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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 16/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2082
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Meet the new boss; same as the old boss?
MEET THE NEW BOSS
Entering the Opera House, noisy and bustling where it had been so still and silent just a few days before, felt like coming home to Christine. Accustomed to performing from an early age, accompanying her father on his provincial tours and singing at the impromptu, intimate shows that he would sometimes play at taverns and assembly rooms, she had not realised how much she missed it until now. Had she married Raoul and given up the theatrical life she knew that she would not have lasted six months before begging to return to the stage.
The entire building was infused with a feeling of anticipation; as soon as she stepped through the door she could feel a kind of buzz in the air. It was more than the familiar first night nerves, or the usual tension before a performance; whispers and gossip flew around the auditorium and the backstage areas, gaggles of stagehands and ballerinas huddled in corridors or dressing rooms, muttering behind their hands. Everyone’s attention was on the two men who sat in the stalls, watching the activity on the stage with Madame Giry on one side of them and Monsieur Reyer or the other, discussing the performers in low tones before expressing their approval with a single nod. Everyone in the building seemed to know that, though they were still nominally employed by the Opera Populaire, their jobs were not secure.
As befitted their positions of authority over the ballet and the chorus respectively, Madame and Monsieur Reyer had been called in two days ago for a meeting with the new managers. Meg attempted to pump her mother for information but had received little for her pains; Madame merely said that they would have to do their very best for Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine wanted only the most competent performers on their stage. No one’s position within the company was assured. When Christine questioned Erik he told her much the same thing, the merest hint of approval in his tone, and she gathered that there would be no more La Carlottas, singers well past their prime allowed to cling onto the limelight because they commanded too much influence. He had put her through her paces in a succession of gruelling lessons to ensure that she was at the peak of her powers; though he promised not to interfere and make the newcomers suspicious, he made absolutely sure that they would have no reason to find fault with her voice.
There were butterflies in her stomach as she took her place beside the piano which had been moved onto the stage; she glanced up at Box Five, and though she could see nothing she knew that Erik was there in the shadows. She would always be able to feel the presence of her Angel of Music, no matter where he might be. Monsieur Edgar shuffled his music and settled, hands poised above the keyboard, waiting for her agreement to start the two bar introduction. Taking a deep breath, she nodded and her audition began.
She and Erik had agreed upon Sempre Libera, Violetta’s aria from the first act of La Traviata. It was a piece they both loved, and one upon which Christine worked hard in the days leading up to her return to the Populaire. Remembering the thrill and elation of feeling the notes pour forth from her throat, rising and swelling in the magnificent auditorium and lifting her with them on that first night when she sang Elissa in Hannibal, she allowed herself to become lost in the music, to become one with it, to imbue it with her very heart and soul. She was dimly aware of Meg and some of the other ballet rats watching from the wings, of the eyes, jealous and otherwise, of the members of the chorus as they stood behind her, downstage, awaiting their turn, but she barely registered them; there was only Christine and Verdi at that moment, no one else mattered, no one else existed.
Free and aimless I frolic
From joy to joy,
Flowing along the surface
of life's path as I please.
As the day is born,
Or as the day dies,
Happily I turn to the new delights
That make my spirit soar.
The cadenza rose and fell as she trilled and skipped, demonstrating her range to those all-important listeners out there in the darkness. In a final flourish Christine held the last note for three beats, four beats, five, six, seven... the room fell silent and one could have heard a pin drop. There was a pause, and she blinked, trying to see beyond the footlights and gauge a reaction. The silence stretched on, the seconds ticked by, and she felt the butterflies returning. Casting a worried look towards Box Five, seeking reassurance, she almost jumped when applause broke out, loud and echoing in the cavernous space. It started in the stalls, but quickly spread to the wings and beyond. Allowing the smile that was inexorably tugging at her lips to blossom, Christine dropped a curtsy; as she did, a familiar voice whispered in her ear, “Brava, Christine, Brava...”
