charleygirl | Fic | Phantom of the Opera | Beyond the Green Baize Door 30/?

Title: Beyond the Green Baize Door 30/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1930
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Carlotta Guidicelli, Ubaldo Piangi
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Don Juan Triumphant?

THE SHOW MUST GO ON

The Opera House was abuzz.

Erik could not recall experiencing such a feeling of anticipation for many a long year; no other production, whatever its title or however starry its cast, had drawn so much attention in such a short time. It was as though all Paris knew that the Phantom’s opera was to be performed, and was desperate to share in the thrill, to experience vicariously the horror of which they had read in the newspapers and heard from the lips of gossips. Word had travelled fast after the masquerade; the queue for returned tickets stretched around the block, and there was not a seat to be had.

Well, he mused, that was not strictly true. There was one seat free, but he doubted even the most curious patron would wish to take it. Box Five stood empty, conspicuously so. Erik had been forced to abandon it, to forgo its superior view for the crowning moment of his musical career; he understood and reluctantly bowed to Christine’s pleas that he should keep himself out of harm’s way, but that did not stop him gnashing his teeth in anger at the fool who had pushed him from his rightful place. Thanks to the vicomte, everyone knew that Box Five was the haunt of the Phantom; laughably, he had even commanded that a spotlight be focussed upon the red velvet chair within, as though Erik would be stupid enough to display himself to the assembled throng, giving them the perfect opportunity to point and stare!

The thought of so many eyes upon him made him shudder, memories of the gypsy carnival bubbling up uninvited. Bars seemed to close in on him from the darkness and he forced the images away, crushing them to powder in his mind’s eye. All that was many years past now, and he was too wise, too experienced, to allow such a thing to happen again. He had been weak and off-guard, the illness which dogged his steps for months following his return from the Orient making him slow to react and giving the group of men drinking in the corner of the dingy tavern a chance to take him by surprise. His heart still clenched in panic as he recalled awakening from a drug-induced sleep to find himself maskless, lying in the dirty straw like an animal. There was no way in the world that he would let de Chagny and his ilk humiliate him as those travelling entertainers had done. He would show them that he was in control here.

A sudden noise from above startled Erik from his reverie. There was the heavy clump of footsteps followed by the squeal of chairs being dragged across the floor before the assorted familiar sounds of the orchestra tuning up filtered through the gaps into the black pit beneath the stage in which he had been sitting all afternoon. No one ever ventured down there, into a dusty, claustrophobic hole which was not even used for storage; it was the perfect place for a Phantom to hide. He imagined the bustle backstage, could see clearly the ballerinas rushing to and fro, the stagehands swarming into the flies, calling to one another and making rude jokes as they settled themselves; amongst the chaos, Christine would be in her dressing room, putting on the exquisite costume Madame Michon had created to Erik’s own designs. Was she nervous? Would her interfering fiancé allow her time to herself before the performance, or did he insist upon staying with her until the very last moment? Erik wished he could see her, just briefly, to wish her luck and tell her how beautiful she looked, but she had made him promise to stay well out of the way and he had been forced to agree.

Down here, he could only supplement the taunting sounds with pictures from his own memory. Antoinette would be giving her dancers their last instructions; Piangi no doubt would still be in his room, warming up and taking a nip of something for Dutch courage; Carlotta, despite her lowly position in the chorus, must surely make everyone wait for her as she had always done. The tension in the air would be palpable, especially with so much riding on this performance for the management. Erik had always enjoyed the first night atmosphere, had felt rejuvenated by the electricity in the air. He could experience nothing here in the dark, listening for the aural scraps thrown his way. It was his opera, damn it! Any other composer would be feted, invited to the managers’ box to watch the fruits of his labour unfold in comfort; they would not be mouldering beneath the stage with musty old curtains and cobwebs the size of battleships.

The orchestra had stopped their tuning; the rumble of conversation in the auditorium died gradually away into an expectant hush. A few feet above his head, the conductor would be lifting his baton. The first note was about to rise into the air, to announce the beginning of the overture. Erik stood for a moment, indecisive, and then turned abruptly on his heel, striding towards the ladder which led to the very back of the stage. He was not going to miss the show, no matter what the danger.

________________________________________

The first two acts passed without incident.

Erik had not allowed the unusual activity about the theatre for most of the day to pass unnoticed; he knew exactly where de Chagny’s men were stationed, precisely how many were guarding each door and lining the aisles and staircases. They had even drafted in a brace of firemen, though quite what use they might be he couldn’t fathom. Surely they didn’t think he would try the trick with the chandelier twice? It wounded his pride to be credited with so little imagination.

