by Bethany Pope
I endured this limbo for twenty miserable years following the abduction of Christine; two decades of nothing to report but an encroaching bitterness that, before I knew her, I would have leavened with a little healthy malice. But the years the Opera House stood empty robbed me of my appetite for ghost-work. I committed no murders.
I wasted time, or spent it. I tried to work; designing buildings, composing music, without success, rarely getting beyond the first basic notes. I produced the occasional sculpture in soapstone, a technique I learned in childhood. They generally began well enough, but I was inevitably forced to abandon them when I realised that I was releasing nothing but the same repeated face. The same wide eyes, the same look of disgust.
By the time that I read about the possible closure of the theatre I was close to suicidal. That morning I had woken late, and spent several hours beneath my red sheets, staring up at the celling. I remembered that it was possible to overdose on my sleeping serum and I wondered why I had not thought of anything so brilliantly easy before. I pondered; why did I survive my time in the carnival, my own blighted childhood, if only for this?
And then, that very morning, I happened across the notice of sale and wrote the letter that I mentioned before. Assuming the name of Monsieur Reynard – an improbable name for the Englishman I played, I realise, but gold precludes all questions – and contacted an agent I knew of that my Master Garnier had used to arrange the construction of his Paris home while he and I were working for the Persian Shah.
I listed the acceptable non-negotiable terms of purchase (they were generous indeed, and as I was a practised hand at blackmail, I could afford to be generous) and told my agent that he was only to contact me in order to confirm a sale; at which time he would hire the two gentlemen I’d named to serve as managers. Once this was done, they were to do everything possible to keep the doors open, even resorting to acceptable levels of scandal. Nothing on earth packs a theatre like the rumours of an affair, a bastard, or a murder. Even decent people feed on a whiff of the devil.
The managers could contact me only though a mail drop I had selected, and they should do so only in the event of a catastrophe on the scale of a fire (which I would be well-enough aware of anyway) or a financial crisis devastating enough to threaten the opera as an entity performed behind these walls.
The young Comte agreed to everything at once, as I knew that he would. He was as deeply in love with money as he imagined he was with my darling Christine. Raoul had reason to despise my Opera House, God knows he rarely passed its gilded threshold or bothered with the office work. As for Christine, her worst prophecies had come true. He never allowed her to visit at all, not even to sit under chaperone in their private opera box. If he had, then, before our sundering scabbed in my heart, I would have been unable to restrain myself from visiting her.
As for the managers I’d hired, they were very skilled. By simple application of common-sense business methods they boosted seat-sales enough to begin turning a modest profit, though my encouragement of scandal had to wait a while, until the right players presented themselves.
First, they hired a beautiful unmarried mezzo; a voluptuous blonde originally from Germany, to sing the witchy roles. Her voice was middling, but she was a lovely creature, and she came with a small child whose last-name was not her own. I followed the newspaper coverage with interest, and watched as the balance in Monsieur Reynard’s bank-account flourished and grew.
A few months later Christine appeared at their door, newly divorced and demanding a contract. They had heard of her from their predecessors and were more than willing to negotiate on the strength of her early reviews. I read about her return in the paper; a tawdry portrait of a brazen, immoral female-composer who shone briefly in her youth (they wrote about her youth as though it were behind her. She was only 25!) who came trampling down the doorways and demanding to be treated as a diva.
The crucifix-clutching reporters lamented the declining morality of the City of Lights; imagine a strumpet performing on stage! They admonished the last bastions of morality to shun the Palais Garnier and never darken those faux-gilt doors with their Christian coinage.
Who knows, perhaps the population of people with an interest in the heaven that comes after earth did stay away. They were not missed. The rest of the city came out in droves to see an angel sing on earth. For the first five years of her return we had a packed house every night, though I suspect that, given Christine’s curiosity and driving need for challenging roles, she grew rather tired of portraying Carmen.
I admit that I was tempted, sorely tempted, to contact her after I read the announcement of her second debut. I remember that I sat at my desk, grappling with myself, gripping the sides of the writing surface so hard that the wood splintered and I peeled the skin from my fingers like a shell from an egg. But in the end I managed to chill my desires and refrain from my pen.
I did it by remembering the look on her face the last time I saw her, her repulsion so deep that it brought up her vomit. Ten words written in comforting haste could not erase the wound she inflicted in her surprised innocence. And then I remembered what brought her to me in the first place. It was my goal to help her to rise high enough in the service of art to be worthy of our composition, our Don Juan, and to help her earn the clout to bring it into production.
As for Christine, I had been primarily her teacher, a means to an end. She wanted a life on the stage more than anything, and I had helped her to get it. Her feelings for me, whatever they were, were the passion of a girl held in close proximity with one man only – for want of a choice she had chosen the monster. Until she saw his face. The brief time we had was rather like a candle; easily extinguished, in spite of the foolish kiss I gave her cheek. It was time for me to let her go.
After five years playing Carmen she had her chance to bring Don Juan to prominence, and of course she took it. She sang the role of Ana with such poignancy that hearing the faint strains of her aria, even through metres of bedrock and thick-tiled floor, was too much for me. I took to visiting the markets a little earlier than usual, to escape the sound of her living voice. I never saw the production live, you see, I had no wish to risk weakening my resolve.
