Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine
Page 14
I instantly went down into my wine cellar where I had a tall section of polished metal that was left over from my mirror chamber. I leaned it against a wine barrel, dusted it off, and then stood back, taking a good look at myself. I looked ghastly, and my head shook in dismay. My clothes, that I’d filled out nicely before Christine arrived, hung on me as if I wasn’t even there. My complexion was more pale than usual, and, even though I’d just gotten out of the bath, my skin felt clammy and looked almost slimy.
I visualized the doctor’s expression when he looked at me in his office, and then I could understand why he was so appalled. Why, even I grimaced. I didn’t know what to think. Perhaps it’s only because I’m so ill and have lost so much blood, I tried to convince myself. I didn’t want to believe that finally having a nose wasn’t going to help my appearance measurably. My entire life I’d believed that having a nose was all I needed. Apparently, I was so wrong.
While still trying to find a logical answer, I thought perhaps I was simply so used to the way I looked in a mask that any other form of concealing my deformity was foreign to me. In either case, I was left feeling miserable, uncomfortable, and uncertain. My face, including my new nose, looked more like a stage prop for a murder scene than a human face. In addition, my substitute nose felt as if it were going to fall off at any time, making me reconsider my experiment.
I felt self-assured and strong in my mask, and it wasn’t until that time that I realized just how much confidence it gave me. I knew it wasn’t going to fall off, and, given my quick reactions, there was only one person who’d ever been able to remove it from me, and he was dead. I would have postponed my experiment for a time when I felt better, if it weren’t for that new challenge in my life—Christine traveling with Raoul to Perros.
Every new encounter made me more desperate to reveal myself to her, and I wanted to have a nose when I did. Especially after Raoul’s recent dominating actions in Christine’s dressing room, my desperation took on a high note. But, because of my current physical limitations, I gave up on trying to interfere with Christine’s efforts to have Raoul accompany her on her trip.
With grave disappointment, I pulled my nose off and went back upstairs where I sat at the first available place, my dining table. Placing my elbows on the table, I held my face in my hands, trying to sort out my feelings. I almost fell asleep sitting there, so I decided to finish with my experiment while I had the chance. I figured I could make any final decisions about the use of my new nose at a later date, perhaps when I was in a better frame of mind and body. Therefore, I reattached my nose, but I put my mask in my coat pocket just in case.
When I felt I looked as good as I could, I painstakingly made my way back up the five flights toward the foyer of the ballet where the gala celebration was to be held. It was already filled with dignitaries, performers, waiters, reporters, members of the business community, and guests who were there to wish my old managers farewell. The long tables covered in white linen were set with silver-trimmed plates, sterling silver flatware, and lavish floral arrangements. The air was filled with talking, laughing, and the clinking of Champagne glasses held up in toasts.
Most in attendance were dressed in evening attire, but there were some members of the corps de ballet who were still in their costumes, and I knew why. They’d been too distracted by all the intrigue about Joseph and the Opera Ghost to take the time to change into suitable attire. One was Sorelli, who kept looking down at a speech she held in her hand. Some others also had prepared speeches for both my new and old managers.
I tried to walk without a limp and with my head up, but I felt extremely self-conscious and truly conspicuous without my mask or my passageways to slip into. I knew it was going to be a challenge for me, but, as it turned out, no one seemed to pay any attention to me. However, that wasn’t a guarantee that someone hadn’t noticed my strange appearance, since the upper-class French had a peculiar way about them.
They rarely let their true feeling show in public. If anything, they’d respond with the opposite of what they were actually feeling or thinking. Being with them in public was like being at a masked ball, always trying to see behind the mask they wore for their true identity. So I felt they wouldn’t think of staring at me or pointing me out to their companions, and I was counting on that part of their social graces to remain true, for a while anyway.
With a glass of Champagne in my hand, I walked among them, watching and waiting for any response from them. If nothing else, I figured their eyes would betray them if my appearance was simply too gruesome for them to hold their dignity intact. If they did hold it together, then I’d know I didn’t look as bad as I felt. But what I wasn’t expecting were their comments about that day’s happenings, and that in itself tested my ability to hold the mask of sociability over my face.
“Did you hear about that poor man?”
“Yes. They say it was an accident or a suicide. What do you think?”
“I’ve never heard of her before, but she sang like a seraph and hit unearthly notes.”
“I agree she did tonight, but a few months back she sang like a carrion crow.”
I turned to glare at the one responsible for that cruel remark—Meg. How could her best friend say such a thing? I was so glad that Christine wasn’t present. She would have been crushed.
Meg glanced around, and I quickly turned around, huffing.
“Where do you think they were hiding this Christine Daaé?”
“Or a better question is, why were they hiding her?”
“Oh my, they found him right under the stage?”
“It will be difficult to get that image out of my head at my next evening at the opera.”
“Is Mademoiselle Daaé here? I’d like to meet her.”
I again turned and looked at the one responsible. It was the Comte Philippe de Chagny, and, with narrowed eyes, I scrutinized his intentions.
