My mother never understood quite how I managed to stumble on the bare floor of my room, as I told her. I spent the few days after the incident laying on my bed, reading some stuff I got in the boulevard the previous week, and being visited by friends.
"Little James", one of the girls from my class, was responsible for letting the whole Opera know about my injury. She came to visit me as often as she could, out of her loyal friendship, and her disgust for the ballet rehearsals.
Claude also came visit me, though not so ofter as James. And for a good reason - my mother would be terribly upset if she found him in my room. I couldn't blame her: Claude bore an awful reputation of thief and liar, who would accomplish any mission requested, if a good payment was bound to it. And that was not so far from the truth...
But Claude was a lot more than that! He was a skinny and tall boy, with a scarce mustache, some years older than me, who enjoyed making fun of everything, starting with his unpleasant work in the stables of the Opera and ending with furious criticism and mockery of the politics in France. He was very clever, and although he might use his intelligence and eloquence in some obscure activities, he was one of the few people in that Opera who had a clear and honest opinion about things; which didn't stop him from adapting these opinions according to his interests.
He came into my room agitatedly, kissing me quickly on the cheek, and handing me some publication. There was a little note in it about the change of management in there, which didn't particularly interest me.
It said something about Mr. Poligny and Mr. Debienne, our previous administrators, being honored with a farewell gala night. For that, we would have a special performance of Gounod's Faust, at which would be present the most illustrious people in Paris society. I looked up at Claude and said, in a mockering flat voice: "Ahhh! That is really breathtaking!"
He punched me playfully and said, laughing, "No, you fool! Look under it!"
I moved my eyes to an even smaller note, which read:
I looked at Claude with a stern look, even though my mouth had given me away in a wide grin, "What are planning this time?"
He laughed loudly, "Me??" He asked with sarcasm. "Imagine this, Meg..."
He sat on my bed, in front of me.
"Mme. Valčrie is enchanted with this young man's skills," he pointed to himself, "and decided to give him a...gratification!"
"I don't think I wanna hear about those skills..." I laughed...
"You're right, Meg! You don't!" He told me, laughing as well. "Anyway, not only will Mounsier Claude Gazier be a noble man soon, but a rich one, for I have free access to the Opera's safe."
"How convenient!"
"I know! And it is fun, too! Meg, you wouldn't believe the things that happen there...The managers spend their days now celebrating their departure, drinking champagne right in the office!"
"That sounds like my way of working," I played.
He took a bottle of expensive champagne out of nowhere, placing it on my night stand. "In this case, I have the honor of inviting you to a drink, young lady!"
Chuckling, he kept telling me about the new job, while he openned the bottle and served the glasses he also sneaked from the office.
"And the nonsense I hear! As they drink, they keep saying, completely obssessed with the idea, 'We did it! We are free of the Phantom!!' And they propose a toast to this Phantom, and begin to merrily sing together! Can you imagine such a thing?"
By the time he left, I was completely out of breath from laughing so much, and the champagne was totally gone. Being sick was not that bad after all...
My mother called a physician during this time I was on bed, and he diagnosed a slight fracture. It would be impossible to dance for a long time, meaning, of course, I wouldn't be in this performance. Everybody felt very sorry for me being left out, and I was probably the only one who, secretly, didn't see things in that way.
Dance was definitely not one of my priorities, and the truth was I didn't put much effort into it anyway. When someone first suggested to my mother to include me in the Ballet School of the Opera, I was truly excited, and for quite a while I believed that was what I wanted for myself. As the years passed, all that effort, all the training, began to lose it's objective, becoming monotonous and dull for me. I couldn't say I didn't enjoy dancing, but I wanted so much more for my life than only that stage life! And as irresponsible as it might sound, I was so excited and preocuppied with what followed my accident that I could barely be sorry for missing a little performance.
Thinking of that, I sighed deeply. I knew the reality of the moment, and this was that dancing was a job that paid me fairly well. But how long would I hide myself in that apparently steady life?
My bedroom, which I had gotten used to calling my "house", was silent, as well as the other room adjacent to it. I stared at the walls and ceiling, bored from being indoors for so long. I hated when the only thing left for me to do was to ponder endlessly about problems without solution. "Where would that masked man be?" I wondered, trying to distract my mind. But the old thoughts came back, stubbornly.
My older sister Sophie had married long ago at the age of fifteen. I had envied her for many reasons in the past, but that would never be one! That was definitely not what I wanted for myself. At least not before I knew what I wanted for my personal life.
I turned over in the bed, the bandages turning any position into an uncomfortable one. I wished I had asked Claude to stay longer with me, so we could talk about everything, but problems.
