After all, if the Phantom could steal Christine out from under the Vicomte de Chagny’s nose, then it shouldn’t be that difficult for him to do the same thing to Randall Cagney. The Phantom, however clever, certainly didn’t have the immense resources that he, Erik Deitrich, had at his disposal. Very soon Cagney would realize he had crossed the wrong person…and then the true fun would begin.
Chapter Four
I stood in front of the bulletin board in the break room at work and groaned silently. A new flyer highlighted yet another one of my boss George’s fabulous ideas, something designed to lure in more patrons and give me yet another headache to deal with.
“So who are you coming as?” Meg asked, leaning over my shoulder to read the announcement for herself.
“A starving college student?”
“Oh, come on!” she said, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners as she grinned in anticipation. “How many people get paid to dress up on Halloween?”
“Apparently a few more this year,” I replied. Great—huge Halloween party this year, since we were lucky enough to have the big day fall on a Saturday. All staff on board, special buffet, costume contest, the works. No doubt it would be a big success.
Of course George couldn’t make it easy, either—the flyer tacked to the bulletin board specified that all restaurant employees dress “in theme,” which, since the place was named L’Opera, made it fairly obvious what sorts of costumes he was looking for. No simple ghost sheet or leotard with bunny ears was going to do—not that I would have ever worn something like that out in public in the first place.
“I think I’ll go as Carmen,” Meg said dreamily, twisting a strand of dark hair around one finger as she considered her costume. “Some sort of off-the-shoulder blouse, one of those fun waist corset things, red flower in my hair—it’ll be totally cool.”
It would be, too, since Meg’s mother was from Venezuela and had given her daughter a warm olive skin and glowing dark hair and eyes. She would be perfect.
I, on the other hand—
“Ooh, do something from Aïda,” Meg urged. “Egyptian stuff is awesome.”
“Yeah, because I look so Egyptian!” It would be even worse than trying to dress as Carmen, although luckily Meg had already chosen that role.
“Violetta!” she proclaimed.
“Right, and it’ll be too fun to watch me navigate between tables in a big old hoop skirt,” I said.
She laughed. “Oh, yeah, hadn’t thought about that.” Then, apparently noticing for the first time my troubled look, she added, ”Oh, it’s not that bad. You’ve got almost three weeks to figure it out.”
Meg was so airy in her unconcern, I almost laughed as well. No problem for her—she’d collect her costume bits from funky shops in Old Pasadena and possibly even make a foray downtown into the Fashion District for the finishing touches—but I didn’t have the luxury of such largesse. Still, she was right. I did have three weeks…barely. Something would work itself out before then.
Of more pressing concern was the autumn recital for the senior master class, now only a week and a half away. Thanks to my continuing practice with Randall—on campus only, since I’d had to work every night since that one time we’d had dinner—I felt in command of the aria, charged and energized and ready to perform. Certainly Dr. Green hadn’t had cause for disappointment since then. But although I was confident in my voice and my mastery of my performance piece, there was always the faint unease that came with performing in public. I knew I wasn’t alone—even seasoned professionals could get butterflies—but as much as I was looking forward to the recital, I’d be equally glad when it was over.
Well, as my mother used to say, if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Our break time was almost over, and I nodded significantly at the clock. “Back to the salt mines,” I said.
She grimaced. “Yeah, I am so over this!” But still she dropped her order pad in her apron pocket and headed back out.
I wondered when she was going to be “over” it enough that she actually quit. Certainly she didn’t really need the money, but she’d made noises about how her parents considered it “character building,” whatever that meant. I hoped she’d make it through the rest of the school year. I’d miss her if she quit, although we’d still see each other at school. Even during the most difficult shifts, times when I could have cheerfully strangled a few of my customers, Meg was breezy and relaxed. Of course, her casual attitude might simply stem from the fact that she could walk away whenever she felt like it.
As I left the break room I wondered, idly, what it would feel like to have that kind of money….
It turned out that Randall had the perfect solution to my Halloween predicament. “Go as Marguerite,” he said simply, after he let me vent for a few minutes about George’s crazy ideas and last-minute schemes.
“Marguerite?”
“You’re doing the aria for the recital. I think it fits.”
“Maybe, but if you think I can just whip up a fifteenth-century gown in the next few weeks—”
He laughed. “Of course not. The drama department did Romeo and Juliet last semester. They’ve still got the costumes lying around. I’ve got contacts over there—I’m sure they’ll let me borrow one for a while. I can give it to you the night of the recital.”
Randall looked so serious about his “contacts” that I almost laughed myself. But, limited though my experience of men might be, I knew better than to make a comment that he might think was mocking. And I was grateful, after all. “That would be great, Randall. This has been driving me nuts!”
He smiled at me. “Couldn’t have you worrying over that when you’ve got the recital coming up—” and he glanced significantly at the score resting on the piano.
“Ready when you are.” I took the usual singer’s stance, tucked in the curve of the Steinway grand, and we were off once more, and there was nothing in my mind except the music.
