I was sitting on the edge of the stage, distractedly glancing at an old newspaper. The theater was all dark exept for a few small chandeliers toward the auditorium's main entrance. Looking that way, it seemed like a sea of red velvet in front of me, the gold of the balconies outlining it.
I had been daydreaming for hours, not paying attention to what was going on around me. I would think that now I could understand what Christine felt about her angel! Having a little secret, having someone we care for, that was a childish pleasure I was at last enjoying. I couldn't wait for her to come back to Paris, to confide in her some of my experiences. She probably wouldn't believe me, and would look at me as cynically as I had looked at her in the past. And just like her, I wouldn't mind, because I knew I was right, and I knew the special thing I had, just for myself. I felt silly, and all I could do was laugh at this foolishness, joyfully.
I would recall his words over and over, and after a few days I had memorized perfectly every single word, gesture, and change of his voice.
I wouldn't know how to explain the effect he'd had on me. I couldn't think of one thing about him that didn't impress me! I believe I was truly infatuated with him because I blinded myself to all the strange evidences surrounding him. Although this feeling changed afterwards, I'm glad it existed, for it was this overwhelming magic aura which made me follow what I considered to be right at the time.
It took me a while to notice him standing in front of me that afternoon. He was calling my name, with a weary smile under his light mustache, his blond hair unwaved, as if his hands had been going through it trying to easy some anguish.
I was deadly curious to know what the Viscount the Chagny wanted from me! He didn't introduce himself in his haste, and I supposed he knew exactly who I was, too.
"Mademoiselle Giry, I have something important to discuss with you. Is it possible that we can talk with...some privacy? "
I nodded, smiling at the shy Viscount, and took him to a quieter place inside the empty dance lounge, in back of the stage. We sat on a crimson velvet sofa, watching the few ballerinas exercising in front of the enormous mirror.
After struggling with a flow of words that seemed to want to come out of his mouth, he began to tell me, slowly, that he was a great admirer of Christine Daae.
I said I was, too, leaving him with the lead of the conversation again. I was so excited that he would actually care for Christine! I knew how radiant she would be...
Again he looked for the right words. "Mademoiselle, I trust you two are good friends, so I ask if you could intercede for my sake. I've been trying to talk with Christine for quite a while...at least it is taking longer than I expected... and she refuses to receive me. I give you my word, I have the best intentions toward her!"
"I don't doubt that, Monsieur," I said sympathetically.
He smiled with some relief. "Well...so I guess...that's what I needed to say..." he looked around, as if trying to remember what he actually had said, "tell Christine I still remember our dear friendship and would very much like to see her...if possible."
The Viscount was a good looking boy, but what was appealing in him was the innocence he had in his look, his gentle and almost feminine manners, his childish way of acting under that cover of nobility and wealth.
He kissed my hand, and was walking away when I called, "Raoul!" He turned around at once, his eyes eager for any information about my friend. He didn't seem to mind my intimacy.
"Christine told me she was preparing to leave for a few days, to a city in the country." I tried to sound as friendly as I could. "I believe that could have kept her busy lately. I'm sure she will look for you soon."
He gave me a broad smile, so naive and helpless that I felt like hugging him, consoling his fears. If only he knew how much Christine cared for him!
"Thank you, mademoiselle Giry! Thank you very much!" he said enthusiastically.
He walked away, leaving me with my newspaper, my thoughts, and a grin on my face.
The girls' screams in the corridor were disturbing. Fast noisy steps, loud speaking, continuously. What were they doing close to my room, anyway? If it was not for the fact that I used to do the same thing - that is, screaming for no reason and any reason, and making of the installations of the Opera my own playground- I would have gotten pretty upset about it. But not today. I couldn't think of one thing in this world that could possibly spoil that contentment I was feeling!
It was time for the Classic Ballet class, I could tell, when the silence fell upon the outside of my room. I could easily picture my colleagues lining disciplinedly along the bar of the ballet room, under a constant stern and stoic glance of the teacher, waiting for the music to begin. It was sad that this was the dead general image that stuck in my mind, a summary of the job I had chosen, or better, that had chosen me.
I sighed in relief, remembering I was not allowed to go back to training again. The injury, which forbid me to do any effortful movements in my right leg, had ironically become my freedom excuse. I had been visited twice by a physician after taking off the bandages, and the amiable old man reassured me every time that my recuperation was impressive and quick. He advised me to rest as much as I could, and repeat some simple therapeutic exercises and massages.
I knew things were not that joyful, even if I haven't learned the extent of the problem yet. I had overheard some conversation between the doctor and my mother on the sequels the accident would leave, possibly hindering some specific movements forever, and I could tell it was not healing as fast as it was supposed to if it had only been a common injury.
In the mean time, I was told by the Ballet Master to attend the classes, so I would be aware of the new things the group was incorporating into the choreography. I think he did that mostly out of pity, so I wouldn't feel so excluded, and so suddenly.