________________________________________
“Your audition was perfect, Mademoiselle Daae, absolutely perfect. Wouldn’t you agree, Marigny?” Monsieur Fontaine glanced at his partner, who nodded, fixing Christine with a sharp gaze that she almost felt could see through her. She folded her hands demurely in her lap and waited to hear the reason for her summons to the managers’ office.
“Oh, quite, quite outstanding. We are very keen to engage your services once again, Mademoiselle,” Marigny said. He leaned forwards across the desk, hands clasped on the blotter. “However, to be quite frank we do have one or two... reservations.”
“Tiny, tiny reservations,” Fontaine added, throwing Christine a reassuring smile. “Mere trifles.”
Marigny looked slightly irritated by his colleague’s interruption. He harrumphed and returned to his point. “There is the question of your reliability. We have heard rumours – and I am sure that they are nothing more than gossip but we are bound to ask – of sudden disappearances, failure to attend rehearsals and suchlike. I am sure you understand.”
Christine wondered whether Erik was listening. She could almost feel danger in the air; it seemed to quiver, like the string of a violin that had just been plucked. Having already guessed that the subject would be raised, she was prepared and said, “I was thrust quite abruptly into the limelight when Carlotta walked out; you must understand how overwhelming that was for me, a mere ballerina suddenly the leading lady. I never expected such a thing to happen.”
“Of course, of course,” Fontaine said, before Marigny could open his mouth. “It is only natural. However, there is another matter...” He trailed off, and his partner took over.
“My colleague is speaking of the ‘Phantom’, Mademoiselle Daae. It would seem that, apart from Madame Giry who assures us that there is no truth in it, you are the one member of the company most affected by this business. Have we your assurance that nothing of the kind will happen again?” Marigny asked, frowning. The skin on his bald pate wrinkled as his brow furrowed like a newly-ploughed field. “We are making a considerable investment in the Populaire and would not be pleased to see our capital wasted.”
“I am afraid that I have little influence in that direction, Messieurs,” Christine told them, certain now that Erik was somewhere behind the wall, watching through one of his carefully concealed spy-holes. “Theatrical folk are naturally superstitious and I cannot change that. However, I do believe that the Opera Ghost no longer haunts this building.”
The new managers exchanged a glance.
“Are you certain of that?” Fontaine asked.
“Well, have either of you received any black-edged notes since you arrived?”
“No...” Marigny said slowly.
“Have you encountered any kind of interference since you walked through the door? No disembodied voices, no unearthly singing? No props or set pieces inexplicably moved?” Christine enquired. “Those are the kind of tricks the Phantom was said to play upon those he disliked, though I did not experience such phenomena myself.”
“Nothing at all.” Fontaine visibly relaxed.
“You must understand that we do not believe in this ‘Phantom’ ourselves,” Marigny added quickly. “But there are such tales... we cannot take over the theatre without looking into these little... occurrences.”
“Of course not, Monsieur,” Christine said, doing her best to mask the relief which almost made her sag in her chair. Erik’s schooling over the last few days, his insistence that she have a story ready should she be questioned, had paid off. “Emotions were running very high last season; I believe the whole business to have been nothing more than superstition and practical jokes, pushed too far, and am sorry that I was caught up in it through no fault of my own.”
There was a long silence, during which Fontaine chewed upon his luxuriant moustache while Marigny scribbled furiously in a pocket book. Tension returned, and for some minutes Christine wondered whether she should take that position as a music teacher after all, until at last both managers turned back to her and smiled.
“I think that it is time we put you out of your misery, Mademoiselle Daae,” Fontaine said. “We would be delighted if you would consent to returning to the Opera Populaire.”
“But not to the corps de ballet, or, I am afraid, as permanent leading lady,” his partner put in. “In view of your youth and relative inexperience in such a role, we will still be engaging the talents of a Prima Donna as we feel that a well-known soprano of some stature is needed to head the company.”
