“Sometimes he makes himself invisible, but he can still be heard up there somewhere.” Her voice quivered as she looked back at the fledgling dancer. “Then sometimes he can’t be heard or seen, but you can somehow feel him all around you.”
“Meg, you must be joking! That isn’t possible! Anyway, I don’t believe in ghost stories,” the tiny voice responded, with false bravado and growing fright.
Unknown to me at the time, I was about to become warmed in a way I’d never known before. That night, fate had cornered me and blocked me from riding César, a necessary activity if I were to maintain control of my temper. But then it mercifully granted me one perfect moment. I grasped that moment like a love-starved orphan and used it to catch a glimpse of the most radiant eyes I’d ever seen—and the young woman possessing them.
I, at first, opened my mouth to calm her fears, but, when I saw her clearly, my words stumbled in my throat. I tried a second time, but my vocal cords adamantly refused to obey my simple instructions.
The soft footlights behind her silhouetted her frame like the aura of an angel, and my breath fled completely. As I stared in amazement at her elegance, I was left without intelligent thought or the capacity to leave before I was detected. While they murmured about the Opera Ghost, I dared to move closer, close enough to hear their rapid breathing.
Meg, little-by-little, pulled the heavy curtain back and peeked behind it, not realizing she was looking in the opposite direction from where I then stood. Then a whisper, coming from the angel’s glow, broke my dizzying daze.
“Meg, can you see him now?”
Meg replied softly, “No—I don’t see him, but I know he’s here—I can sense him.”
My eyes stayed fixed solely on the new ballerina as she clutched Meg’s arm. She was probably about Meg’s age, perhaps 20, but, other than that, she was in stark contrast to Meg. Meg’s eyes and hair were coal black, and she was much too thin for my liking. I could see clearly every bone in her chest and shoulders.
The new ballerina had thick golden hair that framed her perfect features and then cascaded in curls over her bare shoulders. Only smooth porcelain skin covered her lovely neck and chest, and her face looked so soft, with a petite and slightly upturned nose. Her eyes, wide with anticipation, were like a clear eastern sky at dusk, the deepest blue possible. Her cheeks had a rosy hue while a deep shade of crimson kissed her lips.
Those lips—how full and soft they looked. I recall imagining how it might feel to have them caress mine, but my resourceful imagination didn’t come close to the eventual reality.
I’d seen many alluring women during my travels, especially in Persia. The women there had hair as black as ravens’ wings and eyes that put the most luxurious polished jadestone to shame. Their smooth olive skin could only be compared to the finest Persian silk. But nothing could compare to the wonder I felt as I gazed at that angelic creature before me.
It might have been her physical appearance that first captured my attention, but what was stirring in me was deeper than any physical attraction—much deeper. Regardless of my intellect and varied experiences in life, I couldn’t explain what was happening within my heart and soul.
Who was she? Where did she come from? How long has she been here? Could she sing? Oh, please, my pounding heart whispered, please let her delicate throat carry the sounds of a nightingale—no—the sounds of an angel!
No matter how stunning she might have been, if her voice couldn’t match her physical perfection, I couldn’t tolerate it. On more than one occasion, I’d had to turn a deaf ear to an attractive woman because of the sound of her speech, let alone the sound of her singing. Even the Opera Populaire’s prima donna, Signora Carlotta Guidicelli, had forced me to leave my seat in Box Five during one of my favorite arias because of her squawking. The beauty so close to me right then just had to sing with an excellence to captivate multitudes. Who was she?
I was only faintly aware that most of the girls had scampered away, leaving only Meg and the new ballerina on the stage. After releasing the curtain, Meg turned to the fledgling dancer and resumed her unbelievable tale.
“Every word I’ve said is true. He even talks to mother in her office. You can ask her if you don’t believe me. Sometimes his voice is like thunder, so loud and powerful it makes the scenery shake and the chandelier sway.”
As if being choreographed by an invisible director, they both turned and looked at the grand chandelier, cloaked in darkness high above the seats. Slowly, they clutched each other, causing their fingers and arms to resemble intertwined grapevines. At first, they remained perfectly still, and so did I. Then in unison, they turned back and stared into each other’s wide eyes. Gradually, the new ballerina released one hand to cover her parted lips and a soft gasp.
“But, at other times,” Meg assured her in a calmer tone, “his voice is so soft, so gentle, and so caring—like an angel’s voice. Please trust me. It’s true, Christine.”
Christine! Christine! What a beautiful name for a beautiful young woman.
“Christine!—Christine!”
Without thinking, I’d spoken her name aloud, and the two startled ballerinas turned their attention toward me. As they peered into the shadows, they increased their hold on each other and caused me to press my body back against a huge prop and lower the brim of my hat.
They held their grip on each other as Meg started again. “That’s him, Christine! He spoke your name. Never have I heard him speak anyone’s name in such a way.”
Christine began to speak softly, almost trance-like, as she broke her hold on Meg’s arms and took a few mindless steps in my direction.
“Meg, his voice is the most enchanting sound I’ve ever heard. It can’t belong to a ghost. It must belong to an angel. He must be an angel. Yes—a magnificent and beautiful angel.”
