The Queen of the Night

by Alexander Chee

I looked around us.

  Of course. One moment. She gestured, and I saw the waiters and footmen wince and run close. This little act of yours. How hard it must be! She turned back to the waiters. The screens, please, quickly!

  I know you prefer the view of the room, I said to her, once they were in place. So I won’t be long. I won’t marry him. Not him, not any other.

  Why not? Whatever could keep you?

  My work. I have agreed to Carmen. I will stay in Paris a few days longer after that, and then I am off to Milan for Verdi. All is well. I am not marrying, and I am not leaving the stage.

  She seemed to have forgotten the evening’s original purpose to celebrate my triumph and repudiate the curse; instead, she focused on the tenor’s performance as a suitor. She also seemed to have forgotten the way I had met the tenor all those years ago. She was my only friend from that time with the gift of letting the past really die to her, to live like a beautiful happy animal in the present among her newest pleasures. I wished I was like her this way, but I was not. And she would never understand why.

  She said, It’s as if you were married before you met. So many have been separated as you have and not reunited again.

  And at this, I thought of Aristafeo instead.

  I will never marry him, I said. Also, you only just earlier told me never to marry. I prefer the advice of my friend from earlier. Where is she?

  I had an instant conversion, she said. But I suppose it is settled.

  She looked down at her hands. One question, though, she said.

  I waited for it.

  What if the curse is real? What then?

  Then he’ll kill me, I said. And I’ll be spared the marriage.

  We both laughed into our fans as we used to, and then I said, That’s all I have to say. And with that, she waved away the screens, and we returned to watching the room.

  As I searched again for Aristafeo, I saw the tenor instead.

  He was dancing with one of these beauties—the Madame du Barry—Maxine.

  In the years since we’d met in Baden-Baden, her slight blond beauty had become something arch and more lovely. She and the tenor were a perfect matched pair, nearly brother and sister. Her eyes found mine over his shoulder in recognition, and she smiled, nodding her head at me. I returned the nod.

  I did not have the strength to look away.

  The waltz ended; applause rose around the room. Maxine and the tenor made their way to our side.

  She says she knows us from Baden-Baden, the tenor said, smiling, as Maxine threw her arms around me in an embrace. I don’t recall her, but I’m ever so glad I sent you there. She’s to be our Micaëla. Isn’t that fantastic?

  Congratulations, Lilliet, Maxine said. She kissed me quickly on each cheek.

  I flicked open my fan, and said against it, to Euphrosyne: Maxine de Crecy and I were slaves together of Pauline Viardot-García’s.

  You are so . . . droll, Maxine said. I suppose you were so quiet then I never noticed.

  Euphrosyne waved the screens back into place around us, and chairs appeared for Maxine and the tenor, and then she said, Lilliet, quiet?

  Was I? I asked. I see you have been reacquainted with our troubadour, I said.

  He’s been a remarkable help this evening. I had ever so much trouble just now with a rather too-eager suitor. He dispatched him swiftly.

  He is good for that, I said.

  If Maxine recalled our former enmity, she was at the least not eager to renew it this evening, and so I let it go slack as well.

  Maxine, how have you fared? I asked.

  I did not have as fine a debut as you, but I have done well by our mistress’s honor, she said.

  We laughed and toasted her. To Pauline.

  It was then I heard Pauline announced just outside the screen, with Turgenev. We laughed in shock as they entered. Are we so comic as that? Pauline asked, and then she noticed Maxine, and there was much kissing of us both from her.

  We had just said your name and you appeared like magic, Maxine said.

  Turgenev stood back, quiet, clearly still very ill, but smiling to me all the same. La Lapinard, he said, and embraced me, kissing my cheeks. I was moved. More chairs were brought for them and more glasses, champagne was poured, and we sat down again. The screens returned.

  I want to say I am so proud of you, Pauline said to me. Your Queen of the Night was a revelation. But never sing it again, not ever; it terrified me.

  Thank you, I said. I will never sing it again, I promise.

  It was thrilling, Turgenev said. But, yes, do as she says.

  I’d not expected you, I said to him, and clasped his hands with mine.

  He is one surprise, Pauline said. It seems there was another.

  She and the tenor looked at each other and smiled.

  We dined and chatted amiably as if we had all always known each other, as if we were all on a train and headed together for some distant and placid country, someplace where we could all be together with all our conflicts the most distant of memories, behind us forever.

  This, of course, was an illusion, if a beautiful one.

  Some hours later, Pauline and I stood on the catwalk, watching as the guests danced below in graceful pirouettes across the parquet floor. Some of the candles had burned out and new ones been lit, but it was darker all the same.

  You were angry tonight, she said.

  Yes.

  When our tenor friend brought you to me, I knew very well he was your patron. It was never unclear. Was he brutal to you? Did he beat you?

  I thought to try to explain, but as I thought of what to say, she said only, My dear. Why are you with him? Why would you marry him?

  I am . . . not. And then I paused. He is not mine, I said.

  But you allow him, she said. You do not drive him away.

