by Heather Webb
“You won’t find me there.” Instantly, the voice emanated from a different place across the hall. “But I was with you last night, in your hour of need.”
This must be him—the opera ghost—just as Delacroix had said. A rustling sounded behind me and I flinched again.
“Joseph Buquet will leave you alone, now, anyway.” The timbre of his voice turned sinister.
“The machinist?” Had this mysterious voice hurt the man? I didn’t know whether to be frightened or relieved.
“Or so he called himself, yes. He is a criminal.”
“You speak in riddles. Are you . . .” I swallowed hard. “Are you going to hurt me, too?”
A haughty laugh reverberated off the walls and ceiling. “I fear it is I, who will be hurt by you.”
I looked overhead as I moved to the other wall. “I don’t understand.”
The slightest swishing came from my left. My face jerked in that direction.
No one was there.
“You don’t need to understand.” Amusement crept into his voice. “All you need to do is to follow my instructions. Meet me each evening during the performance, unless you are on stage, in which case you will meet me afterward. When there’s no show, you will still come to practice daily in your dressing room. You have talent, but have had poor training.”
In spite of my fear, his words stung. Papa would certainly disagree. “And if I don’t?”
“You will never be ready to compete for Carlotta’s place. As it stands, she’s a far better singer than you, but together, we can develop your voice into what you long for it to be.”
The voice hummed a melody, notes flowing into one another until I recognized a beloved song: a piece from Carmen in which Don Jose sang of his tortured love for the beautiful, wild Carmen, though she wanted only the handsome Escamillo. How had this ghost known I loved Carmen most? The poetic lyrics and stunning finish with Carmen’s death had entranced me from the first time I had heard it.
As the song faded, silence enveloped me once more.
Voice hoarse, I said, “Please, if I am to do as you say, at least tell me who you are.”
A sliding noise came from inside the walls.
The voice whispered in my ear, “I’m not only the fantôme de l’opéra, I am your Angel of Music.”
7
The following evening, I practiced with the chorus, but my head buzzed with the Angel’s words. Just as Papa had always said, the Angel was here for me. It felt like a dream—a terrifying one, but a dream nonetheless. Surely my mind played tricks on me. I sang on the greatest stage in the world and now a spirit would help me become a star—if I did as he asked.
When the show ended, I left the stage and walked quickly to the dressing rooms. As I neared Carlotta’s, I picked up my pace. I didn’t want to run into the prima donna.
“Christine, how convenient,” she called as I passed the door.
Luck was not on my side.
“Please, come in,” she called.
Reluctantly, I walked to the doorway of her dressing room and stopped. Carlotta wore a magnificent costume made of muslin, dyed chestnut brown and trimmed with animal fur. A pointed helmet sat atop her head, a band of studded leather encircled her naked wrists and neck, and one long plait ran over her shoulder. The costume designer stood at her elbow, fussing with some pins along her hem.
I had to admit, she made a stunning Odella. I wondered when they expected to run Verdi’s Atilla. I’d heard nothing about it. I frowned, confused. Why hadn’t I been asked to learn her parts as the understudy? In fact, I hadn’t heard much about the happenings at the opera at all. I needed to pay more attention when Meg prattled on after practices.
Carlotta motioned to me, pulling her elbow from the designer’s grip. “Ouch! Be careful.” She glared at him.
“I’ve asked you not to move a half dozen times,” he said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
She ignored him. “Christine, I wanted to invite you a casa mia. You’ve heard that I’m hosting a soirée next week at my apartment, I’m sure. Half of the city will be there, so it should be quite a fete.”
Startled by her sudden warmth—and suspicious of her intentions—my voice faltered. “I . . . No, I hadn’t. It’s very kind of you to invite me.”
No one had spoken of the party around me, or included me in their conversations. My chest tightened a little at the thought. I hadn’t integrated well with the cast, it seemed, and didn’t understand why. Jealousy, perhaps?
