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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 18/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1926
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: 'He's here - the Phantom of the Opera!'
WE DON’T NEED NO EDUCATION
Christine wanted to hide her face in her hands.
They were rehearsing Act Three and she was crouched behind the open window of a set piece, a run-down tavern in a low part of town, Alphonse Renard at her side, as Rigoletto tried to convince his infatuated daughter that the man she loved was not worth her affection. On the other side of the scenery, Marius DuPre was getting ready for his opening air, La Donna E Mobile (How Fickle Women Are), puffing himself up and strutting around the ‘room’ like a turkey cock. To one side, Augustine Albert, the rather sour-faced soprano who had been Carlotta’s understudy for many productions and who obviously thought she should have been given Christine’s part, lounged awaiting her cue to enter the scene as the woman Marius’s Duke would attempt to seduce.
“We should have done something cheerful,” she groused in voice just loud enough for everyone nearby, including Monsieur Reyer, to hear, “The Marriage of Figaro, perhaps, or something by Rossini; something to give everyone a bit of a lift.”
Alphonse snorted. “Rubbish. The paying public love a good tragedy; it’s what brings them out to the theatre in the first place.”
“That’s just as well, since our dear Monsieur DuPre is doing a very good job of dying on stage,” Augustine said, shooting the preening tenor a glare. “If he tries to fondle me once more like he did last time he won’t be chasing after the girls down at the Moulin Rouge for a month!”
Marius turned. “I can assure you, Mademoiselle, that after my initial explorations I have no desire to discover anything further about your person. There is very little of it to fondle!”
“Why you - ” She stalked towards him, hand raised to aim a slap at his smirking face, but he caught her wrist, lowering it out of range. “You are a bastard, Marius,” she snapped.
“Calm down, my dear, and remember your character. At least try to look interested in my advances.” He slipped an arm about her waist.
Augustine tore herself away, putting a safe distance between them. “I only wish I really did have an assassin for a brother; his dagger would be between your ribs in a heartbeat!”
When Marius’s reaction was merely to laugh, Monsieur Reyer took the opportunity to interrupt. With a heavy sigh, he called out, “Settle down, please, settle down! We will begin again, from ‘Ah, my father!’ Mademoiselle Daae, if you please.”
Christine dutifully sang the line, which was followed by an exchange between Rigoletto and the assassin, Sparafucile. The latter’s aside, “Oh! The fine gentleman!” was the signal for Marius to enter and the orchestra struck up the famous refrain of one of Giuseppe Verdi’s best-known works. The tenor sang with gusto, constantly on the move and gesticulating extravagantly. It was an overblown performance, one which had Reyer shaking his head and Alphonse openly guffawing.
Infuriated by his colleague’s mirth, Marius spun round to face him through the window. “I suppose you think that you could do better?” he demanded.
Alphonse raised an eyebrow. “I know that I could.”
“Even though the part is written for a tenor, which you are quite obviously not?”
“Well, it is meant to be within your range and yet you seem to be making a complete dog’s breakfast of it,” came the calm reply. “Perhaps someone else should be given a chance.”
Marius’s ruddy face turned puce, and then an alarming shade of purple. Christine fixed her eyes on her libretto, desperately hoping that the floor might swallow her up. The two singers had been like rival tom cats marking their territory ever since returning to work, both with their eye upon the vacant position of Primo Uomo. They jockeyed for position at every rehearsal, any dedication to their art or the piece they were performing completely disregarded. It made the atmosphere distinctly uncomfortable for everyone else, and Christine exchanged frequent glances with Meg, who practised with the corps de ballet out of the firing line, wondering if she were the only one wishing for an intervention from the Opera Ghost.
________________________________________
“You are joking. You must be joking.”
“Why would I joke about something like this?” Christine asked, rather worried by the way that Erik suddenly sat up straight as though someone had pushed a ramrod up the back of his waistcoat. There was a muscle twitching above his eyebrow. “Monsieur Reyer is asking for your help!”
“Only because he has no idea who I am, you foolish girl!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet to pace about the room as he always did when agitated. Madame Giry paid him no attention, continuing with the needlepoint she had produced from her bag, while Meg watched with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Erik made two circuits of the room before coming to rest before Christine’s chair, arms spread helplessly. “Look at me, Christine. Do you honestly believe that Reyer would wish for assistance from the man who terrorised the theatre for so long?”
“He doesn’t need to know,” Christine told him, adding, “And I don’t think it is foolish of me to want some recognition of the part you played within the Opera all these years; it is quite obvious that without you we would have fallen apart some time before the arrival of Andre and Firmin. Monsieur Lefevre knew nothing about music, did he?”