Clambering out of the trapdoor behind a pile of discarded scenery, he wrapped himself in his cloak and retreated deep into the shadows. From there he could see only the rear of the stage, but his view of the wings was unrivalled and though his position lacked the acoustics of the auditorium itself he could hear well enough if he ignored the rhythmic thump of the dancers’ feet upon the boards.

Act Two ended with Don Juan discussing with his servant Passarino his plan to seduce the lovely Aminta. After the interval would come the sensuous duet Erik had composed while his desperation and desire for Christine was running at full tilt. During their lessons over the past two weeks, he had not dared to rehearse it with her for fear that feelings would be running far too high for him to keep control. He turned it over constantly in his mind, recoiling in disgust from the thought of Christine singing those words to the tubby, sweating Piangi, a man who, however kindly, often had trouble keeping his hands to himself. Now such a blasphemy would take place in front of him, mere feet from where he stood, and he steeled himself against the approaching torture.

A bell rang backstage, warning the cast that there were just five minutes until the curtain rose once more. Christine would enter from stage right, so Erik could not even see her for a moment; he cursed himself for not paying more attention to the direction in which he was walking when he emerged from the trapdoor. Behind him the portly form of Piangi appeared from his dressing room, followed by the mousy little girl who took care of his costumes, to take up his place for the beginning of Act Three. The little dresser was helping him on with the voluminous cloak which was Don Juan’s elaborate disguise; as she adjusted the folds a voice called sharply from further down the passage,

“Ubaldo!”

Erik couldn’t help turning to see Carlotta standing there. The diva should have been preparing to return to the stage with the rest of the chorus, but instead of her costume and mantilla she wore her day clothes, a small case held tightly in one hand and her bad-tempered pug tucked under one arm. To his credit, Piangi looked as surprised as Erik felt. He gestured to dismiss the dresser, who scuttled away to assist someone else, and hurried to Carlotta’s side.

“Cara? What is-a the matter? Are you ill?”

“No. I am-a leaving,” she declared. “I go back to Milan; no more-a will I be humiliated an-a pushed aside by skinny little trollops ‘oo think-a they can-a sing. These people are savages – they do not-a know talent when they ‘ear it!”

“But Cara, the performance – you cannot-a leave now!” Piangi protested, his chubby face creased in confusion. “Afterwards, then-a we will talk it over, decide what is-a best to do - ”

“It is-a too late for that! I can-a go an’ go I will. No more Carlotta to be ‘umiliated by ghosts and Phantoms – this place is-a mad! They should all-a be locked up!” Carlotta hefted her bag and turned towards the stage door. “Are-a you coming?”

“Carlotta, I am-a the leading man! I cannot-a just walk out!” exclaimed the befuddled tenor. “What-a will ‘appen to the show?”

“’Oo cares what ‘appens?” Carlotta retorted. “I am-a done with them all. Let-a the Phantom ‘ave ‘em!”

Piangi hesitated, obviously torn. After a few tense moments, his head moving between the stage and his beloved like that of a spectator at a tennis match, he tore off the cloak and threw it to the floor, hurrying after the departing Carlotta still dressed in the Don’s doublet and hose.

Erik could hear their arguing voices becoming fainter and fainter as they made their way down the corridor. He wanted to be elated that he was finally rid of the dreadful Guidicelli woman, but there were more important concerns monopolising his attention. As he slowly emerged from the shadows the entre act died away and he could see the curtain rising, Christine’s clear soprano drifting towards him as she walked innocently into Don Juan’s trap. She was a vision in vivid salmon pink silk, bracelets on her slender wrists and Spanish combs in her luxuriant curls; her voice cut him to the core, more perfect than ever thanks to their intensive rehearsals.

Piangi’s cue came and went; across the stage Reyer was gesturing impatiently to the darkness of the wings where Erik stood. He knew that the brilliant lights meant the musical director could not see him, but if nothing happened soon Reyer would make his discreet way across in search of the missing tenor. The baritone playing Passarino looked confused, awaiting the response which would herald that duet and Aminta’s seduction.

Erik looked down at his feet. There lay Piangi’s discarded cloak, a cloak with a hood so vast it would disguise any man completely. He glanced down the corridor once more, but the two Italians were long gone. Without Don Juan, there was no opera, and no opera meant that he had failed. The Phantom would no longer be a threat, a force to be reckoned with; he would be a laughing stock.

Almost without thinking, he snatched up the cloak, shedding his own along with his hat and draping the folds of material around his shoulders. Arranging the hood with practised fingers so that it cast the right side of his face into shadow, he stood straight as Reyer repeated the Don’s cue, and stepped onto the stage.

The show would go on, if it was the last thing he ever did.