by Bethany Pope
In any case, we won, and I was hired (along with three incompetents) as an ‘assistant’ to the architect. The public thought that I was meant to do odd jobs, to micro-manage, supervising the building on a menial level. This was exactly what I wanted. I could run around the site shrouded in the Persian robes I adopted and speaking in an accent, moving fast and silent on my long spider-legs, sneaking up on the workmen and ensuring that they scrimped on no part of the construction. None of the sculpted nudes which garnished this roof would experience the horror of a smashed, disjointed face.
Before construction began, I built a better mask. Painted wax above a chamois-lined mould made to fit my own strange features. I sculpted it in the style of a young, handsome pantomime rake with cherry red lips, full, coloured cheeks, and comfortable eye-holes. When I wore my sleek black wig above my scabrous skull the result was positively striking, and quite effective, provided no one attempted to come too close. As far as I know, it worked. Though, even then, there were rumours of a ghost.
The months became years as the walls rose up. The plain brick first, a skull to support the thin marble skin I made to face the world. Then the columns, the fine nude statuary with their full, luscious figures, the fine copper domes decorating the centre of the roof and the four corners, a design I borrowed from the palace of the Shah and softened for a Western audience. I supervised the construction of the foyer, lined with marble, spaces for the mirrors that I intended to fill the room with later.
The enormous Y-shaped marble staircase leading to the boxes, the centrepiece of my foyer, was half-finished when the Franco-Prussian war broke out and the city was sieged. The entirety of the national economy was diverted into war. Garnier and I continued construction, for a while, at our own expense. I made cuts where I could, in labour, not materials, beginning with the three sub-architects whose work had never pleased me well and who were largely untraceable once I laid their bodies on the soft soil of the unfinished basement. I fully intended to return and cover them, later.
We continued working in this way for a few months. Garnier and I woke each morning at four and remained at the site, hauling blocks and laying masonry as one with our minimal crew, but it could not continue. Eventually even our crippled message-boy was taken for the national guard. The city was besieged. Water and food were limited. We could not escape the gates of the town, we could not continue with the construction of the building. There was fighting in the streets.
I felt as though I were in a cage again, as though God Himself were thwarting me. I began, in anxiety, peeling the white flesh from the beds of my fingernails, until the blood flowed. I could focus on nothing, not even composing music, the passion that used to fill my nights.
I spent one entire week in bed, rising only to visit the facilities. I would not open the bedroom door, no matter how poor Charles hammered at it. When I rose from my bed at the end of this time, I was famished and my mind was filled with a tremendous, unspeakable clarity. I felt cleansed and resolved.
I wrote dear Monsieur Garnier a letter which I left prominently displayed on my favourite drafting desk, packed a large trunk and two valises with equipment and clothes (my strength rushed back to me in freedom like a river swollen by the thaw – I carried them easily) and vanished through the window into darkness to take my refuge in the basement of the Opera House I dreamed of, the seat of my defeat.
I lived there, quite happily, for some time while bullets flew and bodies fell above my head. I bought my food from the night market where my mask was never noticed and spent my days at my desk, designing fancies that I never expected the universe to see. It was strange, I could live with a ruined life – so long as the ruins were glorious. Mediocrity was and is a bane to me. This failure, being prominent, was something of a balm to my wounded soul.
Imagine my surprise when I found that after nearly five years and the fall of the Emperor, construction on my Opera House began in earnest once more, with my old friend Garnier at the helm! Of course, he assumed that I was long since dead. He grieved for me as he would have for his child, had he had one. I did not disabuse him. He had suffered enough on behalf of a friend. Besides I was a ghost by now; the Opera Ghost was what the little dancers called me. They build a fine mythology around what they thought of as my head. I helped them do it. Little things vanished, the less-talented members of the orchestra suffered minor accidents (a twisted ankle, a mysterious burn) until their places were filled with a minimum of competence. Occasionally I allowed myself the luxury of murder. I took care of that butcher who twisted the flies so that the scenery dropped at the wrong time, or rolled up in a flurry. All in all, the shows were better with the Ghost.
