by Heather Webb
I clutched Monsieur Delacroix’s arm, hardly daring to breathe.
He covered my hand with his. “Do you want to leave?”
I didn’t answer, just stared at the ring.
Sergio coaxed the lion to release him. At last, the beast relaxed his jaw, shook his mane, and sauntered across the cage to claim the last piece of raw meat. The tamer stood on his miniature platform and bowed.
The stunned audience didn’t clap. A few men cheered.
“He certainly defied death,” Marceau said, laughing. “Barely.”
I exhaled and my shoulders relaxed.
“Care for a walk?” Delacroix asked. Perspiration wetted his forehead. “Some fresh air?”
“Yes, please,” I said, ready to be far from the lion tent.
As we stepped into the cool night air, the ringleader rode past us on a white stallion, trumpet poised at his lips. We walked past a troop of exotic women in orange-and-white costumes holding ribbons at their sides, or stretching their limbs. Behind them, an irate clown shouted at another, who ignored the first clown’s rage and lit a cigarette.
“That gave you quite a fright,” Delacroix said. “I must admit, it had me nervous as well.”
“The lion could have ripped the man’s arm off!”
His tone turned cold. “Idiot. Performers do the most absurd things for an audience.”
I glanced at Delacroix, surprised by his change in demeanor. His forehead bunched into a frown, his eyes pensive.
Suddenly I remembered my agenda. I had to speak to him, soon. Before we knew it, the evening would end and I would lose my chance.
“I have something I’d like to ask you.” The words burst from my lips without time to finesse them. My careful planning dissolved.
“Certainly, but first, come with me. This is important.”
I gulped down my disappointment at yet another lost opportunity. “Where are we going?”
“I have something to show you. This way.” He picked up speed as he led me farther from the largest tents, past the crowds, and to the outermost edges of the fence.
When he stopped abruptly, I almost plowed into him.
“What is so impor—” The words died on my lips.
Just beyond the final tent, a theatre abutted the property. The theatre that had taken Papa.
The barrier holding my emotions in check—stretched thin and taut inside me—punctured at the sight. I blinked rapidly to hold the deluge of tears at bay and inhaled deeply. I hadn’t been near the site since that horrible day. In fact, I hadn’t remembered the address or even the surroundings. But I recognized it now. The trembling in my knees confirmed it.
Voice low, Monsieur Delacroix said, “It’s time for you to move on, Christine. And I would like to help you. I have a few friends at the opera house, and I know they’re holding auditions for the autumn and winter seasons very soon. Why don’t you sing for them, and see how things go. I’ll put in a good word for you. Your father would be so proud to see you try.”
Surprised, my mouth fell open but emitted no sound. It was uncanny how he had read my mind. I gazed at the crates of new wood stacked beside the charred ruins. Apparently, the theatre would be restored and filled with patrons again. The thought made me strangely hopeful.
I looked at Delacroix. For a second I wondered why the professor wanted to help and seemed so eager to do so, but I dismissed the thought. My wish would be granted. That’s all that mattered. I could help Madame, and move forward, at last.
“You’re right.” I nodded. “I can think of nothing that would please my father more.”
4
I tried to sleep but lay tangled in the sheets, staring at the flowered frieze in the plaster ceiling. With my eyes, I followed the lines along the crown molding and down the wall to the casing around the windowpanes. Seeing the theatre again brought flashes of heat on my skin and the memory of Papa’s sad, accepting gaze as blood oozed down his face. I pulled a pillow over my head to banish the image. Papa’s proud face rose behind my eyes again, but this time, I saw him the day I received a standing ovation. My nerves had been wrecked until I’d stepped into the pool of warm light on the stage, and looked out at the entranced faces of the audience. I had come alive that day. I wanted to make him proud again, to somehow make up for what I’d done.
