christine, annoyed again. She and Meg had been fairly good friends in the years that they had trained in the opera house, and while Christine appreciated Meg’s kindness and concern, it got very irritating at times.

  “Well?” demanded the irate chorus girl who was handing out the scripts. “Do you want one or don’t you?”

  Christine realized that she was at the head of the line and took a script with a haughty scowl at the girl to prove that she wasn’t embarrassed. Meg followed her as she walked towards the back of the stage, flipping to the cast list near the front. It read:

  Doctor Faust, tenor: Carolus Fanto.

  Méphistophélès, bass: Emile Balanqué.

  Marguerite, soprano: Carlotta Torres.

  Christine, heart sinking, didn’t bother to read the rest of it. She knew that she hadn’t gotten a part. Her script was too thin to include anything but the songs sung by the chorus. She had hardly dared to dream that she would get a starring role, but she had secretly been harboring the hope that the Angel would work his magic before the cast for Faust was set.

  Meg was asking her what was wrong again, but Christine ignored her. She couldn’t allow herself to be downtrodden like this—if she wanted to be a star, then she had to protest the casting of Marguerite. She was afraid to go to the managers; Debienne was nice enough, but Poligny didn’t like her. She’d ask Madame Giry.

  “Do you know where your mother is?” she asked Meg, rolling up her script and clutching it decisively.

  “She was here just a minute ago.” Meg looked around, then pointed to the hallway past the wings. “There she is.”

  Christine ran after the ballet mistress, filled with determination. “Madame Giry, wait!” she cried, struggling to catch up.

  The woman turned, somewhat surprised. “Christine, is something wrong?” she asked as Christine came to a halt next to her.

  “No—no,” Christine panted, a bit out of breath.

  “You’d be in better condition if you would attend more practices,” she admonished.

  “I—I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Please,” she began, not sure of exactly what she would say. “Please, Madame Giry, why can’t I play Marguerite?”

  The woman studied her thoughtfully, the only indication of her surprise being the ephemeral spark lighting her dark brown eyes. She was a few inches taller than Christine, and her rigid posture hinted at her stern, commanding temperament; it made her a very effective ballet mistress, however, because she could keep the lazier ballet rats in line. She was wearing her customary mourning dress; it had been years since her husband had died, and she had discarded only her mourning veil and not the black dress and equally unadorned black shoes that accompanied it. Somehow, her presence made its plain muslin form seem like the regal gown of a comtess.

  “The opera opens in two weeks, dear.”

  “That’s not a problem—I’ve been studying the lines. I can pull it off.”

  Madame Giry was silent for a moment, an odd expression on her face. It hurt Christine to realize what she must be thinking: Why on earth would anyone let a worthless ballet rat like you play the lead role? But Madame Giry merely said, “You have been improving greatly, Christine, but I’m afraid it’s too late for this opera.”

  “But I’m being taught by the Angel of Music,” she said desperately, hoping that she would be believed. She hadn’t met anyone in France who had even heard of the Angel, let alone believed in him.

  The ensuing silence was even longer than the first. Christine shifted her weight uncomfortably under the woman’s gaze, praying fervently that the ballet mistress would believe her. Finally, Madame Giry spoke. “And…did this…angel…tell you that you are ready to play Marguerite?”

  At least she wasn’t dismissing Christine’s claim out of hand, though she gave no sign that she believed it. But her question left Christine with another problem. The Angel would undoubtedly be angry if she violated his mandate. “Well, not exactly,” she admitted. “But I think I’m ready.”

  Madame Giry patted her shoulder. “Yes, well, I’m certain the angel knows best, my dear. Perhaps the next opera.”

  As Christine watched her walk down the hall, anger welled up inside her. It didn’t have to be this way—she was ready. It was the Angel’s fault that she wasn’t playing Marguerite.

  After a few hours of fuming, Christine marched to her dressing room. She had decided to tell the Angel how things were going to be—if she thought she was ready, then she most certainly was!

  She waited a few moments for him to speak, but there was only silence. It only served to incense her further—if this Angel had been sent to serve her, then he should be here! “Angel!” she yelled furiously, stomping her foot into the floor.

  His voice responded almost instantly. “Hello, Christine,” he greeted her. “I was hoping we could review the treble clef; and you still seem to be having trouble with the concept of ledger lines—”

  “I’m tired of this,” she interrupted haughtily. “My father didn’t send you to me so that I could go on being a pathetic chorus girl. He would have made me a diva by now! I deserve to be a diva— my voice is much better than Carlotta’s and I’m a hundred times more beautiful than she is!”

  The Angel was silent for a long moment. “Your father is not your teacher anymore, Christine—I am. Don’t you trust me to arrange the proper time for the unveiling of your voice?”

  “No! You’ve waited entirely too long! You’re my servant—you’re supposed to do as I say!”

  His voice was suddenly clipped and cold. “Well then, Christine, go ahead—reveal your talent to the world.” Christine shivered, unexpectedly afraid; he had become powerful and full of divine wrath. He was always so gentle and submissive—she hadn’t thought him capable of anger. “You obviously don’t think you need me any longer.”

  “Th-then you’ll leave me?” asked Christine, realizing how foolish her words had been.

  “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

  She couldn’t admit d
efeat. The Angel was supposed to be here to help her, to serve her—if she confessed that she needed him, then he would be the one in control. “No,” she declared. “I will be Marguerite!”

  Two days after this occurrence, Christine was on the stage. Though it was filled almost to capacity with chorus girls and other members of the cast, no rehearsal was going on. Some people were chatting, and some were laughing at the vulgar jokes a stagehand was relating (at least, she assumed they were vulgar; their laughter was quite raucous). The remainder of the stage’s inhabitants were listening to the argument between Madame Giry and Monsieur Mercier, the conductor. Christine was part of this last group, though she was listening out of more than idle interest. This could be her chance to prove to everyone that she could be as good a diva as Carlotta.

  She hadn’t heard the Angel’s voice since she’d yelled at him, and she felt terrible because of it—but if she didn’t go through with her plan, she’d certainly feel worse. If she got the part of Marguerite, then she could apologize without any loss of pride, and the Angel would accept, and things could go back to the way they’d been. If he didn’t accept her apology, well, it wasn’t a tragedy, because she’d already be a diva.

  Mercier pointedly set down his conductor’s baton, his thin, curled moustache twitching in irritation. “There is no point in practicing if La Carlotta is not here.”

  Christine edged forward, hesitant to interrupt their argument.

  “But the opera opens in two weeks!” Madame Giry snapped. “Surely we can do something without her!”

  “No, madame, we—”

  “I could sing for her!” Christine offered loudly.

  The entire stage went silent. Christine fidgeted nervously, unhappy to have them all staring at her. But when she was a diva, she reasoned, people would stare at her all the time; she’d just have to get used to it.

  “What did you say, my dear?” Madame Giry asked, though Christine could tell she had heard perfectly.

  “I said I could sing Marguerite’s part.”