When I re-entered the world I discovered a surprise. Ten years ago I would have expected to be arrested immediately for the crime of extreme ugliness. I believed, to my bones, that the world was merely biding its time to stick me in a cage again, or in the ground. But, as it turned out, a hooded cape was enough – it washed me in shadow, and even the constabulary ignored this ghost.
Our opera outlasted the original release, spanning a full year and spawning recordings, reprintings, and a yearly revival. And while the critics damned it with the faintest praise that they could muster; written, as it seemed, by a young girl, the public adored it. And when I eventually purchased a recording (her voice was safe enough to manage, flattened onto a grooved disk) it was as wonderful as I knew it would be. I wept freely for the first time in my life.
Oh it was bitter to have authored a structure even more wonderful than the Opera House and then have to endure knowing that the credit would forever be ascribed to another. My only consolation lay in the fact that the ‘other’ was her. We were connected, eternally, in art even if no one else knew it. It did not even matter, really, if Christine allowed herself to acknowledge it in the solitude of her thoughts.
Years passed, as they will, and even to me they seemed changeless. Perhaps the years themselves were changeless. After all, spring bled into summer, summer died into autumn and the bones of the winter rose through the skin of autumn’s rot. So, just possibly, the world was in stasis.
I was not.
I found myself submitting my ego to tests. I went outside, earlier, and more frequently, constantly maskless. The idea of hiding had become suddenly repulsive. Sometimes I even emerged into twilight. I never did risk the sun. It had been too long since we had greeted each other.
My face was as abhorrent as usu
al, but after Christine’s dramatic reaction the disgust of mere mortals no longer frightened me. Besides, my body had changed – not in structure, I was still hardly more than a skeleton, however strong – but I held myself more firmly erect and, in the river market at least, monstrosity was respected. This was especially true when it came with a reputation for a willingness to fight. I did not, at that time, understand the cause of my sudden acceptance of the truth of my nature, but I realise now that it was a symptom of the spiritual callouses I’d formed. In short, I still wore my cloak, my wide hat, as a courtesy to the unsuspecting, I have always loathed to make a child cry, but I no longer cared that those who did manage to peer beneath my hood were terrified.
My context had changed; I was finally free of the mental cage I’d been walking around in, carrying with me. Perhaps it came from growing older. I was (it shocked me) nearly fifty-five years old; beyond the expected mid-point of my life.
The sweet taste of freedom added to the cup that otherwise brimmed with bitterness was enough to make it palatable. For the first time in over twenty years I was happy to live.
I came to enjoy walking in the parks. I found myself enthralled by the sight of the green haze of twilight darkening like a bruise until the sky joined with the crowned heads of the trees and bled into blackness. The night, in late spring, was unspeakably beautiful. I had taken a seat on a wrought-iron bench lodged in the shadow of an enormous, leaf-rich oak. I was watching the flitting forms of bats flicker against the gas-light, engaged in their own small glories; their battles, their courtships, defeats, carving the warm air with their wings and shrieking with ecstasy.
And that was when I saw Christine, walking alone on the little path, dressed in an expensive rose-coloured walking costume and leaning a little on her pink parasol as though she had injured a knee.
She was much changed, so much so that at first I did not recognise her, mistaking her for an ordinary, attractive, middle-aged woman; only something in her posture, in the delicate arc of her neck caught my heart like a fishhook. When she turned her head to scan the shadows (a move made, I am certain, entirely by instinct) I saw her eyes and lost all doubt that it was Christine’s spirit lodged in that too-thin body, her voice behind that fading skin.
All of these years, when I thought of her, I had been picturing the wild, laughing girl I knew; not this sad-eyed woman.
Christine walked off, vanishing into the darkness without glancing back. Had she been Orpheus, Eurydice would have been dragged out of hell, ready to live. I braced my hands on my knees, held my head down between them. My mouth filled with the fear-taste of copper carried on a flood of saliva. It was a long while before I could comfortably breathe, or trust that my intestines remained where God placed them.
In all fairness, this delusion of her eternal youth was not entirely the product of a romantic illusion. She was still frequently reviewed and the critics never described her as anything but vibrantly young and exceptionally beautiful. And, in truth, once my body overcame its shock I understood that although she was a girl no longer, she had only just entered the middle-age. In short, although she was a ghost of the girl I knew, she remained entirely herself, and seen that way, she remained glorious. Whoever she was now, however she thought of herself, whatever changes had occurred, whatever small deaths, she remained my genius; I wanted to know her again.
As soon as I could walk, I returned to my home, to the desk that we had once covered with poetry to be converted to song. I sat down and wrote:
Dear Miss Daae´é (or may I be so bold as to address you as ‘Christine?’),
You saved my life once, long ago, and I have been inexcusably remiss in thanking you for providing that service.
I do not know how the world has treated you; externally, at least, your life appears to be progressing quite well. You sing beautifully still, although your voice has grown a bit veiled regarding your lower register, and while the opera that we wrote together has received mixed reviews, you have not. You have, rightfully, been greeted with enthusiasm every time that you have appeared on stage.
