Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  However, I want to remind you that your duties toward me aren’t over until after tonight’s gala. Since I have only one more request, it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to accomplish it before your celebratory dinner.

  You have a man in your employ, the chief scene-shifter, Joseph Buquet. He’s a bothersome dullard who is continually frightening the chorus and interfering in matters that don’t pertain to him. He spreads outlandish lies about me and makes my job of running this establishment more difficult than necessary. All in all, he’s a disruptive force that should be discharged. It would be such a shame if your splendid evening were marred because of him.

  I strongly suggest that you dismiss him forthwith so I won’t be forced to use my own devices and dismiss him in my own unique manner. That would surely put a dark cloud over your last evening in this remarkable building, and I really don’t want your memories of our relationship tainted in that fashion.

  In closing, I wish you well in your retirement, and I promise to say an extraordinary and final farewell during your special gala dinner.

  Respectfully, your omnipotent partner,

  OG

  I was much calmer once that note was completed, and, if they took my advice, I’d feel even better. Since I was in the writing mood, I wrote a few more notes.

  Dear Signora Carlotta Guidicelli,

  I’m so sorry to hear about your sudden illness. It’s truly a dreadful shame when a singer, such as yourself, has serious throat ailments. But I feel certain you’ll recover soon, that is, if you stay in bed and take proper care of yourself.

  I know missing the farewell gala’s festivities is disappointing, but, after all, it’s only one night, whereas, if you don’t stay in bed and rest your voice, your condition could become chronic; then you would miss many more splendid nights at the theatre. In fact, you could be absent from my opera house on a regular basis, if you don’t heed this experienced colleague’s advice.

  In closing, I wish you future good health.

  Thoughtfully,

  OG

  Along with that note, I sent her a flower box that contained one long stemmed, but very dead, black rose. I couldn’t help but smile when I sealed that note.

  My next note was to the chorus master.

  My Dear Gabriel,

  Regrettably, it’s my sad duty to inform you that our dear Carlotta Guidicelli has taken ill and will not be performing at the gala this evening. But don’t fret; Mademoiselle Christine Daaé knows the libretto well and will be an excellent replacement for Carlotta. I encourage you to welcome Mademoiselle Daaé with the respect she deserves and use her talent to your benefit. If not, I fear our new managers will be very disappointed when a large segment of tonight’s program is missing.

  Respectfully, your ultimate artistic director,

  OG

  Then my last note I sent to my new managers.

  My Dear Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin,

  First of all, I welcome you both to my home, and I assure you that I’ll be just as cooperative and helpful to you as I’ve been to your predecessors, that is, as long as you follow in their footsteps and execute, in full, your part of our contract. I strongly suggest that, before Messieurs Debienne and Poligny leave for good, you have them explain to you certain clauses regarding the lease of my building. If you do, it will make for a smooth transition and fortify our partnership with the prospect of a bright future.

  I sincerely hope this evening will not only be enjoyable but also profitable. I have a personal surprise in store for you tonight. It’s one that will tantalize your ears and soothe your eyes. It’s one you’ll never forget, one that will guarantee your seats are always sold, as long as you use it as intended.

  In closing, I want you to know that I’m looking forward to working with you in our shared love of music, and I promise to give you both a personal and unique welcome at the gala dinner tonight.

  Your benevolent partner,

  OG

  With tongue in cheek, I sealed that note.

  After looking at my floor clock, I realized I barely had enough time to race to all their offices and leave the notes. Consequently, I was soon running through my secret passage between the third and fourth cellars, thankful that I knew it well enough to move quickly without light. My soul filled with excitement over the prospect of what that day’s events could bring, and I checked my mental list to be certain I hadn’t forgotten anything.

  I was somewhere in that thinking mode when I thought I heard a movement in front of me. Since no one else should have known about my private passage, I felt it was probably only the rats again. But with years of instinctive behavior behind me, I automatically released the coil in my hand toward the sound.

  That same scenario had occurred more times than I could possibly count, but, since my stabbing by the well, I preferred to act first and search for the cause of the sound later, just as I’d been taught. But the situation that early morning in March was to be much different than the rest, and it set the ghastly tone that pursued me the entire day and the following weeks.

  Within that one moment of hearing the sound and releasing the coil, the air was split with a bullet heading my way. I saw the flash from the pistol and felt an excruciating pain grip me at the same time. Through tight jaws, I cried out, and my head and shoulder hit the wall behind me. My left hand reached for the pain in my left thigh and then both my legs gave way. My only thought was, not now, not with Christine counting on me.

  I pressed my head back against a stone and listened intently for another sound, but all I heard were my rapid heartbeats and rats’ claws close by. Not wanting to give away my location or that I was still alive, I held my breath. I tried to ready another coil, but I was lying on my right side; the side of my cloak that held more lassos. I opted to remain still rather than taking the risk of engaging another bullet that could cause more damage than a leg wound.

  As I listened for any movement from my attacker, I pressed my hand hard against my thigh to stave off more bleeding. Shortly, I could feel the all-too-familiar stickiness of my blood seeping between my fingers. The seconds ticked away while I waited for any hint of where my would-be assassin might be. When I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, I slowly exhaled, took another silent breath, and listened again. That cycle was repeated several more times while I waited for the shooter to make another move.