  I’m grateful you taught me how to sing opposite enemies, I said.

  As necessary, though, she said. Not by choice. The sacrifice is usually chained to the rock. She does not usually dance out to meet her monster.

  This left me silent.

  I wanted to see you at least once, she said. At least once before this retirement came to pass. Are you very sure? I always feared my sister’s fate for you; you were the most like her of my students, God knows; and here Pauline crossed herself, though I felt a flush of pride to hear this. Has he really proposed then? she asked.

  Oh . . . so much talk of marriage, I said. No, no retirement, it’s a rumor. No one has proposed yet.

  Yes, are you very sure? she asked, and I knew she meant the tenor’s present onstage. I’d assumed this story of the curse was just that, she said. If there’s a curse, it’s in leaving the stage, not in staying. Or the curse is in being a little fool of a woman for the sake of a man. Her fierce expression softened only slightly. Did you never find your composer?

  I embraced her then, surprising her, hoping to hide the tears that had surprised me, but she was not fooled.

  It is not love that drives us mad, I think, she said. But all the rest of life around the love.

  Turgenev appeared then, out of the shadows. I couldn’t tell if he had been waiting there as we spoke or not. When he was silent, despite his great size, he was as a ghost. He offered his handkerchief with a flourish, and I thanked him as I dried my eyes.

  Call on us anytime, she said, kissing me three times as she took his arm. Good night.

  §

  It was the end of the night at last. There was coffee on all of the buffets; carriages were being called. Men were asleep, slumped on tables or in chaises; and the air was sick with the smell of wine that had been left out. The waiters moved swiftly across the rooms inside rescuing crystal and silver from the tables, and with everyone leaving or gone, I was free to be alone, and so I lingered, neither going to my suite upstairs nor asking anyone to stay with me.

  A figure entered the dark garden from the house, and I nearly took it for a ghost. I soon saw it was two figures, in fact, the tenor with M
axine on his arm.

  My old prison, so close to having another prisoner.

  He blinked, nearly stupid with interrupted lust, and I saw his face change to the peculiar intensity he had earlier.

  There you are, comprimaria, he said.

  Not at all, comprimario, I said. How easy it was, our old joke. No one is here, I said, when he did not move. Please, don’t let me interrupt your game.

  Don’t be foolish. I was looking for you. Come with us; we’re off to Les Halles. Where are your emeralds?

  My maids know, I’m sure, I said.

  Where are they? he asked. They’re your engagement present. Go get them and come with us.

  We stared at each other, silent. Be a good girl, he said to Maxine. Go get them to call our carriage.

  Our carriage, I noted. He had seen her for some time.

  I should choose my own present, I said. And you haven’t yet proposed. Let me choose then, when you do.

  In the cool dark, something like the heat of Hell’s own door opening passed between us.

  She won’t likely find a footman, I said. Or if she does, she won’t remember her duties.

  No, the tenor said. I suspect she knows her duties well. Even in front of footmen.

  She’s a better match for you, I said. You should marry her instead.

  A moment passed, a duel of a kind, silent.

  We both know better, he said. You are my one match.

  You’re only proposing because of him, I said. A test. He knew instantly whom I meant.

  No, he said.

  Propose to me when he is nowhere around, I said. But let him live. He smiled then nodded. I’d added that perhaps only just in time.

  Only then I will consider it, I said. But only then. Do I have your word?

  On the asking or the living?

  Both. I’ll not accept you otherwise.

  And why not? How could you refuse?

  Think again what it is you ask of me, I said, refusing to answer him. I’ll return the emeralds if you like. There’s only one engagement present I want, and I’ve asked for it.

  Maxine returned then, beckoning the tenor; she was not as drunk as she had seemed before. And he turned as if in a trance, remembering her, before he looked back to me.

  Keep them also, he said softly, so only I could hear. As for the rest, I agree. I will ask you again—though I have asked you once before. For now, I will let him live against the day you say yes and become my bride. Name the hour you will say yes, and it will be done. He leaned in then, kissed my cheek, and waited to hear my response. But refuse and I keep no promises, he said.

  We are at terms, then, I said.

  We are, comprimaria. But do not take too long.

  He kissed me once more before heading to the door, where he took Maxine’s hand in his and led her out.

  I sat back into the chair and drew my cape closer. The night air was cool, too cold for me to remain much longer, but I could not bring myself to enter yet. I looked into the candelabra, the only light in the garden. The flames took turns erupting in little gouts, like little fire-breathers at practice, and all at once, oh, how I missed Flambeau.

  To my surprise, I missed the rest as well, as it paraded before me in the dark: the show, the act, my old horse, my buckskin. I missed Ernesto and Priscilla, the tiny city of tents and carts, the feeling of the world moving in the night around you rather than you moving in it, of being on a long journey without a destination, the tour your home. I wondered where the cirque was then and if they missed me, even as I knew there was sure to be another girl in my old costume, wheeling a horse around a ring, firing my old rifle into the air.