My younger sister Julie,on the other hand, was still living in our home town, completing her education, as I had done, under the wings of our grandmother, a quite cultured and peculiar German lady. Oh, I missed our old life...
Julie was lucky: she would have more time to study, and decide what she wanted for herself. It seemed like everybody had found a way of leading their lives, while I was stuck at that Opera House!
My head was so light on the day of the Gala Night! It was the first time I had left the room in weeks, and I was deadly tired of resting all day. I couldn’t imagine how some people could spend years, sometimes, working or living in the exact same place, without seeing people or the rest of the world.
The Opera House was crowded with thousands of people in their fanciest clothes, climbing the grand staircase, losing themselves through the corridors. I met my mother at the mezzanine level, keeping box three, five and seven. She was in her old black dress, outstanding in the colorful crowd.
The performance was already over and piano music could be heard coming from the secondary foyer, where the celebration would take place.
When I came into the room, all the ballerinas surrounded me, eager to tell me how beautiful the ballet was, which I had missed on purpose, and how frightening it was meeting the Opera Ghost just before getting onto the stage.
I had a weird feeling of not belonging to that place, and suddenly felt sad. I was definitely not dedicated or fanatic about dancing, though shivering and discussing the Phantom of the Opera with the other girls was one of my favorite pastimes. I bent my head slightly with this thought and walked away from them.
The celebration went on with people discussing the show energetically, and it was soon clear to me the climax of that night: it was not the ballet, which was in its best moment; it was not the musicians, or the presence of the actual composers of the pieces presented; it was the new “Marguerite”, Christine Daae, who astonished the whole audience with the most beautiful voice of Paris, gaining a full standing ovation that extended for several minutes.
As happy as I was when I heard about her huge success, I was a little concerned when “Little James” told me Christine had fainted just after singing her last note. “Little James”, as some would call Cecille, was a very nice friend, a bit younger than me. Her mother had been working as an usher, side by side with my mom, for years. We grew up together, and I knew how she loved to start new rumors.
After describing how strange the end of Christine’s performance was, she tangled her fingers in her blond hair and gave an excited giggle, leaving the room in her tip toes.
I went to Sorelli, the main dancer on our group, to ask some more. I was told she was around Christine when the doctor came to see her.
Sorelli was a beautiful woman, with a strong but delicate frame, and had the most exquisite eyes I had ever seen. These eyes were now responsible for the Count de Chagny’s recurrent presence inside the dressing rooms.
She was standing by the end of the foyer, trying to memorize a speech she would present to the old managers. The Count was by her, watching her little coquettish gestures as she read the paper over and over.
“Hello, my dear Meg,” she said in a slightly condescending voice,”how is your leg doing?”
I lifted the brim of my dress, showing my immobilized ankle - which made the Count blush slightly and turn his head away. She told me how sorry she was and introduced me the Count with a good touch of pride.
He was around his forties, a distinct man with a kind smile and cold eyes. He kissed my hand, and after some talking from Sorelli, he interrupted her and asked me, ”Mademoiselle, is it possible that you saw my young brother, Raoul, around the dressing rooms?”
“I’m sorry, monsieur, but I didn’t pass through there. I came straight from my room on the opposite side of the Opera.” “It’s just that... it’s been a while since I saw him. He went to talk with this friend of yours, what is her name? Daye, Dyae... Anyway, that was after the performance, it has been a while now... But thank you.
We talked some more and it ended up that Sorelli knew no more of Christine incident than I did. I was already leaving them when Cecille came running toward us. She was waving her hands and tangling her fingers now on her ballet skirt. She approached Sorelli and me in a secretive way and asked, very frightened and pale, ”Can I please talk with you?”
The Conte frowned at the girl but excused us. Sorelli looked pretty upset, “This had better be important, Little James!”
“It is!” she said with wide eyes. She lowered her voice even more and said, “He is there... the Phantom of the Opera.”
I thought Sorelli was going to slap the girl, but her eyes met what James was talking about: at the end of the foyer was a disgusting figure of a man whose head seem to be dead, in spite of his polite gestures in refusing a drink.
This association might sound nonsensical if I didn’t explain something before. One of the stories told about the Phantom said he had many heads, and he could choose which one he would wear. He even had a head all made of fire, as someone reported once. But the one we were seeing was death’s head, the most common in descriptions.
I think it didn’t matter much to Sorelli whether this was the ghost or not, for she made an expression of total disgust and left the room.
I, myself, never found out who that man was, for in spite of his ugliness, his head was still human.
Get your own Free Homepage