Page 16 of Angel's Mask
The thought stopped her. Yesterday and even the day before she had sensed him watching so clearly, his presence hanging in the air like fog. But she couldn’t feel it now. What if he was gone? What if he didn’t return? What if she never heard his voice again?
Seeing him had been like a resurrection, but that voice – it was Pentecost. The vow hadn’t been forgotten; the angel her father had promised had only been waiting for her to find him. He had made such the promises to her, surely, the Angel would keep them.
Christine tried to keep her rising anxiety in check as she left the prop room. It was still quiet in the Opera, and only in a few places did the light of day manage to pierce the gloom. But there were more gaslights on now, which helped as she made her way to the costume workshop. And found it completely empty. There were no one mending; no one washing. Christine searched the halls and other workshops and found them similarly empty. Of course it was empty; it was Sunday, she finally remembered. Everyone was at worship and the Opera was closed. For a second, she considered finding a church to join them but dismissed the idea immediately. This place – this was her church.
Christine took advantage of the vacant building, taking longer to wash, and laundering the clothes she had worn for far too many days in a row while changing into her only other set. She managed to brush her hair as well and felt almost like a new woman by the time she was done.
She still couldn’t feel him when she returned to the empty halls, but perhaps he didn’t like the daylight world? She told herself he would find her. He would begin teaching her when it was time. For now, she stole through the maze of passages and chambers, wondering when she might start to feel like an interloper, but no guilt came. If this was his opera, it would welcome her. Even the parts where a simple seamstress would not be allowed.
It took her a while to find the entrance to the subscribers’ foyer. Stepping from the wood, plaster, rope, and curtains behind the scenes to the marble and gilding of the audience’s half of the theater was like entering another world.
There was not a surface that wasn’t covered in gold, marble, filigree, or delicate mosaic. Even without the candles and lamps lit, it was overwhelming. The marble in a half-dozen shades of pink and gold made the cold space warm to the eyes. At the bottom of the double horse-shoe grand staircase, sensuous nymphs raised unlit candelabra to the murals above. In the salons where the rich and mighty met before performances, mirrors and golden pillars gave the impression of something more like a palace than a theater. Christine had never been to Versailles, but she imagined it couldn’t be far from this.
Christine explored every salon and foyer to her heart’s content, trailing her fingers over the details. Her favorites were the twin salons dedicated to the sun and moon on each side of theGrand Foyer;like miniature temples to Artemis and Apollo. Those, and the massive staircase that made her feel so small, an insignificant speck of dirt among boundless beauty.
It was all stunning and sumptuous. But it also hollow. In her drab clothes, Christine couldn’t help but feel like a rat who had snuck into a palace; built with riches she could never imagine, for people who would never give her a second glance. She thought of the beggars she had seen outside the train station just days before and wondered how many meals the gold from one room here might buy.
And it was empty in another way. Just like the halls and cellars and stage. Where was he? He hadn’t even told her where to go or what to do. Was she supposed to find him? How? With some difficulty, Christine retreated backstage again, now exploring the dance salons and dressing rooms, then the practice rooms for the chorus, and more. By now, her heart was racing.
What if he decided she was unworthy and didn’t come? What if he realized what a mistake he had made? What if it had all been a dream? Fear began to choke her as she walked faster.
It was then that she heard it: the sound of a piano far down the hall. She knew instantly that it was him by the perfection of the music. And it was Mozart. TheFantasia in D minor, if she was not mistaken.
She followed the dark sound, entranced, and came at last to an open door. As she stepped inside, unsure of what she would find, the music stopped. Christine frowned. The meager light of a single candle on a small table by the door showed an practice room, almost completely submerged in thick shadow. The upright piano was angled and half-hidden behind a screen so that she could see nothing on the keyboard side.
“I was wondering when you’d find your way back to me,” the angel said gently and a thrill like lightning went down Christine’s spine. He was here. He was real. And he was hers.
“You didn’t tell me where to come. Or when.”
“I shall be more precise next time.”
She could not see much beyond the small pool of light. Perhaps if she strained, she could make out a shadow seated at the piano, somewhere in the dark. She swore she saw the glint of his eyes but was not sure. Christine didn’t care. She would take any glimmer of him to hear his voice.
“Tell me of your studies,” the Angel commanded.
“I was at the conservatoire in Rouen for two and a half years,” Christine answered with a scowl, looking at her tattered shoes.
“And before that only your father taught you.” It wasn’t a question. Of course, he knew. She nodded anyway, with pang of sadness at the memory. “The conservatoire: they sent you away before you came to Paris. But you didn’t thrive there anyway.”
“I never fit in. I just got by as long as I could. They were happy to be rid of me and I must say I didn’t disagree.” She didn’t try to keep the bitterness from her voice. “My teachers didn’t like me. They didn’t think I had – what was it? Oh yes: ‘the voice, the technique or the heart’ for a career.”
“Is that all?” There was something warm and encouraging in his voice that spurned Christine on, as if he was already on her side against the teachers with sour faces and brittle fingers that had harangued her for so long.
“According to them, my lower register was too heavy, my upper register was harsh, and my middle register lacked clarity. Oh, and my voice had no character or strength. I was too dark to be a soprano but too weak to be a mezzo, so they gave up on both.”
“They were fools.” He said it with such certainty it struck Christine cold. With three words from him, the past was erased. “I can understand why they thought you might be a mezzo, your lower rangeismore robust than most sopranos’, and we can work with that. But you’re not Cherubino, my dear, you’re Susanna. You’re Juliette and Gilda. And, of course, Marguerite.” The praise made her smile and blush. “And one day you will be the Contessa and Violetta.”
“If someone had said that yesterday, I would have told them it was impossible, but...I believe it when you say it.”
“As you should.” Once again, his voice took on the commanding timbre that made her shiver. “Technique can be learned. And you certainly do have the voice to learn it. Now, let us see what you can do,” he commanded, and Christine straightened her posture, ready to sing at last. “Breathe.”
“Breathe?”
“Breathe in like you’re singing, but don’t sing yet.”
Christine took a deep, nervous breath, her chest expanding and her shoulders rising.
“No,” the Angel snapped. “Breathe from below, don’t let anything above your lowest ribs move.” She tried again, better this time, but still tense. “Relax. Breathe into the base of your back and your stomach. Feel it down to the floor, like you’re a tree breathing all the way through the roots. Imagine how it should feel and do it.”
