by Bethany Pope
You see, my time in the carnival, my sojourn in the pit of hellish human depravity, was not wasted. Frankly, I do not believe that any suffering is meaningless. Only cowards choose to do nothing with their pain. I could not write down the music I composed while trapped in that filthy cage. My hands were bound and I had no tools, but I could listen to the music of my blood, and the cheerful songs of the calliope (folk tunes, base trash, a few scraps of gold in the terrible faux-joyful dross), I could build on the strains that surrounded me from the cries of the monkeys to the love-whispers of the lovers who used the sight of freaks as a catalyst for oestrus. I could memorise the notations that I wanted – and then I could perfect. After many years I had completed the mental equivalent of a thousand handwritten pages.
I had spent the last five years working steadily on the music, transferring the score from synapse to ink so that I had hundreds of pages of melodies, arias, fugues written and waiting to be arranged into story. All I lacked were words and plot. A focus for the tune. And now, thanks to Christine, it had finally appeared.
Of course it was about love; the bitter, desperate longing of the impossible unrequited, a love which spoils the moment it is tasted, the second the fruit hits the tongue. This was my ‘Don Juan Triumphant’.
You see, I thought there was no hope of happiness for us. If I could not triumph over failure, I decided that I would triumph in failure. If my story could not be perfect, it would be a glorious ruin; the thing itself and no false trumpery. It would be better, anyway, than a false perfection, an ending tacked on to draw in the crowds. When Christine was here with me, perhaps even sitting beside me on the bench of my organ as I composed to her voice, I could tie the threads of song together and complete my final, greatest work.
The debut of Faust was two weeks away. She would sing this new Carmen seven more times and the last three performances would be very trying for her since she would also be rehearsing Faust at the same time, ready to bring her innocent Marguerite to grease-painted life. In the meantime we would intensify her training. I planned on working her voice for a full four hours a day.
It was such a pity that the critics could not recognise the brilliance of Bizet. The reviews of the opera were mixed, with glad exception given to Christine’s performance. She was universally agreed to be a triumphant find for those two idiot managers.
I rarely pitied anyone, but my heart broke for Georges Bizet. The critics damned his unquestionably dazzling work with the faintest of praise, while at the same time reporting that the composer was very sick, possibly dying. It would be a terrible thing to leave the earth imagining that the world viewed you as a failure.
Ah, what did it matter? The music would live. The body would compost. Such was its nature.
I had much to do: an abduction to plan, bombs to wire, explosions to plot. I had to build a place to house the girl once I’d taken her (she needed to be comfortable). I might possibly have to dispose of a few extra bodies, but that was not so much of a problem. My chambers were vast, and mostly empty. Bouquet and the architects could stand some more company.
I settled on a space I’d excavated during the first construction of the building. A chamber, within calling distance of my own but, I thought, far enough to avoid temptation. It was originally intended as a Persian-style bathhouse for the star performers and wealthier patrons to relax in. There was originally going to be a cool, clear pool carved from a chunk of cream-coloured marble. It was never completed, and never finished once building resumed. The carved marble was there, a ten-metre oval, like a boat or a half-flattened egg. The walls were tiled with Indian porcelain squares depicting painted scenes from the Hindu holy books. There were countless gods, all doe-eyed, beautiful, caught in acts of creation, destruction, ecstatic copulation.
I transformed the pool to a sumptuous bed by lining the bottom with thick silk-napped carpets and satin pillows stuffed with dove-down. I lined the walls with enormous standing candelabra so that every surface shone. There were pillars in a circle round the room, but the light from their mounted brass sconces was less flattering than the softer light of candles, so I left them cold. I brought in books on music, countless scores, to keep her occupied while I was working alone in my chambers. On an impulse I went out in disguise, a cloak, my second-best hat (it had a very broad brim), my mask tied, secure, and purchased a selection of dolls and stuffed monkeys, for her to talk to. Everything, in short, that I had longed for in my own imprisonment. Yes, I thought looking around, she will be very happy here.
Once the room was completed it was time for our lesson. There was no pretence of singing candle flames this time. I remained on my side of the wall, the dark side, where the rot was, but she knew I was there and I spoke to her directly.
9.
One week before the debut of Faust a small but devastating fire broke out in the secondary rehearsal room. Management blamed one of the ‘rats’, the ballerinas in training. Christine’s room was not badly damaged, her things were secure, but the lingering residue of smoke was poison for her throat and, since the young Comte had been continuously interrupting her private practice sessions with gifts, demands for her company, and invitations for dinner that proved mandatory (despite his enthusiastic agreement to ‘keep the lily white’ by never appearing with her unchaperoned) the management agreed to allow their star performer to select her own practice space, and keep it secret from the public. They were unaware of her supposed engagement.
According to Christine, Raoul was charmed by the idea of a secret engagement. Half his visits revolved around planning their elopement to London directly after her first performance.
Christine laughed with me before our lessons began in earnest, deriding the enthusiasm of her would-be lover, but I knew her well enough by now to know that half her laughter came from nerves. We met in our old space, the scaffold above the flies, the day after the fire. Fifteen precious minutes of our session were squandered, allowing the hysteria to pass then calming her with song.
