Page 4 of Angel's Mask

“Good, we don’t have any Christines. There was one a few months back but, well, shewassuperstitious.” The overwhelmed new employee dropped her bag and shawl and followed Louise back into the main room. “You can work the laundry for the rest of the afternoon, won’t hurt since you’re already wet and you look like you could use some warming up. Patrice! Take our new girl back to help with the wash. Follow her. Good luck.”

Christine was suddenly following a ruddy-faced woman towards a door from which steam was spewing.

“Dig in,” Patrice ordered cheerfully as they entered. Christine was confronted by a heap of clothes as tall as her, piled on one side of the room and a huge copper tub filled with steaming, soapy water on the other. Two other older women were moving back and forth from the clothes to the water, their faces shining from the heat. Christine tentatively began to pull garments from a pile. Louise had been right: it was nice to be warm again.

The day passed quickly. No one paid Christine much mind. She sensed eyes watching her on and off, but anytime she looked up, the women skillfully hid their stares. In a few hours, she felt she had mastered the finer points of laundering the extravagant costumes of ballerinas and divas. She had been given her orders or instructions only when she did something blatantly wrong, so she had not been obligated to speak much, which was a relief. She always preferred to stay quiet as long as possible, delaying the inevitable moment she would be exposed as “odd” or “curious” or some other polite expression for “strange.”

In time the room began to empty, the other workers prompted by some cue Christine had missed, until Christine was the last one left, scrubbing the delicate tule of a white tutu. Just as she was wondering what to do now, a crash startled her. She rushed to the hall to find the source. A woman about her age was there, swearing quietly over a basket of ballet slippers. She had skin the color of strong coffee with milk and jet hair thick with tight curls. Another woman walked directly past her and the mess, sending the girl a sneer.

“Let me help,” Christine said, bending to gather the slippers back into the basket.

“It was a damn rat that spooked me! Ran right past my foot and I thought it was—” the other woman looked up, her deep chestnut eyes catching Christine’s. “You’re new.”

“I started this afternoon,” Christine confirmed, placing a final slipper in the girl’s basket.

“Welcome to the Paris Opera then. Julianne Bonet.” She held out her hand, which Christine shook timidly.

“Christine Daaé. I’m sorry, my hands are all wet and...shriveled.” At least the hours in the laundry had left them clean.

“You get used to it,” Julianne shrugged. “The rats, less so.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Thank you, by the way, for helping,” Julianne nodded towards the slippers, and stood straight. “Everyone else gets in such a hurry to leave before dark. I guess I can’t blame them.”

Christine didn’t know what to make of that comment, even though Julianne looked like she was waiting to be asked about it, dark eyes sparkling as they looked over Christine. “Could you tell me, when do we get paid?”

It was obviously not the question Julianne was expecting. “Oh, not until the end of the month.”

Christine’s stomach would have fallen had it not been so empty. “That’s almost two weeks.”

“You do get extra in cash if you stay late after the performances, and there’s one tomorrow.”

Christine braced herself. She hated begging but she had to ask. “Is there any way to get an advance?” Now Julianne looked like she might laugh. “I just need something to pay for a room for a few nights. All my money went to the train ticket to get to Paris and—”

“Let me guess, you don’t have anything for food either?”

“Not much.”

Julianne looked at her with a mix of curiosity and pity. “Follow me,” she sighed, leading Christine to the now-empty cloakroom. “I can’t spare money, but – here.” Julianne pulled a package from her own bag and handed it to Christine. Christine pushed away the oily brown paper to reveal a baguette.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Christine breathed, staring lovingly at the freshest meal she’d seen in days.

“As for a place to stay...” Julianne glanced around the dim room. “Do you scare easy?”

“You’re the second person that’s asked me that today.” Christine was used to the particular type of madness of musicians and theater folk, but the denizens of the Opera were clearly a peculiar breed. “But the answer is no, I’m not afraid of much.”

“We’ll see.” Julianne strode out of the costume room with Christine trailing her, entirely confused again. She led them up several flights of stairs and then down another dark, two-toned hall that looked suspiciously like all the other poorly-lit halls Christine had seen that day, and finally to a door. The room Julianne revealed was illuminated only by the dim orange glow of the gaslights being lit outside the window as the last traces of day faded.

“No one comes here much, it’s too far from the workshops and the salons, but not close to the stage. If you stay put, you should be fine for the night.”

Christine looked around the cluttered room: it was full of broken and disassembled musical instruments, mostly old, dusty pianos, and furniture covered with sheets. “I can sleep here?”

“You can try,” Julianne replied. “Just don’t wander about.”

“Will I get caught?” Christine didn’t relish the thought of losing this job or trading in a storeroom for a jail cell.

“Oh, no. Like I said, no one stays here past dark when there’s no performance. They, uh...” Julianne bit her lip as Christine’s curiosity flared again. What on earth were people so afraid of here? “If you make it through the night, I’ll tell you then.”

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