“He had a tin ear,” Madame remarked, pushing her needle through the canvas onto which she was stitching a vase of flowers. No one ever saw the end results of her work; once she had finished the pictures she put them away in a drawer, their usefulness in giving her something with which to occupy her hands at an end.
“The rehearsals are a nightmare,” said Meg. “No one can agree, Monsieur Reyer can barely keep order and the managers seem to be leaving us to sink or swim. When the theatre reopens everyone will come to see us and laugh; our reputation as a company will be ruined.”
Christine looked at Erik. He had turned away, his chin sunk low on his chest and his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “How can I do such a thing?” he asked quietly. “How can I possibly walk among them after all that has gone before? They would fall upon me and lynch me from the nearest lamppost and it would be no more than I deserved.”
“They have no idea who you are. As far as anyone is concerned you are my cousin and Christine’s maestro,” Madame Giry said bluntly before Christine could even open her mouth. “Incredibly, Buquet’s ridiculous stories have worked in your favour: no one could possibly look like the spectre he conjured, and he never once mentioned your mask. Even underneath it you have some semblance of a nose, and as you are quite plainly not a walking skeleton with a flaming death’s head I doubt if they will put two and two together.”
The visible side of Erik’s mouth twitched. “Thank you for the compliment, Annie. Such flattery! I shall try not to become too conceited.”
As her mother gave an unladylike snort, Meg piped up, “Surely, the best way to prove that you’re not the Phantom is to appear amongst them, as yourself – you can hardly be on the stage and in the rafters at the same time.”
“The Phantom is a role you once played,” Christine added, pressing a gentle finger against his lips as he tried to object. “It is a role you have now left behind.”
“Like a snake shedding its skin.”
“The Opera Ghost is not being asked to share his expertise; it is Erik Claudin’s assistance which is being sought. And we need it, quite desperately,” said Christine. “You must have seen how things are progressing; a tragedy is fast becoming a farce. As Meg said, we shall be laughed off the stage.”
“It is true that rehearsals are not being managed as I should wish,” Erik conceded.
“Then do something about it,” Madame Giry told him, stabbing an unfortunate sunflower with her needle. “If nothing else, be your usual self and bang those idiots DuPre and Reynard’s heads together. Everyone will thank you for it.”
________________________________________
“Gentlemen, please, a little decorum,” begged Reyer from the side of the stage. “From the beginning once more, Monsieur DuPre, and this time try a little subtlety. The Duke is somewhat larger-than-life, but there is no need to stray into caricature.”
Marius scowled, but he nodded and the musical director gave the signal for the orchestra to strike up the introduction once more. When the cue came for the tenor to sing, he opened his mouth but to Christine’s surprise the voice that emerged was not his own. It was stronger, better trained, capable of a much wider range and she knew it so very well as it glided ethereally around the auditorium, sounding as though it came from everywhere at once.
How fickle women are
Fleeting as falling star
Changing forever
Constant ah! Never
Like feathers flying
On the wind hie-ing
Ever in motion
Like waves on ocean
Monsieur Reyer looked around, frowning in confusion, while Marius became agitated, his head moving back and forth as though he were watching a tennis match. Beside Christine Alphonse was apparently enjoying his colleague’s discomfiture; Augustine’s mouth fell open in shock. The orchestra had fallen silent, muttering amongst themselves, but the voice continued without accompaniment, confident of its own power and beauty. Gradually Erik’s rich tenor began to lose the ghostly quality with which it had been imbued thanks to his ventriloquist’s techniques, and Christine squinted, trying to see the very back of the house, where she was sure he must be standing in the shadows.
“He’s here – the Phantom of the Opera!” cried Giselle, only to be slapped down by Madame Giry.
“Who’s there?” Marius demanded, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Who dares to mock me in such a way?”
There was no reply but the next line, the voice becoming louder, as though its owner was walking towards them.
Yet there’s no feeling
Love’s pleasure stealing
Like that of sealing
Their lips with a kiss
Marius stalked towards the edge of the stage and Christine decided to duck round the set piece, emerging properly onto the boards, wanting to be near in case Erik should need help. She heard Alphonse and then Augustine follow but ignored them. When she reached him Marius was trying to peer through the glow of the footlights to see his tormentor.
“Come out and show yourself!” he shouted into the darkness.
Their lips with a kiss!
Their lips with a kiss!
As the final lines died away Christine knew that Erik was standing just below them, in the aisle at the front of the stalls. He stepped forwards and she could see him at last; he was wearing one of the morning suits she had seen in his wardrobe, the charcoal one with the pinstriped trousers, and clutching his black fedora in both hands, turning it round by the brim. His fingers were trembling and she realised that, despite the power of his impromptu performance, he was nervous. In what was probably an unconscious movement, he inclined his head so that the mask fell into shadow.
Marius stared, before exploding, “Who the hell are you?”
