by Heather Webb
We began again, from one verse to the next and—
“Stop!” Gabriel wiped his perfectly dry brow with a handkerchief. Everyone paused while he folded the square of linen and stuffed it ceremoniously in his pocket. “Mademoiselle Daaé, you are projecting your voice.”
Several in the row below me turned to glare.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying—”
“Do not try. Do,” he said, exasperated.
Or I might find myself without a position. The director’s unspoken words hung in the air. I looked down to avoid his glare. Why couldn’t I harness my voice? I must not be focusing well.
“We’re going to start over, from the beginning,” Gabriel said.
Jocelyn leaned toward me and whispered, “You have a lovely voice. Don’t let him scare you.”
I smiled in thanks.
“Encore!” Gabriel said, raising his hands in the air.
I pulled myself up to my full height, shoulders back, and locked on to the director’s hands. When the time came for sopranos to join the song, I followed his directives—until we hit a middle C note.
The note surged from my lips and my voice sailed above the others.
“Stop, stop, stop!”
“Will you stop showing off?” a man to my right asked. His beady eyes almost disappeared in his rotund face. “We have to keep starting over because of you. Every time,” he said, emphasizing his disdain. “I don’t understand why they don’t send you on your way.”
A lump lodged in my throat. The man was horrible, and yet, I feared he was right. But I could do this, I told myself. I had to do this.
The director stepped down from his platform, tugged at the edges of his suit jacket, and headed straight for me, the clack of his shoes beating in tune with my thumping pulse. “Mademoiselle Daaé, a word please. Everyone else, take a break.”
I flushed and followed the director to his office.
Gabriel closed the door behind us. In the enclosed space, the strength of his spicy cologne clogged the air.
“I apologize for my performance today. And all week,” I added hurriedly. “I’ll work harder, if you just give me another chance. I—”
He held up his hand. “I didn’t bring you in here to reprimand you. It’s true you are having trouble blending your voice with the others, and they assume you aren’t a skilled singer. Had I not known your difficulties for what they truly are, I would have the same opinion.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You, Mademoiselle, have the voice of a lead.”
My eyes widened in disbelief. “You mean—”
“You’re struggling to integrate your voice with the others because you aren’t one of them. You possess far more talent.” He cracked a smile. “A diva,” he repeated and emphasized for effect, “does not integrate well, as her voice rises above the others naturally. Your voice is rich, yet you are able to project a clear coloratura soprano. I haven’t heard a voice so fine since we appointed Carlotta as our leading lady. You need practice, but in time, your voice might match hers. At the very least, you make a fine stand-in.”
A surge of joy warmed my veins. I remembered the rude man in the chorus and grinned.
“I would like you to learn Carlotta’s lines. She hasn’t had an understudy in ages, but we need one. She comes and goes whenever she wants, and it causes . . . issues.” He leaned closer, as if imparting a secret. “She can be a difficult woman, if you hadn’t noticed. She may resist, but I have the final say.”
This was it! The opportunity I was hoping for. Elated, I grasped his hand without thinking and shook it vehemently. “Thank you for this opportunity, Monsieur. I’ll make you glad you’ve chosen me.”
“I sincerely hope so.” A hint of amusement shone in his eyes. “Report to my assistant immediately and gather the scripts. You’ll continue to learn the chorus songs as well.”
I smiled. “You can’t know what this means to me.”
He gave me a crisp nod and retreated through the door.
I imagined walking past the chorus, ignoring their sour expressions, and practicing the lead! I ran in place in my exuberance. Papa would have been so proud. He would have said . . .
What would he have said? I grasped for the sound of his voice, his wise counsel, but couldn’t recall it. A sudden pang rippled through me. I had forgotten the sound of his voice. The familiar despair began to well, but I held on to my emotions tightly, the way a seal on a bottle grips the glass. No, I wouldn’t let it pull me under again.
Directing my gaze to the ceiling, I whispered, “Papa, I hope you’re watching. This is for you.”
