by Heather Webb
“Who is ‘we’?” I asked.
She pulled back to study my face. “I can’t tell you.”
My eyes widened. She knew more! “I won’t tell anyone. I don’t have any other friends here.”
“Another time,” she said, turning to face the mirror. “I need to finish getting ready. Sorelli will make me do barre exercises all day tomorrow if I’m late.”
Hiding my disappointment, I squeezed her shoulder. “Good luck tonight.”
I made my way to the rooms backstage where the cast congregated. Excitement stirred the air. The rumble of conversation grew louder as patrons poured into the theatre. Frantic machinists levied cables into place and prepared the set flats that would shift during the production. Chorus members queued in the order they would file on stage, while others milled about in various costumes.
Mephistopheles bent over a red curled shoe, his black horns catching on the gossamer angel wing that Sorelli wore.
A devil ensnared by an angel.
Sorelli yanked her wing free, leaving a small hole in the delicate fabric. She swore at the devil.
I smothered a laugh and skirted around her to the other side of the cast room. Though I was Carlotta’s understudy, I didn’t need to dress for the show. In fact, Gabriel told me I didn’t need to be in the building at all unless I wanted to be. I had sagged instantly at the thought of being excluded. Everyone knew Carlotta wouldn’t miss a show—especially opening night—and that being the diva’s understudy, while somewhat prestigious, meant lots of practice with little-to-no stage time. I shrugged off my disappointment. It was opening night at the opera and I had never seen a show. Tonight, I would enjoy my first production from backstage—not something most people could say.
“Vite, vite!” An assistant dashed through the room, clapping her hands. “The curtain goes up in five minutes.”
Cries erupted in the room. Everyone finished tinkering with their costumes and dashed to their positions.
When the opera began, I settled in the west stage wing for the best view.
“What are you doing here?” asked Pierre—the same man who had shown his irritation with me in the chorus. Waves of disapproval rolled off his shoulders and assaulted me in their silent, yet potent way.
“Watching the show,” I said firmly, my eyes fixing on the bean-shaped mole just above his thin lips. How did he emit beautiful sounds out of such a mouth?
His face twisted into a scowl and I felt the urge to say something rude. Between the anger I’d felt a few days ago toward Carlotta, the brazen way I’d demanded Delacroix tell me his history, and now this, I was beginning to not recognize myself—in a good way. My lips stretched into a smile of their own accord.
Pierre’s eyes narrowed. “What’s so amusing?”
Meg leaned over my shoulder. “Leave her be, Pierre. It’s her first show and she just wants to watch. Come on.” She tugged my hand, pulling me in front of her so I could see the stage.
When the show began, I watched Carlotta carefully.
Meg ran her hands over her white tulle skirt and leaned to my ear. “Carlotta is magnifique as Marguerite, isn’t she? It’s true, as much as I hate to admit it.”
I nodded. The diva’s voice and stage presence captivated the crowd; her charisma charged the air. Now I understood how she had reached stardom. Yet in spite of her talent, I felt no envy toward Carlotta, no expectation, but something else entirely. Need throbbed in my veins—a need to make my own place.
When the act finished and the curtain closed over the stage, the fly boys and machinists set to work, changing the set pieces and shifting the drops. I marveled at their speed and precision.
“Off I go,” Meg said.
I stepped back as a herd of ballerinas pranced to their positions, the wooden tips of their slippers thumping softly against the floor. They remained as still as statuettes dressed in white sequins, waists encircled with fluffy tulle. Sorelli stood in the middle of them, wings pointed toward heaven. When the curtain lifted and the music began, their bodies came to life like toys sprinkled with magic dust. I watched them in awe, though I had passed their practice room day after day. Their elegant ensemble left me breathless. Yet the crowd chattered through the entire performance. The mid-show intermission meant very little to them, save the true dance connoisseurs.
After the dance and the final act of the opera, the crowd dispersed. The cast made their way to the dressing rooms, and headed home. Though I wanted to leave as well, I remembered my promise to Delacroix. I loitered, ears perked, hoping to catch something useful. But the players dwindled until I was one of the final singers in the dressing room, and still, I hadn’t heard or seen a thing. Pierre and his large mole were the last to go, and he left without an offer to escort me.
What a gentleman, I thought, as I gathered my handbag and umbrella.
I glanced around the empty cast room and paused. This was the perfect opportunity to sneak around a little, poke into things. If I did, I could tell the professor with honesty I had looked and found nothing, assure him no ghost existed. I rifled through the drawers and vanity tops, pawed through an errant handbag left by accident, and found nothing. Finally, I slipped into the dimly lit corridor.
A pair of male voices echoed in the distance. A door thudded closed.
Avoiding the direction of the sound, I walked quickly down a passageway I had yet to explore. Somewhere on the same floor, the clunk of costly sets shifted, and a few male voices laughed or shouted orders at each other. A janitor passed me carrying a broom. He tipped his hat as he went, leaving the hall empty once more. One by one, the lights began going out.
My pulse pattered against my throat. Though finding a ghost in the dark might be more likely, I walked quickly to a lit corridor, the only sound coming from my ragged breath and the clicking of my heels.