I sat in my usual place, high in the rafters among the defunct pigeon nests. It had been months since we had been together here and while I had arranged her space, brought it back to its usual level of comfort, I had forgotten to sweep up the oak beams that formed my seat. Feathers and the fine fragments of eggshells fell when I moved.
I was not good at giving comfort, being so unused to receiving it myself, but I recognised that temper was the shadow of her gift: if she could not storm at her leisure she would be unable to sing aloud in calm. I did my best.
‘La Carlotta’s voice will never fully recover, she will “mark” her notes for the rest of her life. Luckily, her volume remains. Most of the audience will not know the difference. The management will.’ I plucked a dung-clogged plume from my shoulder in one gloved hand, it fell to the stage much faster than a feather should. ‘Six months of her caterwauling and by the time that you are ready to resurface the management will be ready to triple your fee.’
She smiled at that. Good. I was growing tired of her doldrums.
She said, ‘It was cruel of you to sabotage her.’
‘I merely replaced a damaged instrument with a better one, nothing more. She was not harmed, even in fame. Her name will carry her.’ I hummed a few bars of Le veau d’or. ‘Besides, it gave you your chance. That was worth any cost.’
She looked up at the celling. I was less careful about hiding now; she knew where I was; my skeletal outline was visible among the thicker shadows of the beams, but I was careful that an outline was all she ever saw. ‘What did you use to take her voice from her?’
‘A trifle. It was a salve that I learned about in Persia, concocted from a fruit named for the venom of the king of all serpents. You must only touch it while wearing gloves; its juice (which tastes like honey) will burn your bare skin.’ I was not used to smiling in my mask. The motion brings the scarred skin of my cheeks in contact with the cheesecloth lining of my mask, lacerating the delicate tissue. ‘Come, you have only two
hours before dining with that fool of a fiancé.’
‘Don’t remind me. I worry that I will wreck all our plans by exploding at his stupidity and telling him exactly what I think about him. Luckily, when I speak he does not listen. He is too busy admiring the shape of my beautiful mouth.’ I watched her clutch the fabric of her bodice, twisting the sapphire engagement ring that hung hidden there, as though it were a tick whose head was burrowing into her skin.
‘Never mind Christine. It will only last a week longer. Then we will be together, in the spirit and the flesh, ready to begin our work in earnest.’ Her face lit up at that, grinning up at me like the happy child she had been. I had to pierce my palms with my thumbnails to gain proper control of myself, ‘Let us begin where we left off, with the tenth bar of Oui, c’est toi que j’aime. I will sing Faust. You almost had it last time, but you are singing in a manner that, while tonally pure, is far too carefree. Remember, Marguerite has been accused of murdering her child, she is about to be executed, and she knows that since her lover has sold his soul they will be eternally separated when she is taken up to heaven. You must imagine what that would be like for her, after so much suffering.’
Down on the scaffold, suspended between Heaven and the stage, I watched a girl of twenty become the perfect Marguerite. She assumed a haggard look that was somehow terribly poignant, ideal for the role. Her dark eyes seemed to web and fill with the tears of a bereft mother contemplating yet another loss. She opened her mouth.
‘Ah, this is my beloved’s voice! His call has revived my heart. Amidst your peals of laughter, Demons that surround me, I have recognised his voice. His hand, his gentle hand draws me! I am free. He has come! I hear him! I see him! Yes, here you are! I love you!’ She reached up to me, her body yearning for me as passionately as her voice, ‘My fetters, Death himself, no longer scares me! Now I am safe! Here you are! I rest on your heart!’ Such sweetness, such cautious joy! Tremendous, impossible beauty emerging from the slight frame of a girl. I have never wept in life, I nearly wept for her then.
I replied to her, my chameleon voice assuming a tenor, projecting my true desire, disguised in song, ‘Yes, here I am! I love you! Despite even the efforts of the jeering demon, I have found you! Now you are safe! Here I am! Come, rest on my heart!’
I reached out to her, as thought I could bridge the gap I had created, ten feet of empty air, with the power of my song.
RAOUL
7.
After my brief visit with Christine on the coast I acquiesced to her desire to spend her return journey to Paris alone in prayerful meditation for the soul of her father. Her reception of me when we met at the hotel was properly cool, or rather it would have been proper had we been in a town that boasted of more than one hotel and I had shown myself at her door, uninvited.
I ascribed her brief reticence to temporarily lost bearings; females are terribly unsettled by travel, female artists doubly so; this is why performance is dangerous for the breed. In the end she confirmed my assumptions of affection, laughing on our walk to the church, gently taking my arm. I felt secure in myself for the first time since reading that letter. I had no rival; there could be no competition attempting to uproot me from her heart. She was still the same little dancing girl I’d loved since childhood, still grateful for a recovered scarf.
I remembered the handwriting that had unsettled me so much, that fine paper marred with crude, childish slashes, as though the words had been composed by a petulant infant. The author was obviously unhinged. I have heard that some members of the audience can become so fanatically enamoured with the objects of their desire that they succumb to the delusional belief that the singer they have become entranced with returns their affection to the extent that all their singing on the stage is aimed at them alone. I laughed at myself, at my insane jealous frenzy, comfortable in my first-class coach, surrounded by plush leather. The brandy I sipped was the exact temperature of my skin. The half-full bottle that I poured it from gently sloshed with the motion of ten tonnes of steel thundering on rails. I spilled not a single drop.
