What a rare thing. I was attending a rehearsal for an Opera, and it had nothing to do with the ballet part in it, or with my roles whatsoever. I don't know why I decided to do it, probably to entertain my thoughts at least a little.
The huge auditorium was poorly lit, almost empty except for the pianist, the Chorus Master, and a few other musicians.
As I approached the stage, greeting a couple of other people who, just like me, could indulge themselves in spending time watching yet another rehearsal, all the heads turned towards the left wing.
The entire chorus wasn't there, perhaps half of the ensemble. The Chorus Master, Monsieur Gabriel, gave them quick intructions, just before the pianist played the soprano's part. The singers repeated it neatly, and I had to wonder how one could ever get their voice to work in such a beautiful, almost unnatural form. They probably had similar questions when seeing the Corps of Ballet performing, though. Very interesting that building, indeed, that reunited the degrees of ultimate perfection of various talents, and lived for the sake of showing it to careless spectators who so often didn't see anything but the wealth of those sitting beside them. Or the architecture of the place. All the human effort was nothing compared to that dead mountain of well-shaped concrete.
I shook my head. Architecture had its merit too. One was simply forced to admit it inside the Palais Garnier. Yes, that was a palace, a monument to beauty in all its aspects. Had Erik ever thought of that? That he had chosen a shrine for developing and worshipping beauty as his home? How ironic!
Monsieur Gabriel, a gaunt quiet man, with long curled hair falling on the sides of his neck, considered for a second, and asked the chorus to repeat. He was incredibly perfectionistic and disciplined, and perhaps due to these traits, annoying to the chorus members sometimes, the Paris Opera had an outstanding chorus quality. Gabriel was also known for an odd behavior lately, quite superstitious, that apparently had something to do with the Phantom. "Right, the Phantom," I snorted.
But it was funny to recall the story told by Cecille, that made the ballet girls laugh so much, during one of the light leisure times we used to have. According to her, this elegant, polite man had, in a desperate hurry to leave a room, managed to rip off his clothes, hit his head, slam the piano lid on his fingers, and finally, rolling down the stairs, be found at the bottom of the staircase bleeding, babbling and thanking his luck for leaving that room alive. According to Cecille too, this sequence of accidents had been caused by a fugitive glimpse he had caught of the Ghost, in daylight. Right, funny, yes. I wondered just how funny Erik found all that.
The pianist played the first note, the sopranos glanced quickly at the sheet music and prepared to sing, when again some disturbing noise was heard, causing everybody to look over to the left wing again. The Chorus Master made a simple quick hand sign that silenced the chorus, and overheard for a second. His trained ears and previous experience must have informed him well of what happened backstage. And then an unimaginable scene followed.
Gabriel's face turned red in an expression of anger that I've never seen on a man like him before. He hurled his expensive tuning-fork at the wall, with such a fury that I thought he could only have carved a cavity where the instrument hit, and cursed loudly, walking in total rage to the backstage area.
Not one single soul dared to comment. We stared ahead, afraid even of breathing or exchanging looks. Something very wrong was going on there.
The screaming in the back area became more intense and distinguishable, and finally Gabriel returned to the stage, with lead steps, having La Carlotta walking ahead of him, imperious, and equally angry. And to my surprise, Christine paced behind, her head low, only her eyes fixed at the two, watching through her long eyelashes with the expression of a scared little animal.
The Chorus Master energetically pulled a chair for himself, took a seat, crossed one leg over the other and looked at the two. He hissed, pausedly, "I am just so tired of it!" His eyes were flaming, and I never thought that discrete man had such a temper.
La Carlotta, usually proud and in control of every situation, this time seemed so upset that she wasn't measuring words, nor thinking twice before saying a thing. Christine, though a little quieter than the diva, wasn't herself either.
La Carlotta started to talk, but Gabriel stood up and made a sign for her to be quiet, that had exactly the same effect of his regence to the chorus. Then he turned to the others present there, and as if in a play, he was for once the narrator.
"Madames, Monsieurs, we seem to have a small problem here. For weeks I have been keeping these two most respectable ladies apart, so we can have a, let's say, bearable atmosphere for working." His irony was obvious. "However, allow me to introduce myself for thou who are not familiar with me: My name is Gabriel, I am thy Chorus Master." He silenced for a second and them screamed at the two, "And it is definetely not my job, neither I am going to accept any longer such foolish behavior, which endangers the harmony of the whole chorus and, not to mention, the entire cast. I'm not going to spoil a production because Little Mademoiselle Daae forgot to grow up and will have a breakdown at each harsh word La Carlotta, who regretfully never learned good sense in Spain, will say."
His voice was reverberating throughout the theater, and even though the situation was odd enough, I would never dare make fun of it. Something very serious was going on. Christine took the word, whining, tearfully, "But Monsieur, it isn't my fault that Carlotta will never realize that she can't be the leader forever, and that I got the main role in this production! She keeps harassing me all the time from jealousy!"
La Carlotta cast the most disdainful look at the poor singer, majestically crossed her arms over her chest, and snorted. "My darling Daae, it isn't my fault either that you have a Viscount and a Ghost bribing the managers to give you the roles! But we don't need to get into that, do we? I find it most distasteful discussing business things such as this..."
This time I had to cover my mouth with my hands to restrain the mirth. La Carlotta had her faults and it must be tough working with her, alright, but she had an admirably sarcastic sense of humor.
"You see, Monsieur Gabriel?" Christine pointed her finger at Carlotta, and sniffed. "I'm not obliged to put up with that!"
"You indeed are not!" La Carlotta snapped.
Christine looked at Gabriel pleading for help, but only silence reigned. Everybody was thinking the same.
"Mademoiselle, I'm afraid one needs more than a good voice and good patrons to become a diva," Gabriel stated calmly.
Christine was pale, no blood seemed to pass through her veins now. She had her lips parted, incredulous.
"Am I being sent away?"
"No, Mademoiselle. Even if I wanted to do it, the ghost wouldn't allow." I knew he was partly serious. "But La Carlotta was absolutely right when she pointed out that you are not obliged to stay here."
Christine's breast was heaving, and I feared some for her health.
"Fine, then. I shall go home and consider what was said here. I believe M. Gabriel would be kind enough for dismissing me today."
She had used her last piece of stregth, and there was not much left for her. The Chorus Master nodded, acknowledging her leaving, and as soon as she approached the wing, her weeping became audible.
I wondered what she had in mind.
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