And all the while, in the darkness, in my underworld home, my own opus, the heart of my life, began to form, notes on white paper, seeking only a focal point, a theme to bring it whole into the world.
I have always been drawn to genius. Most of the girls were fine little fripperies, pretty enough, sweet to look at and listen to, minimally skilled. Only one shone with the sheen and weight of true gold in a pile of brass. Christine Daaé. It was my duty as a fellow artist to train her, to ready her to take that place of prominence that had so long been denied me. I found out all I could about her, listening in to conversations, questioning kind-hearted Madame Giry (a good source of information for one with the means to give adequate tips). She answered more freely than I would have expected, considering that my voice seemed to emerge from her lantern. Of all the opera staff, she alone seemed unafraid of the Ghost.
I uncovered Christine’s current living situation, mourned for her when I learned about the death of her father, insinuated my way into discovering her goals. I found the ideal way to motivate her. She was not perfect, underneath the image of the muse beat the heart of a wild, passionate girl who could tantrum and storm with the best of them (not that I ever knew many), but her gifts were true and I must foster them. When the time came, I arranged an appropriately accidental meeting.
You might well ask if it was only a sense of fellow-spirit that drew me to her, not that there is ever any ‘only’ when it comes to human sympathy. Let me assure you, sincerely: it was innocent, at first. I would have worked so hard for her if she had been born ugly. Unfortunately, she was not.
RAOUL
4.
When I returned to Christine’s dressing room, arriving to the minute at the time I appointed, she didn’t reply to my knock. When I tried the door I found it unlocked, my target vanished. Without her slight form filling the room with her numinous light, it was a shabby space, garbed in theatre baubles. The costumes that looked so rich and fine from the stage were revealed on the hanger to be cheap reworkings of scavenged finery, of the fast-fastening, loosely hooked sort that a street-walking prostitute would purchase in the hopes of raising their prospects by seducing a gentleman high in standing and poor of eyesight.
I knew, logically, that these garments, this German shepherdess costume for example, were intended to allow for a swift change in the aisles, but I still felt rather taken in by her, used. I told myself that my love, though new, was pure and that Christine was cast from higher quality – not just brass overlaid with gold, unlike those tacky hand-shaped candlesticks she’d left lit before her mirror.
Well, if she could not manage our assignation, perhaps she had a good reason. I knew that I had no right to go poking through her things, her personal belongings, but I considered that her desk was considerably cluttered with paperwork and those cheap tallow candles were guttering rather low. I should extinguish them for her, stopping a house-fire was the least I could do. Besides, she might have left me a note.
I moved into the room, imagining an oddly wordless love-note (the letters scrawled across the delicate paper my mind created were meaningless, but the hand was girlish, looping, and their intent was clear) intending to snuff the flames quickly between my forefinger and thumb, after a quick look for the letter I hoped and suspected was there.
The desk wa
s covered in cosmetics, glass perfume bottles, a tortoiseshell box of lavender powder, rouge for lips and cheeks, kohl to enhance her onyx eyes and make them visible from stage. All of this was delightfully feminine, perfect for the girl of my dreams, and it all smelled wonderful. There were also a few rolled scripts for upcoming productions. Faust. Romeo and Juliet. The new production, that raucous, enchanting Carmen that débuted tonight. As for that last, I had no idea what the critics would say about it, nor did I particularly care. I was certain that they would not dare to criticise Christine. She was absolutely perfect.
I shifted them aside, forcing the scripts behind an ugly wind-up monkey doll that her father must have given her, and there were her letters, underneath, where any fool could find them. I sat down in her chair, a delicate Queen Anne with thin ebony arms, and began reading the envelopes.
There was nothing for me.
Most of the letters were addressed to her, and written in various female hands. Some were educated, others not; they all had one thing in common, that feminine slant which betrays that gender’s inherent weakness of mind – a trait the stronger gender has generously decided to find a charming focus for our love.