Of course you knew me quite well, once. You anticipate the ‘but’. Here it is, the fly in your soup: It has come to my attention that you are not entirely happy, that you may, in fact, be miserable in your lot. I imagine that it is difficult for an artist of your calibre to content herself to the same tired roles. I would like to propose a solution.
I know that you are meant to join the new managers in the foyer for tonight’s fundraising gala. I know this because they, like their predecessors, are in my employ. If, instead, you would be so kind as to meet me in our former haunt (the flies where we reached the closest to heaven that I, at least, shall ever come) I would like to propose a renewal of our partnership in the pursuit of an operatic work whose beauty has never before been seen on this earth.
Should you find this proposal agreeable, there are two things that you should know. The first is that I will not wear a mask again. I am aware that the last time we met, as it were, face-to-face I quite badly disturbed you. Lately I have disposed of artifice (as applied to myself). If this appalls you, do not approach. I will feel no offence.
The second stipulation is this: If you choose to join me, come to me as you are now. Do not attempt to be what you were. The past is a foreign country to us, and we cannot ever apply for re-entry. The future is also very strange, but we cannot avoid that border. Whether we cross it together or not is entirely up to you.
Do not bother with a response. Come to me, or do not. That will be answer enough.
Thank you, my dear, for saving my life.
I remain yours,
Erik
When I was satisfied, both with what I had written and with what I had omitted to write, I tipped Madame Giry five francs to deliver the envelope to her rooms after the last curtain.
The flies were very dirty; no one had bothered with them in a long time. There were new conventions, now, for changing the scenery. No one had ever retaken the role of flies-Master. No spirit but mine occupied the rafters.
While I waited I kicked a few desiccated pigeons on to the floor, they fell slowly, like clumps of dead leaves. Otherwise I left everything as it was when I arrived. I laid no carpets this time, lit no candles. Everything must be exactly as it seemed if we were to meet again.
15.
I did not expect her to come. In composing my letter, I considered refraining from telling her about my abandonment of my disguise, but in the end I decided against it. I knew that she would have been more likely to dare the approach if she thought that my monstrosity were covered, but that omission, that lie, would have been a bad basis for building a beginning on. Worse, possibly, than not beginning at all.
Besides, I told myself, she was a girl then, with little experience in the world. Perhaps, after all of this time, we could meet on level ground.
Somehow I doubted it. I remembered, too clearly, the last look that she had given me. I remembered the vomit, fresh on her lips.
The party began in the foyer. I heard music, the piano, the strings, and a woman’s high laughter. Soon the great staircase I built would be swarming with waiters bearing bottles, glasses that brimmed with champagne, trays laden with hors d’oevres and canapés. Soon there would be dancing: women swaying in bright-coloured taffeta brushing against the bodies of the creatures who loved them.
Well, I was also dressed for a party. My wide brimmed hat, my dinner jacket, my silk cravat were impeccable and, I noticed, glancing into the mirror, slightly obscene beneath the gross face of a corpse. I never had to try very hard to achieve a dramatic effect.
I turned away from the ladder leading up to my platform. I leaned over the railing and remembered my disposal of Jacques, contemplating the drop, the sound of meat-splatter. It was so easy to fall.
And that was when I heard it, the soft sound of a silk shoe gaining traction on iron. She was coming after all; she risked mounting the ladder.
I did not turn, but I stra
ightened my back, so that I would be standing at my full height when we met. Her breathing was as musical as it ever was. I wanted to hear her behind me; I wanted to know that she was there, not three feet from my skin. I wanted this so that, even when she ran, I would have something to treasure forever, the knowledge that she had returned to see me at last.
I heard the sound of her mounting the final step, felt the scaffold vibrate as she edged forward a few feet and then, suddenly, stopped. I heard her breath come faster. I did not know if it was fear or excitement, until she spoke.
‘Erik?’ He voice was trembling. So it was fright.
I would not turn and startle her. I would answer. We could, at least, speak.
‘Christine.’
The blood was pounding in my skull. I hardly heard the sound of her sprinting. I felt the scaffold swinging as she ran. I felt the collision. It was almost an attack.
She wrapped her arms around my waist and buried her face into the back of my jacket, reaching around my chest and gripping my hands so fiercely that I felt my knuckles crack.
She was trembling, almost shuddering, and when her voice came again it was muffled by mucous and fabric, her throat, her great instrument, was terribly choked. ‘You’re alive, you’re alive. I waited so long for you. I didn’t know I was waiting. Thank God, you’re alive.’ She tried to turn me to face her, I stood firm.
She laughed, nervously, attempted to detangle herself from my clothes. Her will was as strong as her embarrassment, yet she could not manage it. She remained where she was, ‘You said “Come as you are”. Well, this is what I am, now. A silly old idiot. You haven’t seen me yet.’ Her voice suddenly chilled, softened, ‘I am much changed, even from the shadow that I show on the stage. I feel like I have been trying, and failing, to remain who I was.’