Watching the classes, at least, gave me something to do in the afternoons. The cold weather reigning over Paris endured throughout that whole winter, as if it was a dark sign of the things going on in that Theater. The death of the stageshift was only the beginning of some tragic events going on, and I believe that the most tragic ones passed imperceptibly for most of the people around - as usual.
I finished getting dressed, noticing my face in the mirror growing more pale. I was ready for some fresh air and some sun! Being enclosed in that dark cold Opera House was good for no one.
The thought inevitably led me to the man who lived in the cellars. How could he stand that routine of darkness? It was impossible to say, from down there, if it was day or night, or which season of the year it was... I would be afraid that the world could come to an end, and I would linger living down there, inadvertantly.
As I got to the dancing room, a big crowd of ballet girls discussed something excitedly. I quickly imagined the Phantom was the subject. It seemed like, in one way or in another, he was always inside the everybody's heads. Cecille came towards me, giggling, "Meg! Meg! You won't guess what happened!"
"You saw the Opera Ghost," I said in a passive but friendly voice.
She widened her eyes and asked, "How did you know?!"
I winked and laughed.
Knowing how fond I was of having to watch those classes, she easily convinced me to accompany her to her dressing room while she changed into her dancing clothes. I think "Little James" was one of the few artists who had to share a dressing room worse than Christine's, and that was pretty bad.
We were turning a corner when she suddenly screamed with all the potential of her lungs. I screamed, too, startled by her outburst. I followed her eyes and saw...him! With his elegant evening clothes, his velvet cape, and his mask, he was standing in front of me!
My poor friend was paralyzed, only able to mutter the word "phantom" after each cry. He ran away. I ran after him.
To understand this reaction of mine, one must know how the uncertainty of not knowing when or how I would meet him again consumed me. Adding that I was constantly preoccupied with that man, all I could do was chase after him--for I didn't even have a name to call for.
Obviously, he expected me to run, but in the opposite direction. When he found me three feet behind him, he was, at the least, surprised. I reached easily for his cape, grabbing it forcefully. He turned around so quicky that the next thing I realized, his hand was around my bare arm, holding me as claws.
"I'm tired of people grabbing my cloak like this, you know that?"
His voice, full of distress, uneased my heart.
"You never told me your name..." I said, helplessly.
"My name...is death!!!" he barked at my face, his nails nearly piercing my skin as he strengthened his grip.
I couldn't imagine him being so monstrous! As disturbed as he was when he found me in the cellars for the second time, he never made me question his humanity or character.
"You are hurting me," I said tearfully, looking at his rotten-looking hand. He released my arm, throwing me against the wall, yelling, "And I will hurt you a lot more if I decide so!"
That was so true. I had exposed myself too much, expected too much, out of nothing. And there was nothing to receive in return. All that made me completely vulnerable to him.
I couldn't turn my eyes away from his, searching desperately for an explanation. But there was none. His unexpected and unexplainable words were hurting me endlessly. His eyes were taken by an ugly fury, that seemed to manifest on anything that surrounded him.
"Why are you so angry with me?" I finally asked, trying to rescue the gentle man that I thought existed behind the mask.
He was more steady now, but the anger was still there, though restrained. And it was awful hearing that powerful deep voice ripped with so much hatred.
"I am not angry with you, Meg Giry, and I couldn't be: for I ignore you! Your existence is as useless for me as the others' who crossed my path before. Take, for instance, Monsieur Joseph Bouquet."
His eyes shined in a cruel way. If he meant to scare me more telling me that, he failed, for his words had no meaning anymore. I felt my body slipping against the wall, finally sitting on the floor, my eyes still fixed on his.
I allowed my head to fall between my knees, my world falling down as well. I felt the tears running down my face uncontrollably.
Rejection. Rejection of a feeling that didn't have time to grow. Destroyed mercilessly, thoughtlessly. It didn't matter if he killed one man or a hundred. At that moment, he had killed me.
I couldn't tell when he turned his back to me and left that corridor of the Opera House, but after the surprise, after the pain, after all this, came the anger. As alive as it was in him, I felt it on my heart now.
So stupid it seemed, that I had to wonder if his only goal was hurting me. No, I knew he wouldn't even bother to go that far.
Everything was fine, and my life would keep going on without him. But it was too little. I wanted more, and I wanted it badly.
I had gone too far. I had expected too much. I had considered my own what was not. I had considered gained what I hadn't. It all made me furious.
I brought myself to my feet and slowly dragged my body to my room. My eyes were lost somewhere. I couldn't see a soul in front of me, nor feel a soul inside of me.
I collapsed on my armchair and closed my eyes. Feelings and images ran wildly inside my head. "I have gone too far to go back!!" I thought, punching the arm of the chair.
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