by Heather Webb
Good posture and projection, I reminded myself as I pulled my shoulders back a fraction. I lifted my chin and stared at the back wall. Would I hear the accompaniment over my thundering pulse?
The pianist on the far end of the stage started, and the familiar tune I had practiced so often in the previous weeks filled the theatre. At the right moment, I began. As the first lyrics left my lips, the directors’ faces faded and the red-and-gold paneling blurred. I could be somewhere else, be someone else, transform into the character of my role.
Note after note, the song built toward the crescendo. Energy flowed through me and I felt powerful. The emotion swelled until a familiar release swept me into a world containing only music. Until the end. Just as I neared the last few stanzas of the song, my pitch wavered. I recovered quickly and finished strong.
The music stopped and my mask fell away once more.
One of the gentleman said, “Thank you, Mademoiselle Daaé.”
When he said nothing else, my hope wavered. I had botched the song at an important moment. Too many vied for a position in the chorus—they didn’t need someone who couldn’t sustain even a full song.
All four in the audience leaned in to confer.
Blood pounded in my ears. What could they be saying? The seconds felt like hours. At least I tried, I consoled myself. And at least the directors had not stopped me in the middle of the song, like they had the previous woman.
Finally, the blond gentleman spoke. “We’ll post the list next Monday in the cast room. Next!”
“Thank you.” I scurried from the stage, relieved to be on my way.
Once I escaped through the designated door, I heaved out a breath. A full week to wait. I didn’t know how I’d stand it. I wound through the maze of corridors to the foyer. The stack of unpaid bills on Madame’s desk flitted through my mind and my anxiety flared again. If they didn’t choose me, I would have to think of something else, some other way.
I found Claudette waiting in the foyer along with a handsome gentleman in a pin-striped coat and a perfectly trimmed mustache. He appeared taken with Claudette. I didn’t blame him. She was a vision today.
She smiled as I approached. “Are you finished then?”
“Yes.” I gave her a relieved smile.
“I’ll be on my way,” the man said. “Good day to you, Mademoiselle O’Malley.” He tipped his hat at us both and hurried up the staircase.
“Who was he?” I asked.
“A handsome devil,” she said. “He asked if he could call on me, but I put him off. He would drop me the minute he discovered I’m a housemaid.” Her lips formed a pout. “I wish I were you sometimes.”
“You forget I’m a musician’s daughter from the streets. I won’t marry well, either, and when Madame . . . Well, we’ll both be out on the streets again.”
Her eyes grew contrite. “I know. I just want something more to my life than sweeping floors. Maybe one day.”
“It will happen.” I kissed her cheek. “Remember, we’re in this together.”
She smiled weakly and said, “How’d you fare?”
“All right. I tripped over a syllable that threw off my pitch near the end.” I sighed. “But it’s finished and I’m glad about that.”
“I’m sure it went better than you think.”
As we climbed aboard the coach, I cast a glance over my shoulder at the building’s imposing face. “I hope you’re right.”
After the audition, I picked apart every note of my performance. I reassured myself I sang as well as I could, and then minutes later decided my voice was atrocious. With such an inferior performance, I didn’t deserve a spot in the famed opera chorus. Exhausted by the constant wavering, I focused on my plans to move forward. If the opera wouldn’t have me, I would find another venue in which to sing. Yet I had no accompaniment and it would be improper, even laughable, to assume I could tour from salon to salon on my own. I knew no one.
The only bright spot came from my trick lock, which swung open on the fifty-sixth combination. Inside, I found a string of tiny silver bells. Delighted, I fastened the string around my wrist and began sketching an image of the lock’s many complex levers. Who knew when I might use the puzzle’s tricks again.
When casting day arrived, I rose from the breakfast table, unable to eat. In less than an hour, I would return to the opera, see if I had survived the audition. I slipped out into the courtyard and paced across the patio.
“Monsieur Delacroix is here.” Claudette interrupted my thoughts. “He’s brought you roses this time.”
