Two secretaries, and even M. Remy, the managers first accessor, bothered to advise me with bulged eyes and insane looks that I definitely had better choose some other day to meet with the managers, regardless of the subject I had to discuss. According to their fearful report, never had M. Richard and M. Moncharmine been seen in such a bad temper and strange behavior, not even through the hardest times they could recall in the Opera. And there had been plenty adverse times lately...
My first reaction was to give up this feeble attempt of negociating my stay with the Company, as I had finally gathered courage to do. After all, why would they be willing to sustain a ballerina whose future in the ballet was so uncertain as mine, when there were so many talented ballet girls fiercely disputing a position, even the lowest ones, in the Paris Opera? The final decision to go there on that very day and solving the impasse for good had been encouraged by Claude, and I feared that if I waited any longer, I wouldn't be able to go to the end of my saga.
No, of course it was not bad timing. They were just exaggerating! They might be busy, that was understandable, but certainly they could grant me some minutes to discuss my issue. And if not, why had Claude insisted that I should come right away, at any circumstances? That didn't make sense.
Taking a deep breath and controlling my instincts to give up, I took the last step that separated me from their office door and knocked. No answer.
I tried again, a little stronger.
"Get lost!" I recognized M. Richard's voice roaring from inside. I jumped at that totally unexpected reaction, and the idea of insisting didn't seem wise at all to me. I was ready to give up the cause as lost and prepare myself to turn around and leave the spot right away.
Richards was always so distinct and polite, so eloquent and sagacious in solving the little conflicts that would unavoidably rise between the artists, having only some empty words and a few promises as his weapons! Something wrong, awfully wrong was going on, and I didn't feel particularly eager to hear that from the manager's mouth.
As I began to distance myself from the dreaded office door, I recalled Claude's words in my head. "You must come as soon as possible, and not care if they look like total maniacs. It is their normal state, my cher amie! Trust me!"
But who in their right mind would trust Claude? That was foolish! Yet I knew well that he didn't play to lose, and he had to know what he was talking about. I walked back to the door and knocked once again, shyly.
Suddenly the door was flung open, followed by a loud noise of the wood hitting the wall, and I was left to meet Moncharmine's stern look, his chubby disturbed face, ready to shout at me.
"Remy, we already told you to..." but something made him close his eyes and mouth for a moment instead, as if urging his brain to work properly.
"What now? Send them away!" Richard stormed from inside, and the secretaries, who had sheepishly followed me to the entrance, fled back to their desks as if running for their lives, thinking it safer to mind their own business, or at least pretend to.
Poor Moncharmine, however, couldn't bring himself to say a word, and kept staring at me, with his mouth fairly open, as if he was seeing some sort of spirit right in front of him. And to my surprise, his strange expression turned into a friendly, amiable smile, saying, through his teeth, as if afraid that if he let go of that grin, it would escape forever, "It's the girl, Richard..."
"Which girl?!" the other managed demanded incredulously, furiously. " I don't care if it is the queen herself, tell her..."
"Richard..." he said secretively, whispering meaningfully to his partner, "it's the girl."
Some silence followed, and in an unrecognizable voice, Richard said, "Ohh... the girl. I see." Slowly he paced to the door, making the old wood of the floor crack under his heavy and angry steps, resonnating in the constrained scene. But he had abruptly changed moods as well, coming to the door with another of those forced grins and stupidly polite expressions. What was going on in there?
"Good evening, Mademoiselle Giry," he greeted me, fervently kissing my hand. His usual perfect appearance had turned into one of an insane man, his hair sticking up some, his clean shaved face wet with sweat, his hands shaking uncontrollably. Quickly analyzing Moncharmine, I noticed he was in the same state, or worse, I dare say. Moncharmine was older than Richard, and lacked the charm and wit that had facilitated their managing in the Opera so much. Yet it was upon Moncharmine that they looked whenever they had to solve a problem through any means more difficult than formal dinners or balls. He was responsible for the bureaucracy of the Opera, and God knows there was more than enough of it.
Completely ignorant of the reasons for the odd phenomenon which was going on, and agreeing heartly with Claude that they were two madmen, I said, tentatively, "Er...if you, Monsieur, think it would be better... if I came back some other time..." while I began to walk back and out of the room.
"No, absolutely! Come in, please!"
At that, I saw his puzzled employees with their heads turned to us, peeking through the entrance in disbelief, struggling to figure out what could possibly be going on there. I shared their curiosity.
I sat on one of the enormous royal leather chairs they ushered me to, from where my legs barely reached the floor, awestricken.
Moncharmine, passing his fingers through his hair as if wanting to take off his scalp and his problems off his mind as well, fetched some expensive heart-shaped chocolate sweets to offer me. Richard served himself a generous dose of brandy, whose bottle, drank to its half, was displayed carelessly on his own work desk, and asked me if I wished something to drink. Had I mistaken my manager's office for some fancy downtown restaurant, or was it actually happening? I wished they would treat me less considerably, so I could convince myself things were normal and real, and they were only two reasonable harmless men.
