Masque (7 page)

You might well ask if it was only a sense of fellow-spirit that drew me to her, not that there is ever any ‘only' when it comes to human sympathy. Let me assure you, sincerely: it was innocent, at first. I would have worked so hard for her if she had been born ugly. Unfortunately, she was not.

RAOUL

4.

When I returned to Christine's dressing room, arriving to the minute at the time I appointed, she didn't reply to my knock. When I tried the door I found it unlocked, my target vanished. Without her slight form filling the room with her numinous light, it was a shabby space, garbed in theatre baubles. The costumes that looked so rich and fine from the stage were revealed on the hanger to be cheap reworkings of scavenged finery, of the fast-fastening, loosely hooked sort that a street-walking prostitute would purchase in the hopes of raising their prospects by seducing a gentleman high in standing and poor of eyesight.

I knew, logically, that these garments, this German shepherdess costume for example, were intended to allow for a swift change in the aisles, but I still felt rather taken in by her, used. I told myself that my love, though new, was pure and that Christine was cast from higher quality – not just brass overlaid with gold, unlike those tacky hand-shaped candlesticks she'd left lit before her mirror.

Well, if she could not manage our assignation, perhaps she had a good reason. I knew that I had no right to go poking through her things, her personal belongings, but I considered that her desk was considerably cluttered with paperwork and those cheap tallow candles were guttering rather low. I should extinguish them for her, stopping a house-fire was the least I could do. Besides, she might have left me a note.

I moved into the room, imagining an oddly wordless love-note (the letters scrawled across the delicate paper my mind created were meaningless, but the hand was girlish, looping, and their intent was clear) intending to snuff the flames quickly between my forefinger and thumb, after a quick look for the letter I hoped and suspected was there.

The desk was covered in cosmetics, glass perfume bottles, a tortoiseshell box of lavender powder, rouge for lips and cheeks, kohl to enhance her onyx eyes and make them visible from stage. All of this was delightfully feminine, perfect for the girl of my dreams, and it all smelled wonderful. There were also a few rolled scripts for upcoming productions.
Faust. Romeo and Juliet
. The new production, that raucous, enchanting
Carmen
that débuted tonight. As for that last, I had no idea what the critics would say about it, nor did I particularly care. I was certain that they would not dare to criticise Christine. She was absolutely perfect.

I shifted them aside, forcing the scripts behind an ugly wind-up monkey doll that her father must have given her, and there were her letters, underneath, where any fool could find them. I sat down in her chair, a delicate Queen Anne with thin ebony arms, and began reading the envelopes.

There was nothing for me.

Most of the letters were addressed to her, and written in various female hands. Some were educated, others not; they all had one thing in common, that feminine slant which betrays that gender's inherent weakness of mind – a trait the stronger gender has generously decided to find a charming focus for our love.

One letter was different. The envelope was blank, but the seal was arresting. It was some sort of stringed instrument, a harp or lyre impressed in black wax; appropriate I thought, for the daughter of a famous violinist. Perhaps it was an old message from her father, a memento she had kept close, like the ugly monkey, for sentimental reasons.

I only opened it because I thought that it would draw us closer. I wanted to know what the father was like, to better know the spirit of the girl. I never dreamed the trouble it would cause us.

It began:

Dearest Christine,

You will never know the joy I feel, hearing you sing so beautifully, knowing that you have agreed to use your voice, your tremendous talent to serve my purposes. It stirs me to know that I have the pleasure of nurturing your intellect, your vast musical skills, so that with love and training your genius will grow…

I crumpled the letter in my fist, shaken by a sudden bout of rage. The blood pounded in my temples, throbbed against my skull so hard that it felt as though my eyes would burst inside their sockets. I had to bite my tongue to stifle my screams.