I had seen a lot of the professor the last few days. Each visit he brought gifts, and assured me of my place at the opera house. Though I accepted them, I confessed my unease to Madame Valerius. If he was courting me, he wouldn’t get very far. I was too young for him, and though he endeared himself to me, I didn’t see him in a romantic light. I didn’t care how silly and modern the notion was, I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love.
Madame had confronted him at my insistence.
After the meeting, she soothed my fears. “He’s only seeking your friendship, Christine. Don’t forget, he’s a dear friend of mine. Why wouldn’t he take my ward under his wing? He said you need a male figure guiding you, and wants to look after you like a father. I quite agree.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you for asking. It must have been a delicate question to pose.”
She looked down and clasped her hands in her lap. “We have endured a far more delicate time.”
I wondered what she meant, but assumed she referred to her husband’s death and didn’t want to pry.
“Besides, he has a mistress.” Madame’s eyes took on a faraway look and she touched her hair.
Her anxious habit emerged again, but why? I watched her closely. Did she have feelings for the professor? But she was well beyond his age, as he was beyond mine.
Lightly, I had said, “Is his mistress anyone I have met?”
“No.” She had gripped the wheels of her chair. “I’ll just be off to my room for a rest.”
I had stared after her, surprised by her abrupt departure.
“What are you thinking about?” Claudette grinned as her words brought me back to the moment. “You’re scowling.”
I ignored her and headed to the salon.
Delacroix stood in the middle of the room, holding a cone of pretty paper stuffed with yellow roses.
“You spoil me.” I took the flowers and unrolled them from the paper to trim their ends.
“I came to celebrate your good news.” He flashed his chalk-white smile.
I bit back a self-deprecating remark. Instead, I said, “It’s kind of you to be so supportive, but if you had seen the queue of singers, you wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Now, that’s no way to behave. You must think like a star.” He watched me slice off the end of each stem and place the flowers in a vase. “Come, let me go with you.”
“That won’t be necessary—”
“I insist.” He took me by the arm with a firm hand.
I regarded Delacroix’s vivid eyes, his unmistakable air of authority. He was the reason I had an audition in the first place. His belief in me had buoyed me the past week, and if he wanted to accompany me . . . I smiled. “Very well.”
“I’ll take you for coffee after. My carriage is in the drive.”
When we entered the foyer of the opera house, the sensation I noticed on my first visit returned. A heavy foreboding settled on my shoulders and attached to my spirit. I shivered and continued onward to the cast room. Somehow, the building felt alive, and looked on its visitors with begrudging acceptance. I remembered the opera house’s history from the newspaper clippings Papa had strewn across the farm table in our barn. Executions had taken place in the underground cellar during the Commune. I could still see the parody of those deaths captured on a waterlogged newspaper as clearly as if I had read it that morning. I wondered if those souls were trapped within the walls. An uns
ettling thought. Perhaps it was only the building’s dark history, but I couldn’t shake the feeling: Something lurked in this magnificent theatre.
“This place is a labyrinth,” Delacroix said behind me, his voice low.
I wanted to say—And haunted!—but instead said, “We’re almost there. It’s the next corridor on the left.” In this building of many doors and winding corridors and multiple floors below ground, I was grateful for my innate sense of direction.
At last, we reached the casting room. Inside, a crowd had gathered around two lists pinned to the wall: one paper listing the dancers, the other the singers.
I held my breath. This was it. Now or never.
“Yes!” a young man shouted, his features alight with happiness. He stepped to the side to let the others push forward.
One by one, each singer either whooped in glee or shrugged and sauntered away. I chewed my bottom lip as I waited for the crowd to thin. I could wait. I would prefer to mull over the verdict in relative privacy.
A young woman hung back next to me. Her slight frame suggested she was a ballerina.
“I’m Meg Giry,” she said when she caught my eye. “Maman works as a concierge here. I’ve done a few productions, but the spots are always competitive. Are you a dancer?”