As promised, Randall delivered the dress to me the evening of the recital as I waited backstage at Alfred Newman Recital Hall, the usual venue for smaller-scale performances on campus. More than once some prankster had changed the name on the building to the “Alfred E. Neuman” Recital Hall after the Mad magazine icon, but of course that’s not really who the hall was named for. I’d found myself hoping several times that the hall’s namesake had departed this world before he discovered he was being confused with the gap-toothed spokesman of a humor magazine.
I unzipped the garment bag just enough to reveal the glory of white and gold brocade inside, then murmured, “Wow….”
“Nice, huh? Guess it was from the scene at the ball where Romeo and Juliet see each other for the first time. I think Teresa is about your size, but you might have to hem it a little. She’s pretty tall.”
And I, at just barely five foot five in my stocking feet, was anything but. “A hem I can handle,” I said. “Thank you, Randall. I can’t tell you how much this helps me out.”
He waited until I had hung up the garment bag on one of the hooks in the dressing-room area, then said, “Maybe it can help you imagine to be her—Marguerite.”
I had a brief image of myself wrapped in flowing white and gold, hair streaming down my back, and shivered. Was that how Marguerite had first felt when she lifted up the mirror and beheld the glittering jewels at her ears and throat, the pearls entwined in her hair? Suddenly I felt glowing, regal, despite the simple black recital gown I wore.
Randall must have noticed something different in my aspect, because he smiled suddenly and said, “Well, that seems to have done the trick.”
“I think it did.”
He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Dr. Green, who stuck his head in the door and said, “Five minutes, Randall.”
He held up his hand in acknowledgment. “No prob—” and Dr. Green’s head abruptly disappeared, something like a jack-in-the-box retreating into its container.
We both grinned. Then I said, “You need to get
going. I’ll see you out there soon enough.”
He surprised me with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Break a leg.”
“I hate that expression,” I replied, but he had already turned and was hurrying down the hallway to the stage.
My aria was at the end of the program, and I tried to reassure myself that the unfortunate placement had something to do with saving the best for last. I didn’t have much to do except cool my heels backstage for most of the evening, although I was able at one point to peek out past the curtain to see what kind of audience we had.
Not bad for a Thursday night. The auditorium was probably a little more than two-thirds full, with the usual row of overeager parents with camcorders on tripods taking up residence toward the back. I tried to ignore the now-familiar pang as I realized there wouldn’t be anyone out there carefully recording my performance….
I narrowed my eyes suddenly. It was hard to tell, what with the dim lighting, but one of the figures in the back row looked oddly familiar. I recognized a couple of the onlookers—in fact, there was Meg’s father, over to the left, hunched over a camera so complicated that it looked as if he had borrowed it from his ex-wife’s television station—but I didn’t think it was a parent who had caught my attention. No, now I was sure of it—the brown-haired man who stood almost at dead center in the back row of videographers was the same man I had almost knocked over several weeks earlier, when I had run from Dr. Green’s classroom in disgrace.
Who the hell was he? He didn’t really look old enough to be the parent of a senior-class college student. Also, as I stared at him, I noticed something odd. He might be standing with the rest of the parents in the back, but unlike most of them he wasn’t paying any attention to his camcorder. From time to time he glanced at his watch, then at his program, and then, faintly, I could see his chest heave, as if he were sighing with boredom or annoyance. It seemed as if he were waiting for something.
He’s waiting for you, came a treacherous little thought in my head, a thought I clamped down on immediately. Rampant paranoia was the last thing I needed right now. He could be anyone—someone’s older brother, an uncle, whatever—and very possibly he didn’t see the value in recording the whole program if he were really only there to see one performer.
“Spying?”
I jumped a little. It was Carrie Gustafson, the only person in the senior master class whom I genuinely disliked. She had a decent voice, but from the way she paraded around the class, you’d think she had already inked an exclusive contract with the Met.
I swallowed my anger. “Just wanted to take a look.”
“I can’t imagine why,” she drawled. “It’s not as if anyone’s out there to see you.”
Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself of the legal consequences of assault and battery. Still, as much as I would have liked to snap back with something witty and yet pejorative, the only rejoinder I could come up with was, “Whatever…” before I dropped the curtain and slunk away. Carrie was one of the few people who could make me feel as if my IQ had suddenly dropped by fifty points. My only satisfaction lay in the fact that she had obviously been interested in Randall and was now doubly spiteful because he had made it plain that not only was he not interested in her, he was in fact already seeing the hated Christine Daly.
“Ten points to me,” I whispered as I waited in the darkness backstage. Then my name was called, and I walked out into the blinding spotlights.
I could still see myself—see Marguerite—robed in white and gold, shimmering with jewels and precious pearls. I took that image with me as the music welled up from inside, wrapping everyone in the hall, including myself, in its glorious spell. And I rode the waves of golden sound until the hall burst into applause like booming thunder and I stood alone in the spotlight, tears rolling down my cheeks as the audience erupted into a spontaneous standing ovation.