Taking a long sip of his drink, letting it slip through his throat, Richard took his place behind his desk, in front of me, and smiled again, while he was visibly regaining strength to start talking with me.
"M. Giry, we would like to express our deepest regret for what happened to you. We apologize for not looking for you sooner to show you our most sincere condolensces, but we've been somewhat...busy, lately." And he exchanged a look of pure hatred with Moncharmine.
This one, as if they had rehearsed the scene many times, continued in cue, "We heard from the doctor that it would be the best for you to spend some more time resting - and we thought it would make your time less hard if we provided you with some extra wage, added to your normal gains, which I'll make sure you will be receiving again before the end of the week. And we plead that you don't hurry your recuperation, that you take your time, and do whatever is necessary for your well being."
I looked at one, then the other, in astonishment. I had to be dreaming.
"After that," Richard explained, "whenever you and the physician think it is time for you to go back on stage again, we would be very pleased if you accept this humble promotion we will propose to you, still underserving of your talent, but the best we can offer: we would like to contract you, if that is your wish, of course, as the first ballerina in the company."
I couldn't believe I was hearing that! I almost laughed loudly in their faces, but controlled myself. I was so amazed by all that that I couldn't help trying a question.
"Was it the Dance Master who suggested me to this position? Or was it my last trainer..."
Moncharmine gave a deep, noisy sigh and said with resignation, "not exactly..." and at that moment I noticed a paper on his hands.
"So, Mademoiselle, would you gladden us by accepting our humble offer?" he asked with desperate hazel eyes opened wide in an imploring expression accentuated by his chubby cheeks. "Your presence and charm in our Company and Theater is an immense delight, and we would do anything necessary to certify that you are perfectly content with your position here."
The paper...it was a letter...it was written...in red ink...
I narrowed my eyes, trying to see what was there, but I could only distinguish the obvious enigmatic signature at the bottom of the paper - 'O.G.'
"Er...yes, sure, of course I accept!" I answered, dumbfounded.
Richard mechanically and immediately took a piece of paper out of one of his desk's drawers, some sort of official contract form and signed as fine as his trembling hands allowed him. Handing it to me, I realized that the contract, with all the speculations about my health license time and my new wages were already specified there, as if they had just been waiting for my arrival.
I signed the paper with my eyes obsessedly fixed on the letter Moncharmine was holding, taking every effort in finding out what was on there. But perceiving my stare, Moncharmine folded it into the envelope, resolving to not grant me another glance at that paper.
I left the office unable to believe the incredible thing that took place in there, while they warmly bid me farewell with lots of smiles, good wishes, and regards sent to my mother.
Back to the main corridor, there was Claude, waiting for me.
"So, how did it go?" He asked excitedly, for he knew what was to come of that negociation.
"How did you know I was already in there?"
"I knew you wouldn't disobey old Claude's suggestions..." he said playfully.
I laughed and, holding him by the lapel of his new suit, ordered, "You must tell me what was written in that letter!"
Pretending he didn't know what I was talking about, Claude answered, "Which letter, Little Meg?"
"How did they get to this decision, Claude? You must to tell me!"
"Just if you tell me what the ghost's interests are in you, Little Ballerina!"
I froze inside, blushing at the same time, my suspicions about the origin of the letter and the offers being doubtlessly confirmed. But I wouldn't confide anything to Claude. Not about Erik.
"I don't know! That is why I need to know why and how the ghost is involved in this!"
"Well..."Claude began carelessly, not totally convinced, "I didn't get to read the letter. I only know it is the ghost's wish that you are treated as kindly as possible." He was a little sarcastic. "Actually, the ghost himself is taking his share, too. Today is his pay day, and that is one of the reasons why they are going mad in there." He laughed, probably remembering the poor state in which the managers found themselves, running around like crazy because of Erik's games. "And I don't blame them - who would want to see 20,000 francs vanishing in the air before their eyes like this?!" And he repeated greedily, as if savoring some extraordinary food, "Twenty thousand Francs..."
"Meg, I must be straightforward with you...I think you and your mother know more than you are letting show, and I'd really be interested in information about all that money's fate... You know me!" He gave me a cunning smile.
"What do you mean?" Of course I knew more than I was saying, but I didn't know anything about the money, nor did that concern me. Yes, I knew Erik somehow managed to get his mensal wages from the theater, but that was about it.
"Why, Meg, if it's your mother who receives the money and hands it to the Phantom, and now you are so fervently recommended to this promotion..."
"What? I didn't have the least clue my mother was involved in that!"
"Come, come, Meg, I ain't no fool...if you don't feel like telling me, that's ok, I don't care...But I had to ask, didn't I?" he laughed.
"I suppose I'll have a few questions myself to ask when I come home today..."
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