One letter was different. The envelope was blank, but the seal was arresting. It was some sort of stringed instrument, a harp or lyre impressed in black wax; appropriate I thought, for the daughter of a famous violinist. Perhaps it was an old message from her father, a memento she had kept close, like the ugly monkey, for sentimental reasons.
I only opened it because I thought that it would draw us closer. I wanted to know what the father was like, to better know the spirit of the girl. I never dreamed the trouble it would cause us.
It began:
Dearest Christine,
You will never know the joy I feel, hearing you sing so beautifully, knowing that you have agreed to use your voice, your tremendous talent to serve my purposes. It stirs me to know that I have the pleasure of nurturing your intellect, your vast musical skills, so that with love and training your genius will grow…
I crumpled the letter in my fist, shaken by a sudden bout of rage. The blood pounded in my temples, throbbed against my skull so hard that it felt as though my eyes would burst inside their sockets. I had to bite my tongue to stifle my screams.
Answering to an impulse that I cannot explain, I tore my nails from my palms and looked up into the mirror. I saw there a version of my usual face: the same soft skin, the same wide blue eyes that I saw this morning. My features were as regular and pleasing as ever, if a bit pale. My eyes were a bit red about the rims, my new blond moustache could use a small trim – these were the only visible flaws. I said to myself, ‘Whoever he is, he cannot match me. I will win her yet. With my charm, with my love. Wait, Raoul. Wait and see.’
I was almost ready, almost cleansed enough to read the rest of the letter (I had smoothed the admirably expensive paper against my left knee) when I heard a gentle knocking on the frame of the door, followed by a small, high gasp that sounded as though it had come from the throat of a child. I turned in the chair, half rising, and saw a young girl I thought I recognised, one of the dancers, still dressed for the stage.
She was a thin, dark thing with a face that would have been beautiful if the cheeks had not been so sunken, giving her a look that was both young and old, half maiden, half crone. She asked, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? This is Christine’s room.’
Her voice was very rough and she had a lisp that was quite understandable to me once I saw that her tongue had nothing to strike against, finishing her letters. In her mouth ‘Christine’ elongated to ‘Chrisseen’.
My mind, an untrained animal, flashed on filthy alleyways, the pleasures found in foul places, to the soft pressure of a silk-lined hole. I responded, ‘I’m a friend of hers. I’ve known her for years.’ I fully rose, placed the letters, carefully, back on the table. ‘The lady who orders the boxes told me that I would find a letter for me here. I came only to collect it. Unfortunately, she was wrong.’ I spread my empty hands. ‘As you can see, there is none.’
Her forehead furrowed. In a gesture that was utterly laughable she spread her legs to fill the door, crossing her thin arms across the place where, if she was lucky, breasts would eventually grow. ‘My mother said that?’ She shook her head, her hair (light, so light against that skin) went flying. ‘No, no Monsieur. She would never do such a thing. If there was a letter, she would have given it to you herself. You must be mistaken. I must ask you to leave.’
I smirked at her, a grimace that I attempted and failed to transform to warm smile. ‘If I am to leave, you will have to let me pass you.’
She started a bit at that, but drew back, into the room, so that I had to almost touch the filthy fringe of her skirt as I slid through the door. I tried to pass her a five-franc note, ‘For honest silence’. She would not take it. It fell from my hand to the floor.
Ah well, I thought, it will not harm her to save her pride while I am here. She will pick it up later. My secret is secure.
Somewhere in the empty theatre a clock bonged the hour. I was twenty minutes late to meet my brother. Tonight I would eat well, converse with my elders, and plan my tomorrows. If there was a rival for her love, I would defeat him. The challenge would add sweetness to the conquest. I felt my cup to be supremely full.
I hurried out into the night, joining the party as they entered their carriage. Behind me, in an empty room, candles blazed before the mirror. Wax melted until the flames guttered. The room was in darkness.
