“Good morning, girls,” I addressed the fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, the first of my many assignments, “and welcome to the Paris Opera Ballet. I would first like to congratulate you on your acceptance to the company. You are all very talented performers; otherwise you would not be here today. But now comes the difficult part. This is a professional theatre, and as such we will demand the utmost of your discipline and commitment. Therefore, you would to well to adhere to the following guidelines.
“Rehearsals and classes will begin promptly upon their appointed hour. I understand that occasionally tardiness is unavoidable, but those who make a habit of it will be disciplined. You may, of course, be excused from a session if you are ill or injured…but do not think that you can fool me with theatrical moaning and groaning. I am a mother, remember; I know ailment when I see it. Once the session begins, you will maintain your focus on your dancing—not the dancing of the girl next to you, and certainly not on who was flirting with whom at last night’s performance. Any questions you have should be directed to myself, not another dancer. Be assured that I will treat each of you with kindness and respect, provided you behave accordingly. I don’t expect all of you to be good friends with each other, but I do expect that you treat each other with courtesy. Under no circumstances are you to be rude, vicious, or cruel to any other girl—you are too old for such childish behavior. Likewise, you will all speak to me with deference and address me as ‘Madame’.”
“Even your daughter?” one of them queried.
“Especially my daughter,” I stressed. “Make no mistake, I will not play favorites with any member of this company. If a girl is having difficulties in class or out, I will of course devote whatever attention is necessary to her, but I will not esteem or disregard anyone arbitrarily.” I paced the length of the room, mimicked by my reflection in the full-length mirrors. “This is to be the foremost company in France—dare I say, the whole of Europe—and it is my hope that we shall be known for the quality of our productions, and not for…more infamous traits.” A ripple of laughter followed the understatement. “Chuckle if you will, but remember your outward conduct has a great bearing on how people perceive you—and therefore, on your career. I would advise you to maintain a respectable appearance: tidy clothing, clean face and hair, and decorous attire. As full members of the company, you will meet with some of the most esteemed members of society; therefore, you would be wise to conduct yourselves as ladies, and not as dockside tavern wenches. Finally,” I drew a deep breath, preparing to drop the final shell, “at no time will members of the opposite gender be allowed within your dressing rooms.”
You should have heard the uproar. Protests were cried, muttered, or simply cast silently from glowering eyes. “That’s not fair!” moaned one girl.
“It is exactly fair,” I contested. “With the exception of the principals, you will each share quarters with at least one other girl. How do you think your roommate would feel if you shoved her out into the hall so you could bill and coo with—what was that, Jeanne-Marie?” I asked a girl still grumbling under her breath.
“I said, if a baron comes around my door I damn well won’t leave him waiting in the hallway,” she sniffed.
“If a baron comes around your room he can very well find a more appealing place for a tryst,” I rebutted. “I can’t monitor every second of your life, nor do I have any desire to, but I would like for you to at least present a façade of propriety.” My eyes swept from one end of the room to the other, taking in the young, rosy faces turned up toward me. “I understand some of the conditions I have set seem severe,” I continued gently, “but I wish for you to have the full benefit of your unprecedented fortune. Each of you has a great gift; one that is as fragile and transient as it is rare. The singer’s voice, the actor’s poise, the artist’s hand—all will outlast these fleeting moments in which you can serve your Muse. But serve her faithfully, with every part of your being, and I guarantee you that no matter when or how your career as a dancer ends, you will have gained a joy that is more precious than gold and more enduring than any monument.” I paused, unable to find my voice for a moment. “One final thing: although you may think me domineering and inflexible, rest assured you must never fear to approach me. If you have any problems—with myself, with another dancer, or any other factor in your life—come and speak with me. I cannot promise a solution…but I promise you, I will listen. Are there any questions?”
There was only silence. From the twenty-some stares that were directed at me I caught some glances of irritation and distrust. But mostly there was respect, and perhaps—dare I hope it?—a little admiration. “Very well,” I concluded. “In that case, line up along the barre. We will begin with our pliés: four demi, one grande, in each of the positions…”
As I strode along the line of young women, examining their alignment and correcting it when necessary, a curious sensation took hold of me—almost as if I were being watched. I quickly dismissed it, of course. Most likely I detected the gaze of one of the dancers, or perhaps the immaterial presence of my own reflection.
And yet…I can’t swear to it, monsieur, but as I passed by one of the immense mirrors, I thought I heard something. Something like a soft, satisfied laugh.
* * * * * * * * * *
I didn’t believe the rumors at first.
You must realize that I’d spent the majority of my life in some theatre or another, and I had become accustomed to superstition as part of the trade. The very nature of the life encourages it; every performance runs with the risk of any number of things going wrong, and the need to obtain even illusory control over one’s fate is undeniable. In addition to the several dozen commonly held tenets of stage lore, every theatre and every performer has one or two rites which serve to ease fears and explain the occasional mishap. So when whispers about an unearthly presence at the Opera reached my ears I dismissed it as another tale, one more item in an endless catalogue of theatrical myth. Although there was a peculiar intrigue about this particular story: disembodied voices, a shadowed figure appearing and vanishing without trace, signs of an unseen authority even Monsieur Lefèvre feared…
I forget when exactly the words Phantom of the Opera began to pass in hushed tones between the chorus girls. I do remember it was a few months after the gala opening that Box Five ceased to be sold, and the company’s monthly budget grew poorer by twenty thousand francs. Such unusual precautions struck me as odd, even by the standards of superstition. But those matters did not concern me, so I went on in blissful ignorance until the day Meg and I had that conversation before dinner.