I looked past Carlotta into her dressing room. Several bouquets of exotic blooms filled the tables, and an armoire gaped, displaying gowns and costumes of all kinds. A vanity stood against the far wall, showcasing a magnificent mirror framed in gold leaf. On its tabletop, a clock struck half past eleven.
“I’m honored you would think of me.”
“Think of you?” Her penciled-on eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh, cara mia, you are one of us now. I like to take the understudies into my fold. I have struggled to make a name for myself, to stand on solid ground. Now my ground is rather glorious, no? But you must put in the effort. Sii forte! Be strong!” She thrust her fist forward to prove her point.
“Besides”—her eyes raked over my frame—“you could benefit from my expertise. If I ever need you to stand in for me, I can’t have you driving away the crowd I’ve worked hard to attain.”
An offer of help, wrapped in thorns. This was the woman I expected. “Carlotta—”
She dismissed me with a wave. “Be on your way.”
“You were wonderful tonight.”
“Of course, darling. Buonanotte.”
Though Carlotta’s assured response hit a nerve, I smiled before hurrying to the dressing rooms. Perhaps I would make friends at her soirée, or at the very least, enjoy myself. Meg was kind, but often too busy helping her mother, Madame Giry, with her duties as box keeper and concierge, or practicing dance routines. Claudette was dear, but lacked the freedom I had to come and go. I was tired of being alone.
I turned down the hallway leading to the dressing rooms. My stomach clenched at the thought of being with the Angel at this hour of night, but I had to see if this was real. If he was real.
A laugh of disbelief bubbled in my throat. My emotions swung from terror to doubt to excitement within seconds. This was a ghost who truly understood music; the one Papa had promised looked after me all those years. Perhaps the Angel’s aid would be exactly what I needed. Perhaps he was my only hope. I was meeting an angel-ghost to practice? Good God, I was losing my mind.
“You do plan to keep your word?” The Angel whispered near my ear.
“Oh!” I stumbled in surprise and backed against a marble column, its cool surface seeping into my skin. “I’m—I’m tired.”
“Do you wish to improve or not?” A hint of impatience tinged his words.
“Yes,” I said, shrinking against the pillar. “Am I to meet you in the dressing rooms?”
“Of course not.” His impatience flared again. “Meet me in yours. We will have more privacy there.”
“I don’t have my own.”
“It’s the last door at the end of the hallway. You will find it as luxurious as that of La Italiana.”
My own room? I wondered what Carlotta’s reaction would be when she learned of it. She would see it as competition. Hearth thumping, I walked swiftly past a cluster of weeping candles and a series of empty rooms. Everyone had gone home or joined the revelry at a dance hall. Everyone but me. When I reached the last room, I stopped. A plaque had already been affixed to the door. I traced the curve of the letter “C” and smiled. The letter “i” was dotted with a star and shimmered gold. In spite of my hesitation, my heart swelled at the sight.
Inside, a resplendent room sprawled before me, lavishly furnished with velvet-covered chairs and walls lined with crimson silk. A burnished cherry armoire skulked on the far wall. Carved into the topmost ledge of the furniture, a face jutted from the frame, its u
ndulating hair serpentine and a smile on its lips that could only mean mischief. I moved to the vanity in the middle of the far wall. Light spilled from lamps on either side of its large mirror, and on the tabletop was a single scarlet rose. Mind whirling, I stroked the petals, still dewy and fresh as if the blossom had just been plucked. I smelled the flower and rested it against my cheek, relishing the velvet on my skin. It didn’t make sense that the choral director hadn’t mentioned my dressing room, unless . . . unless he didn’t know about it.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The Angel of Music’s voice sounded low, but insistent.
I spun around. “Where are you?”
“Here,” he said, from the opposite corner of the room.
“And now here,” he sang, his tenor reverberating from the ceiling.
Bumps rose on my arms. He must be a ghost. No human could move so quickly. Forcing out a steadying breath, I said, “May we begin? My benefactor is ill, and I don’t like to leave her alone too long.”