Erik cleared his throat. “My name is Claudin,” he said. “I believe you are expecting me?”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1926
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: 'He's here - the Phantom of the Opera!'
Christine wanted to hide her face in her hands.
They were rehearsing Act Three and she was crouched behind the open window of a set piece, a run-down tavern in a low part of town, Alphonse Renard at her side, as Rigoletto tried to convince his infatuated daughter that the man she loved was not worth her affection. On the other side of the scenery, Marius DuPre was getting ready for his opening air, La Donna E Mobile (How Fickle Women Are), puffing himself up and strutting around the ‘room’ like a turkey cock. To one side, Augustine Albert, the rather sour-faced soprano who had been Carlotta’s understudy for many productions and who obviously thought she should have been given Christine’s part, lounged awaiting her cue to enter the scene as the woman Marius’s Duke would attempt to seduce.
“We should have done something cheerful,” she groused in voice just loud enough for everyone nearby, including Monsieur Reyer, to hear, “The Marriage of Figaro, perhaps, or something by Rossini; something to give everyone a bit of a lift.”
Alphonse snorted. “Rubbish. The paying public love a good tragedy; it’s what brings them out to the theatre in the first place.”
“That’s just as well, since our dear Monsieur DuPre is doing a very good job of dying on stage,” Augustine said, shooting the preening tenor a glare. “If he tries to fondle me once more like he did last time he won’t be chasing after the girls down at the Moulin Rouge for a month!”
Marius turned. “I can assure you, Mademoiselle, that after my initial explorations I have no desire to discover anything further about your person. There is very little of it to fondle!”
“Why you - ” She stalked towards him, hand raised to aim a slap at his smirking face, but he caught her wrist, lowering it out of range. “You are a bastard, Marius,” she snapped.
“Calm down, my dear, and remember your character. At least try to look interested in my advances.” He slipped an arm about her waist.
Augustine tore herself away, putting a safe distance between them. “I only wish I really did have an assassin for a brother; his dagger would be between your ribs in a heartbeat!”
When Marius’s reaction was merely to laugh, Monsieur Reyer took the opportunity to interrupt. With a heavy sigh, he called out, “Settle down, please, settle down! We will begin again, from ‘Ah, my father!’ Mademoiselle Daae, if you please.”
Christine dutifully sang the line, which was followed by an exchange between Rigoletto and the assassin, Sparafucile. The latter’s aside, “Oh! The fine gentleman!” was the signal for Marius to enter and the orchestra struck up the famous refrain of one of Giuseppe Verdi’s best-known works. The tenor sang with gusto, constantly on the move and gesticulating extravagantly. It was an overblown performance, one which had Reyer shaking his head and Alphonse openly guffawing.
Infuriated by his colleague’s mirth, Marius spun round to face him through the window. “I suppose you think that you could do better?” he demanded.
Alphonse raised an eyebrow. “I know that I could.”
“Even though the part is written for a tenor, which you are quite obviously not?”
“Well, it is meant to be within your range and yet you seem to be making a complete dog’s breakfast of it,” came the calm reply. “Perhaps someone else should be given a chance.”
Marius’s ruddy face turned puce, and then an alarming shade of purple. Christine fixed her eyes on her libretto, desperately hoping that the floor might swallow her up. The two singers had been like rival tom cats marking their territory ever since returning to work, both with their eye upon the vacant position of Primo Uomo. They jockeyed for position at every rehearsal, any dedication to their art or the piece they were performing completely disregarded. It made the atmosphere distinctly uncomfortable for everyone else, and Christine exchanged frequent glances with Meg, who practised with the corps de ballet out of the firing line, wondering if she were the only one wishing for an intervention from the Opera Ghost.
________________________________________
“You are joking. You must be joking.”
“Why would I joke about something like this?” Christine asked, rather worried by the way that Erik suddenly sat up straight as though someone had pushed a ramrod up the back of his waistcoat. There was a muscle twitching above his eyebrow. “Monsieur Reyer is asking for your help!”
“Only because he has no idea who I am, you foolish girl!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet to pace about the room as he always did when agitated. Madame Giry paid him no attention, continuing with the needlepoint she had produced from her bag, while Meg watched with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. Erik made two circuits of the room before coming to rest before Christine’s chair, arms spread helplessly. “Look at me, Christine. Do you honestly believe that Reyer would wish for assistance from the man who terrorised the theatre for so long?”
“He doesn’t need to know,” Christine told him, adding, “And I don’t think it is foolish of me to want some recognition of the part you played within the Opera all these years; it is quite obvious that without you we would have fallen apart some time before the arrival of Andre and Firmin. Monsieur Lefevre knew nothing about music, did he?”