Each day after practice I returned home and pored over Carlotta’s lines. I had been in the diva’s presence plenty, and yet, she hadn’t even glanced in my direction. She seemed to ignore me intentionally. I didn’t know what to think of her behavior—I posed no threat to her position. The music-loving crowd worshipped her, and the papers raved about her as excitement built for the upcoming season.
“Stop!” Carlotta shouted at the orchestra, her voice shrill. “You’re off-key again.” She stalked across the stage and drank from a water glass.
“They were not off-key,” Gabriel said.
“Are you insinuating I was?” She glared at him. “I will have you fired, you ingrate! And you, little dancer”—she pointed at Meg—“are out of step.”
Meg’s face drained of color. I shot her a look of sympathy. Meg danced beautifully as always, but La Italiana seemed to enjoy being spiteful.
Chagrin stamped the choral director’s face. “Why don’t you take a break, Carlotta. We’ll practice the recitative when you return. Christine, you’re on.”
Carlotta brushed past me, calling over her shoulder, “Lift your chin while you finish your aria this time, Daaé. And be sure to work on your breathing. Gasping like a fish is unacceptable. It would be a shame to have you replaced when you’ve only just begun.”
The first sparks of anger flickered in my belly. Through a false smile I said, “I will do my best. It’s an honor to be called your understudy.”
She stopped abruptly and turned, her skirt swaying around her flower-painted boots. She looked me over, taking in the muslin patterned with bluebells, my tightly pinned hair. “Tua bellezza isn’t enough to secure your place here.” She waved her hand toward the rows of empty seats in the theater. “You are a novice and it shows. No amount of pretty-girl pucker or fluttering eyelashes will persuade the audience to love you. Nor the directors to keep you.”
Heat bloomed in my chest and seeped into my cheeks. I needn’t see the rash to know it was there; it always betrayed me when I most needed to stand up for myself but couldn’t. The words—a perfectly formed retort—stuck in my throat like day-old bread. I wanted to tell her I was grateful for this chance to prove myself, that I would make them happy they chose me. Most of all, I longed to tell her she was a bully. Yet, in spite of the unfamiliar anger growing inside me, my eyes darted to the worn boards of the stage. Papa’s warning about speaking out of turn, and the regret that would inevitably follow, echoed in my ears.
Carlotta grasped my chin between her thumb and forefinger. “I tell you these things not to hurt you, bella, but to warn you. Female singers and actors are treated like cattle that can be bought and sold. You must prove your worth or lose everything.”
Tongue-tied still, I nodded.
She scoffed at my silence and swept off the stage.
“Christine!” Gabriel called to me. “We don’t have all day.”
The sheen on his impeccable blond waves caught the light and his features appeared unmoved by the exchange. He had witnessed Carlotta’s less-than-friendly behavior but said nothing. He’d been bullied by her many times, I knew. Carlotta held all the power. They had no other true vedette, no other star, and her celebrated status filled every seat in the theater. I walked to my place and stuck out my chin. If I must earn my respect here, I would.
After a grueling practic
e with the chorus one afternoon, I lost myself in Notre-Dame de Paris in Madame’s salon. I needed an escape to the luxurious stained glass of the cathedral, the kind yet beastly Quasimodo, and his respite among the bells. I sighed happily, as I nestled into the cushions of the sofa.
Monsieur Delacroix’s baritone floated in from the hall, interrupting my diversion.
“What brings you across town?” I stood and we exchanged kisses on each cheek.
“I thought I would pay you and Jeanne a visit,” he said.
“She’s resting.” I rang a bell to summon Alfred. “She hasn’t been feeling well lately. The pain in her back seems to be getting worse.”
Alfred entered and bowed. “What can I bring for you, Mademoiselle? Monsieur? Coffee or tea?”
“I’d like a brandy.” Delacroix hung his bowler on the hat rack. “I’ve had a long day already.”
I noted the agitation in his voice, the wrinkle between his eyes. “I hope all is well?”
