The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  With all my heart, she screamed in her mind. With everything she had, she wanted to stay—she wanted to love him. But it did not matter if he did not love her.

  “Jenna?” Omid's question weighed on her, making her head spin and her stomach churn. Suddenly, she realized she had to get out of the room. “I've got to go feed Samineh,” she announced, as she quickly rose off the settee, tucking the kitten into the crook of her arm, and hurried into the kitchen.

  As Omid watched her go, a sudden realization dawned on him. He guffawed loudly, shaking his head at the epiphany. “Allah above,” he exclaimed. “Now I know why, out of all the places in time and space you could have chosen, you dropped her in Erik's home. She is just like him.”

  “Penny, I think there may be other methods of treating her.” Charleson said, as he drove her to her hotel. It had been a difficult visit with her niece, and she had declined his second dinner invitation, preferring, instead, to call in for room service. He had insisted upon giving her a ride, however, so here she sat, in his car, discussing Jenna's case with the only person she had come to trust since arriving in New York. Jenna's own doctor seemed so hopeful, but he could not point her to any concrete sign of any progress she had made, beyond squeezing his hand and smiling at some music. Blaine had explained to her that both of those movements could be considered reflexive, and not in response to any type of therapy at all. And in truth, the therapy being provided seemed nebulous at best.

  “What ways, Blaine?” she asked, exhausted, rubbing her forehead. “You said yourself, it was probably too late for surgery to do any good at this point.”

  “That is true, Penny,” he said, as he turned the corner into the well-lit driveway of her hotel. “But I have been doing some research into some drugs—drugs that have been shown to have great effects on coma patients, sometimes even waking them up. But it's late, and it's probably not my place anyway to suggest this. After all, she is under another doctor's care and…”

  “No, Blaine,” Penny said, suddenly feeling more invigorated. “It's not too late to talk about this.”

  “But Penny, we're here, and you said you were tired and just wanted to go upstairs and relax with some room service… in bed.” He turned the car off and opened his door.

  Penny watched Charleson get out of the car and walk around to open her door for her. She had to do some quick thinking. It would probably send the wrong message, but she wanted to hear what he had to say about these drugs—Jenna's doctor be damned.

  Charleson opened her door, and Penny took the hand he offered to help her out of the car. “Blaine,” she asked, laying her hand on his forearm, “Would you care to join me for some room service?”

  A smile flashed across Charleson's features as he tossed his keys to the waiting valet. Pulling Penny's arm more snugly around his he answered, “I'd love to.”

  26 CHRISTINE DA’AE CAN SING IT SIR

  “I am telling you, Ubaldo,” Carlotta insisted, her voice still bordering on hysterical, “it was the ghost.”

  “Hush,” Piangi whispered in his lover's ear, as he guided her down the hall toward her dressing room to collect her things. “Hush, il mio amore. It was that buffoon Buquet. Moncharmin and Robert' found him passed out in the fly tower—obviously too drunk to do his job.” He tightened his arm around her shoulders, and continued to speak to her in soothing tones. “He will no longer be a problem, cara. He has been dismissed.”

  “Well, I do not believe it was Buquet, Ubaldo,” Carlotta responded, haughtily, shaking her head. “Why would-a the backdrop fall if he was simply passed out drunk?”

  “Who knows how sober he was when he hung it in the first place, mio caro?” They had finally reached her dressing room. “Come, my love. We get your things, and I take-a you home.” He smiled at her, and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. It had taken quite some time for the physician to settle Carlotta's nerves enough so that he could examine her. Aside from some bad bruises, and soreness, she would be fine, but Piangi still wanted to get her home so she could rest. “I will make you feel better, eh? A foot rub, perhaps? A nice warm bath?”

  “I still say it was the Phantom,” she insisted, hand on the door handle to her room, reluctant to let go of her suspicions. “There is something between him and that seamstress. He always seems to be there to rescue her when…”

  “Well, perhaps you have been a bit harsh on her, cara?” Piangi interrupted, in a gentle tone, trying to make his mistress see reason.