“However, we do not wish to push you into the back row of the chorus,” Fontaine reassured her swiftly, just as Christine was certain she heard an angry growl run round the walls of the office. “Finding a replacement for La Carlotta will take time, and we do not desire a great delay in the reopening of the theatre. It is our intention to begin the new season with a production of Rigoletto, and we would very much like you to take the part of the beautiful Gilda.”
“It will give you the opportunity to gain more experience, but you will not be under quite so much pressure,” added Marigny, his kindly tone much to her surprise for she had put him down as by far the less-approachable of the two. “We have no intention of wasting you, Mademoiselle, far from it.”
Once again relief flooded through Christine, and the merest breath touched her left ear, murmuring, “It will do... for now...”
“There will, naturally, be an increase in salary to match your new status,” Fontaine told her cheerfully. “We cannot have you subsisting upon a ballerina’s wage, now, can we?”
“Once the new Prima Donna is in place, we will require you to understudy her roles in addition to those you may be playing in the same production,” said Marigny, and she nodded, for such an arrangement was quite normal. Erik usually made sure that she knew the entire score of whichever piece was currently in performance inside out, claiming that it was impossible to understand the whole if one only learned a single part.
“Such exclusion creates the Signora Giudicellis of this world,” he said once, during a discussion of the many roles within the Opera, “It means that their performance is entirely divorced from the rest of the company. There is no interaction, no believable relationship; no sense of a coherent story being woven between the characters. There is no passion, only detachment; for all the audience knew last year, Romeo and Juliet could have met that morning at the market! One might as well turn up, declaim a few lines and leave again for all the effect it has. The logical conclusion to such an approach would be to have each member of the cast appear on stage in isolation... it would be a novel idea, but not one, I think, that would go down well with an audience.”
“Mademoiselle?”
Christine jumped, and realised that the managers were looking at her curiously. “Mademoiselle?” Fontaine asked tentatively. “What do you say?”
“Christine...” sang that little voice in her head. “Christine...”
“Thank you, Messieurs,” she said, forcibly returning herself to the present. She smiled, knowing that her Angel approved. “I would be delighted to accept your offer. When do we begin?”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2082
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Meet the new boss; same as the old boss?
MEET THE NEW BOSS
Entering the Opera House, noisy and bustling where it had been so still and silent just a few days before, felt like coming home to Christine. Accustomed to performing from an early age, accompanying her father on his provincial tours and singing at the impromptu, intimate shows that he would sometimes play at taverns and assembly rooms, she had not realised how much she missed it until now. Had she married Raoul and given up the theatrical life she knew that she would not have lasted six months before begging to return to the stage.
The entire building was infused with a feeling of anticipation; as soon as she stepped through the door she could feel a kind of buzz in the air. It was more than the familiar first night nerves, or the usual tension before a performance; whispers and gossip flew around the auditorium and the backstage areas, gaggles of stagehands and ballerinas huddled in corridors or dressing rooms, muttering behind their hands. Everyone’s attention was on the two men who sat in the stalls, watching the activity on the stage with Madame Giry on one side of them and Monsieur Reyer or the other, discussing the performers in low tones before expressing their approval with a single nod. Everyone in the building seemed to know that, though they were still nominally employed by the Opera Populaire, their jobs were not secure.
As befitted their positions of authority over the ballet and the chorus respectively, Madame and Monsieur Reyer had been called in two days ago for a meeting with the new managers. Meg attempted to pump her mother for information but had received little for her pains; Madame merely said that they would have to do their very best for Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine wanted only the most competent performers on their stage. No one’s position within the company was assured. When Christine questioned Erik he told her much the same thing, the merest hint of approval in his tone, and she gathered that there would be no more La Carlottas, singers well past their prime allowed to cling onto the limelight because they commanded too much influence. He had put her through her paces in a succession of gruelling lessons to ensure that she was at the peak of her powers; though he promised not to interfere and make the newcomers suspicious, he made absolutely sure that they would have no reason to find fault with her voice.
