Page 43 of Angel's Kiss
“Now, Richard, we have discussed the possibility of—” Moncharmin began and fell victim to a glare from his partner. He sighed and looked at Raoul. “My apologies, Monsieur Le Vicomte.”
“Monsieur Moncharmin.” All three men turned to see a concierge, an older woman with dark eyes who held herself with a bearing that was both noble and defiant.
“Didn’t I fire you too?” Richard muttered.
“I do not work foryou,” she responded raising her chin proudly. “I have a letter for Monsieur Moncharmin, from my true employer.” The woman handed Moncharmin an envelope with black lining. Was it a death announcement or a mourning note? Richard and Raoul both stared at Moncharmin as he opened and read the missive and the color drained from his face.
“Well, what is it?” Richard demanded.
“I must attend to some business backstage,” Moncharmin muttered then turned on his heel and left them all staring after him. The concierge looked pleased as she shot Richard a smug look.
“My door shall be locked tonight. Do not bother intruding again,” the woman said and turned without ceremony to exit the salon, a spring in her step.
“I say, Richard, you seem to lack authority over your people,” Raoul remarked. “Perhaps it would be in your best interest to change course. With Mademoiselle Daaé as a start.”
“Let the man rest, Raoul, he has more important things to attend to,” came Antoine’s voice as he tugged at Raoul’s elbow. “It’s time to take our seats.”
“Do enjoy the performance, Messieurs,” Richard muttered with a begrudging nod. “I’m sure our reigning diva will impress us.”
“I doubt it,” Raoul snapped back.
Antoine rolled his eyes. “Come, let’s take our seats. It shall be quite the performance.”
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Shaya took no pridein being a subscriber to the Opera, and he certainly hoped Erik did not know about the money his adversary had wasted on the privilege of claiming a box with a middling view on the top tier of Garnier’s jewel box of a theater. Nevertheless, he was glad of it tonight. There was a foreboding in the air that did not only come from Gounod’s brooding music. Another thing Shaya would never admit to Erik was that, of all the operas he had endured,Faustwas his favorite by far, though he was dubious of the effectiveness of the morality tale as it made Faust and Marguerite’s descents into sin so compelling.
Another matter Shaya was sure Erik would agree with him on was the terrible etiquette of the audience. As the massive chandelier blazed above like a second sun, the audience barely stopped chittering even as the action continued on stage, so much so that there was barely any difference between the climax of Act I and the brief interval. Things escalated when Carlotta finally made her appearance of course, with a vocal claque in one section applauding her single, overly-ornamented phrase of music.
Again Shaya was struck with the uncomfortable shame of agreeing with Erik in his opinion of the diva. He had learned to appreciate the music of Europe many years ago, in part thanks to Erik’s affection for it, and he knew enough now from years attending the Opera that Carlotta’s instrument was indeed commonplace. It cut through the audience’s chatter like a jagged knife, shrill and lacking any of the warmth and color of Christine’s sound.
Shaya glanced, as he had all night, towards box five on the grand tier, the only empty space in the house. Or it looked so to those who did not know it played host to a specter. He wondered if Erik was there now, in the shadows. Or was he somewhere else, plotting his promised disaster?
Act III began with Siébel’s sweet love song. It was a rare moment for Adèle Valerius to shine. The audience barely gave her attention though. After Faust and Méphistophélès left their devilish gifts for Marguerite next to Siébel’s pathetic flowers, the tension in the audience rose.
Finally, the supposed “maiden” herself stepped onto the stage. Carlotta’s mere appearance provoked applause from her claque, and the prima donna broke character to smile and nod in appreciation. Shaya rolled his eyes. The music was pensive and ominous as the diva made a circuit of the stage before taking her place at the spinning wheel. She began the recitative and Shaya held his breath with the rest of the audience. “I would truly like to know, who the young man was. Was he a grand lord and what was his name?”
Shaya breathed a sigh of relief as Carlotta sang and the whispers of the audience ebbed as the rhythmic march of the violins gained speed with Marguerite’s spinning wheel. What had he been expecting anyway? As the music grew more agitated, Carlotta began the Ballad of the King of Thule in earnest.
“There was a King of Thule,” she began, then suddenly that crystalline voice became something...else. “COU-AC!”
Shaya’s heart stopped in his chest. The entire audience went still. Carlotta’s face went pale beneath her rouge. The terrible noise she had produced had been more than a crack, more than an errant note. It was as if a toad or some other horrid creature had been set in place of her voice. The orchestra played on as Carlotta looked about her, then nodded in resolve. Shaya held his breath. Perhaps it had been a mistake.
“Kept in memory of his beautiful– COU-AC!” The audience gasped at the horrible sound, so foul that no one could ignore it. Carlotta clutched her throat, as if to expel the loathsome toad that had somehow lodged itself there. “A cup– COU-AC! –etched in– COOUUUAAACCCC!!”
The diva kept trying, standing up now and toppling her spinning wheel, giving all her effort to overcome the curse she was somehow under. But each attempt was more terrible than the last. Even the notes she could manage to sing rather than croak were strained and choked. Carlotta’s face reddened in horror and rage as the orchestra played on, though a few instruments trailed off as she flailed about on stage, croaking and coughing.
Shaya knew it was not a curse that had been set on Carlotta. He recognized Erik’s tricks; his expert ventriloquism that had driven men mad as the monster had played with them. That was what he was doing now, playing with Carlotta like a cat with a mouse it was about to devour.
And then, the final blow. From one of the premiere boxes came a snicker. Even from afar Shaya recognized the young man who was the source of the sound. The young Vicomte de Chagny was bursting with glee in his box near the stage. And his laugh was like a match to dry kindling. In mere seconds, the entire audience was howling as Carlotta continued to screech and croak on the stage.
“Stop! You must- COU-AC!” Carlotta rasped, and the orchestra screeched into silence. Shaya was the only one not laughing as he looked between Carlotta and the shadows in box five. “What is – COU-AC! Who – COU-AC!” Carlotta’s face was red, the tendons in her neck starkly visible as she attempted to yell only to be drowned out by laughter.
“She is singing to bring down the chandelier!” came the cry in a voice that cut through the din that. A voice Shaya would know anywhere.
Shaya’s eyes flew to the great mass of crystal and brass above the audience. No, dear Allah, no. Erik could not mean that threat! On stage, Carlotta gave a silent scream and rushed into the wings as the curtains fell.
And Shaya prayed. He prayed this revenge was enough for Erik. He prayed for the lives of the laughing patrons in the seats below. And he prayed that Christine Daaé was far away, or at least cowed and afraid of the disaster that had been unleashed on her behalf. If not, she was already damned.