  “Harsh on her?” Carlotta asked incredulously, rounding on him. “Harsh on her? She is nothing but a little idiota! She cannot even sew my dresses correctly!”

  “She is a child, cara. Thin as a rail,” he spoke, in mollifying tones, putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close. “What does she know of a woman's curves, eh?”

  Carlotta allowed the tenor's caress to soothe her somewhat, and her voice was more relaxed when she next spoke, holding only a grudging annoyance for the inexperienced costume girl. “Well, she better learn quickly.”

  “She has much to learn, my dear,” he murmured, brushing a wisp of hair away from his paramour's forehead.

  Smiling into his touch, Carlotta finally sighed and asked, “Can it be a bubble bath, Ubaldo?”

  “Of course, mio amore,” he whispered, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead.

  “And a foot rub?” she purred now, allowing Ubaldo's attentions to thoroughly carry her away from her troubles.

  “At least, my darling,” his kisses trailed down her neck, sending little tingles throughout her body.

  “Let's go!” Eager now to collect her things and leave, she reached behind her, and turned the handle to her dressing room door, pushing it open while still enclosed in Piangi's embrace. “O mio Dio!” the tenor exclaimed in dismay as he took in the scene that revealed before them.

  Carlotta's dressing room was in a shambles. Her gowns were heaped on the floor, tattered and torn. Her cosmetics and accessories had been emptied from their drawers, strewn wildly over every surface. But most pointedly, the heads of all the roses Carlotta had collected for her performances from patrons and admirers had been snipped off and were lying, crushed on the floor. Horrified, Carlotta moved into her dressing room, Ubaldo right behind her. As she knelt by her ravaged dresses, gathering remains of rose petals into her hands, Piangi noticed a folded piece of parchment, shoved into the frame of her dressing mirror. Slowly, he walked over and retrieved the thick paper, unfolding it and smoothing out its crease. Carlotta, who had noticed her lover's actions and had followed him to her mirror, peered over his shoulder, reading the short, simple message on the inside.

  You will be replaced.

  O.G.

  She fainted dead away.

  After laying waste to the bovine's dressing room, Erik made haste to the dormitories to check on Christine. He had seen the little Giry girl go to comfort her, and he'd assumed the young ballerina would usher her friend back to their room to rest after the harrowing incident at rehearsals. Erik fumed once again, when he thought of how cruel the diva had been to Christine. Trollop and dolt were the words that she had used to describe Christine, telling the girl that she would never amount to anything—when in truth, Christine's ability as a singer was already far superior to that of the aging prima donna. When that cow, that absolute pig, raised her hands to strike Christine, Erik had seen red. He had lashed out with the first thing on which he could lay his hands—the large backdrop which had landed soundly on her back. If it led to Buquet's dismissal, all the better. He did not belong at the opera—and neither did Carlotta.

  When he reached the room shared by Christine and Meg, he found it empty. Surprised, he wandered behind the walls of the dormitories a bit longer, overhearing a few of the ballet rats tittering about being late for afternoon practice. He should not have been surprised that rehearsals were once again underway for the corps du ballet. Madame Giry was a harsh taskmaster and would accept no wasted time, regardless of how traumatized her gi
rls must have been by the strange events on the stage. He smiled a little to himself in appreciation of the ballet mistress's tough attitude, making a mental note that he would have to leave her a special token of gratitude in Box 5 for the utmost professionalism with which she ran her portion of his opera house. But still, he had not found Christine.

  He crept back to the auditorium, where he did, in fact, see Meg and the rest of the ballerinas pirouetting across the stage, with Madame Giry keeping pace with her staff. Still, Christine was nowhere in sight. A quick peek into the costumery revealed that she was not there either. He wandered the hidden pathways of the opera house in search of his gentle hearted prodigy, until he heard soft crying coming from the direction of the Chapel.