“He had a tin ear,” Madame remarked, pushing her needle through the canvas onto which she was stitching a vase of flowers. No one ever saw the end results of her work; once she had finished the pictures she put them away in a drawer, their usefulness in giving her something with which to occupy her hands at an end.
“The rehearsals are a nightmare,” said Meg. “No one can agree, Monsieur Reyer can barely keep order and the managers seem to be leaving us to sink or swim. When the theatre reopens everyone will come to see us and laugh; our reputation as a company will be ruined.”
Christine looked at Erik. He had turned away, his chin sunk low on his chest and his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “How can I do such a thing?” he asked quietly. “How can I possibly walk among them after all that has gone before? They would fall upon me and lynch me from the nearest lamppost and it would be no more than I deserved.”
“They have no idea who you are. As far as anyone is concerned you are my cousin and Christine’s maestro,” Madame Giry said bluntly before Christine could even open her mouth. “Incredibly, Buquet’s ridiculous stories have worked in your favour: no one could possibly look like the spectre he conjured, and he never once mentioned your mask. Even underneath it you have some semblance of a nose, and as you are quite plainly not a walking skeleton with a flaming death’s head I doubt if they will put two and two together.”
The visible side of Erik’s mouth twitched. “Thank you for the compliment, Annie. Such flattery! I shall try not to become too conceited.”
As her mother gave an unladylike snort, Meg piped up, “Surely, the best way to prove that you’re not the Phantom is to appear amongst them, as yourself – you can hardly be on the stage and in the rafters at the same time.”
“The Phantom is a role you once played,” Christine added, pressing a gentle finger against his lips as he tried to object. “It is a role you have now left behind.”
“Like a snake shedding its skin.”
“The Opera Ghost is not being asked to share his expertise; it is Erik Claudin’s assistance which is being sought. And we need it, quite desperately,” said Christine. “You must have seen how things are progressing; a tragedy is fast becoming a farce. As Meg said, we shall be laughed off the stage.”
“It is true that rehearsals are not being managed as I should wish,” Erik conceded.
“Then do something about it,” Madame Giry told him, stabbing an unfortunate sunflower with her needle. “If nothing else, be your usual self and bang those idiots DuPre and Reynard’s heads together. Everyone will thank you for it.”
________________________________________
“Gentlemen, please, a little decorum,” begged Reyer from the side of the stage. “From the beginning once more, Monsieur DuPre, and this time try a little subtlety. The Duke is somewhat larger-than-life, but there is no need to stray into caricature.”
Marius scowled, but he nodded and the musical director gave the signal for the orchestra to strike up the introduction once more. When the cue came for the tenor to sing, he opened his mouth but to Christine’s surprise the voice that emerged was not his own. It was stronger, better trained, capable of a much wider range and she knew it so very well as it glided ethereally around the auditorium, sounding as though it came from everywhere at once.
Fleeting as falling star
Changing forever
Constant ah! Never
Like feathers flying
On the wind hie-ing
Ever in motion
Like waves on ocean
Monsieur Reyer looked around, frowning in confusion, while Marius became agitated, his head moving back and forth as though he were watching a tennis match. Beside Christine Alphonse was apparently enjoying his colleague’s discomfiture; Augustine’s mouth fell open in shock. The orchestra had fallen silent, muttering amongst themselves, but the voice continued without accompaniment, confident of its own power and beauty. Gradually Erik’s rich tenor began to lose the ghostly quality with which it had been imbued thanks to his ventriloquist’s techniques, and Christine squinted, trying to see the very back of the house, where she was sure he must be standing in the shadows.
“He’s here – the Phantom of the Opera!” cried Giselle, only to be slapped down by Madame Giry.
“Who’s there?” Marius demanded, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Who dares to mock me in such a way?”
There was no reply but the next line, the voice becoming louder, as though its owner was walking towards them.
Love’s pleasure stealing
Like that of sealing
Their lips with a kiss
Marius stalked towards the edge of the stage and Christine decided to duck round the set piece, emerging properly onto the boards, wanting to be near in case Erik should need help. She heard Alphonse and then Augustine follow but ignored them. When she reached him Marius was trying to peer through the glow of the footlights to see his tormentor.
“Come out and show yourself!” he shouted into the darkness.
Their lips with a kiss!
As the final lines died away Christine knew that Erik was standing just below them, in the aisle at the front of the stalls. He stepped forwards and she could see him at last; he was wearing one of the morning suits she had seen in his wardrobe, the charcoal one with the pinstriped trousers, and clutching his black fedora in both hands, turning it round by the brim. His fingers were trembling and she realised that, despite the power of his impromptu performance, he was nervous. In what was probably an unconscious movement, he inclined his head so that the mask fell into shadow.
Marius stared, before exploding, “Who the hell are you?”
Erik cleared his throat. “My name is Claudin,” he said. “I believe you are expecting me?”