A deafening silence fell over the empty house, allowing the faint hissing of the gas lamps to be heard among the shadows. My heart was beating so loudly that I feared it would unquestionably betray me if I remained there any longer. Therefore, I tried to move further out of sight, but I couldn’t persuade my legs to obey that uncomplicated and familiar command. Hence, we stood there only a few paces away from each other, like two granite statues in a shady park.
While she searched for the man behind the voice who’d captivated her senses, I searched to understand the effect her nearness was having on my usual logical and controlled mind. My active curiosity wasn’t what controlled my actions that particular evening. There was something about her and the way I felt that I couldn’t comprehend.
Directing my voice to stage left, I spoke her name once more, and then I waited for only an instant until she turned away from me. After her sight followed my voice, I had the opportunity to slip further into the darkness. Once behind a curtain, I removed my hat and mask, not wanting my sight to be hindered in any way. I slowly parted the curtain and watched, for one more brief moment, that angelic creature searching for my voice among the curtains of stage left.
Yes—just one more look at the exquisite young woman who adorned my stage. I had to know all about her—this feminine beauty who’d taken control of my lonely heart and soul as none other.
Again, without any control over my actions, I watched her walk slowly toward the shadows of stage left. Then Meg appeared and put her arm around Christine’s shoulders. They talked for a moment and then disappeared into the darkness. With a sigh, I released the curtain and stepped back against a pillar, pressing my hot cheek against the cool marble. The moments fled while I pondered, what’s happening to me?
I would like to say I had no control over my next actions that night, but I did. I wanted—no I needed—to know more about her. So, against all my better judgment, I replaced my hat and mask and followed her, all the time questioning why I was so reluctant to let her go.
The corridor was almost dark, and I was far enough behind them to stay undetected, but I could still hear Meg chattering about the Opera Ghost, while Chris
tine repeatedly corrected her.
“No, Meg, not a ghost—an angel.”
I could tell they were heading for the dressing rooms, and, although I had no idea what I was going to do once we got there, my rebellious heart was drawn toward her. Occasionally, they turned and looked behind them, and my heart skipped a beat as I pressed my body against the wall or into a doorway. During those times, my logical mind told me to stop this insanity before I did something stupid. I knew I needed to go to my home where I belonged, but, as with so many other times in my life when I should have listened to logic, I didn’t listen.
Therefore, as they turned one corner after another, I continued to be led by her invisible power. Finally, at the outermost end of the dressing rooms, they stopped in front of a door, unlocked it, and went inside, causing me to stop short and stare in disbelief.
There were over twenty-five hundred doors in the opera house, eighty of them leading into dressing rooms, and only two of them had my specially designed escape routes within them. Both of those rooms were located the farthest away from the stage and all the activity that went on there. Also, they were only used by the least of the ensemble and sometimes by no one at all. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d used those mirrors as an easy route to my underground home.
I stood there in the shadows, dumbfounded for a few moments, before my mind spoke to my feet loudly enough to get them to move. Then they moved quickly, and I raced for the passage that led me back to the mirror. I was breathing hard by the time I got within a few meters of it, so I stopped and leaned against the stone wall until my breath caught up with me.
Since I’d hollowed out a few bricks close to the mirror, it was easy to hear in that passage, and I didn’t want my accelerated breathing to give me away. As I waited, I smiled with pleasure over the unbelievable chance that my managers had assigned her that room. By the time I reached the mirror, Meg was leaving and giving Christine instructions.
“Hurry, our reservations are for eight.”
“I know, Meg, I know. I only need a few minutes to change.”
I felt as if I were suffocating, and, while she sat at her dressing table, I struggled to breathe quietly. With the softest smile on her lips, she gazed around her room, and I gazed at her with fascination. The curves of her face were so smooth, and her hands moved so gracefully, twisting the few strands of hair falling over her shoulder. I could have stood there all night watching her do absolutely nothing, but then she chuckled, breaking my trance.
With that slight giggle, she opened a drawer in her table and took out what looked like a lavender diary and matching quill. While writing, she occasionally stopped long enough to push her hair behind her ear, revealing her slender neck. Each time, my eyes closed without command, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
Eventually, she put the quill down and, while still smiling, held the diary close to her chest. After glancing at the clock on her table, she quickly put the diary in the drawer and went to her armoire. As she began humming, she stretched, bending at the waist with her arms over her head. Moving back into a standing position, she stretched one leg and pointed toes above her head. She moved slowly and gracefully, much like a feather gently floating on the breeze.
If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought she knew I was watching and was deliberately teasing me. But it was her next action that took my breath away completely. Turning her back to me, she headed for the opposite end of the room and began unfastening her rehearsal clothing, exposing her bare back.
I knew I should turn and not watch any longer, but I couldn’t move. It wasn’t out of a need to watch her undress; it was out of a need to stay close to her. Over the years, I’d had plenty of opportunities to watch any number of young chorus girls in similar situations by means of that mirror, but I never had. I didn’t like pain. My life had been filled with enough of it for many lifetimes. That type of pain, in particular, I treated like the plague.