Alfred brought a snifter glass and decanter, set it before Delacroix, and served him.
After a drink of the potent liquor, the professor studied me silently. He seemed to wrestle with a decision. At last he said, “A most troubling rumor has surfaced from the opera house.”
“Oh?” I clasped my hands together in my lap, suddenly nervous. I hoped it had nothing to do with me. I had worked hard these last weeks to fit in, and to please the choral director—to stay out of Carlotta’s way.
“You may think me foolish when I explain.” He paused.
I motioned to Alfred to put on the kettle for tea.
“There’s talk of a ghost at the opera.”
“A ghost at the opera house?” I echoed. First the séance, now this?
“Someone claims to have seen a floating head. Several of the ballerinas and choir girls reported hearing voices. The incidents appear to be growing more fantastic by the day.”
The intensity of his gaze chilled me.
I rubbed my arms to banish the unwelcome rash of goose bumps. How had all of this happened around me without my knowing? Suddenly it seemed as if ghosts were everywhere.
He clasped his hands. “As you know, this is my line of work. Or a part of it, anyway.”
“Indeed, yes, but you’re certain it’s at the Opéra de Paris? This is the first I’ve heard of it and I’m there almost every day. I—”
“I have a very good source.” He perched on the edge of his chair.
I frowned at his tone. “If you believe they’re true, then so shall I.”
A grim smile crossed his face and he visibly forced himself to relax. “The rumors intrigue me. In fact, the directors have contacted me to assess what is happening. They’d like for me to locate the problem. I will help when I can, but as you know, I have my own work to do at the Académie. I certainly can’t be there every day.” He traced the rim of his empty glass with his thumb. “But you can.”
I stared at him in surprise. “You want me to chase a ghost?”
“Chase it, no. But if you could document any disturbances or odd happenings, listen to the gossip among the cast and report it to me, it would be helpful. I’ll make it a point to tour the building thoroughly as well.”
“It could all be a series of pranks.” I didn’t want to disappoint Delacroix—he had been so kind to me the last months—but, should I draw attention to myself, I could be dismissed. Or become the ghost’s next target. In spite of the ridiculous notion, my goose bumps returned. The building had a life of its own, and apparently it held secrets, too.
“Christine, it could help me with my research either way,” he said, his exasperation plain, “but it will also help the directors. I owe them a favor.”
Alfred placed the tea tray on the table. He had taken the liberty of bringing a variety of biscuits as well.
“I must admit, your request makes me uncomfortable,” I said. “Should I be caught sneaking about, I might get into trouble.”
“I assure you, you needn’t do anything dangerous or too intrusive. Leave that to me.” His words came out in a rush, like he was on the verge of victory. He scooped up my hand in his and squeezed it harder than necessary. I winced at the pressure. “Perhaps for your efforts, I may treat you to a new gown? You’ll need something beautiful for all of the parties you’ll attend once the season starts.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” I pulled free of his grasp and massaged my palm. His eagerness bordered on forceful. I wondered, once again, how he had come to his profession. It seemed odd for a man of academic achievements to devote so much time to rumors and supernatural phenomena.
Given his request, I deserved some answers. I cradled my full teacup in my hands. Its warmth seeped into my fingers and began to burn my skin. “Tell me, Monsieur, how did you come to work in your profession? I recall you saying it was a story for another day. I think that day has arrived.”
His absorbing gaze penetrated my very skin.
I shifted on the sofa and focused on his square-toed ankle boots, polished to a shine. “I fear jeopardizing my position at the opera, but if you help me understand . . . If this is something so dear to you . . .”
“You can’t imagine how dear.” He seemed to relax with my concession and poured himself another brandy. Once he’d had a sip, he said, “My mother died when I was a boy of eight. Consumption. My father was grief-stricken beyond consolation. In fact, he never recovered. He saw apparitions of her everywhere, claimed he heard her whispering to him at night. He solicited medium after medium to perform séances to contact her spirit. Time stopped for us, just as it had for her. Father became obsessed with her ghost, with the dead. Enough to forget his son who still lived.”