I didn’t believe in ghosts.
I didn’t believe in ghosts!
I peeked inside a room. Nothing.
I continued on, and after two more turns, peaked inside a dark room. I fumbled on the wall for some sort of lamp or switch. Parts of the building had been fitted with electricity, but much of it still used gas lighting. Unable to find a switch plate, I decided to try the opposing wall. I squinted and made out the faint outline of a set flat or large piece of furniture. My ears perked like a spooked mare as I waded through the darkness.
Then I heard it. A faint scratching—or was it breathing?
I held my breath and glanced over my shoulder. I was being a coward. I had lived in far more frightening places, and had walked by dozens of scoundrels with Papa as we picked our way through the rubble that once was our home. I could be tough when I wanted, I reminded myself.
When I reached another doorway on the opposite wall, I stepped through to find a staircase leading to a lower level. A light glowed faintly at the bottom of the steps. I had heard about the seven stories below the stage; most were used to store sets, costumes, and tools, but there was also a cistern in case of fire. And a prison cell.
I shivered. Why did I have to think of that now?
The scratching came again.
“Who’s there?” I turned, my skirt whisking around my feet.
A deep silence greeted me.
The urge to flee twitched in my legs. After a moment’s pause, I exhaled a breath, annoyed with myself. There was nothing here, and in just a few more minutes, I could leave, be on my way. I gathered my courage and descended the stairs.
A vast storage room sprawled out before me. Stage props cluttered the space: a large bed with flowered couverture, lamps and tables, false trees, the frame of a house, and more. I touched the cool glass of a hand mirror and a flute tossed carelessly on a table. I continued on to an adjoining room packed wall to wall with scenery flats.
“Can I help you, Mademoiselle?”
I jumped at the voice and turned, hand over my pounding heart. “I—I don’t know. No, thank you.”
“Having a look around, were you?” the m
an said.
My eyes locked on his frying-pan face, his hulking shoulders. I clutched my umbrella tighter.
“Yes, I wanted to see . . . I’ve heard . . .”
He took a step closer. “You heard something?”
A lump lodged in my throat. He was just a machinist or a stagehand, no ghost. Nothing to fear.
“There’s talk of a ghost haunting the opera.” The machinist took two steps closer. “Have you heard such a thing? Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
My eyes darted to the staircase where I had entered.
He raised a brow as a lascivious smile split his face. “I would be glad to see you out, Mademoiselle. If you need help finding an exit, that is.”
He stepped closer still.
My heart slammed against my ribs. In two strides he would have me cornered, my back against the wall.
I cleared my throat and used my sternest tone. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ll just be on my way. You must have a hundred things to do.”
“Not at the moment, and I’ve grown rather tired of this charade. I’m no more a machinist than you are a diva.” He rocked forward on his feet as if ready to pounce.
I swallowed hard. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’m here to find him, like you. The ghost,” he hissed.
Blood pounded like a drum in my ears. “I’m not here to find a ghost. I am a singer.” I inched away from him toward the door. “Do you think the ghost is real?”
“Oh, he’s real, all right.” In a swift movement, he closed the space between us and pinned me against the wall. “Real as I am.”
I cried out. “What are you doing? You’re frightening me!”
“You’re easy to look at, aren’t you?” He ran a calloused thumb down my cheek, sending a wave of disgust down my throat.
“Please,” I said. “Let me be and I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
He laughed. “I am not worried about what you might say.” His arm slid around my waist and wrenched me toward him.
I cried out again. Get away, my head screamed. Kick him, bite him. Run! Yet I felt helpless in the crush of his arms. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
He laughed. “This won’t hurt if you’re quiet. You might even enjoy it.” He fumbled with the buttons of his pants.
Terrified, I kicked his leg with the sharp point of my boot and thrashed in his hold.
“Putain!” he shouted. “Hold still.”
I aimed for his other leg and screamed. “Someone help me!”
The lights went out.
Something rattled in the dark.
“Get off of me!” I shouted, struggling in the man’s grip.
He pressed himself harder against me, smashed his face in my neck. “You smell sweet, too.”
I screamed again.
“Shut your mouth or I’ll have to hold you down.”
Terror locked every muscle in my body. There was nothing I could do. He had me pinned. I said a silent prayer this would end quickly.
The next instant, a thud sounded near my head.
The man grunted and his arms released me.
“Go!” a sinuous voice said in the dark. “Leave now or you will regret it.”
I bolted in the direction I thought was the staircase at once. I slammed into a flat. Its edge cut into my wrist before it crashed to the floor. I screamed, and continued running blindly in the dark.
At last a faint glow appeared, lighting the staircase from above. Someone had lit one of the lanterns. I flew up the stairs, through a maze of corridors and rooms. Once at the exit, I launched myself at the outer door. It flew open on impact and smashed against the outside wall. I dashed into the street, gasping for breath.
Streetlamps buzzed and a stray dog trotted over the cobblestones, his coat mangy and matted with dirt. And there, across the road, sat Monsieur Delacroix’s coach. I frowned, puzzled by his sudden appearance for a moment, then dashed toward him. I didn’t care why he was here, I was just relieved.