I warmed to her open face. “I’m Christine Daaé. A singer, but I’ve never performed at the opera, or any place so grand.” I laughed nervously.
“You have nothing to fear.” Monsieur Delacroix patted my shoulder.
He seemed so certain, almost vehement.
Meg held her hands beside her in a classic ballerina pose, wrists slightly bent, pinkies and forefingers extended. She looked as if she might leap away any moment. “If we both make the list, you’ll have a friend already.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
When the last woman’s head drooped in disappointment and she walked away, I approached the list. Heart clamoring against my ribs, I ran my finger over the names. As I neared the end of the list, my hope shriveled more and more like a deflated balloon. Until—there it was!—second to last in bold lettering: Christine Daaé.
I suppressed a screech of joy and turned to tell the professor, but before I could say a word, he gripped my arms and kissed each cheek.
“Congratulations,” he said with a grand smile. “You see?”
I had done it! Somehow, the directors overlooked my error and wanted me to take part in their chorus. At the Nouvel Opéra! I could scarcely believe it.
“I made it!” Meg squeaked. “You must have, too? Congratulations.”
I laughed at her enthusiasm. “The same to you.”
“Lovely to meet you, Christine Daaé! I’ll see you on Monday.” Meg scampered away on feet that didn’t seem to touch the ground.
“Shall we celebrate?” Delacroix held out his arm.
“Oh, let’s!” I took his arm eagerly, joy brimming inside me.
Practice began the following Monday, and so did my new life.
5
Upon my return to the opera—as a real member of the cast—I ambled through the corridors, taking in the magnificence of the building, the endless stream of new faces, and the magnitude of my luck. I couldn’t believe I was here! When I reached the cast room, I shrugged out of my pelisse and slung it over my arm.
“Christine, is that you?”
I turned to find the ballerina I’d met at the audition. Relieved to see a familiar face, I smiled. “It’s nice to see you again, Meg. I’m a little nervous.”
She patted my shoulder. “You’ll become one of us quickly. Meet Jocelyn.” She presented the woman at her side. “She’s in the chorus as well.”
Though not pretty, the chorus girl’s smile was warm and welcoming. She kissed my cheeks and said, “Welcome.”
Surprised by the informal way the players and singers greeted each other, I hesitated before saying, “I’m Christine Daaé. Lovely to make your acquaintance.”
Jocelyn giggled. “Goodness, we’ll have to cure you of all that formality. We’re a tightly knit group here.”
Cheered by her friendly nature, I felt my shoulders relax. “The cast is immense. I had no idea it would be so intimidating. How many people work here?”
“Oh, seven hundred to . . . about a thousand, would you say, Meg?” Jocelyn grinned. “Impressive, isn’t it. But the show won’t run itself.”
I nodded. Like cogs in a machine. How would I make a name for myself among such a cast? I fidgeted with the sleeve of my pelisse.
“Have you got a copy of the libretto yet?” Meg asked. “I have an extra.” She rummaged inside her bag and produced a rumpled copy of the script.
“Not yet. Thank you.” I skimmed through all five acts, noting the number of arias verses cavatinas—the shorter, melodious songs—making a mental note of when the chorus sang. Some operas had three acts, others five. Some were Bel Cantos featuring the beauty of the song, like the operas of Bellini and Rossini; others focused on grand theatrics, like Meyerbeer’s, while others were comical or tragic. Every variety one could think of, really, and I knew only a few. The popular Faust was the perfect place for me to begin.
“Let’s see . . . other things you need to know to survive around here.” Jocelyn counted them off on her fingers. “The machinists ogle the dancers. The costume designer is an absolute genius—stop by his workshop on the second mezzanine. Be on time for practice with Gabriel, the chorus director, or he yells a lot. Goes purple, in fact.” She paused, biting her lip. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “Many of us meet for drinks or dancing after most shows, if you’d like to join us. Oh, and whatever you do, don’t make the prima donna angry.”