There were butterflies in her stomach as she took her place beside the piano which had been moved onto the stage; she glanced up at Box Five, and though she could see nothing she knew that Erik was there in the shadows. She would always be able to feel the presence of her Angel of Music, no matter where he might be. Monsieur Edgar shuffled his music and settled, hands poised above the keyboard, waiting for her agreement to start the two bar introduction. Taking a deep breath, she nodded and her audition began.
She and Erik had agreed upon Sempre Libera, Violetta’s aria from the first act of La Traviata. It was a piece they both loved, and one upon which Christine worked hard in the days leading up to her return to the Populaire. Remembering the thrill and elation of feeling the notes pour forth from her throat, rising and swelling in the magnificent auditorium and lifting her with them on that first night when she sang Elissa in Hannibal, she allowed herself to become lost in the music, to become one with it, to imbue it with her very heart and soul. She was dimly aware of Meg and some of the other ballet rats watching from the wings, of the eyes, jealous and otherwise, of the members of the chorus as they stood behind her, downstage, awaiting their turn, but she barely registered them; there was only Christine and Verdi at that moment, no one else mattered, no one else existed.
From joy to joy,
Flowing along the surface
of life's path as I please.
As the day is born,
Or as the day dies,
Happily I turn to the new delights
That make my spirit soar.
The cadenza rose and fell as she trilled and skipped, demonstrating her range to those all-important listeners out there in the darkness. In a final flourish Christine held the last note for three beats, four beats, five, six, seven... the room fell silent and one could have heard a pin drop. There was a pause, and she blinked, trying to see beyond the footlights and gauge a reaction. The silence stretched on, the seconds ticked by, and she felt the butterflies returning. Casting a worried look towards Box Five, seeking reassurance, she almost jumped when applause broke out, loud and echoing in the cavernous space. It started in the stalls, but quickly spread to the wings and beyond. Allowing the smile that was inexorably tugging at her lips to blossom, Christine dropped a curtsy; as she did, a familiar voice whispered in her ear, “Brava, Christine, Brava...”
________________________________________
“Your audition was perfect, Mademoiselle Daae, absolutely perfect. Wouldn’t you agree, Marigny?” Monsieur Fontaine glanced at his partner, who nodded, fixing Christine with a sharp gaze that she almost felt could see through her. She folded her hands demurely in her lap and waited to hear the reason for her summons to the managers’ office.
“Oh, quite, quite outstanding. We are very keen to engage your services once again, Mademoiselle,” Marigny said. He leaned forwards across the desk, hands clasped on the blotter. “However, to be quite frank we do have one or two... reservations.”
“Tiny, tiny reservations,” Fontaine added, throwing Christine a reassuring smile. “Mere trifles.”
Marigny looked slightly irritated by his colleague’s interruption. He harrumphed and returned to his point. “There is the question of your reliability. We have heard rumours – and I am sure that they are nothing more than gossip but we are bound to ask – of sudden disappearances, failure to attend rehearsals and suchlike. I am sure you understand.”
Christine wondered whether Erik was listening. She could almost feel danger in the air; it seemed to quiver, like the string of a violin that had just been plucked. Having already guessed that the subject would be raised, she was prepared and said, “I was thrust quite abruptly into the limelight when Carlotta walked out; you must understand how overwhelming that was for me, a mere ballerina suddenly the leading lady. I never expected such a thing to happen.”
“Of course, of course,” Fontaine said, before Marigny could open his mouth. “It is only natural. However, there is another matter...” He trailed off, and his partner took over.
“My colleague is speaking of the ‘Phantom’, Mademoiselle Daae. It would seem that, apart from Madame Giry who assures us that there is no truth in it, you are the one member of the company most affected by this business. Have we your assurance that nothing of the kind will happen again?” Marigny asked, frowning. The skin on his bald pate wrinkled as his brow furrowed like a newly-ploughed field. “We are making a considerable investment in the Populaire and would not be pleased to see our capital wasted.”