He swilled the last of his drink. “When I confronted him, we argued. I would hide in the library for hours.”
My unease ebbed and sympathy replaced it. I regarded the sorrow lines around his eyes, the determined set of his jaw. He was all alone after his mother’s death, even with a living parent at his side. Though I had been orphaned, I never doubted my father’s love.
Delacroix sought to disprove his father’s theories to spite him. He’d had no one to comfort him, or watch him grow into a man. This was why the professor didn’t believe in the spirit world.
I touched his arm gently. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all long past. He was a fool. I’ve had two dead parents most of my life, and friends who have perished, and yet I’ve never seen a spirit, nor heard one.” He looked up. “Except on a conjurer’s stage at a show my father and I attended one night. After the show, Father took his own bullet—all because the conjurer made him believe my mother was at the theatre, and that he should join her in death.”
I squirmed inwardly. Conjuring was dangerous—something I knew all too well. Communing with the dead triggered grief, outrage, fear. Yet it was all an act. I felt a prick of guilt for enjoying the illusions anyway.
A fierceness returned to Delacroix’s tone. “I will find that conjurer one day. Expose him for the fraud he is. I’ve narrowed the list considerably over the years. So you see, my work is quite personal, as well as professional.”
I studied him in silence. A vein pulsed in his neck and anger clouded his eyes.
“As for the opera house,” he continued, “if the directors need my help to rid them of a nuisance, I’m more than happy to oblige. I will expose this ghost as nothing but a fraud, a man disturbing the cast for his own amusement. It can only help my career as well. After, I’ll add the findings to a book I’ve been writing for some time. I plan to approach a publisher with it next year.”
I placed my hand atop his. “If tracking this . . . this ghost becomes too uncomfortable, or if it causes any trouble I will—”
“Cease all enquiries at once,” he finished my sentence.
I nodded. “I’ll do it.” The moment I said the words, anxiety stirred in my stomach.
“You’re an angel.” He kissed my gloved hand and stood abruptly. “I must
go. I have some urgent matters to look into, but I’ll be in touch very soon.”
I rose from my chair, taken aback by his abruptness.
“Enjoy your evening.” He collected his hat from the rack and ducked through the door without hesitation. I didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye.
I slumped on the sofa and mulled over the strange conversation. Of late, I’d been questioning my beliefs. The dreams, the noises at night. Now this? I shook my head. I’m certain I wouldn’t find anything at the opera. Someone must be up to a rash of silly pranks, I tried to convince myself.
Ghosts didn’t exist.
6
I felt more than a little foolish the following two weeks, skulking about the cast and the dressing rooms to eavesdrop, but I hadn’t caught word of anything about a ghost. I wondered where Delacroix received his information. Perhaps someone had fabricated the rumors to mislead the directors. None of it made sense.
When opening day arrived, I could hold my tongue no longer.
“Meg, can I ask you something?” She plaited her hair in her dressing stall among the others. “Have you heard anything about a ghost haunting the opera? There are some rumors, apparently.”
She dropped her arms to her sides and narrowed her eyes. “Who wants to know?”
“Let me help you.” I scooped up her fine dark hair and finished plaiting the last section. “Oh, just me. I was curious. It seems ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“Who mentioned the ghost to you?” She lowered her voice.
“I overheard a couple of the ballerinas talking about it on their way to practice,” I lied.
She turned in her chair to face me. “If I tell you, you can’t say a word about it. Promise me.”
I hesitated to reply. I would have to lie to her again, and I didn’t like the idea. But I promised Monsieur Delacroix I would help.
“Don’t worry. I’m not one to spread rumors.”
She motioned for me to lean closer. There’s a fantôme. He lives here, in the building. Some claimed to have seen him. There have been threats. All I can tell you is: Don’t stay after the show ends, and try to avoid being alone. And we can’t tell anyone.”