  When I could feel the warmth from my blood soaking into my right pant leg, I knew I couldn’t wait much longer or I wouldn’t have the strength to do further battle with my assailant. So, not much after that, I opted to move rather than bleed to death.

  First, I cautiously and silently sat up and readied another lasso. Then, while listening and watching in the direction of the blast, I managed to get to my feet and rest my weight on my right leg and the wall. Again I waited and listened, but there was nothing, so I slowly moved along the wall toward my attacker.

  Eventually, I could smell a unique mixture of liquor and cheap cologne. Instantly, I thought, Buquet! You stupid fool! If I could smell him, I reasoned, I should be able to hear his breaths, but all was quiet, so I continued to move toward him with a variety of thoughts surging through me. Was he waiting for me? Was he still on his feet? Was he listening for me as I was for him? Was he dead?

  After about 15 steps, my foot hit something hard, and I dropped to my knees against the wall, making myself as small a target as possible. Again I waited, but there were no breath sounds, or any sounds at all, so I reached out to feel what I’d touched with my foot, a boot.

  Cautiously, I shook it but without response. After a moment of thought, I reached under his pant leg for his ankle and hopefully a pulse, but, this time, he didn’t have one. I crept up beside him and felt his neck just to make sure, but, once more, there was no pulse.

  “Buquet,” I grumbled. “Buquet, I warned you,” I sighed. I closed my eyes and lowered my head. “Buquet, you imbecile! You’ve spoiled everything!”

  In anger, I strug
gled to get to my feet, and then, while leaning against the wall, I lit a match. My head shook when I looked down at the fool. There he lay with my weapon of choice neatly wrapped around his neck and his weapon of choice still clutched in his hand. I closed my eyes again and repeated several times: I tried to warn him—the stupid dead fool—I tried to warn him.

  My anger began to rage within me, and, if I’d had two good legs to work with, I would have kicked him ruthlessly. I felt justified in being angry with him; he’d repeatedly refused my warnings, he was the cause of my clean record being broken, I had a serious wound to suffer through and somehow repair, and now his untimely death made it necessary that I take care of his lifeless body on a day when I already had so much to do.

  I growled loudly and screamed abuses at him, as if that were going to be of any benefit to either of us. When I’d used up what little strength I had, I forced myself to think clearly. It was obvious I couldn’t make it to the manager’s office right then and that my first priority was to take care of my injury if I was to function at all. Therefore, I made my way down the stairs to my home where I prepared to remove the bullet.

  I stripped my trousers off and sat on the edge of my tub, staring down at my blood dripping into it. I began to shake my head and ask why. Why was there always someone who wanted to end my life? Why couldn’t I just live in peace? There was no good answer, other than the fact that I existed, and I was getting quite tired of it. Then my anger turned into hysteria, and I began to laugh uncontrollably.

  My out-of-control emotions continued to move from anger, to hysteria, to hurt, until in a burst of anger I slammed my fist against the open wound, releasing a cry of unbelievable agony. That action, though seriously demented and painful, brought me back to the task at hand. On further examination, I realized the bullet had lodged close to my hip joint and much too deep for me to retrieve easily on my own. Reluctantly, I knew I needed help to remove it properly.

  One of my tasks for that day was to pick up my prosthetic nose from Doctor Leglise, so, I reasoned, he could remove the bullet for me. But then, to have a nose right away was not a priority for me. All my life, having a nose was of a major importance, but on that particular day it didn’t matter. All I wanted was to ensure the evening would be a success for Christine.

  Therefore, I made the decision to do everything I needed to do first, and then, if there was time, I would go to the doctor. So I prepared to mend my leg on my own with the help of the morphine I had left over from my last serious injury, my stabbing at the well. I didn’t know if it was still potent, but I was going to give it a try anyway.

  After giving myself what I thought was enough to dull the pain, I started looking for everything else I would need. I found two long and narrow steel prongs that I sometimes used to help me tune my piano. They would work well as probes. I then found the semicircular needle and heavy thread that I’d used when I made my divan. Lastly, I got my jeweled knife and a new bottle of brandy.

  While clenching my teeth, I again sat on the edge of my tub and poured brandy over my leg and instruments. Then, after a deep breath, I began probing for the bullet. After quite a bit of agony, I found it. It had nearly embedded itself in my thighbone, so I knew I had to make a larger incision before I could reach it.

  The morphine was helpful, although I couldn’t afford to use as much as I really needed to stop the pain altogether. If I did, I wouldn’t have the mind to do the work. But then, I was used to pain, and it usually gave me enough anger so I could work through almost anything.

  Once the bullet was out, I again poured brandy into the wound, sewed it up in an awkward fashion, and wrapped pieces of torn up bed sheets around it. It was only then that I really began to feel my exhaustion, which, I’m sure, was intensified by the morphine and loss of blood. But my day hadn’t even begun, so I pushed aside my desire to lie down and sleep. Instead, I tried to put my priorities in order. I had to deliver the notes to the managers if they were going to have the time to assimilate them before the gala, although the one note about discharging Buquet was now irrelevant.