“I am afraid that I have little influence in that direction, Messieurs,” Christine told them, certain now that Erik was somewhere behind the wall, watching through one of his carefully concealed spy-holes. “Theatrical folk are naturally superstitious and I cannot change that. However, I do believe that the Opera Ghost no longer haunts this building.”
The new managers exchanged a glance.
“Are you certain of that?” Fontaine asked.
“Well, have either of you received any black-edged notes since you arrived?”
“No...” Marigny said slowly.
“Have you encountered any kind of interference since you walked through the door? No disembodied voices, no unearthly singing? No props or set pieces inexplicably moved?” Christine enquired. “Those are the kind of tricks the Phantom was said to play upon those he disliked, though I did not experience such phenomena myself.”
“Nothing at all.” Fontaine visibly relaxed.
“You must understand that we do not believe in this ‘Phantom’ ourselves,” Marigny added quickly. “But there are such tales... we cannot take over the theatre without looking into these little... occurrences.”
“Of course not, Monsieur,” Christine said, doing her best to mask the relief which almost made her sag in her chair. Erik’s schooling over the last few days, his insistence that she have a story ready should she be questioned, had paid off. “Emotions were running very high last season; I believe the whole business to have been nothing more than superstition and practical jokes, pushed too far, and am sorry that I was caught up in it through no fault of my own.”
There was a long silence, during which Fontaine chewed upon his luxuriant moustache while Marigny scribbled furiously in a pocket book. Tension returned, and for some minutes Christine wondered whether she should take that position as a music teacher after all, until at last both managers turned back to her and smiled.
“I think that it is time we put you out of your misery, Mademoiselle Daae,” Fontaine said. “We would be delighted if you would consent to returning to the Opera Populaire.”
“But not to the corps de ballet, or, I am afraid, as permanent leading lady,” his partner put in. “In view of your youth and relative inexperience in such a role, we will still be engaging the talents of a Prima Donna as we feel that a well-known soprano of some stature is needed to head the company.”
“However, we do not wish to push you into the back row of the chorus,” Fontaine reassured her swiftly, just as Christine was certain she heard an angry growl run round the walls of the office. “Finding a replacement for La Carlotta will take time, and we do not desire a great delay in the reopening of the theatre. It is our intention to begin the new season with a production of Rigoletto, and we would very much like you to take the part of the beautiful Gilda.”
“It will give you the opportunity to gain more experience, but you will not be under quite so much pressure,” added Marigny, his kindly tone much to her surprise for she had put him down as by far the less-approachable of the two. “We have no intention of wasting you, Mademoiselle, far from it.”
Once again relief flooded through Christine, and the merest breath touched her left ear, murmuring, “It will do... for now...”
“There will, naturally, be an increase in salary to match your new status,” Fontaine told her cheerfully. “We cannot have you subsisting upon a ballerina’s wage, now, can we?”
“Once the new Prima Donna is in place, we will require you to understudy her roles in addition to those you may be playing in the same production,” said Marigny, and she nodded, for such an arrangement was quite normal. Erik usually made sure that she knew the entire score of whichever piece was currently in performance inside out, claiming that it was impossible to understand the whole if one only learned a single part.
“Such exclusion creates the Signora Giudicellis of this world,” he said once, during a discussion of the many roles within the Opera, “It means that their performance is entirely divorced from the rest of the company. There is no interaction, no believable relationship; no sense of a coherent story being woven between the characters. There is no passion, only detachment; for all the audience knew last year, Romeo and Juliet could have met that morning at the market! One might as well turn up, declaim a few lines and leave again for all the effect it has. The logical conclusion to such an approach would be to have each member of the cast appear on stage in isolation... it would be a novel idea, but not one, I think, that would go down well with an audience.”
“Mademoiselle?”
Christine jumped, and realised that the managers were looking at her curiously. “Mademoiselle?” Fontaine asked tentatively. “What do you say?”
“Christine...” sang that little voice in her head. “Christine...”
“Thank you, Messieurs,” she said, forcibly returning herself to the present. She smiled, knowing that her Angel approved. “I would be delighted to accept your offer. When do we begin?”