“Shh! Monsieur Mercier asked us not to speak about what happened to Buquet. Tonight is a festive occasion and he doesn’t want it ruined.”
Too late, Mercier, I thought. Even the acting manager can’t remove a skunk’s smell with a hushed word.
My experiment was complete, and, while I was feeling better about my appearance, I was feeling absolutely horrible physically. I couldn’t stand on my leg any longer, so I began making my way to the stairs. But, before I could get there, all four of my managers entered the foyer at the same time. I was contemplating whether I wanted to put myself through any more pain, when dinner was announced and all started to be seated.
There were two empty seats at the table where my managers were sitting, so I chose one of them as my target. Then, just as if I were an invited guest, I sat down. I had to hold my breath because of my leg, and I could feel sweat rolling down my spine, but I was sufficiently distracted when my old managers began puffing up like strutting peacocks.
“Congratulations, Poligny! It was a splendid gala!” Debienne exclaimed, as he and Poligny tapped their glasses together.
“Congratulations to you also my partner. I believe we’ve found a new Marguerite tonight,” Poligny replied, as he patted his partner on the back.
Then Richard joined in. “Where in the world did you find such a fine jewel?”
“Oh, you mean Mam’selle Daaé?” Debienne rhetorically asked, with an impetuous smile. “We know how to recognize great talent when we see it. That’s part of our success. You’ll also have to identify that special quality in performers if you want to advance in this business.”
“I see,” Moncharmin chimed in. “Her voice calms the ear, and her form tantalizes the eye.”
There was laughter, and more clinking of the Champagne glasses, and more pats on the back.
I felt my breath turn hot as I thought, as if they had anything to do with Christine’s success. The gala was Christine’s triumph and mine, not theirs. The arrogant fools! How dare they!
The Opera Populaire would be just another opera house if it weren’t
for me and the notoriety I’d brought it. They were enjoying my building that had taken my sweat and blood to build, long before they even new it existed, and it was still taking my sweat and blood to manage. And to think they had the audacity to congratulate each other—the idiots! I had the power to take down the entire structure in an instant, and they’d be powerless to prevent me from doing so.
As my heart rate increased, I grumbled deep inside. They didn’t find Christine or her voice. I was responsible for the angelic notes that escaped her lips that evening—I and I alone. Those arrogant and presumptuous fools were having too much enjoyment at Christine’s and my expense, and I couldn’t let them get away with such blatant lies.
I looked around the table at all the aristocrats in their fine clothing and superior attitudes, and not one of them cared about Christine enough to know how sad she was at that moment. They would take credit for her voice, but they wouldn’t give her comfort when she shed tears on her father’s grave.
I felt compelled to give them a more accurate view of the evening, so I fixed them an angry stare and wrote a quick mental script. I couldn’t let them continue with such gaiety at our expense. Therefore, in the same gay tone of voice that they were using, I began.
“Isn’t it a shame about poor Buquet? Do you really think it was a accident?”
All looked at me, then at each other, and I think everyone was wondering where I’d come from. But, thanks to their social masks, they wouldn’t embarrass themselves or any of the guests by asking who I was. There were a few hushed grumbles as they struggled with their French demeanor to hide their shock. Gradually, you could hear the sound of their forks on their plates as they tried to return to the anticipated jovial evening.
No you don’t, I thought. You’re not going to ignore my question, so I tried again with a taunt. “Perhaps the corps de ballet might be closer to the truth than most would like to think. Perhaps poor Buquet’s untimely death was not as much of a tragic accident as one would prefer to believe.”
Both Debienne and Poligny responded at the same time, as if cued from the chorus director, “Buquet is dead?”
“Oh, yes. Most assuredly,” I responded quickly with another change in tone, one of sarcasm. While rolling the stem of my Champagne glass between my fingers, I held it up in front of me and looked at it. “Just as dead as dead can get. You see, the poor soul seemed to get entangled in ropes close to the set pieces of Roi de Lahore—right below the stage itself. Can you imagine that? And on the very day that starts off my new managers’ careers.
“But then, it’s rather poetic and so opera-like—don’t you think? On the one hand we have the bright and brilliant performance of our very own Christine Daaé, inaugurating her future vocation right here on the Opera Populaire’s stage.” Then shifting the glass to my other hand for emphasis, I continued, “But then, on the other hand, we have the tragic and unexpected sadness of Buquet’s demise, which announces his retirement from the catwalks above that stage.”
Then I moved the glass back and forth between my hands several times and looked at one shocked pair of eyes to another all the way around the table while I drove in my point.
“After all, isn’t that what opera is all about? The scenes change so quickly, going from cheerfulness to sadness with the opening and closing of the red velvet curtains—life and death taken in stride by the actors who are directed by the workings of an author’s pen. Ah, yes, opera and true life—not much different, really. Singers follow the notes written in a score, while you mortals walk on a path written by the gods. You see, not much different. Life and opera. Comedy and tragedy at its finest.”