Answering to an impulse that I cannot explain, I tore my nails from my palms and looked up into the mirror. I saw there a version of my usual face: the same soft skin, the same wide blue eyes that I saw this morning. My features were as regular and pleasing as ever, if a bit pale. My eyes were a bit red about the rims, my new blond moustache could use a small trim – these were the only visible flaws. I said to myself, ‘Whoever he is, he cannot match me. I will win her yet. With my charm, with my love. Wait, Raoul. Wait and see.'

I was almost ready, almost cleansed enough to read the rest of the letter (I had smoothed the admirably expensive paper against my left knee) when I heard a gentle knocking on the frame of the door, followed by a small, high gasp that sounded as though it had come from the throat of a child. I turned in the chair, half rising, and saw a young girl I thought I recognised, one of the dancers, still dressed for the stage.

She was a thin, dark thing with a face that would have been beautiful if the cheeks had not been so sunken, giving her a look that was both young and old, half maiden, half crone. She asked, ‘Who are you? What are you doing here? This is Christine's room.'

Her voice was very rough and she had a lisp that was quite understandable to me once I saw that her tongue had nothing to strike against, finishing her letters. In her mouth ‘Christine' elongated to ‘Chrisseen'.

My mind, an untrained animal, flashed on filthy alleyways, the pleasures found in foul places, to the soft pressure of a silk-lined hole. I responded, ‘I'm a friend of hers. I've known her for years.' I fully rose, placed the letters, carefully, back on the table. ‘The lady who orders the boxes told me that I would find a letter for me here. I came only to collect it. Unfortunately, she was wrong.' I spread my empty hands. ‘As you can see, there is none.'

Her forehead furrowed. In a gesture that was utterly laughable she spread her legs to fill the door, crossing her thin arms across the place where, if she was lucky, breasts would eventually grow. ‘My mother said that?' She shook her head, her hair (light, so light against that skin) went flying. ‘No, no Monsieur. She would never do such a thing. If there was a letter, she would have given it to you herself. You must be mistaken. I must ask you to leave.'

I smirked at her, a grimace that I attempted and failed to transform to warm smile. ‘If I am to leave, you will have to let me pass you.'

She started a bit at that, but drew back, into the room, so that I had to almost touch the filthy fringe of her skirt as I slid through the door. I tried to pass her a five-franc note, ‘For honest silence'. She would not take it. It fell from my hand to the floor.

Ah well, I thought, it will not harm her to save her pride while I am here. She will pick it up later. My secret is secure.

Somewhere in the empty theatre a clock bonged the hour. I was twenty minutes late to meet my brother. Tonight I would eat well, converse with my elders, and plan my tomorrows. If there was a rival for her love, I would defeat him. The challenge would add sweetness to the conquest. I felt my cup to be supremely full.

I hurried out into the night, joining the party as they entered their carriage. Behind me, in an empty room, candles blazed before the mirror. Wax melted until the flames guttered. The room was in darkness.

5.

My brother and I rode to the restaurant with the managers, Andre and Firmin. My brother's managers were surprisingly boisterous for such unassuming men, pouring cognac for their fat, nearly identical wives (one was in blue, the other acid green, but their hair and faces were as similar as their husbands' and I couldn't tell to whom they belonged). My sullen silence went largely unnoticed amidst all the joy at Christine's luminous success as the tempestuous Spanish Gypsy.

The dancer that they called La Sorelli was already well on her way to drunkenness by the time I entered the cab. Her sleeves had fallen halfway down her fair, round arms and her hair was wild, as though the crows had been at it for nesting material. My brother did not seem to notice. He was far too busy staring down her gaping blouse. Not that she minded, she was hanging from his arm in a way that I found quite shocking.

Looking at them, the middle-aged man, the whorish dancer, I was filled with disgust. They called that love? It was nothing like what I had for Christine. That was pure, true, as perfect as she was. Nothing this gross assemblage had could compare with it. I must endure this evening, then turn my resources to winning her.