Erik took the disk from Jerome with a hand that shook only a little. Now past twelve, it was still the early watches of the night for him. Besides, he knew he couldn’t have slept knowing that he was so close to hearing her.
“Thank you, Jerome,” he said.
The man was obviously bursting with news, but Erik did not want to hear his assistant’s version of the night’s events. He wanted to see and hear for himself.
Even though Erik had meant his last words as a sort of dismissal, Jerome still lingered.
“That will be all, Jerome,” he added, putting extra emphasis on “all” just in case the man really was too dense to understand that he wanted to experience her alone.
Jerome blinked. “Of course, sir.”
Finally. Erik stood and went to the armoire that housed his audiovisual equipment, then slipped the DVD in the player. The LED screen powered up and he stepped back, watching.
The image came on abruptly, as the audience was still applauding the previous performer. Christine walked to the center of the stage, heartbreakingly lovely in her simple black dress, her luxuriant dark hair pulled back from her face with a silky ribbon. She had a faraway look on her face, and he sucked in his breath, his thoughts running in an incoherent little prayer: Please...please...please....
Then she opened her mouth to sing, and it was all he could do to not fall to his knees there and then, hearing the glory of it, the utter bell-like perfection, the sweetness and purity and strength. There was not a single false note, not a single hesitation—she sang as if the music had come to her directly from God. Perhaps it had.
It ended with a tumult of applause and then the sound of everyone rising to their feet almost simultaneously, as if directed by a power as far beyond them as her talent. Erik stood there in shock for a moment, staring at the blank blue screen, as the tears ran down his ruined face and the remote dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
He had hoped for—what? Of course, a lovely voice, a true coloratura, but he had never imagined this. Long ago he had abandoned the thought of God, save as possibly some cruel entity who existed only to inflict torment on hapless souls such as he, but surely only God could have been the architect of such beauty.
For a second he wavered. Who was he to presume to take such perfection from the world, to keep it only for his own pleasure? Was he really so desperate, so low, that he could only think of himself when the whole world deserved to share in her beauty? Better to abandon his plans now, before he could debase himself any further. He could still worship her from the shadows, make sure the way was smoothed for her so she could quickly become the dazzling star she deserved to be.
The indecision lasted only a moment before he reached up angrily to brush away the tears on his one uncovered cheek. The world didn’t deserve her. She was everything that was good and pure, and the world was all too harsh to women such as she. No, she should live in sheltered luxury, surrounded by music and art, nurtured in love and unending passion, never to want for anything again. She should be his.
He turned away from the television screen and noticed for the first time that Jerome had laid a piece of folded paper on his desk. Picking it up, he unfolded it, scanned its contents, then felt a slow fire kindle in his chest. He could see her, be with her in her own world, if only for a night. The only night of the year where no one would question his mask.
On Halloween, the Phantom would definitely be in attendance at L’Opera….
Chapter 5
Halloween in Southern California was always unpredictable. One year the area could be scoured and dry under the fierce winds of a late-season Santa Ana condition; the next year trick-or-treat could be cut short by unpredictable rains. This year, unfortunately, the evening threatened to be one of the latter type. I threw a wary glance at the lowering skies, blood-colored to the west with the last traces of sunset, and prayed that if it was so inconsiderate as to start pouring down rain, it would at least wait until I had arrived at work. One of my windshield wipers was starting to disintegrate into long ribbons of black rubber, and it was hard enough driving in the bulky Marguerite dress
without having to deal with wet streets and drivers who seemed to lose their last few brain cells when a few drops of water fell from the sky.
Luckily, though, I pulled into the parking lot of L’Opera without incident, although a few scattered drops had hit the windshield on the way over. The rain looked as if it was about to start any minute, so I gathered up my heavy skirts and hurried in to the employees’ entrance at the back of the restaurant. I hoped that it would let loose soon and get it over with—I was pulling an eight-hour shift tonight and wouldn’t be off until two in the morning, so it could happily rain away while I was safely inside.
The break room looked like an explosion in the costume closet at the Met. Everyone appeared to have taken George’s instructions seriously, and there wasn’t a cheap satin-draped Dracula or bunny-eared leotard in the bunch. Probably a lot of people had done the same as I had—called in favors from the drama departments of their respective schools, since most of the wait staff were struggling students like myself.
“Wow,” Michael, one of the waiters, said at my ear. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Marguerite,” I replied, then added, at his blank look, “From Faust.”
“Ah. Better watch out, then, because I think George is dressed as Mephistopheles.”
“Great....” It made sense, though. George resembled Goethe’s dapper version of the devil even in street clothes, with his carefully groomed goatee and slicked-back dark hair.
Michael himself was wearing some fancy toreador-style outfit that looked as if it had come straight from Olvera Street. It went well with his dark hair and olive complexion, but he didn’t look very comfortable in it; he kept hitching his shoulders under the heavy embroidered jacket and pulling at the tight collar of his high-necked shirt.
No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale Page 4
