For a few days I didn’t see Christine. She spent her days literally locked inside her room, leaving the theater only late at night.
Bored and lonely, I thought of going for a walk on the boulevards. But it was the middle of winter, and the weather was too cold for me. How I hated the cold! Even inside the theater, winter was wearing me out. The heating was not so good in many areas, and I had to wonder how someone could train their voice in such a miserable condition.
Some parts of the theater, of course, were well built, seeming very fancy and welcoming. The Opera House served the upper classes of Paris, and therefore, had the ostentation of wealth and majesty as its finality, conferring the arts a secondary, and many times, mediocre, position. And even when art was the main issue, it was nevertheless intimately linked with money. It was funny to notice, for instance, how the quality of the dressing rooms varied with the importance of the artist, as well as with their wages.
Some parts of the upper levels, in particular, were monumental. Very high walls, ornamented with rich arabescs, and covered by gorgeous carpets and framed paintings. It was an overwhelming impression, golden adornments almost made one squint - the interior of the Opera House, as well as its facade, seemed to have been designed to annihilate any doubts of the power of the emerging high classes, and the extent of their fortunes.
I wandered throughout the second floor, as I often did, enjoying the heat and the luxury of its dependences. Sometimes I enjoyed pretending that all that theater was my kingdom, once I had the privilegde of going pretty much anywhere I wanted in the Opera House. It was quite an ambition for a ballerine, I thought, laughing at the idea.
I met Madame Pautt, the head seamstress in the opera, on my way to the library. She seemed to be in the hurry, probably caused by the weight of the cloths she was carrying. Yet, seeing me, she stopped and greeted me with a satisfied smile, panting :
“Good afternoon, Little Meg! How are you doing today?”
Everybody used to address me like that and I had learned not to let it bother me. The oldest people from the Opera knew my mom for ages, and most of the times when I was referred to as “Little Meg” , it was in a tender way, rather than some sort of derrogative adressing.
Madame Pautt was a chubby lady with the pinkest cheeks I ever saw. She had been in all the main productions that had taken place in this Opera House, her figurines becoming an remarkably presence on the plays. She was a very well aquainted friend of my mother, being the one who helped us to gain a permanent dwell on the Opera House, for she had decided to help us in the moment she met my mother. I never found out the reason, if one actually existed, but from that deal a truly loyal friendship began.
My mother arrived at the Opera soon after its inauguration, in 1875. She had had dreams of being a ballerina in her childhood, getting to study some dance on her natal city. Regretfully, when the Opera hired her, it was in the propose of cleaning duties. She worked her way up fast, ending up as an usher, whom through many managements, aquired a reputation of a reliable and discreet person, always ready to help people, and work better and harder. She was very proud for this work, even if her dreams of ballet had been left behind.
My mother had been alone for a long time, since my father left her during the war with Prussia. It was a hard time for us, for the little I can remember. I believe that when many hurtful things happen, we are given a chance of erasing than from our memory. If it is true, I can say that is what I chose to do, and now those strange days are just a blurr remembering for me.
It was by then that my brother, many years older than me, left us too, very soon after my father. My brother’s departure, far more than my father’s, made things even more hurtful for me.
I must say I admire my mother attitude after all that. Even if she never superou the pain of the abandoning, she gathered her things and came to Paris, first by her own, later bringing me.
The city had been badly devasted during the siegel time, but still offered more opportunities of work for a single mother than a village in the country area.
With Madam Pautt’s definitive influence, the actual manager at the time, Mr. Poligny, became aware of our situation. My mother begged him for a better wage, or a better job, afraid that she wouldn’t be able to endure much longer, being depleted more and more by the high parisian life expenses. Empathetic with my mother’s cause, but in a poor economic situation, the manager granted her with two dressing rooms in an unused area of the theater, allowing her to make that a new home. That is how I came to know what Opera was, as well as many things deeply related to it, like intrigue, competition and wealth.
Madam Pautt’s cheeks were even more blushed in that day, from the fast running blood. I greeted her in return, praising the ornament she was carrying on the top of the folds of fabric. It was a beautiful crown all made of glowing beads, sewn with silver colored threads.