“You’re eager. I quite like that.” His tone turned jaunty, his amusement plain. “First, you must listen. To become a fine musician is to understand what you hear, to emulate it, and then to embody it.”
The voice began to sing and his rapturous tenor filled the room. Without thought, I swayed to the playful yet addictive song and admired the purity of his beautiful voice, understanding the difficulty of flowing from one phrase to the next at such speed.
The Angel of Music, indeed—he was a brilliant singer.
When he finished, I was breathless. “I don’t recognize the song.”
“You don’t know ‘La Donna è Mobile’?” He sounded incredulous. “It’s from Rigoletto, based on Victor Hugo’s play Le roi s’amuse. ‘Woman is unstable, like the feather in the wind; she changes tone, and thought.’ ” His laugh echoed through the dressing room. Abruptly the laugh stopped, and his tone took on an exasperated edge. “There’s so much you do not know. We need to get to work at once. We’ll begin by warming up your vocal chords. Start with a lip and tongue trill. Follow with humming a set of scales.”
“I’ve already practiced today.”
“You have worked with those beneath you, who don’t understand music,” he insisted. “Now, begin.”
I stood in ready position with my chest out and arms loosely at my sides. I completed one drill after another, quick to follow the Angel’s lead. I didn’t want to disappoint him.
When I finished, he said, “This time, sing an arpeggio with the word ‘nah.’ Mind your mouth position.”
I formed my lips into an oval and followed his instructions. Slowly, my tightened muscles relaxed, my unease ebbed.
“Excellent. You are at ease, I see, and it shows.”
A warm sensation coursed through my limbs. I smiled, genuinely happy. Though the Angel’s presence made me nervous, his praise encouraged me in a way Papa’s never had.
“Now,” he continued, “I’d like you to sing ‘Habanera.’ ”
From Carmen again. It seemed no coincidence that he’d chosen a favorite of mine. If spirits walked among us, wouldn’t they know our secrets? I closed my eyes as the notes awakened in my throat and danced to the tip of my tongue. The melody cantered around me, caressed the air, and filled the room.
“Arrête!” the Angel thundered.
My eyes flew open and the song died on my lips.
“You are singing from your throat, not your diaphragm, and there’s no resonation through the head.” The Angel sounded exasperated. “This is why your voice is deeper than it should be. You are a coloratura soprano, not a mezzo, and your tone is off. Carlotta outshines you in this regard.”
Stunned by his change of mood, I stared at myself in the large mirror spanning the back wall. I was encapsulated in a beam of light, making my hair look like spun gold, my features as delicate as a porcelain doll. But my vocals were those of an amateur, apparently, and I’d never realized I had quite so much work to do. Not even Papa had been so critical.
At last, I managed to say, “I have never had a proper tutor.”
“You have one now.”
“Why are you helping me?”
After a long moment of silence he said, “I promised to look after you.”
“Promised whom?” I assumed it must be my father. But, if so, why had the Angel come to me only now? Perhaps, it was because I had locked my music away when Papa had died. I’d closed the door to everything and everyone.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters now is your voice. I will make you into a star, if you do as you are told. We will oust Carlotta together.”
A pang of guilt hit me. Carlotta, though prickly at times, had invited me to join her at her home and offered her assistance—not an easy concession on her part. Though I wanted to be on stage, I didn’t want to do something untoward to force her out, or to embroil myself in a scheme. Yet . . . if I did succeed her, I’d achieve a dream beyond my imaginings. And my wages would help support Madame—and me.
“Very well.” I turned to the voice, now coming from a corner swathed in darkness. “Tell me what I must do.”
For the following week I practiced with the Angel of Music daily. I tingled when I felt his dark presence pervade my dressing room, his passion saturate the air. Enthralled by his talents and flattered to be worthy of his attention, I obeyed his every request. I didn’t know what I had done to deserve his instruction, but I relished learning from him. He didn’t mind my lowly station, my lack of connections, or my weaknesses. He believed I could be shaped into a star. In spite of his generosity, his mercurial moods kept me on my toes. I absorbed so much from his lessons, even when he roared for me to stop and picked at every syllable or flat note. It wasn’t long before I learned to detect the moment his patience wore thin. I knew how to do as I was told, regardless of my own desires. I’d been obedient my whole life.