“Sophia heard the Opera Ghost when she was down in the stables today,” she announced as she set our shabby china and silver onto the table.
“Sophia has better things to do than make the stable-master’s life difficult, and I don’t care how many thoroughbreds her father’s raised,” I reminded her. “And surely you girls have better things to do than attempt to scare the daylights out of each other.”
“But we spend so much time waiting around, Mama,” she bemoaned. “All the managers and directors think we can afford to wait on their pleasure—not you, of course—and the stories make the time pass.”
“Well, I suppose there are worse things you could be discussing,” I admitted, inspecting the progress of the chicken. “But I’d think it would become tiresome, listening to the same stories over and over.”
“But that’s just it: the stories aren’t the same.”
“Really?” I withdrew the bird from the oven and proceeded to search about for the carving knife, the mundane nature of my tasks belying my interest. “How so?”
“Well, for one thing, nobody really knows what he looks like.”
“Then nobody’s actually seen him?”
“Oh, several people. But they all say different things.” Her ice-blue eyes sparked with life and merriment, reminding me of her father. “Some say he looks like a great black shadow, and others like a man with no features. Joseph Buquet once told us—“ she stopped and flushed guiltily.
“Meg,” I reproved, “I thought I told you to let me know if Buquet started harassing you girls again.”
“He wasn’t harassing us, Mama,” she attempted to reassure me. “He just told us stories of the Opera Ghost. He knows a lot about the Ghost, you see, and he knows we like to hear people speak of it.”
“And if you developed a fascination with horse-flies, he’d be sure to know as much as he could of that.” I savagely dug the knife into the chicken, directing my rage at Buquet into the well-cooked meat.
“He wasn’t doing anything improper,” she insisted, honesty weighing her words. “He didn’t tell crude jokes or touch any of the dancers. I’d have told you straightway if he had.”
“You must be careful around that one, Meg. Even when he acts harmlessly he may have an ulterior motive. But go on—what does Buquet say of our Phantom?”
“Well, he says the Ghost’s face is all rotted and decaying, like something that’s been dead for a time,” she returned to her tale eagerly. “Buquet’s stories are always ghastly, I’m afraid; he’ll swear the Opera Ghost would kill any man as soon as look at him. But the other girls claim he only plagues those who are proud and cruel and don’t have the soul of an artist. If you work hard and don’t make trouble with others, he’ll take favor to you and advance your career.”
“Now that is a poltergeist I can live with—put out some bread and butter, please.” I forked a few choice cuts of meat onto a platter. “Who is he, anyway?”
“That’s a silly question,” Meg said, setting out a loaf, “He’s the Opera Ghost, nothing more.”
“All ghosts must have lived once, correct? I find it odd that none of your stories tell how he came to haunt the Opera, for that’s usually the best part of the tale—laden with star-crossed love, betrayal, suicide, and such.”
“That is the strangest part: nobody really knows. There are theories, of course. Most of us think he must have been one of those poor souls who were imprisoned at the Opera during the Commune. That makes the most sense to me, for I’ve heard he’s often to be found in the lower cellars. Others think he was a builder, who died during the construction—though I’ve never heard of such an incident. But Sophia…today, Sophia vowed on everything holy that the Phantom must have been a musician in life.”
“And why is that?” I placed the chicken on the table and took my seat—fortunately, for her next words nearly caused me to faint.
“She heard him sing…she knew it wasn’t any of the company members, for none of them have so fine a voice. She likened it to Orpheus, and said it made her warm all over to hear it. She refused to say any more, but she was blushing like—Mama, is something wrong? You’ve gone all pale.”
“I’m all right,” I whispered dimly. But in truth, for the moment I’d forgotten her existence. It seemed I wasn’t a mother, but a young dancer standing before a cage, gazing at the figure of a wretched man. A man who sang like a god, and who appeared as one long dead…No, it was impossible! I must be mad, grasping at shadows like this…it was folly to think that there could be any connection between a thirteen-year-old memory and yarns spun by bored children!
And yet…a man with skills of legerdemain could easily seem to be a spectre, able to appear and vanish and cast his voice wherever he pleased. Especially if he was an architect as well, and able to build the mechanics of such tricks into any building he had access to. And what more could a musician hope for but financial security to pursue his craft and the opportunity to study it at will?
The more I thought about it, the more the notion seemed not only possible, but probable. This illusion was well within Erik’s power, and his need for protection and concealment was doubtless great enough for him to dare it. And suddenly, the fascination my charges had with the Opera Ghost seemed understandable, for I remembered the captivating power of his presence, the sensation of power that followed in his wake. But then, how could he have survived undetected all these years? How had he managed to arrange such a complex ruse with nobody the wiser?
I vacillated between curiosity, fear, concern and skepticism all through dinner. It must be Erik, no it couldn’t be, I had unlocked the secret, I had read one to many gothic novels and was losing my faculties as a result. But ultimately, as it had years before, the lure of that unfathomable mystery won out. Perhaps I was jumping to illogical conclusions; perhaps I was irrationally trying to connect my present life to a distant memory. But one way or another, I had to know the truth.
Two days hence, Philippe was scheduled to tutor the apprentice dancers, leaving my schedule unencumbered. It would be an excellent time to learn what I could of this Phantom.
Go on to Chatper 7
Go back to Chapter Five
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