No, sensual desire wasn’t preventing me from moving. Lord knows, my lack of physical contact with a woman was frustrating enough, so I’d never deliberately add to it. No, that wasn’t my motivation, but I couldn’t explain what my motivation was. I was captivated by her. I didn’t want to leave her side, even if a plate of glass did separate us.
I was still arguing with myself over my pure—or not-so-pure—motives when she disappeared behind the curtain that separated her dressing area from the rest of her room. With the sight of her gone, I was able to convince myself that, regardless of my motives, she deserved her privacy. So I turned to leave but managed only a few strides before she started to sing, which automatically stopped me. At that time, my motives were absolutely theatrical and the musician in me closed his eyes and simply listened.
With an overly critical ear, I listened to her sing a piece from the second act of Romeo et Juliette. I scrutinized every note and every transition as I waited for her to hit a faulty note, but it never came. Her pitch was perfect. Her timing and control were also perfect, just as perfect as I’d hoped. But, as a frown formed on my brow, I realized her enthusiasm was truly lacking, even painfully so. Her voice sounded so weak and without the force to blow out a candle. I felt disappointed and didn’t want to believe she couldn’t sing as I’d thought she should. She simply had to be able to sing. She was so flawless in every other way.
I started to walk away again with much disillusionment and frustration replacing my previous captivation, but then I stopped and again listened to her sweet and pure voice. Perhaps, I thought, it wasn’t that she lacked expression but that she was frightened and lacked confidence. Yes, that has to be it, I convinced myself.
By the time I’d returned to the mirror, she’d stopped singing and was slipping a long-sleeved, coral dress over her head. When she turned and faced me, I was once more transfixed by her. Mesmerized, I watched her delicate hands as they laced up the front of her bodice and then pressed against her ribs. After a deep breath, she began singing that same piece again. My teeth clenched tightly, my eyes closed, and my head lowered and shook. I wanted to scream. There’s no passion, Christine. You must feel the passion in that piece. Confidence! You only lack confidence.
As I watched her, I saw something I hadn’t seen before—a frightened child. She reminded me of a fledgling eagle, crouching on the edge of a high precipice and listening to its parents’ call in the sky above. Just as that young and inexperienced bird was too frightened to spread its wings and trust in its natural abilities and its parents’ care, she was too frightened to express what I knew she was feeling inside. Just fly, I wanted to tell her. Just like the fledgling, spread your wings and fly. If you fall, I’m here to catch you.
I wanted to call out to her, but my fear of frightening her stopped me. Instead, I silently watched, while my heart raced with anxious care for that naive fledgling. Her name made its way to my lips several times and almost escaped its bars, but I continued to fight the urge to tell her to let go and sing—simply sing.
She finally stopped singing, releasing me from my agony. Then she sat in her chair again and began brushing her hair. As before, I watched in fascination as the brush moved through her golden locks, causing me to become envious of its nearness to her.
Then the moment was shattered by a knock on her door. Her call to come in was answered by Meg, and, as if she’d never left, she continued with her chatter about their supper plans. Christine rose to her feet, and, while slipping her cloak over her shoulders, teased Meg.
“Don’t be so impatient, Meg. My goodness. You’d think you hadn’t eaten in a year.”
Within a moment, the lamp was out and they’d started to leave. No! Don’t leave! was my silent plea. But the door closed anyway, concealing the light from the lamp in the hallway and the light from her presence. My hand reached out and touched the cold mirror, and, as never before, I felt my silent world press in on me. I was left alone in the familiar darkness, which was no longer my friend.
For nearly 20 years, th
at darkness had served to conceal me in peaceful solitude, but, right then, that peaceful solitude was replaced with uneasy loneliness. It was at that exact moment that I knew I had to learn more about her. So, with a deep, slow breath, I began my epic quest.
Two
No more vacillating about my desires. I had to act on them. So, as soon as I heard them turn the key in the lock, I opened the mirror and headed for the door, with the intention of following them. I was no sooner at the door that I heard the key in the lock again. Turning quickly, I saw the mirror, my means of escape, close. Turning again, I flew toward the curtains that closed off Christine’s dressing area, and I was barely behind them when the door opened. Through the sheer curtains, I saw the faint light from the hallway enter the room, and then I saw Christine move toward her dressing table and lift a necklace from her drawer.
“Would you please clasp this for me, Meg?”
She raised her hair off her neck and turned her back on her complaining friend. Meg grumbled but complied.
“They’re going to give our reservations away, Christine. Did we have to come back for your necklace? It doesn’t even go with what you’re wearing.”
“I know, silly,” Christine responded as she raised the locket to her lips, placed a delicate kiss on it, and then dropped it inside the bodice of her dress.
Without further ado, they both left, and I again heard the key turn in the lock. I waited a few seconds longer that time to make certain she hadn’t forgotten something else. Then I left through her locked door with my own key. I raced down the corridor until I caught up with their chatter, and then I slowly followed and watched as they gaily babbled about something. Their conversation didn’t concern me that time; I only wanted to watch Christine for as long as I could. I followed them out the side door and watched from a distance as they approached a coachman.
“Your coach—Mam’selle Giry—Mam’selle Daaé.”
Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine Page 2