No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale

by Pope, Christine

  “Don José?” I asked, and he nodded.

  “I couldn’t think of anything else, and then when I heard that Meg was dressing as Carmen...”

  Poor boy. Meg probably couldn’t remember his name from one day to the next, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. I smiled and said, “Well, just remember that Don José ends up knifing Carmen at the end!”

  He looked stricken. “Are you kidding?”

  It was amazing how many people worked at L’Opera without knowing anything about the real thing. Michael was a musician, but strictly of the rock variety, and didn’t seem to be too concerned about furthering his college career, since he was now in his fourth year at Pasadena City College.

  “It’s okay, Mike,” I said. “We’re just supposed to dress like them, not act like them.”

  “Oh, right, yeah.”

  I looked up at the clock. “Oh, heck, I need to get out there. If I make it through tonight without spilling a plate of marinara on this gown, I’ll be totally shocked.”

  I picked up a menu pad and a pen—George had told us it was all right to go without the aprons tonight—and went on out into the dining room. Looking around, I had to admit that George and the staff who’d been on earlier in the day had done a nice job of decorating the place. Cobwebs festooned the heavy wrought-iron chandeliers, candelabra flickered on the tables, and interesting gargoyle fixtures had been placed at strategic spots around the restaurant. It wasn’t overdone, but the additions definitely made the restaurant—already highly atmospheric, with its stone walls and floor, iron light fixtures, and mural of the façade of La Scala on the far wall—look gloomy and haunted.

  The real festivities wouldn’t start for another hour or so, but we had early diners who were grabbing a bite before moving on to their own parties or concerts. Some were in costume, but not all. Everyone seemed to be in a cheerful mood, however, and I hoped the evening would continue to run smoothly.

  Not for the first time, I found myself wishing Randall could have come. He had a paying gig to play at a private party in Bel Air, though, and I hadn’t been about to ask him to turn down five hundred dollars just so he could watch me wait tables all night. He’d wanted to see me in the Marguerite gown, but I’d promised to take lots of pictures—a promise I was miserably failing to fulfill right now—and we had made tentative plans to go to the Day of the Dead festivities in Olvera Street in two days as a sort of compensation for not being together on Halloween, since neither of us had ever been.

  I’d always loved Halloween growing up; we’d lived in a quiet family neighborhood where kids could roam safely in search of treats, and my mother, a talented seamstress, had always delighted in coming up with something new for me to wear each year. Usually it had been some variation on a “princess” dress, because I’d always been fascinated by fancy gowns and historical costumes. So the Marguerite dress was really the latest in a long line of pretty Halloween costumes for me, although I hadn’t had much desire to dress up even for private parties the past few years.

  These days it seemed as if more and more adults were getting in on the fun; I supposed the relentless marketing of the holiday made it easier for those of us who missed the good old days of “dress-up” to keep throwing on the costumes year after year. At any rate, the array of fancy dress that started arriving soon after seven o’clock was truly startling, since I hadn’t done anything much for Halloween the past few years except stay at home and hand out candy from the dollar store.

  True, George was sponsoring a costume contest with a $500 grand prize, as well as a discount of ten percent off the bill to anyone in costume, but I was still amazed at the effort some people had put into their get-ups. A party of four at one of my stations included a pretty creditable Scarlett O’Hara in her famous green velvet “curtains” gown, a fairy princess complete with fancy airbrushed wings, a man dressed as either a Ringwraith or the Grim Reaper (I guessed from the absence of a sickle that he was probably supposed to be a Ringwraith), and George Washington. Or maybe he was supposed to be Thomas Jefferson, but it was hard to tell.

  I took their orders and more from an assortment of nuns, flappers, vampires, and zombies before I returned with a tray full of drinks and discovered there was a new arrival, seated at the far edge of my station next to a pillar.

  Jerri, the hostess, leaned in and whispered in my ear as she was heading back to her station at the front of the restaurant. “You’ve got a live one there.”

  “What?”

  “That guy just tipped me two hundred bucks so he could sit in your station. What’s up with that?” Then she grinned, rubbed her first two fingers and thumb together in the universal sign for big bucks, and hurried off.

  Two hundred dollars? Just to sit in my station? L’Opera wasn’t really the sort of place where people usually dropped that kind of cash. True, there was no way I could afford to eat there myself, but still it wasn’t exactly Spago or something. I looked back toward where he sat, half-shrouded in the dim lighting next to the pillar, and took in a quick breath.

  The Phantom of the Opera...

  Or at least, I told myself quickly, a damn good version of the character. The fedora, the white half mask, the impeccable tails, the dark cloak that glittered with beading on the shoulders—he’d definitely done his research. He looked as if he’d walked straight off the Broadway stage.

  I’d always loved the show. My parents had taken me to see the touring company at the Pantages when I was about twelve, and I had been completely smitten. I loved the music, loved the fact that the lead female character had the same name I did, loved the whole sweep and romanticism of it, even though at that age I had been unaware of some of the more passionate and sensual undercurrents of the musical. At the same time, though, it had awakened feelings in me that I had never experienced before. But I had to say that it was a little disconcerting—to say the least—to see the real-life embodiment of my first exposure to adult passion sitting at one of my tables.