I threw the covers aside and tiptoed across the cool tile. Beyond the heavy drapes at the window, moonlight crept over paving stones in the courtyard, leaving a silvery luminescence in its wake. The urge to be outdoors overwhelmed me. I pulled on a pelisse and boots, lit a candle, and tiptoed down the stairs to the salon. For a few moments, I looked around the room, deciding whether or not it was truly safe to go outdoors at this hour.
A board creaked behind me.
I swiveled around, heart beating wildly. The noise hadn’t come from my own footfall. Did the Angel of Music hover over me, even now?
It had to be the natural groans of the house, oaken floors disturbed at such an ungodly hour.
“Coward,” I whispered. Yet I pulled my pelisse more tightly about my shoulders. I stole through the salon to the cupboard where I knew the decanter of brandy would be tucked away among the glasses. Some alcohol should help me relax. I poured a serving and walked outside around the side of the building to the courtyard. Despite the late hour, the air was still warm. I sat on the bench, swigged deeply from the glass—and coughed from the burn. I never drank brandy. A sip of wine here and there was all I could muster, but as the alcohol soaked into my blood and my muscles relaxed, I was grateful for its potency. Perhaps it would help me sleep.
Beneath the moon, my senses sharpened. The night’s music filled the air as leaves rustled in the breeze and insects chirped from an unseen cranny on the patio. I closed my eyes and let the orchestra of sounds wash over me, feeling them twine around my fear and pluck it like guitar strings. The softest note fell from my lips, and then another, stretching into a melody.
After the first song, hope flooded the cavity beneath my ribs, pushing against the despair lodged there for so long. Another melody sprang from memory; a lullaby Mother had sung to me. As the familiar lyrics flowed over my lips, a sense of serenity slipped through my veins. I should sing—I would sing. It was time to do my duty. More than that, it was time to find my place.
A cool breeze lifted the hair from my neck. Goose bumps rose on my arms. Where had the breeze come from? The evening was so warm. I threw a furtive glance over my shoulder. Pots bursting with thirsty geraniums fanned out behind me. Their peaked branches hadn’t rustled in the wind as my hair had. Oddly, the breeze hadn’t seemed to reach them.
Cool air brushed my skin again, leaving a charged tinge in the air. I shivered and looked to the bushes again. Something moved among them.
I stood, heart thumping. “Who’s there?” My imagination reeled with thoughts I didn’t want to entertain. Perhaps I shouldn’t be out in the dark, alone, at this hour, after all.
The breeze brushed my cheek this time, and still, the bushes did not stir.
I screeched and bolted from the courtyard.
As I locked the front door, I laughed softly and leaned against the wall. It had likely been a cat rustling the branches—no ghosts or angels. And what predator would be hanging around a garden in hopes someone might show? Such ridiculous notions.
Still, I darted to my room as fast as I could and locked the door behind me.
Each morning for the next two weeks, I awoke with notes on my tongue. From soft pianissimo to fortissimo, from melodies to arias, I sang, relishing the feel of my lungs burning for air, the vibrations in my head and throat, the power of emotion rising from within and weeping from the lyrics, or bursting into the room. Madame Valerius broke into applause, then tears, when my voice floated through the house.
Finally, the day of my audition arrived. Clutching the edges of my vanity table, I leaned closer to the mirror, stomach as riotous as a stormy sea. I told myself I could do this. I could stand before the most discer
ning musical ears in the world and perform, after years of hiding from society. The worst that could happen would be that I made a fool of myself—failing completely and destroying Papa’s dreams as well as my own.
A hysterical laugh escaped my lips. Anxiety flamed through me in waves and my face flashed hot. I needed to get hold of myself.
A light tap came at the door.
“It’s time,” Claudette said, her voice muffled.
Madame Valerius had relinquished Claudette from her daily chores so she could go with me to the audition.
“Christine?” Claudette knocked a second time.
I opened the door and stared at her, lips stretched tight over gritted teeth.
She laughed and took my hands in hers. “You look terrified. Don’t worry. You’ll be wonderful.”
I squeezed her hands. “You really think so?”