The door swung open, and the professor stepped into the night. “Good heavens, are you all right?” He ushered me inside the carriage. With one look at my stricken expression, his surprise shifted to concern. “I was just waiting for the directors. They’re joining me for cards at the gentlemen’s club. It’s a good thing I’m here. Tell me, dear, what happened?”
“A man—he . . . he grabbed me and—”
He clenched his fists. “Who was this man?”
“I don’t know.” I gulped in a breath to steady my nerves, my racing heart. “He said he was done pretending to be a machinist. He’s tall and broad with a large face.”
He grimaced. “Did he hurt you?” He fished a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and gently dabbed my face.
“He tried. He pushed me up against the wall.” The tears began in earnest.
“What were you doing there so late? Hasn’t the cast already gone home?”
“I was looking for the ghost. Trying to help you.”
“Dear girl.” He squeezed my hands and rubbed my back until the tears dried.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I am, too. There, there.” His soft voice steadied my nerves.
Several minutes later, he lowered his gaze. “Christine?”
“Yes?” I exhaled a calming breath.
“Did you find anything?”
I sniffed. “No one knew anything about a ghost except one of the ballerinas. She said there were rumors, but no proof. Said I shouldn’t talk about it.”
“I see.” He dabbed at the tears that began again. “More importantly, did this man take advantage of you?”
I shook my head.
“Thank goodness.” He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Just as he pinned me against the wall, the room went dark. The machinist must have been hit because there was a thump and he released me.” I wiped my face. “I heard a voice. He told me to run. Said I would regret it if I didn’t.”
His dark eyebrows shot skyward. “A voice, you say?”
“Yes, a voice.” I shivered at the memory.
A light filled his eyes and he smiled. “That, my dear, was our opera ghost.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about the incident, dreaming about it, worrying about it. When it was time to return to the opera for practice, I was exhausted. Though I didn’t want to, I had to tell the directors about my attacker. Delacroix had warned me they might consider me a liability, or that the truth might cause trouble for me among the other cast members. Just the same, I planned to talk to them that day. I didn’t see how they would consider me at fault, and I didn’t feel safe in the same building as my would-be molester.
As I approached the office, I paused before knocking. Angry voices drifted into the hall.
“He has some nerve demanding we keep box five reserved for his personal use.” Monsieur Moncharmin’s voice rumbled behind the door.
“I don’t give a damn about box five,” Monsieur Richard replied. “It’s the money. I say to hell with him!”
“Are you certain this is the ghost? Have you seen his handwriting before?”
“Who else would have made such a demand!” Monsieur Richard’s boots shuffled across the floorboards.
I froze. The ghost had left them a note! Straining to hear better, I rested my cheek against the door.
“We will carry on as usual tonight. This has to be a prank from a disgruntled employee.”
Monsieur Richard chimed in, “I concur. But what do you think the tyrant will do if we rent box five?”
“Nothing. This is positively ludicrous.”
“What about Carlotta’s request for increased pay? She’s the main event, whether we like it or not.”
“She hasn’t shown us her loyalty,” Montcharmin interjected.
“She’s difficult and temperamental. She threatened to quit again only yesterday when you were at the bank.”
My nerves twitched in anticipation. If Carlotta left, would I ta
ke the stage?
“She threatens to leave at least once a week. Let her go. We’ll hire someone else.”
“You know very well there isn’t anyone to replace her.”
“Of course there is. We have the understudy.”
“The chorus girl?” Montcharmin asked, his voice thick with disbelief.
“Gabriel says she has a decent voice.”
I winced at the offhand remark. Decent was not how I wanted to be described.
“We’ll have to do better than decent. The show won’t go on without a suitable replacement. We’ll keep Carlotta happy for now, but if she becomes too big of a problem, we’ll hold another audition. Daaé can cast her lot against the others. I have a friend at the opera in Vienna. He might be able to send someone.”
I dropped away from the door and rushed off in the other direction, legs numb and heart heavy. When I reached a vacant alcove, I leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling. Its embellishments looked too beautiful for a simple woman like me—just like the rest of the opera house and its cast. Despair swept over me and I blinked several times to clear the tears. Though I longed to be on stage, I had no business being a part of this production.
Malaise stirred in the pit of my stomach—the same sensation I felt each time I entered the building. Rubbing my arms, I looked down the empty hallway. I should force myself to turn back, tell the directors about what happened. Even if they didn’t care that I worked here at all.
Something stirred in the wall behind me.
I jumped and turned abruptly.
There was nothing there. Of course not. Had I gone mad? It was probably a rat in the walls. I chewed on my nail, unsure if I could really face the directors now. I could always approach them later.
“Do not be sad, beautiful one,” a melodious voice said.
My heart seized in my chest. It was the voice from last night!
“Who’s there?” I whispered, looking down the drafty corridor.
“I’m here to help you.”
“Who are you?” I looked at the ceiling, fear rippling through me. I turned to the wall and ran my shaking hands over the paneling. In a building with many floors, secret recesses, and a dozen covert staircases, I knew there must be more undetected doors.
