Page 43 of Angel's Mask
Illumination
Christine had not eatenso much in months. The café Adèle had taken them to had not been particularly elegant, but the food had been magnificent. The chef had even come out personally to greet Adèle and offer her a sampling of duck right out of the oven. The wine had been good too, and it, along with the noise of greatAvenue de L’Opéra– streetcars, carriages, horses, and endless people – made Christine’s head spin as she followed Adèle now. She could barely breathe in such chaos, and as Adèle made a left turn onto theRue des Petits Champs, Christine’s gut twisted. She couldn’t see the Opera if she looked back now, and it made her feel more lost and alone.
She was imagining things, she told herself again. The Angel wasn’t upset with her no matter how strange he’d sounded. He’d told her to go. He allowed her to leave the Opera all the time. She’d sung enough for the day and he...he didn’t need her there.
“I’ve had this flat for a few years. I was tired of men paying for my rooms and thinking they owned me,” Adèle said, casual, grabbing back Christine’s attention. “But it does get lonely, so I take on girls from the chorus that need the help once in a while. Not that I was able to save my last girl.” Adèle gave a huff of disappointment.
“What happened to her?”
“The poor idiot fell in love,” Adèle scoffed as they turned left again on theRue des Petits Peres,avoiding the largePlace des Victoiresfurther down the street. In a moment they had turned again, to theRue Notre Dame des Victoires, the basilica bearing the same name looming on one side.
“That doesn’t sound too terrible,” Christine offered.
“She fell in love with amusician! From the orchestra no less. Aflautist!”
Christine couldn’t help but laugh. “That sounds like how my parents met.”
“Oh Lord, please don’t tell me you’re a romantic,” Adèle laughed as they walked beside the Basilica. Christine looked at the cobblestones and pulled her shawl tighter against the winter chill. She didn’t know the answer to that. Talking about love with Julianne had made her remember so many things and long for so many more. “Now, the real question is, are you really a slut and boy, or are you actually a virgin martyr?”
Christine nearly tripped over herself in the street. “Excuse me?”
“You’re understudying me, you sing mezzo, and most mezzos part are either sluts or men,” Adèle explained, not faltering in her confident steps. “But I heard your upper range. You weren’t even worried. So, are you hiding that you’re secretly a soprano, and thus a virgin martyr?”
“I...” Christine had no idea what she was, on stage or off. She had never been touched by another in that way, and yet she felt as if she had a secret lover who knew her most wanton desires. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Hm,” Adèle said, looking at Christine over her shoulder. “Neither am I. I’m sure that you’ll need help, whatever path you pick.”
“I won’t argue there,” Christine sighed. “And I do...appreciate your help. Truly.”
Adèle’s face was tender for only a moment, but it was enough to confirm that whatever bravado and brazenness the woman wore on the outside, there was more to her than that.
“Here we are,” Adèle declared as they came to a large red door with brass fixtures. It wasn’t a glamourous building, but it wasn’t a hovel either. Adèle let them in and ascended the stairs. Christine glimpsed a courtyard, though it was empty of life in this season. Adèle’s flat occupied the left side of the top floor. When the mezzo guided her in, Christine could not help but think how well it suited the older woman.
It was warm and welcoming, with inviting furnishings and a cozy fire, but it was also just slightly opulent, with a piano and gilded bird cage by the window, and vases full of dried flowers set about. The finely-papered walls were adorned with framed posters and circulars, where Christine could see Adèle’s name and even a few depictions of her. On the mantle above the fire was a framed photograph of a younger Adèle next to a handsome man in a uniform.
“This is lovely,” Christine said. She wondered if she would ever afford a place like this, or if she would want to. Would she ever want to stay anywhere her angel could not follow? Would she be able to rest here without him singing her to sleep? Adèle’s posters were in different languages, from theaters around Europe, but how could Christine sing at any theater wherehecouldn’t guide her?
“You’re in there,” Adèle pointed to an innocuous door and Christine followed. The room was much plainer, save for the dark red and black wallpaper. The bed was sturdy, and the vanity was clean and neat. A month ago, Christine would have been delighted by it. She didn’t know what to think now.
“I do have visitors, once in a while,” Adèle said. “Whatever you hear, you didn’t. I’ll pay you the same courtesy. And if you ever don’t come home, I won’t ask questions.” Christine blinked, shocked by the frankness.
“I – that may happen,” she muttered.
Adèle smiled wickedly. “Well then, maybe mezzo does suit you.”
“It’s complicated, I’m not...” Christine tried, and Adèle clucked her tongue.