“I’d sooner scrub a floor than sing in front of a crowd myself. But then, I sing like a frog.” She fluffed her skirts. “Do you like it?”
The pink dress embroidered with roses accented her lovely freckled complexion and red hair. I was relieved she would be with me for support. I needed a friend.
“You’re stunning.” I kissed her cheek.
Her smile widened. “Never thought I’d see the day I look like a real lady.”
My gown had been carefully chosen as well: summer green to set off my complexion and highlight my blue eyes. I touched the matching felt hat pinned in my hair. I hoped I would stand out.
We hailed a coach, careful not to crush our pressed bustles. Once on our way, the city sailed by as we traveled to the Boulevard des Capucines, home of the Opéra de Paris. I didn’t know how much time I would have to warm up my voice, and immediately put myself into proper position. Perched on the edge of the seat, I sat tall, pushed my shoulders back, and relaxed the muscles in my jaw with the heels of my hands. After several deep breaths, I sang a set of scales. Next, I placed my tongue on the roof of my mouth just behind my teeth and blew until it vibrated, all the while varying my pitch. Finally, I hummed for several minutes. Though Claudette had seen me practice many times, she smothered a giggle. The exercises had made me laugh when I was a little girl, and likely would put a smile on any non-singer’s face.
When the carriage stopped at the Opéra de Paris, I gaped at the grand façade. Sets of columns framed the front of the building in twos, capped by statuettes. Golden figures poised atop the far spires. A large copper dome popped from the roof, and a sculpture of Apollo watched over the city from its peak.
My stomach quivered like jellied fruit as I took in its grandeur.
The coachman jumped down and opened the door. “Mademoiselle?”
“I-I don’t know. I . . . Please, just drive on. I’m not ready. I can’t do this.” My voice came out as a hoarse whisper. How could I audition if I couldn’t speak?
“No.” Claudette’s lips were set in a determined line. “I won’t let you miss this. Why don’t I slip into the back of the theatre? Won’t do you any good if I’m loitering about in the cast room. You can focus on me. That would help, wouldn’t it?”
I threw my arms around her. “Would you?”
“I’ve never been inside a theatre.” She slipped her arm through mine. “Let’s get to it, then, shall we?”
I gathered my nerve, and we headed to the entrance on the west side of the opera house. The building seemed to draw in a breath when I swung open the door. As I stepped inside, a strange sensation rushed over my skin. I tried to ignore it and continued on, wandering through a corridor to the foyer on the first floor.
As we rounded the corner, I gasped. A grand staircase made of marble swept upward to a landing, split in two directions, and continued to the second floor. Above us, tiered balconies gilded in gold wrapped the interior walls. On the topmost floors, the gold became iron vines that coiled in rows between banister and floor.
Claudette whistled. “Amazing.”
I stood in stunned awe. The building demanded reverence.
“Look at her!” Claudette pointed to a statue of a woman holding a candelabrum above her head, her haunted face and bronzed body lustrous in the light.
The statue was one of a pair guarding the steps. I looked past her outstretched arms, at the ceiling. Panels of cherubs, beautiful maidens, and nymphs brought the domed ceiling to life in pastels and gold leaf. Yet, in spite of all the beauty, the opera house emanated an ominous ambiance. Something dark and unseen, something almost tangible.
I shook my head. The thought didn’t help my tumbling stomach. I needed to find the cast room and practice more, focus on the task at hand. I looked around me, prepared to ask someone for directions. A workman in dusty clothing and boots carried a toolbox; a pair of men in expensive suits crossed the room while deep in conversation. Others appeared as lost as me, or intent on their own thoughts.
A second workman started in the same direction as the first.
“Pardon me, Monsieur, but where is the cast room?”
He stared at me, eyes greedy, before saying, “Walk along the west side of the foyer. There is a set of steps there. Take them and follow the hallway to the second door on your right.”
“Thank you,” I said, avoiding his eyes.