Then I raised my glass toward the end of the table where all four of the managers sat. “To all of my managers and the true life drama they’re either beginning—or ending.” Then, looking right at Debienne and then Poligny, I raised my glass more, and added, “As promised—I bid farewell to my old managers, who in their wisdom have served me well.”
After taking a sip from my glass, I shifted my sight to Richard and Moncharmin, gestured with my Champagne glass, and then finished my act. “And to my new managers, who I’m sure will also act wisely and serve me well, thereby ensuring the future success of the world renowned Opera Populaire. As promised—I bid you welcome.”
As I took another sip from my glass, there was a hush and then all began speaking at once. They looked at each other in a quandary over who this person was that was speaking in such a hostile way. Since I’d done all I needed to do to spoil their splendid evening, and the experiment with my nose was complete, I decided to leave. I used their confusion to get up and slip back through a door into a dark room, where I collapsed against a wall.
Normally, that type of exertion would be exhilarating to me and give me strength, but, right then, I felt so terrible that all I wanted was to lie down and sleep. After a few moments to regain my breath, I left through another door and started my long trek home. But, once more, all four of my managers crossed my path in haste. They were talking excitedly and heading for their office, so my curiosity overpowered my need for rest, and I headed for the passage behind their office.
I was already waiting for them when they entered, and I smiled when I saw they’d lost their previous and premature gay faces. Poligny gestured for my new managers to have a seat, but they remained standing, watching my old managers move around the office nervously. They all looked from one to the other as if they were waiting for someone to start the conversation that no one wanted to have. Finally, it was Richard who broke the silence.
“Do any of you know who invited that rude man?”
Again, they just looked at each other, and then, one by one, they shook their heads.
Debienne spoke next while looking at the new managers. “I thought he was your guest.”
“I would never dream of keeping company with such an ill-mannered man, much less invite him to a festive occasion. I thought he was your guest,” Moncharmin replied in true aristocratic style.
In unison, my old managers shook their heads and looked at each other.
Then, as a frown formed on Poligny’s brow, he said, almost under his breath, “I’ve never seen him before, but there was something familiar about him—or was it the words he used? I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Well,” Richard huffed, “we need to find out whose guest he was and inform that person not to invite him again. I’ve never heard such a slicing tongue. The way he said, my managers, gave me the chills. And why did he call all of us his managers anyway? He must be involved with the opera’s management somehow.”
With those words, both Poligny’s and Debienne’s faces turned white, and, in unison, they lowered themselves into their chairs. My new managers remained standing, watching the strange actions of their predecessors.
Debienne looked at Richard and asked, “You were the closest one to that man. Did you notice anything strange about him, other than his rude behavior? Did you see him talking to anyone in particular? Did you see where he came from or where he went?”
“There was too much going on,” Richard began. “Everyone was talking so loudly that I didn’t even notice him until he started talking. Then, once everyone started talking again, he was gone that quickly. His appearance was rather peculiar though. His face reminded me of plaster covered with varnish—most unreal—like an opera mask. And his fingers were very long and thin—like an eagle’s talons. He appeared to be dressed just as the rest of us though. That’s all I noticed about him. Why?”
My old managers again stared at each other, and then Poligny spoke softly to the confused men still on their feet. “You’d better sit down.”
They sat down that time, and Debienne reached into his drawer and pulled out the large ring of master-keys to the building, slid them across his desk, and said sternly, “I suggest your first matter of business tomorrow is to have new keys made.”
“Why,” Moncharmin asked, almost with a chuckle. “Do you suspect this ma
n is a thief?”
My old managers again exchanged serious looks before Poligny answered, “I wish it were as simple as that. But I’m afraid to tell you that you’ll be dealing with something far more serious than a thief. I believe the man we all heard and saw tonight was our resident ghost.”
Both Richard and Moncharmin laughed aloud, but when their predecessors didn’t join in, their natural smiles turned into ones being forced, and the room, once more, fell to silence.
Then Richard asked, “Oh, you mean he’s the man who plays the ghosts in your operas. Is that why he looked so strange?”
Poligny responded quickly, while looking thoughtfully at the ring of keys. “If only that were the case, then we could simply discharge him at will. No, I fear the man with the slicing tongue was none other than a real ghost. A ghost who believes this opera house belongs to him, and, now, that you do as well. That’s why he referred to you to as his managers.”
Now my new managers laughed heartily, until Richard tried to speak between bouts of laughter. “That’s a good one, Poligny. You almost had me going. I’ve heard it rumored that you’re a jokester, but this time you really went to great lengths to play a game on us. You even disturbed your own gala dinner. Don’t you think that’s going a bit too far—just to play a prank?”
My old managers again exchanged that look, and I knew they were trying to think of a way to convince the innocent fools of the truth about me and my pranks. Shortly, Debienne opened his desk drawer and took out the lease on the building. Turning it to the page containing my additions, he slid it across his desk toward Richard and tapped his knuckles on the red letters. Richard looked at it, read it, and then showed it to his partner. Then they both smiled again and nodded.