I smothered a yawn with the back of my hand. Last night our lesson was fraught with more stops and starts than usual. He had been unsatisfied with everything. When I managed to get home and climb into bed, it was only a few hours before dawn.
When Monsieur Delacroix arrived at the door first thing in the morning, Claudette pulled me from heavy slumber.
“What brings you here, Monsieur?” I tugged at the dress I’d thrown on in haste.
“I would like to speak with you. Walk with me?” He offered his arm. “We can take a turn through the Luxembourg gardens.”
“Can we stop for coffee and croissants first?” I asked, stomach grumbling.
The professor led me to his favorite café across town. When finished with our repast, we continued on to the gardens. As I stepped down from the carriage, I turned my face to a despondent sky. A little dreary weather didn’t deter me after years in the streets. With a snap, I popped open my umbrella and peered out from beneath the fringe, eyes still bleary with fatigue. The clouds wept upon its bowed arch, my shoes, and my hem, and rainwater pooled in the path around the central fountain of the garden.
“It’s quite a day for a walk.” I twirled the umbrella handle between my hands in a nervous gesture. Perhaps the professor had learned my secret: The ghost he sought had become my teacher, and my friend. I had no idea how I could put him off the notion. I was a terrible liar.
Monsieur Delacroix motioned to a thicket of elm trees. “Autumn is early this year. The leaves have already begun to brown.”
“Yet the flowers are as beautiful as ever.” Blooms embellished the many flowerpots scattered throughout the garden. I would humor him with polite conversation, hoping my instincts were wrong. But the weighty topic—the opera ghost—hung in the air between us.
He rolled a dried leaf between his fingers until all that remained were the threads of its veins. “As you know, I have spent some time at the opera house.”
Unwittingly, my feet picked up their pace. “Yes, I assumed so.” Though I had yet to see him there myself, and frowned at this oddity.
“It has come to my attention th
at the ghost has made some threats, one of which was made to secure a dressing room for you.” He turned his cobalt eyes upon me.
A hot flow of anger rushed to my cheeks. “Pardon my frankness, Monsieur, but I had nothing to do with it, if that is your implication.”
He plucked more leaves from a branch and crushed them in his palm. “You’ve heard the ghost speak once before. Has he spoken to you again? If so, you must tell me at once. It isn’t just for my studies, Christine. The directors demand to know.”
Friend or not, the professor had no right to push me this way.
For the first time, the Angel of Music had made me feel as if someone understood me. I needed the Angel to get to the stage. I cared for Delacroix, and respected the directors, but I had to look out for myself as well.
A gust of wind blew rain from the umbrella’s fringe and sprayed my cheeks. I stopped in the path as I realized a sudden, liberating truth: I didn’t have to tell Delacroix anything. I didn’t have to continue on as if I were a child, my father’s daughter, bound by strict rules and expectations. I was a woman. I didn’t need a man to dictate my every move.
Helping Delacroix didn’t benefit me, and it threatened the Angel’s trust. If my teacher abandoned me . . . the thought inspired an unexpected ache in my gut. I would be on my own in the opera house, left to defend myself, without a tutor or a protector.
“I haven’t heard the ghost’s voice since that night.” I ran my fingers along the fringe of my umbrella. “And thank goodness. It scared me half to death.”
“That’s unfortunate.” He pressed his lips together. “If you do hear something, please let me know. It’s imperative to keep abreast of the ghost’s actions. I can’t protect you otherwise.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I have your best interests at heart.” He took my free hand in his, kissed it, and squeezed it—a little too hard. “You needn’t keep anything from me. I hope you know that.”
His tone, for the first time, frightened me. “Of course.” I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat.