Masque

by Bethany Pope

  I must admit, I was astonished by her generosity. Imagine, a girl delaying her own happiness for the sake of others whom she could hardly care for! It made me all the more sure that I had secured the right bride. I agreed immediately to defer our date. Two weeks could make but little difference. But then I was forced to ask, ‘But how will you remain on stage, once news of our impending union reaches public ears? It would be irregular, not to mention immoral, for you to show yourself in public when you already belong in the bosom of your loving husband. It would be a slight against my rank.’

  She smiled at that, her answer ready, ‘I suppose that we could keep our “union” a secret until La Carlotta is ready to replace me? Think of it, our wedding will be a secret, a treasure, held between us two only.’ She beamed up at me, her face radiating hope, ‘It will make the final revelation so much sweeter at the climax.’

  Of course I agreed, poor fool that I was. I had no way of knowing what the future would bring. When it came, I was blind, and helpless to stop it.

  8.

  The following weeks were incredibly difficult for me. It was torture to see her every night on stage (I had a box at every show, usually number 4. Madame Giry insisted that number 5 belonged to ‘the Ghost’), but it was the right kind of torture, an agony most pleasurable. My mornings passed in the golden glow of expectation. Christine had rehearsals for most of the morning, dance first and then her private coaching. I would join her for a few hours every night, after the show.

  She was silent with me then, in the restaurants. Tired, I expect, properly demure. She damped her gift, hid her nature, in order to set me shining among company. I had the supreme joy of knowing that she was so dedicated to my love. Beneath the table, shielded by the lace cloth, I took her warm hand. It bothered me that the finger was ringless, as it must be if our ruse were to be a success, but it comforted me to see the substantial lump it made in her bodice, where it hung on a chain, between her small breasts.

  I nearly always kept my word about never being alone with her; her managers were usually with us, along with the Sorelli woman, and of course, my brother who eschewed convention by taking every opportunity to fondle her loose white bosom. They were hardly fit chaperones, but they sufficed to our purpose. Occasionally, while they were otherwise occupied, in the supposedly ‘men’s only’ smoking room, or when they had retreated to their carriage, I attempted to sneak a chaste kiss or two of my own. Christine always, without exception, pressed her white-covered finger against my lips and gave me her cool cheek.

  Such damping worked wonders with my soul and made the fires of my love blaze all the hotter.

  She was right. There was a sweet and potent pleasure in knowing that she was mine, before God, and having the knowledge that all around us supposed us only to be courting.

  My growing ardour was accompanied by its shadow, jealousy which grew like a weed, sharing soil with romance. I had nearly forgotten about the deranged letter I’d glimpsed in her chamber, but it killed me to know that her heart had a master other than myself. Her singing master. I know that every stage artist has one, someone learned, possibly a retired singer or another sort of musician, who can help the diva focus on her method and smooth the rough places in performance. I know that they are usually male.

  Christine spoke of hers, occasionally, letting slip nothing personal. Everything she said revolved around work; the exercises that he was arranging for her, the training she must do, the constant repetition of a single long note. I was determined to meet him, hoping to find that the master was some frail, ugly old man, skilled in his work and otherwise utterly harmless. I needed to assure myself that I was secure in my love.

  All that weekend, after our meals, after I had released my fiancée into the arms of the Countess, I lay in my bed brooding about this unseen visitor she had, telling myself over and over again that I had nothing to worry about, that no rival existed. It took me hours, every night, for sleep to cloud my head. I did not know, then, that fanaticism was overcompensation for doubt.

  Once or twice, early in the fortnight of our separation, I had attempted to attend their lessons, just (I assure you) to ensure her comfort and to reassure her of my love.

  I timed my visits very carefully, so that I arrived about a half an hour after they were scheduled to begin. I came each time with flowers, white roses, lilies (in honour of her dedication to purity), and the finest chocolates that I could purchase. Each attempt was frustrated. There was always someone around!

  I would approach the hallway, pass by the room that the dancers sometimes rehearsed in, the ancient barre was reflected in the dust-covered mirrors so that when the girls danced I imagine that they resembled nothing so much as their own ghosts. I sped up my step when I heard voices, hers achingly sweet singing something in German, his pure and more masculine than I had imagined. It was impossible for me to believe that it spilled from the throat of a kindly old man! Blood pooled in my head at the sound of it. I gritted my teeth so hard they hurt and dug my nails into my own palms, crushing the stems of the flowers and staining my gloves with chlorophyll blood.

  I would nearly reach the door before someone stopped me to ask what I was doing, and turn me away. On Monday it was grey-haired Mrs Giry on her rounds of security, the keys and other tools she carried clinked together on her fat, crepe-covered waist like a jailer’s cuffs or the chains of a ghost. She spoke to me in her gruff, accented voice, ‘Messier, you should not be here. I have orders.’

  I tried to bribe my passage with a tip, but she had none of it. She even took my arm, if you can imagine the nerve, and escorted me from the door just as easily as if she had been a practised bouncer.

  I tried again on Tuesday. This time, my passage was blocked by the box-woman’s unsightly daughter, that Little Meg who dances like a sylph at a distance, but is so hideous up close. I tried to bribe her as well, offering a full twenty francs to win through the door. She would have none of it. It was all that I could do to maintain my calm. I held out my arm, the one not burdened by gifts, and attempted to push my way past her.

  She stamped her little foot at me, crossed her arms across her chest, and threatened to scream for her mother! Remembering the unpleasant woman, I had no wish to rattle the cage of that jailbird. I left without trouble, presenting my gifts to my treasure after each evening show.

  It is strange to consider what happened after Little Meg rebuffed me. When I made my third attempt, on Wednesday, I found that a small, unexplained fire had broken out in the room beside the one my love rehearsed in, the room of dancing ghosts. The flames were quickly quenched, but the smoke that lingered was enough to damage her voice should she remain to inhale it. When I made my inquiries as to where she was practising the managers said they did not know, and the other members of the company would not tell me. It felt, almost, as if there were some strange, dark conspiracy designed to keep us apart. I took the hint from fate and ceased seeking her before her performances.

  Time would pass soon enough; I calmed myself by repeating that there were only nine days to go until our wedding. I had much to plan before her final show.

  9.

  The night came at last. Christine’s final night on stage! After tonight she would no longer be forced to prostitute her splendid voice. After her triumphant curtsies, while the orchestra was still sawing away at the epilogue and the flowers were still flying to her feet, and as she gripped the hands of that fat Italian tenor who filled the role of leading man and bowed her thanks to the audience, I would rush out of the door and give the signal to my driver who would be waiting on the seat of the new white and gold carriage my brother had bought for me, led by a team of six perfect, cream-coloured geldings.

  He would tip his hat at me, acknowledging my orders, and I would turn and rush, rude as I pleased, through the press and swell of finely dressed bodies thronging the stage. I would mount the boards between the shell-shaped floor lights, pulling myself up in one elegant motion, and claim my bride with a kiss on
the cheek.

  I had seen the costume that Marguerite was to wear for her ascension to heaven; Mr Firmin had shown it to me. Or perhaps it was Andre. One of them had led me back beyond the props and clear-floored rehearsal spaces, into that land of gauze and satin hidden in the rear of the building, where shrouded women worked at weaving, embroidery, all the crafts their sex was created for (excepting procreation), stitching sinuous magic with their needles and thread.

  I saw it hanging there, finished, the fabric still warm from the heat of her body as Christine’s seamstress made adjustments for the final fitting. It was totally appropriate. A wedding dress of silk and tulle, a fit garment for the soul of the wronged woman to wear as she rose up to heaven (the flies were hidden with clouds made of sheep’s wool) and became a heavenly bride. This would be the climax of the show, the garb I’d claim her in.

  It was perfect, also, for my purposes – which were, admittedly, a little less than heavenly. Once I had joined her there, under the lights, I intended to sweep her up and bear her back with me, across the threshold, until we reached our new lives.

  It was a beautiful dream.

  Of course it did not happen. Instead of a happy groom with an ecstatic bride, I found myself alone, a man temporarily broken in body and spirit. Cracked by circumstance. Let me tell you how it came about. Let me tell you of the torment that followed, the hell that revealed the previous weeks, that I had thought torturous, for the heaven they had been.

  Everything seemed to be going so well, until that last act. I sat with Philippe in the box with the managers. I couldn’t see the harm in telling them what I had planned after the show. My brother clapped me across the shoulders in hearty congratulations, his fatty chins bunched beneath his neck as he smiled. There were congratulations all around, and everyone agreed that since La Carlotta had fully recovered there was no harm in letting my Christine out of her contract, in fact, they agreed that it was proper that she be terminated immediately, in order to focus her fine female energies on preparing for the wedding night and the conceptions that were surely soon to follow.

  Firmin (or Andre) offered to send his twelve-year-old footman (dressed in full livery) to signal my driver for me, saving a trip: a proposal that I happily accepted. Sending the boy out when he did undoubtedly saved the child’s life.

  Everything had happened according to plan, until the last act. The orchestra was much better than I had ever heard it. The trumpeter who always hit his notes flat had mysteriously vanished, as had the cellist who could only screech his bow along the lower register. My brother said that they had filled the vacancies with musicians that the ‘Opera Ghost’ recommended in a letter. He said that he’d thought it was a joke, at first. ‘Such handwriting! Like an untrained child’s!’ But the improvement in the orchestra was vast, so he was glad that the managers had pushed him to consider it. The new flies-man they’d hired after Bouquet went missing was much better, too, the scenery no longer clattered in its tracks as the scenes changed. Unlike his predecessor he worked in utter silence. There was no foul cursing from the wings to wreck the balance of a love scene or add unsought humour to a tragic death.

  In short, everything that could go right had done so that evening.

  My brother had eyes only for his darling Anna Sorelli who, I must admit, danced beautifully during the pastoral introduction. Her legs were long and muscular, her motions graceful. You would never guess that, off stage, she was a drunkard. The floor lights, and the golden light reflected by the crystals in the four large chandeliers above the third-class seats, brought out golden highlights in the hair she wore. For the moment it mattered not one whit that it had not grown from her scalp.

  The pastoral ended, opening the opera. Philippe nudged me with his round elbow as she tripped off the stage, fluttering her plump fingers at him, an action that she no doubt felt subtle enough not to interfere with her role.

  When Christine entered, dressed in her charming shepherdess’ frock, all white lace and light-blue bodice, herding a few living, luckily docile sheep across the field, and started singing, the audience lost itself in gasps. She had been wonderful in Carmen, reducing most to tears. Now she was sublime. An angel dressed in the flesh of a mortal, her transcendent purity shining through that fragile skin so that she seemed to glow against the painted scenery.

  Looking at her, I felt something cold and very hard fasten itself around my heart. I felt it tighten. She had not sung so well for her father. My eyes began to water, almost as though I were in pain. And here she was, finally, singing for me and me alone.

  There was no doubt that she was a woman in need of a rescue. There is no doubt to my mind, even now, that I was the man meant to do it. But while she sang, God help me, I regretted it. For one instant, one instant only, I bought into the lie that she belonged on the stage.

  I blame my failure on that.

  The story progressed as usual. The fat man playing Faust pretended to be young again, he played petulant tricks on the neighbours, egged into action by his demonic assistant (who would prove to be the Master). I must say that, even then, the monster sounded familiar. But his face was covered with the dark cowl of a monk, his rail-thin body shrouded in folds of brown burlap, and I could not tell if I had ever seen him before. His voice was wonderful, better than Faust’s. At the time I thought that the roles had been painfully miscast.

  At the end of the play, as Christine was languishing in her plywood prison (her face and arms were the only things visible through the painted wooden bars of her cell), she sang something to Faust that, though I could not understand it, made my heart leap in my chest.

  ‘Der Böse! Siehst du dort ihn sich erheben? Er stiert uns an! O schick’ ihn fort! Was will der hier am heil’gen Ort?!’

  She reached out through the bars, attempting to grasp hold of her Faust’s fat hand, when suddenly there was a tremendous crash, and a lot of terrible, unmusical shrieking as several horrifying things happened at once.

  The celling of the opera house has been painted with several murals in the fleshy, neo-classical style. These scenes of cavorting, bare-breasted goddesses are lit by several extremely beautiful chandeliers made of brass and fine, clear crystal. They hang above the audience. From the stage they are invisible. As my darling one reached out for the Italian there was the sound of an explosion, I thought that perhaps some oil pooled between the base of the lamp and the place where the screws met the plaster. In any case, it broke free and a full five tonnes of glass and metal tumbled into the cheap seats at the base of the orchestra, killing several people and spraying the carpet with dangerous shards, along with swift, consuming flames from the spilled puddles of oil that spread rapidly, hungry for the splintered wood of the stage.

  Christine instinctively leapt back, thank God for that. The false wall of her prison fell forward, revealing that she was already wearing that fantastic white dress, her body wired for flight, her aborted ascension.

  I saw the robed man, the painfully thin devil disguised as a monk, rush forward and catch her in his arms, dragging her away from the wreckage to hide in the shadows. My spirit thanked him for that. I thought he was saving her.

  By this time the first shock had passed, and I found that my body could move again. I thrust myself from my seat, determined to reach her no matter what obstacles, no matter what vermin bled in my path. I would take her in my arms and carry her to safer earth. I fled from the box, my brother shouting behind me, begging me to find his Sorelli, as I ran down the long, temporarily empty Y-shaped stairway that led to the main entrance.

  I pushed through the gilt doors, opening into a sea of screaming bodies. I was trampling down the aisles (I am afraid that I knocked down a child in my haste, a girl bleeding from the forehead) in my hurry to find the body of my love. I thought that Hell was here already.

  I was not prepared for the tragedy to grow much worse.

  Another series of explosions planted beneath the footlights rocked the stage so that it bent and fract
ured like a reed in a storm. The curved edge of the stage bent up, torn from its moorings. The lamps scattered everywhere. There was no doubt now that this was sabotage. I know the sound of dynamite; I was fond of such explosions as a child.

  As the dust began to settle and the bodies which had blocked my progress had been either blasted to bits or pulled to safety in the floodlit hallway, I felt a hand on my elbow. It was my brother. His face was shriven in dust, crossed like it is on Ash Wednesday. He was weeping freely, though whether they were tears of grief or a reaction to the thick clouds of oily black smoke, I could not then tell. My ears were ringing so loudly that he had to shout to be heard. (I found out later that my left ear was bleeding. It never fully recovered hearing.) We pressed forward together, moving more carefully. He was more cautious than I was, avoiding torn limbs where he could. I trampled over them. I knew, in my heart, I was seeking a corpse.

  In the end I found one. Philippe made his hands into stirrups, as he had in my childhood, after buying me my first horse. I mounted the stage and nearly collided with the body of the man who had been meant to play Mephistopheles. He was hanging from a rafter, suspended by the throat and revolving slowly, back and forth. In the thick dust, the smoke from the fires that the ushers were already struggling to extinguish, I could just make out his features.

  He was too thickly built to be the man who had taken my treasure. That devil had a face that, the few times his cowl fell back and showed it, was shiny, as smooth as an egg. This man’s features, though bloated, were prominent, cragged with age.

  The truth was too much for me, shock had caught me up. My darling had been stolen and there was nothing, now, that I could do. I fell to the floor in a faint. By the time I revived the worst was over. I was reclining in the manager’s office, on a fine leather couch. My mouth still tasted of smoke, but someone had been kind enough to bathe my face in water and wipe the blood from my hands with a soft, cool cloth. The managers told me that the bodies had been cleared, the survivors paid off and tended, the fire extinguished at long last.