We had reserved the finest seats in Le Chat Noir, a long oak table inlaid with ivory and laid with exquisite linen, and we arrived at a little after eleven. We were still supping at midnight, Monsieur Firmin had broken free a splinter of lamb bone and was using it to pick his teeth clean while one of the women spooned cream and vivid red liqueur into her mouth from her dish of mixed fruits. She had spilled the syrup across the silk ruching that crossed her broad bust like the scales of a serpent.

I had eaten next to nothing, having no appetite. My confidence was an oscillating thing, as it often is for the young.

I endured three long hours of mandatory celebration, time I spent drinking far too much absinth without any sugar to ameliorate the bitterness, and speaking to no one if I could avoid it. By the time we returned to my brother's house I was tired and irritable, more than ready to retire. We said goodnight to each other almost as soon as we entered the door. I had heard him order his driver to deliver his woman back to her rooms, but I suspected that was a ruse. As soon as I was safely out of ear-shot, I knew that the carriage would cycle round again and regurgitate the whore into my brother's waiting arms.

I gritted my teeth, hard, at the thought of it.

In my well-appointed room, surrounded by the rich finery of leather and brass, I slept badly. I tossed and turned on my pillow, assaulted by nightmares, by visions of her, my goddess. Mine at last. In dreams I embraced her: as I had desired since childhood, I held her close and kissed her mouth only to find, as my tongue tasted the nectar of her lips, that she rotted like fruit in my arms. I saw her beautiful face pucker like a spoiled apple, her eyes liquefy and sink back into her skull, so that she became the very bride of living death, smiling at me, approaching (with bared white teeth) my fragile human neck.

I woke to daylight, yellow butter melting through the curtains. There was the smell of sweet bread, buttered rolls, fresh, hot coffee. The maid approached my covered body, bearing a tray and a note written on a single sheet of linen paper, folded once.

It was unsealed, marked only with my name in a firm calligraphic hand that was educated, almost masculine. I opened it, my heart fluttering as I sipped my scalding coffee.

Dear Raoul,

Of course I remember the boy who brought me back my favourite scarf. If I was rude to you last night, it is only because you appeared so unexpectedly. I would be glad to renew our acquaintanceship, but as you know, I am an artist. I would like, one day, to be a great diva. Since that is the case, and since my work must be focused on attaining my goal, everything else (even friendship) must come second.

If this is amenable to you, I would be happy to see you for tea sometime next week. You may call at the home of Countess Marie De Vinci any afternoon save for Sunday. She will be happy to welcome you. You knew my father well, I believe. It would be good to speak with someone who shared that experience.

Do not expect to speak with me over the next several days. I will be travelling to Brittany to pay my respects at the grave of my father, after which I will return to the O.H. to reprise my Carmen. Thank you for your compliments on my performance. It is a difficult and fulfilling role. I have much work to do to perfect it.

Your Sincere Friend,

Christine Daaé

You will never know what joy I felt when I read those words. She was glad to see me! She wanted to renew our ‘acquaintanceship', she remembered me with joy!

The terrors of the night were blown away in an instant. I sat up in bed with a whoop of mad joy, tore my nightdress free, tearing the buttons and forgetting the presence of the uniformed maid (who gasped in her shock). I dressed in a hurry. Suddenly, I knew exactly what I must do. Christine was my own, and soon I would be with her.

I had a train timetable in the top drawer of my desk, I glanced at it, laughing. A train to Brittany departed in two hours. I would make it if I hurried.

6.

After my rushed breakfast, I hurried through a palaver with Philippe as I half-explained my destination. He kept me with him longer than was either comfortable or strictly necessary, out of some misplaced sense of brotherly camaraderie.

‘An assignation with a lady! Of course you cannot keep her waiting, lad.' He smiled warmly up at me, comfortable in bed. A small white hand emerged from a lump in the thick coverlet, stroked his greying stubble. He batted the birdlike fingers back out of sight, as though I had not noticed.