“Oh, my dear Meg! So you like it! I’m glad you do! You just wait to see new Margaritta costume I’m preparing!”
She used to show me all her work at first hand, and every now and then she would ask me try on some of the clothes, so she could get a better picture of how it would fit the artist. I think more than the help, she liked having company, someone with who she could share her fantastic ideas, and just talk carelessly. By the look in her eyes, I could tell it was exactly what she had now in mind. She took hold of my hand, gave a broad smile and asked, ”Are you doing something at this moment, my little one?”
I shook my head with a laugh and allowed her to direct me to her main costume room.
Few people had permission to get into her stock and I was one of the lucky ones. Not that I had always considered myself lucky for that. Madam Pautt, in a plot with my mother, used to make me model all sort of costumes when I was younger, even though they were always a lot bigger than me. I probably developed a distaste for clothing from that, from those endless hours of needles being stuck in here, adjusts made there...but it was not like I had anything better to do on those afternoons anyway. Madam Pautt seemed to have a strange predilection for my frizzy red hair, saying that I looked like a princess, with fiery waves falling over my shoulders. I would always laugh at the idea, thinking it rather doubtful.
After sneezing for some minutes I finally got used to her dusty room. The costumes were displayed in dozens of aisles, organized by style, production, or year. She vanished behind a pile of clothes, coming back with a dress and a secretive look. “I’m sorry for the dust, Little Meg! You know how we, old things, are fond of dust and mothballs!” she laughed, ”Here! I’ll show you!”
I leaned over the folded dress, curious, but she stopped me.
“Wait! I forgot!”
She ran with her little steps, giving an excited laugh again, bringing back a pearl necklace, which was kept in a small, but exquisitive casket.
I examined the necklace and the dress in amazement. They were definitely gorgeous!
“C’mon, my dear! Wear it for Mrs. Pautt and help me finish the lace!”
I did as she asked, and she couldn’t retain a little cry of delight when she saw me wearing it. She once told me how she loved when the artists would finally wear the piece of clothing and give life to it. I could tell she was savouring that feeling of seeing her creation alive.
I looked at myself in the mirror and was surprised. Usually her outfits were a lot bigger, ready to have two of me inside. She held back my hair and placed the crown.
“Little Meg, I wonder where you got this beautiful color of hair from!”
I smiled, half expecting her comment. In fact, I was very distinct from my mother and my younger sisters, who had straight black hair. My eyes were still green as theirs, but I was a lot shorter and thinner than my mother.
Of course, Madam Pautt was one of the few people who liked my appearance, myself probably being the other one. I thanked her for the compliment and inquired about the dress size.
“Ah, Meg, it’s a long story!” She seemed pretty angry as she spoke, gesturing her hands in the air in indignation, “I don’t know what is wrong with these new managers! First they told me and my equip to quit sewing, because they decided they wouldn’t play Faust anymore. Imagine, they said that when I was almost finished with customes for at least half of the cast! Then they said that I was to adjust all of Margaritta’s costumes three sizes smaller, for some new understudy, and with urgency! I hope they won’t change their minds again.”
It was Christine! It seemed like everybody was going through a lot of trouble to have her performing.
I took off the dress while Madame Pautt told me about an old production of this same play, around fifteen years ago. She explained to me it was a piece considered damnable in the artistic means, and that she wouldn’t like to be in this house when they presented it. All the old costumes were still in good condition, but she was asked to make new ones. “Imagine, having to do it all different, when the old ones were so beautiful! But, oh, well, it’s the Paris Opera House, I keep forgetting! Everything must have the name “luxury” written on it!”
She was right about that one. There hadn’t been one single production or social event in this Opera House that wouldn’t drag attention of the whole parisian society, as well as the press. In a way, it was ... of the Opera House to bring not only culture and art to the city, but also dictate standards of fashion. The new management seemed to fit perfectly in this philosophy, too. Christine was very lucky in obtaining her debut in such a production.
After listening to her lamenting over the great old costumes, forgotten in some room, on the cellars, I left the room with an idea.