Page 21 of Angel's Mask

Patronage

Christine closed hereyes and let the weak autumn sunlight warm her face as she sat on the front steps of the Opera, just out of view of the horrible doorman, enjoying her lunch. Halfway through November she’d take any light she could get, and right now, it made her humble day perfect. She had a warm pastry in her hand and a lesson with her angel to look forward to tonight. What more did she need?

Being near him was like the sun in the winter, she thought, taking another slow bite. And just like leaving the light, leaving him and the Opera always left her feeling cold. She was glad to explore Paris’ avenues and shops (or at least their windows), but it was always a relief to be home. Funny how in under a month she’d come to think of her little hidden bed among the old sets as her home. And in that time several additions had appeared to make it more like a real room: a small clock had shown up after Louise and the Angel had complained about her tardiness on the same day. A new brush also had materialized, as had a vase of silken flowers.

But the best gifts were the books. She had felt him watching her re-read the volumes of myths and fairy tales she had carried with her for years. And so, it was not a surprise when the first book had appeared. It was a translation of Goethe’sFaust. More had followed.

Last night she’d listened to another performance of Gounod’s version, after a performance ofLe Prophète, the week before. Although she preferred Gounod to Meyerbeer, she had been delighted to see César take the stage. He and the mezzo singing lead were both preferable to Carlotta. Thinking of the woman’s success made Christine frown. Not because of the lack of musicality the woman exalted in, but because it reminded her of the progress she was and was not making. Carlotta had a thin, crystal voice like a demonic choir boy, yet used it to sing with the gusto of angry cat. But at least she was allowed tosing.

After more than three weeks of astonishing lessons, Christine knew her voice was stronger and clearer than she ever could have imagined. But was it the voice of a diva as he promised? She had no idea. How could she when he still would not let her sing actual music? Everything had been scales and breathing and single tones and trills and breathing and long notes spinning out the sound and still more breathing. She was ready to truly sing. Why was he not letting her?

“What is this garbage doing on the steps?”

Christine jumped at the shrill voice. The woman who had spoken loomed above her, her angular, slight frame wrapped in cream furs and satin ruffles, a feathered hat perched precariously atop her perfectly coifed blonde curls. She was flanked by a small man with a thin moustache and spectacles and a more robust man, also well-dressed, who looked bored. If Christine stood, she would be taller than her, but the woman sneered down at her in a way designed to make her feel small and useless. Christine knew the look well and she hated it.

“LeDoux, Herbert – remove this thing from my way,” the woman commanded her male followers. Her voice carried a strange accent.

“There’s room to go around,” Christine retorted. “I promise you won’t exhaust your pretty feet with a few more steps.”

“The steps of my opera are not a place for beggars or vagrants,” the woman snarled. “Get out.”

“It’s not your opera,” Christine snapped back. She let her offence at this woman’s ignorance of who the Opera truly belonged to buoy her past her shame.

“I saidremove her,” the woman trilled to the men, and it was the little one that nervously moved towards Christine.

“Don’t make us call a gendarme, Mademoiselle,” he stammered as he reached for her.

“Don’t touch me,” Christine snarled, jumping up, even though it meant surrendering to these bourgeois boars. Her heart raced, and she felt as if her very bones were trembling as she rushed to the employee’s entrance. As soon as she was inside the shaking stopped and she was solid, calmer. She waited for the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up as she made her way back to the costume workshop.

She didn’t feelhimat all times in the Opera, which made sense. He wasn’t just her angel. He was the guardian and spirit of the entire place. (How an angel had come to be a ghost was a mystery to her, and she was afraid to ask). The fact he chose to watch her, to linger close outside of lessons, was a gift and she treasured it each time it was given. She walked deeper into the Opera and grinned when she sensedhim.

It was only for a moment, but it made her entire body tingle. It was like walking by a room with a warm fire on a winter’s day, a brief reminder of heat and comfort. She sighed as the sensation disappeared, thinking not on her lessons but on the time after, when he would sing to her and sweep her away with his voice. Sometimes he would sing old songs she knew, other times he would weave ballads in languages that sounded like they came from a dream.

And sometimes he would sing music that she simply could not define that took her breath away with its beauty. Those songs made her dizzy, like the strongest wine. They made her skin tingle and her pulse quicken in the strangest way, as his voice enticed her body to come alive at the same time as it lifted her into heaven.

She tried not to think of the emptiness she felt upon waking, the longing for him to be there in the dark. Sometimes she would dream of his shadow close to her. Most mornings she would wake aching for him – for something she couldn’t name.

The workshop was buzzing when Christine returned and took her place in the back corner amongst the mending. While her vocal skills had grown incredibly over the last few weeks, her sewing had only improved from terrible to almost passable, but no one seemed to mind. Other than Julianne, she hadn’t made any friends. Perhaps that was why, since the majority of the costumers sent dirty looks at Julianne too often. Rumors about “the girl who summoned the Ghost” had traveled fast and the other women in the shop treated her with a certain wariness too. They made a good pair then, two outsiders.

Christine caught a glance towards her over someone’s shoulder as a conversation recommenced in quiet tones.

“He died at a masquerade,” Maxine was telling her small tablemate, Camille. “And that’s why he has a mask.”

Christine pretended not to listen. She took great interest in the ghost stories but never participated in telling them, knowing the truth as she did. But she too had thought about his mask, and what it meant. Her own theory was that the face of an angel was too glorious for mortals to behold, but she couldn’t say that.

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