  Still, if he’d been willing to tip two hundred dollars just for the privilege of sitting at my station, I could only imagine what my own tip might be if I played my cards right.

  “Happy Halloween!” I said to him in that sprightly “customer service” voice George insisted on and I hated with a passion. “What would you like this evening?”

  He looked up then, and I had to keep from catching my breath. The half of his face I could actually see was just on the interesting side of handsome—high cheekbone marred by some sort of scar I couldn’t see clearly in the dim restaurant lighting; strong eyebrow over hooded dark eye; mobile, beautifully sculpted mouth that nevertheless had that taut look at the corner which indicated some sort of chronic pain.

  Quite the Byronic hero, I thought to myself, purposely keeping the thought ironic and light. The costume was enough of an attraction without the fallen angel looks underneath.

  “The veal milanesa,” he replied, closing the menu and handing it back to me. Even in the noisy restaurant I could tell his voice was a clear, pure tenor, warm and vibrant. “And a bottle of the ’99 Banfi, I think.”

  I scribbled hastily on my pad, hoping he hadn’t noticed my raised eyebrows. Just the most expensive wine we offered! We probably sold a bottle a month if we were lucky, but George liked to keep a few of the high-end labels around just to prove we were a cut above the chain restaurants that were our direct competition.

  “That’s a very elegant gown—” He paused delicately, apparently noting my lack of a name tag.

  “Christine,” I supplied.

  “Ah. Fortuitous, it would seem.” He regarded me for a moment, and for some reason I felt a thin fingernail of chill run down my spine. “Faust, I believe?”

  “Excuse me?” Had I ever sounded like more of an idiot?

  “The gown. Marguerite?”

  I let out a breath. “Yes, of course. I’m doing the ‘Jewel Song’ in my master class at USC, so—”

  He smiled—or rather, the right side of his m
outh lifted. “And do it very well, I might think.”

  I started to make a self-deprecating gesture, then realized, damn it, I did do it well. “People tell me I do.” Then, feeling suddenly awkward under his dark, half-masked gaze, I added, “Let me get your order in—I’ll bring your wine straight out.”

  I got the feeling he was amused by my discomfort, but he said only, “Thank you, Christine.”

  And I fled to the kitchen, feeling more relieved than the situation probably warranted. George caught me pulling out a bottle of the Banfi—I had paused to dust it off—and gave me an unexpected and totally uncalled-for smack on the cheek.

  “Someone bought a bottle of my baby?”

  “Yes, George.” I dropped the clean towel I’d been using to wipe off the dust. “And he ordered veal.”

  “You are my star, Christine!” he said with a dramatic flourish, and I just had to laugh—he looked so silly standing there in the kitchen, making grand gestures in his red Mephistopheles doublet and short black cloak.

  “Who knows, if I play my cards right, I might get a tiramisu and some espresso out of him, too!” I gathered up the now-clean bottle and a corkscrew and headed back out into the dining room, but not before I gave George a wink.

  Well, he had every reason to feel good this evening. The restaurant was packed, and I could tell from the crowd in the lobby area that it was at least a forty-five-minute wait to get a table.

  The Phantom—I had to think of him that way since naturally I didn’t know his name—looked up and smiled when I approached the table.

  “Was there much celebrating in the kitchen when that bottle was brought down?” he asked, his tone sly, and I couldn’t help laughing.

  “Hosannas and everything,” I replied. Then I had to turn my attention to gently slicing the top of the label to reveal the cork and even more carefully pulling it out. The damn thing was hard to pull, too, and I uttered a brief prayer that it wouldn’t break during removal. That had only happened to me once or twice, but it was equally mortifying each time it happened.

  “Allow me,” he said, and reached for the bottle.

  “I couldn’t—really, it’s almost there—”

  Silently he ignored my protests and took the bottle and corkscrew from me. His right hand brushed mine in the process, and I couldn’t prevent the shiver that passed over me. Whoever he was, something about him seemed to resonate in my very soul.

  He deftly removed the corkscrew. I noticed that his hands were beautiful, too, long and very slender, although quite pale, as if he did not spend much time out of doors. An onyx and gold ring gleamed on the pinky of his right hand.

  “There,” he said, and handed the now-open bottle to me. “You may pour, if you like.”

  I took the bottle and carefully poured him a glass without spilling anything, thank God. I hoped he wouldn’t notice that my hands shook a little. “Your meal should be out shortly.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  And then I tore myself away, soon absorbed in bringing out plates to the patrons who had been seated before him, refilling drink orders—in short, buried in the minutiae of any busy shift.

  Once I paused in the kitchen to gulp down a glass of water, and Meg popped in and grinned.

  “I hear you have a secret admirer.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, come on, Christine!” She paused for a moment to readjust the red silk rose she wore tucked into the bun at the back of her head. “I haven’t had too many guys plopping down two hundred bucks for the chance to sit at my station.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that.” She reached out and readjusted a curl on my forehead, looked at me critically, then said, “You probably need to put on more lipstick.”