  His heart clenched when he found her there, curled in a crying mess on the floor. Once more, he was responsible for her tears. If Carlotta had not seen Christine with the rose left behind in his name, the situation on the stage would likely not have escalated to the heights that it had. He knew it was actually Jenna who had left the rose, but he could no longer be angry with her. It had been his actions, his emotions that had inspired her to do it, and truthfully, in that moment, she had known his heart better than he had known it himself.

  “Papa,” his angel sobbed. “Oh, Papa what am I going to do? Carlotta! She is a wicked woman! She accused me of stealing a rose from her—of taking one from her dressing room. You know I would never do any such thing. But what could I have done, Papa? I could not tell her where I really got it. I promised my angel. I promised…”

  Her crying intensified, and Erik's heart broke at the memory that he had judged her as impetuous and untrue for mentioning his existence to the young Giry girl. Obviously, she had seen the young ballerina as no threat, for when she might have saved herself from Carlotta's wrath, she did not choose to betray him.

  “Oh, my angel. Papa, I wish he would come to me now and take me away from here. Far away into his kingdom where music reigns supreme.” Her crying quieted now, as she closed her eyes and seemed to be imagining something glorious. She began to hum that sweet, haunting melody that Erik had come to associate with her, and he was entranced by the words that next left her lips.

  I once heard the song of an angel

  Oh how I wish he'd appear

  And with his wings, strong and gentle,

  Lift me far from here…

  High on the wings of that dark angel

  Melodies float freely

  Music and beauty interwoven

  Tangled in sweet rapture.

  Maybe in dreams I shall meet him

  See his mysterious face

  There shall his symphonic spirit

  And my voice embrace

  Angel of Music

  Song in my heart

  Majesty unrivaled

  Angel of Music

  Inspiration

  Sing with me

  Dear Angel

  Christine was breathless as she ended her song, and there was silence in the chapel once more. Erik could not speak, for the beauty he had just heard. She had sung with such clarity, such purity of tone, yet such strong, all-encompassing emotion. It humbled him that her words had been about him—that she sang of him with such admiration and even affection…

  But no, he reminded himself. It was not of him she sang, but of her “dear angel.” She sang of dark wings, and of sweet rapture, a celestial embrace between his spirit and her voice. Such an entanglement seemed so…ethereal—glorious, but untouchable. Would it feel as soft and comforting, he wondered, fleetingly, as the blessed warmth he had found in Jenna's arms? Christine sang of seeing his face in her dreams. Surely his actual face would turn her dreams to nightmares—for how could she gaze upon this face without fear? Jenna looked upon you, the traitorous voice in his head reminded him. And then she spent the night in your arms.

  Jenna is not Christine! Erik shook his head. No matter what Jenna thinks, Christine did not need him. She needed her angel.

  “Oh, Angel,” she whispered again, in pleading tones. “Angel.”

  “I am here, Christine,” Erik's soothing, silvery voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, as he could no longer hold himself back from the innocent waif before him. “Are you alright, child?”

  Her eyes flashed open, and Erik saw the curve of a smile begin to play on her lips. “I am now, Angel. Now that you are here, I will be fine.”

  Erik's heart jumped at the faith which she had in him—no, in her angel. The mere presence of her celestial guardian was enough to make all her sorrows melt away—something else Erik's true presence would never be able to do. “My dear, you shall be more than fine,” he assured her in the mellifluous tones of the Angel of Music. “We shall continue our lessons, and when you are ready, you will soar to the heights of the opera stage, and no one, Christine, no one shall treat you unkindly again.”

  “You were there…” Christine remarked at his words. “You were in the auditorium this afternoon. You know what she did.”

  “Carlotta?” he answered, and even the Angel's voice bristled with contempt. “Yes, my dear. I know. I am always watching, and I saw what she did to you—and what she almost did.”

  Christine wrapped her arms around herself. “She is just so cruel, Angel.”

  “And her cruelty will be repaid, my dear,” he vowed, trying to assure Christine that the Diva would never get away with hurting her again.