  Another girl practicing with Flambeau, perhaps, hoping to give herself a voice made only of fire.

  I took out my cigar in remembrance and lit it on the candle. As I shot smoke rings into the air and poked them with the cigar, I heard from behind me the click of the cane on the stones and knew it instantly, as if it searched across my own heart.

  I did not move or even look to him.

  I thought you gone, I said.

  He came a few steps closer. I thought I could stay and then I could not. But I have returned for the story, he said.

  There was no longer anything to tell him. The tenor would likely keep his promise to me, but he would do better if Aristafeo was far from here. If I was to tell the story I promised, Aristafeo would stay, insist I try to leave with him, be with him; and if he stayed and insisted, I might relent; and then he would most likely be killed; and I would fail us both. All I needed to do was to play the part of that pretty petty liar, the courtesan driven only by the pursuit of luxury, prestige, fame—to become the woman he feared I was. This was what would drive him from me, back to his mysterious benefactress, back into the secret hiding place he had emerged from, where he might live on in safety without me.

  The one way to save this love, always, it seemed, no matter the place or time, was to refuse it.

  Will you really sing Carmen with him? And not Le Cirque du Monde Déchu?

  Yes, I said.

  He looked down and was silent, and so I continued.

  I have refused you, I said. You, you said you would leave if I did. So, please. Leave. Leave and let it be done.

  The candles burning were the only sound as now we stared at each other.

  I wrote the opera I said I would, he said. With the hope one day I could get it to you and it would remind you of me—me, but also of you. Of us.

  Keep your word, I said.

  I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, he was right in front of me.

  What were you to tell me? he asked. Why did you ask me to stay?

  Keep your word, I said again. Keep your word and go. Leave and do not return.

  At this, he finally looked away.

  I was always happy that at least one of us was saved, he said. He turned to leave and then paused and looked back.

  I will still try to be happy for that.

  And with that, he was gone.

  Four

  THE SETTING IN Carmen for that song known as the Habanera in the first act: Carmen has been surrounded by young men who are insisting to know when she will love them, on what day. She spins, acting as if she were ignoring them as she walks and sings:

  Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas,

  peut-être jamais, peut-être demain.

  Mais pas aujourd’hui, c’est certain.

  L’amour est un oiseau rebelle

  Que nul ne peut apprivoiser.

  Et c’est bien en vain qu’on l’appelle,

  S’il lui convient de refuser.

  Rien n’y fait, menace ou prière

  When will I love you? My faith, I don’t know,

  maybe never, maybe tomorrow.

  But not today, that is certain.

  Love is a rebel bird

  that no one can tame,

  and we call in vain

  if it is convenient for it to refuse.

  Threat or prayer, nothing will work.

  Carmen is accustomed to the attention of every man everywhere she goes. It insults her to have one who will not look.

  There is a rose between her breasts. Near the end of the act she throws it to the young soldier who will not look at her for shame over the feelings she arouses in him. He wants to keep himself for the young Micaëla, the girl his mother wants him to marry. His mother is dying and would like him to be settled with a good girl.

  He picks up the rose and smiles at Carmen, and the string section trills with the premonition of death.

  I was still singing songs with roses.

  L’amour, la mort, she sings, by turns gaily and seductively. Love, death. Love. Only in French do they rhyme.

  §

  The weeks went by with no word from him. The autumn deepened; the trees turned black and gold again. Faust ended; rehearsals for Carmen began in earnest. The rumor of the curse, that I was leaving the stage, meant, as I’d expected, more new offer
s came in and the tickets for Carmen went at a run. Nothing had been repudiated by my accepting the role, and it did not matter except to me.

  Now my plan was underway. I had only to survive it.

  Aristafeo’s opera would succeed without me, and he would find future patrons, lovers, and stars. And the honor of originating a role, of performing in his opera, was nothing beside the honor of protecting him as he returned.

  For this was how it was possible for me. All of the love I had for him, everything I would have said, all became this performance of alienation. I needed him to believe what I did not want him to believe, that I no longer loved him. We were done, and there was nothing between us now except his ring, which I had found that night as I undressed.

  I put it in my jewel safe. I knew to wait before returning it. I’d endured repeated proposals before, but always as a kind of crisis of my connection with an admirer. You needed to reject them in such a way that the liaison was protected, and yet to do so also required an affection from you or the liaison was over. A proposal repeated in the face of rejection required more of the same, though I suspected some admirers of proposing, at the least, to receive the repeated reassurance that came with my rejections.

  If the liaison was unwanted, then the proposal allowed you to end it gracefully. No, of course, my dear, we cannot see each other now.

  Rings had their own protocols. If I returned the ring too quickly, it would be cruel; too slowly, and it would encourage him; to keep it kept him encouraged against a day that could never come. And so I decided to write to him as to the ring after two weeks’ time, and then Carmen began and all of my attention was there.

  Three weeks, then, I said to myself. And then it was four.

  At the first rehearsal, the director warned me to consider an approach that would not offend the conservative audiences who, when the opera had debuted, he said, were repulsed by her.