  After tossing that one note on the dead coals in the hearth, I wrote a revised note and attached it to Carlotta’s letter and flower box. Since I didn’t have the strength or the time to deliver her flowers myself, that note was a request to my managers that her flower box and note should be delivered to her home as soon as possible. Once that was done, I took them and her flower-box up to the managers’ office.

  They were both there and at their desks, so with the proper words placed in the right usher’s ear, the managers were pulled out of their offices. With them gone, I placed the notes on their desks and left without being seen.

  Next, I headed for Carlotta’s dressing room. If she didn’t get my note in time, or if she chose to ignore it, then the amount of quinine I put in her drinking water would make her feel very ill. I felt sure that her chills, fever, headache, and nausea would send her right home for at least a day or two.

  By that time, all the morphine had worn off and I was in serious pain, but I still had a very important job to do. Consequently, I headed for Buquet. While looking down at him, I contemplated what to do with his body. I couldn’t just leave it there. No one would ever find him, and having to step over him would be a continual annoyance. On top of that, he would begin to smell and that wouldn’t do at all.

  Having only one good leg to work with, I couldn’t dig a hole and bury him, so I decided to take him back down to the third cellar where the props were and present him hanging as if he’d committed suicide. After all, that’s just what he’d done by thinking he could end my life. He wasn’t the first to commit suicide in that fashion, although I seriously hoped he was the last. The fool, I thought, as I grasped his wrists and began pulling him toward the stairs.

  With my leg burning and feeling as if it was ready to break off, I had a hard enough time maneuvering the stairs on my own, but I knew I had to get him to the third cellar before the bulk of the workers arrived for the evening’s event. To say it was a difficult and gruesome job would be a gross understatement, but it was finally finished, and I had him hanging with one of the rigging ropes close to a scene from Rio de Lahore. He should be found within a day was my thinking.

  In order to keep my anger to the fore, and not my remorse and its accompanying depression, I kept thinking about his stupidity. The pain I was in, and knowing he was complicating my day with unnecessary inconveniences, also helped.

  Once I was finished, I stayed in the third cellar and gave myself time to think. In addition to needing rest, I still had several things to do. I wanted to make sure that Christine’s dress was finished, pick up her jewelry at the jewelers, and check on my managers and their response to my instructions. But my main focus was to make sure that Carlotta wasn’t on the premises and that Gabriel was going to call for Christine. Then, if there was time, I could go to the doctor and pick up my nose and get my leg fixed.

  Since I was close to the costume department at the time, I went there first and was pleased when I found her dress finished and waiting for her. It turned out to be a beautiful evening gown, with only enough fabric in the bodice to keep within the bounds of French propriety. I had them use the finest royal blue satin for both the dress and the long gloves. I’d designed them both with Christine in mind. As I gazed at it and pictured my blonde Christine in it, I momentarily forgot about the pain in my leg and hip and my fading strength.

  I felt a surge of excitement when I thought about Christine on that stage and wearing that dress and jewels. I’d created it all—from the stage, to her gown and jewels, and the supreme jewel, Christine. Along with the excitement, I also felt pride.

  After leaving the costume department, I headed for the manager’s office, but found no one around. My opened notes were on their desks, and Carlotta’s flower box was gone, so I had to assume they’d taken care of that little detail for me. If I’d been in better shape, I would have pursued it further to make certain, but what
little strength I’d had to begin that day was all but gone.

  Taking that into consideration, I then went to my secret outside door, caught a brougham, and headed for the jewelers. My fingers were shaking and I felt extremely weak as I examined the pieces for any flaws. Thankfully, I found none. I had the clerk put them in a box and wrap it in royal blue paper with a metallic silver ribbon.

  With the box in my cloak pocket, I was back in a brougham and headed for Doctor Leglise’s office. I tried to relax on the ride there and started massaging my leg. It was then that I realized my black pant leg was once again soaked with blood. I dismissed it, knowing I still had much to do before Christine’s appearance in her dressing room.

  While I had a chance to relax, I laid my head back and closed my eyes. I was nearly ready to succumb to sleep when the brougham turned onto Rue Tronchet and the doctor’s office came into view, ending that short rest period.

  When I entered his office, he smiled. “Your prosthetic is ready and waiting for you, Erik.”

  “Good,” I sighed wearily.

  While he headed for a box on a bookshelf, I slumped down in a chair, grimacing at my pain. It was only then that I realized just how sick I felt. My breathing was labored, my hands were shaking, and I felt clammy and chilled all over. But it wasn’t until Doctor Leglise removed my mask that I realized how much trouble I was in.

  “Erik!” he exclaimed. “You look terrible. What’s wrong?”

  Before I had a chance to answer sarcastically, he laid the back of his fingers against my forehead and then lifted my wrist and felt my pulse.

  Frowning, he asked me again, “What’s happened to you, Erik? You look as if you’re starving to death, and you have a fever.”

  Over the last few weeks, I’d seen him on several occasions while he helped me make a decision about my prosthetic nose; therefore, I felt I had few secrets from him. So I told him a short version of what had happened.