  “It already was, Angel. The scenery just mysteriously fell from the sky, as if…” she paused, seeming to consider her next words. “Well, as if to stop her from touching me.”

  “The stagehand's incompetence certainly proved convenient this day.” Erik said in a non-committal tone. It was true. If Jospeh Buquet had not been passed out drunk, Erik's reprisals might have become more…unpleasant.

  “She ruined your rose, Angel,” she said, softly, looking down. “I don't know why I brought it with me—why I wore it in my hair. I just…” she blushed a bit before continuing. “I suppose I wanted to feel like you were with me—close to me…” She trailed off, the redness in her cheek revealing the embarrassment she felt.

  Erik could not help but feel tenderly for this lovely girl who had clung so sweetly to the rose that had been left by her angel. “My dear,” he whispered, in hushed, honeyed tones, “I am always with you. Watching over you. I am never far.”

  “I am so sorry she crushed your gift. I didn't even have the chance to thank you—” she continued to apologize until she was interrupted.

  “Christine, turn around,” he commanded her in shimmery tones.

  She, turned, and there, on the floor was another red rose that Erik had slipped through the crack in the wall, thankful that his gift of ventriloquism had caused Christine to look the other way. Like the first, this one was tied with a black ribbon, and was in perfect bloom. Erik saw new tears—joyful tears—well in her azure eyes.

  “Oh, Angel,” she exclaimed, “It is so beautiful. Thank you so much!” She leaned over and picked it up, holding it to her nose. “I promise I will keep this one safe. It will not be destroyed like the first.”

  Erik couldn't help but let loose a melodic chuckle. “There will be more roses, Christine. Once you take the stage, they will be heaped at your feet, on a nightly basis.”

  “But this one is from you,” she said, closing her eyes and smiling dreamily as she sniffed it again.

  Erik thrilled at the thought that a rose from him would somehow be sweeter, more beautiful than any other rose. The thought that she could think so highly of him—for a brief moment it did not matter that her affections were directed toward an incorporeal, celestial being. He was her angel, and he whispered back, “There will be more from me as well.” The smile that lit up her features at his declaration took his breath away. “Sing for me, Christine,” he muttered, more a plea than a command.

  “Sing with me, my Angel!” she begged right back. And so the two, together, lifted their voices, which mingled and merged as they rose to the hea
vens.

  “We're ruined!” Claude Moncharmin declared, burying his face in his hands while slumping in his chair. “Absolutely ruined!”

  “I wouldn't go that far,” Jacques Robert' replied, trying desperately to keep a somewhat more level head. “But the situation is not good.”

  “The situation is appalling!” The conductor, Giles Herriot inserted! “Two weeks before the show, and the Prima Donna quits! What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Can you not teach another girl a few new songs in that amount of time?” Robert' inquired, seriously, which made the conductor's face turn red, as he began to sputter about how great singing took time, which caused Robert' to interject that Carlotta had had years and time obviously hadn't been working. Moncharmin's head was still rocking back and forth in his hands, muttering about the fall of his opera house, when a sharp crack of wood on wood echoed through the room, ending the multitudinous tirades and drawing everyone's faces to the ballet mistress and her daughter who had just entered the room. “Messieurs,” Madame Giry addressed the small gathering of men as would a scolding school marm. “The clamor spilling from this office is deafening. We could hear the shouting halfway from the auditorium. What, might I ask, is the matter?”

  “It is Carlotta,” Moncharmin informed in a pathetic voice. “She has refused to sing in La Principessa Guerriera.”

  For a moment, Madame Giry looked taken aback, but she recovered quickly enough to ask, “Over a fallen backdrop?”

  “There is more, Madame.” Robert' took over for Moncharmin, who had resumed cradling his head in his hands. “Her dressing room was tampered with.”

  “Completely ransacked, is more like it!” Herriot chimed in. “The Phantom wrote her a note, telling her she would be replaced! So she quit!”