5.
My brother and I rode to the restaurant with the managers, Andre and Firmin. My brother’s managers were surprisingly boisterous for such unassuming men, pouring cognac for their fat, nearly identical wives (one was in blue, the other acid green, but their hair and faces were as similar as their husbands’ and I couldn’t tell to whom they belonged). My sullen silence went largely unnoticed amidst all the joy at Christine’s luminous success as the tempestuous Spanish Gypsy.
The dancer that they called La Sorelli was already well on her way to drunkenness by the time I entered the cab. Her sleeves had fallen halfway down her fair, round arms and her hair was wild, as though the crows had been at it for nesting material. My brother did not seem to notice. He was far too busy staring down her gaping blouse. Not that she minded, she was hanging from his arm in a way that I found quite shocking.
Looking at them, the middle-aged man, the whorish dancer, I was filled with disgust. They called that love? It was nothing like what I had for Christine. That was pure, true, as perfect as she was. Nothing this gross assemblage had could compare with it. I must endure this evening, then turn my resources to winning her.
We had reserved the finest seats in Le Chat Noir, a long oak table inlaid with ivory and laid with exquisite linen, and we arrived at a little after eleven. We were still supping at midnight, Monsieur Firmin had broken free a splinter of lamb bone and was using it to pick his teeth clean while one of the women spooned cream and vivid red liqueur into her mouth from her dish of mixed fruits. She had spilled the syrup across the silk ruching that crossed her broad bust like the scales of a serpent.
I had eaten next to nothing, having no appetite. My confidence was an oscillating thing, as it often is for the young.
I endured three long hours of mandatory celebration, time I spent drinking far too much absinth without any sugar to ameliorate the bitterness, and speaking to no one if I could avoid it. By the time we returned to my brother’s house I was tired and irritable, more than ready to retire. We said goodnight to each other almost as soon as we entered the door. I had heard him order his driver to deliver his woman back to her rooms, but I suspected that was a ruse. As soon as I was safely out of ear-shot, I knew that the carriage would cycle round again and regurgitate the whore into my brother’s waiting arms.
I gritted my teeth, hard, at the thought of it.
In my well-appointed room, surrounded by the rich finery of leather and brass, I sl
ept badly. I tossed and turned on my pillow, assaulted by nightmares, by visions of her, my goddess. Mine at last. In dreams I embraced her: as I had desired since childhood, I held her close and kissed her mouth only to find, as my tongue tasted the nectar of her lips, that she rotted like fruit in my arms. I saw her beautiful face pucker like a spoiled apple, her eyes liquefy and sink back into her skull, so that she became the very bride of living death, smiling at me, approaching (with bared white teeth) my fragile human neck.
I woke to daylight, yellow butter melting through the curtains. There was the smell of sweet bread, buttered rolls, fresh, hot coffee. The maid approached my covered body, bearing a tray and a note written on a single sheet of linen paper, folded once.
It was unsealed, marked only with my name in a firm calligraphic hand that was educated, almost masculine. I opened it, my heart fluttering as I sipped my scalding coffee.
Dear Raoul,
Of course I remember the boy who brought me back my favourite scarf. If I was rude to you last night, it is only because you appeared so unexpectedly. I would be glad to renew our acquaintanceship, but as you know, I am an artist. I would like, one day, to be a great diva. Since that is the case, and since my work must be focused on attaining my goal, everything else (even friendship) must come second.
If this is amenable to you, I would be happy to see you for tea sometime next week. You may call at the home of Countess Marie De Vinci any afternoon save for Sunday. She will be happy to welcome you. You knew my father well, I believe. It would be good to speak with someone who shared that experience.
Do not expect to speak with me over the next several days. I will be travelling to Brittany to pay my respects at the grave of my father, after which I will return to the O.H. to reprise my Carmen. Thank you for your compliments on my performance. It is a difficult and fulfilling role. I have much work to do to perfect it.