Claudette snickered as he walked away. “He looked at you like he’d never seen a woman before.”
I shuddered. “I tried not to notice.”
When we reached the cast room, a woman stopped us. “You’re both here to audition?” Her voice was flat, as if she had asked the question a hundred times.
“I won’t be singing,” Claudette chimed in.
The woman twisted her mouth in disapproval. “Then you’ll not be allowed inside the changing rooms or the cast room.”
“Can I wait in the theatre?” Claudette asked. “I won’t be in anyone’s way.”
She huffed with impatience. “The directors won’t allow it. Wait in the main foyer or outside.”
Claudette shot me a conciliatory look.
“It looks like I need to do this on my own.”
“Bonne chance,” she said, her Irish brogue as thick as ever. She leaned to my ear and whispered, “I’ll find a way in. Don’t you worry your pretty head about that.”
The woman put her hand on her bony hip. “Are you coming in or not?”
I nodded and was ushered through a dressing room divided by stalls, and on through another hallway. As we neared a final door backstage, the woman bent over her paper and added my name and address to the list. “You’re number twelve. When your number is called, go through this door to the stage. The chorus director and his assistant will signal you when it’s time.”
She pushed the door open.
A dozen others peered at their newest competition.
My stomach churned as I glanced at the singers. Some hummed or trilled to warm their voices; others sang at full tilt but covered one ear to block the discordant racket of sopranos, tenors, and baritones. How could they hear themselves? I’d never had to compete just to practice.
A man poked his head through the doorway. “Number eight, you’re next.”
The woman seated against the wall stood, held her head high, and left the room. She seemed so at ease. I envied her confidence. With a deep breath, I sang a set of scales and did another of my exercises. The door opened every few minutes and another singer joined us in the queue. The competition grew by the minute.
A half an hour later, the assistant appeared again. “Number twelve!”
My stomach plummeted to my feet. I was on. I followed him through the door and onto the stage, just behind the curtain. Number eleven was still singing a piece from Le Mariage de Figaro. The woman’s nasal register rang thick and her vowels were not as elongated as they should be. Her notes sounded forced, as if she strained her vocal chords to produce the sounds.
I hoped I sounded better than that.
“Thank you,” the chorus director said, not allowing her to finish the song. “That will be all. N
ext!”
The assistant said, “State your name for the directors clearly, as well as the piece. When finished, exit the stage down the left stairs and leave through the door on the west wall.”
I must have looked terrified because he chuckled softly and said, “It’s over quickly. Good luck.”
I emerged from behind the curtain, breathing deeply to calm my nerves. As I walked across the stage, I was struck by the magnificent theatre. Hundreds of ruby-red seats sat in neat rows like soldiers at attention. Box seats in the same scarlet paneling, framed by golden balconies, lined the walls. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling. I stared out at the parterre. A hundred years ago the floor-level seats wouldn’t have existed at all, and laborers would have stood in the space, conversing and laughing, creating their own spectacles. The stage would have been rimmed in candles, making the air hazy with smoke. The audience may or may not have given their attention to the players and singers, caring more to be seen than to be entertained. Until now. It had changed in recent times, Papa had said, and it was a better time to be a performer. In this moment, I couldn’t help but wish for the days when no one listened.
I scanned the faces of the few people in the audience. Three gentlemen and a single woman sat several rows from the stage. Claudette hadn’t made it inside. Disappointment fed my nerves and my eyes fluttered shut. I needed to be calm, to relax my vocal chords. I took in another steadying breath and imagined Madame Valerius’s salon. There I stood, in front of the fireplace.
“We don’t have all afternoon, Mademoiselle,” someone said. “State your name and get on with it, please.”
My eyes flew open and I cleared my throat, stepping into the well of light pooled in the center of the stage. “My name is Christine Daaé. I will be singing “Habanera” from Carmen.”
The man with blond hair wrote furiously in his notebook. When he finished, he looked up. “You may begin.”