  “Oh, come on, Meg—”

  She produced a tube from a pocket hidden somewhere in her skirt. “Girlfriend, if there was ever anyone who needed a sugar daddy, it’s you. So pretty up already.”

  I took the lipstick from her and dabbed a little on. “I’m sort of seeing someone, Meg.”

  “Yeah, and?” She reached out and flicked away a little excess lipstick from my lower lip with her pinky. “You’ve gone out with Randall what, once? Plus a couple of practice sessions? I wouldn’t exactly call that an exclusive relationship.”

  “Meg, the guy’s a customer—”

  “So what? Women meet rich men on the job all the time.”

  “Who says he’s rich?”

  She gave me an unbelieving, “you are so stupid I’m not even going to comment on the fact” look. “Last time I checked, poor guys don’t tip two hundred bucks to sit at a particular waitress’s station, and they don’t order hundred-dollar bottle of wine, either.”

  “Okay, so he’s rich. Does that matter so much?”

  At that, all Meg did was lift an eyebrow. “You of all people should know the answer to that one, Christine.”

  And she left me with that, picking up a tray of food and sailing back out into the dining room.

  That’s really unfair, I thought. Did being poor automatically render you vulnerable to the first guy with a big bankroll who came along? I didn’t think so. Besides, compared to me, Randall really was comfortably well off—his home was paid for, and he made a decent stipend as a T.A., not to mention the private gigs and studio time he took on the side. Not exactly Donald Trump, of course, but certainly a lot farther up the economic scale than I was at present.

  But I didn’t have a lot of time to ruminate on the value of a rich boyfriend, or whether what Randall and I had so far constituted a “relationship”—the Phantom’s dinner was ready, and I had to take it back out to him.

  Unfortunately, my promise to him that it would be out “shortly” had, well, fallen short. It was pretty common on busy nights like this, and we were just about the busiest I had ever seen. By the time I got back to his table, it was well after eight o’clock, and the music had been turned up a click to accommodate the people who were starting to filter onto the dance floor George had set up at the far end of the restaurant.

  “Sorry about the wait,” I said, placing his plate of veal before him. “We’re sort of maxed tonight.”

  “No bother,” he replied. “I’ve been people-watching.”

  There was definitely plenty of that to be had. The group seemed to have grown even wilder and more diverse as the evening progressed. But he sat in a sort of dark eddy away from the crowd, observing but not really a part of it.

  “Is there anything else you need?” I asked.

  He turned then and looked up at me, and again I could feel my breath catch in my throat. Something about the gleam of those eyes behind the mask made it hard to think straight. But he said only, “If I think of anything, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  I managed to muster a smile. “You know where to find me.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  The exchange seemed innocuous enough, but again I found myself searching for a suspicious subtext in his words. Still, it was enough of a dismissal that I could make my escape and go on to tend the other customers at my station. But even as I went about my tasks I could feel his eyes still on me, watchful behind the half-mask that hid everything save what he cared to reveal to the world.

  Christine...

  He finally was willing to believe in the mercy of God. Finally, tonight he had seen her, spoken with her, even managed to touch her delicate hand as she struggled with the bottle of wine he had ordered.

  The photos were nothing, liars that had done nothing to convey the luminosity of her fair skin, the hidden auburn gleam in her dark curls, the subtle dimple at the corner of her cheek. Even less had they been able to convey her quiet wry humor, the gleam of intelligence in her blue-gray eyes, or the pretty lilt of her voice. That he had been able to sit here, conversing with her in the merciful half-darkness of L’Opera, seemed nothing short of a miracle.

  He was able to watch her as she bustled about, expertly removing dishes or placing steaming pl
ates of food in front of her patrons, all the while gleaming like a princess in her white and gold gown, ropes of pearls glimmering in the dusky glory of her hair. She reminded him of some of the old fairy tales he’d read when he was a child, of the princess in exile, forced to do menial chores but still retaining her innate nobility and grace.

  It was all he could do not to take her from this place, here and now, but of course that was not feasible. No, he could only sit and make himself enjoy the truly excellent wine and quite passable veal, when all the while his true nourishment came from watching her.

  He watched as more couples took to the dance floor at the rear of the restaurant. God, what he would give to hold her in his arms, feel her body pressed against his! But that had to be impossible—she was working this evening, and surely that would be a heinous breach of protocol?

  She appeared to remove his empty plate, and asked if he would care for dessert or perhaps a cappuccino or espresso?

  What he wanted was for her to sit at his table and share the last glass of wine from his bottle, but of course that was even less likely than taking her on to the dance floor. Still, anything to prolong the evening—

  “An espresso, and a tiramisu,” he said in response to her question. He actually did not care much for dessert as a rule, but it was a good way to pad the bill.

  She took the order and disappeared into the kitchen, collecting a few additional requests for coffee and drink refills along the way. He admired the easy, casual way she was able to work with people, as if it were perfectly natural for a being with the looks and voice of an angel to wait on others like a common serving girl.

  More than ever he was convinced that what he planned was the only true, right way for Christine. She was too good for this world, and if fate had been cruel enough to force her into servitude, then it was his place to combat fate and take her where she would be utterly secure and protected, where her enormous gifts could be nurtured and cherished.