All through the journey my pleasure grew. I embroidered my fantasies and planned the best way to bring them to fruition. Three hours from the city I called for the porter, asked the servant to provide me with a portable writing desk (all decent cabins are equipped with such materials), some stationery, a selection of pens, ‘And do not underestimate the quality of paper, or ink. I want the finest that you have available and I am willing to pay for it. However, know that if you fail to satisfy me, I will claim the difference from your tip.’
The boy they’d sent to serve me was younger than I was. He still stank of the country. I’d wager that less than a year ago he was baling hay and milking cattle. If I had cared to examine him closely I would not have been surprised to discover chaff tangled in his tousled curls, clinging to the roots.
Still, he understood the language of coinage, bowed, and returned to me laden with the supplies I’d requested. They were passable. The writing desk was a little splintered at the corners, but that couldn’t be helped. Fine things are difficult to keep on trains, and this one was mahogany, a wood which is lovely to look at but easily fractured. I tipped him a franc and set down to work.
I still have the letter I sent to her house. I’ve kept it with all the others, bound with black ribbon. She left it behind her, God knows why. She had room enough to carry it. I am convinced that she took a full third of the things that I bought her, and she used all of the luggage we had in the house.
The paper is middling, the linen content low, but the ink was fine and it has not deteriorated – though it has yellowed at the edges. Look.
My Darling Christine,
How I value our time together! Not every daughter is so dutiful to a parent long-since dead. I am so glad that you are. Such a fine trait will translate well into marriage.
I am certain that you think about it. Marriage. That you wait for it with joy. I am certain that, gifted as you are, you have long since grown tired of singing for your supper. You long to enter your own home where, like the child you once were (and remain in your pure heart), you will sing only for your husband, and your children, when they come.
Christine, I promise you that you will not have to wait long. In fact, I plan on rescuing you from your current circumstance as immediately as possible. The life you have been made to endure is not fit for a lady. You are a fine creature, meant to decorate a home and hearth, reflecting truly the glory of your husband. After I order the delivery of this letter I intend to visit an excellent jeweller I know of, near Notre Dame.
Never worry, my dear, I would not be so crass as to expect such a flimsy letter to serve as seal to our engagement. I expect that you will be waiting to speak to me. We will go out to dine with my brother and your soon-to-be-former managers. I will bring a gift to you, then.
Adieu, adieu, my love. Until we meet, I remain,
Your Raoul
I did not see her until the Friday performance. If she were my mistress I could have supported her happily and had her cease performing immediately, but if we held each other in sin I knew that I would never be able to hold her in marriage, and so she must continue, for a while longer, to show that voice (my voice) to the ignorant world.
She sang perfectly, as usual, and afterwards I met her outside of her rooms and offered her my ring, right there in the empty corridor, among all the tawdry props and folded screens of canvas. Of course, she accepted.
Her delicate lips curved in a smile both gentle and demure, ‘But Raoul?’ Her eyes met mine, no doubt questioning the propriety of a girl of her rank presuming the use of my first name.
I smiled down at her, until she met my eyes and I could reassure her, ‘I am your husband, now, my dear. In all but law. Call me by my Christian name.’
She laughed a little, then. It was musical, of course, but then her breathing was musical, her pulse, ‘No … darling. I simply had a question to ask. Well, two favours really.’
I never expected her requests to break the bounds of propriety. Indeed, they did not. Both were eminently conventional.
‘The first,’ she said, lowering her face from mine so that her lush hair hid it, ‘is that until we are wed, we never are allowed to be alone together. I would not wish either of us to fall into temptation. I do not want to smear your reputation, or mine.’
I laughed with mingled joy and pleasure, was this all she wanted? Well, it was easily granted. I wanted it, too. ‘Yes, yes.’ I told her. ‘We will maintain our separate states, for now.’
But she was not finished. Once the issue of her modesty was settled, she withdrew her hand from mine and held me with her sparkling eyes. They were near-black, like garnets. ‘The second request is rather more complex. You see, I have been contracted to finish the run of Carmen and then for the full run of Faust.’
‘Yes, yes, I know dearest, but my brother owns the managers. He can free you from your duties.’
She did not seem as relieved by this as I had every right to expect. In fact she sighed! Sighed at me as though I were somehow being pig-headed and this was just what she expected!
‘I know, but you see, it isn’t for myself that I ask this. It is for your brother, and therefore for you. If I leave now, La Carlotta will have to take over if the theatre is not to cancel and take a great loss.’ She twisted the ring I had just given her, a large, clear sapphire, around her thin finger, as though the stone constricted her, ‘La Carlotta hasn’t fully recovered her voice, or learned her music. She can sing a little, but when she attempts to hit the high notes she croaks. In two weeks, this will be different, she will have recovered and acclimated herself to her parts, but until then I should continue, for the sake of everyone else whose lives are bound to the completion of the show.’