“Who is the prima donna?”
“Carlotta,” Meg and Jocelyn said in unison.
“She can be charming and helpful, even, but once you’re on her bad side, she’ll have it in for you until you’re kicked out of the show,” Jocelyn said, brown eyes earnest. “Trust me. Be careful around her. I’ve seen it happen twice.”
Duly noted. I didn’t need to make trouble for myself. “I’ll do my best. Thank you.”
Meg laced her arm through mine. “Let’s take a tour of the ballet rooms. You can see where we practice, and where we meet with our patrons after the show.”
I smiled, genuinely grateful for my new friends. “I’d like that.”
Every day I passed new faces in the halls and backstage at the opera house. Machinists constructed sets, fly boys shifted the flats and drops painted with faux scenery, musicians practiced with the orchestra. Ballerinas danced until their feet bled. When I felt more comfortable with my surroundings, I followed Jocelyn’s advice and met the costume designer. Fabien welcomed me into his workshop, boasting happily about his multitude of fabrics and accoutrements, and presenting his sketch boards with pride. His latest designs included an array of seventeenth-century court gowns. They would premiere in a new opéra comique called La Mascotte, about a virginal good-luck charm. Delighted, I let the designer show me more.
I found myself observing the crew whenever time permitted. I wanted to learn it all. One afternoon during practice, the lighting manager perched on a seat in the audience, studying our rehearsal with a hawk’s eye. He took copious notes and paced around the outer fringes of the stage. At one point, he strode to the back of the parterre, and eventually wound up on a balcony, observing the show from above.
I listened with fascination while he spoke with the stage director.
“I want footlights along the proscenium and lanterns on the gantry.” The manager motioned to the bridge-like structure overhead.
“For the garden scene?” the stage director asked.
The man nodded and put his hands on his hips, staring hard upstage. “We’ll also need lighting behind the drops for the scene when Mephistopheles enters.”
“You shouldn’t illuminate the wings during the ballet,” the stage director replied.
“Yes, I know. Let me do my job, Sean.” He motioned to his crew to begin
the adjustments.
I’d never considered the importance of stage lighting, yet it seemed it could determine the ambiance and tone of the entire show. Though I hadn’t yet grown used to my place, I was proud to be a member of such a talented crew.
The most celebrated cast member of them all—Carlotta Arbole, the Italian diva—stood out among the singers. On Thursday evening, I watched her from my position near the back of the stage. A row of braids was pinned to the crown of her head, and the rest of her glossy dark hair waved down her back. A full-busted woman, she wore an expensive silk gown with a low neckline, and refused to practice in costume. That way, she claimed, the costumes would have more impact on opening night. Carlotta was a handsome woman with a bold voice and unmatched stage presence. I looked on in awe as she swished from one corner to the next, never losing her sense of rhythm or showing any breathlessness. She went beyond just singing on cue; she embodied the characters she played, though I considered her a touch melodramatic for my taste. Even so, I envied her self-possession.
“I’m finished for the day,” Carlotta said with a toss of her dark mane. “I’m tired.”
“Mademoiselle, please.” Consternation tugged the corners of Gabriel’s mouth into a frown. “Two more songs and we’ll be finished.”
“I am finished now,” she insisted. “Let the others practice. They need it far more than I do.” She whirled around and headed toward the east wing of the stage.
“Carlotta, come back this instant!” Gabriel shouted.
She tossed her head again and continued on her way, singing out, “I’ll come and go as I please.”
Exasperated, Gabriel clamped his mouth closed for an instant before raising his voice again. “All right, everyone. Let’s begin with the soldier’s chorus. To your places.”
I covered a grin. The woman knew how to get her way.
We went through two songs. Each time, my voice wouldn’t stay in tune with the others. I shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. This had happened for days and I couldn’t think why. Why wasn’t my voice cooperating? I redoubled my determination.
