charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2012-11-16 05:19 pm
charleygirl) wrote2012-11-16 05:19 pm
Entry tags:
Fic | Phantom of the Opera | The Garish Light of Day 22/?
Title: The Garish Light of Day 22/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1567
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Return of the Phantom
A MESSAGE, MONSIEUR, FROM THE OPERA GHOST
Madame Giry was just clearing her desk when she heard the lone voice drifting down the hallway.
No one else ever stayed this late. Well, no one but herself and Reyer, finishing paperwork and looking over their plans for the future, adding to the copious files they both kept on the various artists under their direction. She had sent Meg home over an hour ago, after the penultimate fraught and chaotic dress rehearsal; anyone watching who had never experienced the preparations for a theatrical performance would have been shocked by the apparent lack of cohesion, the nerves and the increasingly frayed tempers. Most of the cast had thankfully knuckled down and were returning to their usual levels of commitment, though one or two were still causing some problems. Clashes of personality, or, more accurately, of ego, were commonplace in the opera world, much to Antoinette’s annoyance. She was well aware that to get on in their profession, as a singer or dancer, one should leave their pretensions at the door and accept guidance from those with more experience; unfortunately, too many of the younger members of the cast imagined that they knew better than the more seasoned performers around them.
Marius DuPre was one of the biggest offenders in that department. He had always grumbled about having to play second fiddle (although most of the time it was third, or even fourth depending on the piece in question) to Ubaldo Piangi completely ignoring the fact that the Signor had worked for twenty years in the opera houses of Italy before rising to the position he had until recently held with the company. Possessed of a breathtaking arrogance which was only truly making itself known now that he had gained his first leading role, DuPre clearly believed that his talent was such that he needed to listen to neither criticism or direction. Madame Giry, watching Erik attempt to drill some advice into him, could see the former Phantom becoming angrier and angrier as the tenor flagrantly ignored his instructions. At the end of the rehearsal, when Marius was still playing the Duke with the hopelessly overblown attitude he had adopted from the start, Erik threatened to allocate the role instead to Gianni, the able young member of the ensemble who was understudy for the part. Gianni had looked astonished, while Marius’s response was to throw his libretto to the floor before stamping on it and stalking from the stage.
Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief at his departure, and Antoinette knew that she was not alone in hoping that he would refuse to perform on opening night. Erik railed against DuPre for some time, calling him every name under the sun and detailing precisely what he would like to do to him; there was no greater sin in Erik’s book than deliberately disrupting an opera. It was therefore a surprise to hear Marius’s voice coming from the stage. Madame hurried down the corridor and slipped into the wings; DuPre stood on the boards amongst the standing pieces of set which had been left in place for the first scene, a grand ballroom with a staircase which could be cleverly folded against the back wall to make room for a quick change of flats. There was no spotlight, of course, but the ghost light had been left burning as usual and it softly illuminated Marius as he walked back and forth, gesturing grandly. The words of La Donna E Mobile filled the air; Antoinette had heard them so many times over the last few weeks that she was sure she could sing the aria herself.
Abruptly, Marius stopped in the middle of a line. Barking a harsh laugh, he kicked at something on the stage. Had he applied himself, he could have been a very good singer, Madame mused. Not outstanding, not brilliant, but good. As it was, he lacked projection in the high notes, wobbling as he tried to hold them, and his pitch was beginning to display the disregard he showed it by smoking. If he abused his instrument for many more weeks, any ability he possessed would be gone forever, destroyed by his own carelessness.
“...bastard...” he muttered, reaching for a bottle that stood on the conductor’s podium and taking a deep draught. “What does he know, eh? Freak comes from nowhere and tries to tell me how to do my job! How many operas has he sung? None! No one would let him on the stage... belongs in a bloody circus!”
Antoinette was already moving forwards, propelled by her instinct to defend Erik, but before she could emerge from the wings a sandbag quite suddenly plummeted from the flies, coming to a halt half a dozen feet above the stage and barely six inches from the left hand side of Marius DuPre’s head. The tenor goggled at it before belatedly leaping backwards, his reactions dulled by the amount of alcohol he had obviously drunk; as he did, another fell, this time on his right, missing him by an even narrower margin. He peered up into the darkness above him, as though he might spot the perpetrator; it was futile, for Madame knew that no one would see the owner of the hand that had loosened the weights unless he wished it.
“I would hold your tongue if I were you,” a voice announced, seemingly coming from the centre of the stalls. Marius stepped towards the edge of the stage, trying to see into the all but invisible auditorium.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
“Someone who merely wishes to offer you some advice, Monsieur,” the voice replied, this time sounding as though it was right behind him. Spinning around, DuPre gaped to find himself quite alone. “Your behaviour... concerns me. It should be quite clear by now that I will brook no arrogance within my theatre. Remember what happened to La Carlotta when she began to think too highly of herself...”
“Mon Dieu...” Marius breathed. “The Phantom! But they all said you had gone..!”
There was a sinister chuckle which ran right the way round the orchestra pit. Antoinette shook her head; it appeared that Erik was enjoying himself, wherever he was. “I am part of the Opera, Monsieur; I will never leave it.”
“What... what do you want from me?” The tenor clutched his bottle to his chest protectively.
“Just a few words of warning: no one is irreplaceable. You will either take the direction you have been given, apply yourself to your role and make Rigoletto a triumph, or...”
Marius audibly gulped. “Or..?”
“Well, I am sure you would not like to perform another opera in a house with a curse upon it...” Erik purred.
A high-pitched squeak was the only sound it seemed the hapless singer could produce at that moment.
“I bid you good night, Monsieur; sleep well, and remember that I am always watching,” Erik said in that almost sing-song tone he always reserved for the appearances of the Phantom, and down came a third sandbag, right in front of DuPre’s face.
There was a long pause. Then Marius’s eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed in a heap in the middle of the stage, not far from his opening mark for Act I. Tutting, Madame Giry hurried towards him, bending down and feeling for a pulse just in case the poor fool had suffered a heart attack. As she did, she heard a faint rustling of fabric and a moment later Erik landed lightly on the boards beside her, hat tilted over his face and the cloak that settled around his ankles giving him the appearance of a great black bat.
“Is he still alive?” he enquired casually.
Antoinette sat back on her heels. “Yes, no thanks to you. It’s strange... I was under the distinct impression that the Phantom had been retired.”
“He has. But he makes occasional command performances when circumstances require.”
“Much as I dislike the man, surely there was no need to frighten him like that,” she said, and Erik’s visible eyebrow arched.
“There was every need, when he is not only a constant thorn in my side but is also feeding information to that detestable journalist,” he replied coldly. “You have probably not found time to read this morning’s Figaro; it is full of rumours concerning myself and Christine.” He told her exactly what had been seen and heard by Meg, and by the end of the tale Madame’s lips were pressed into a thin line.
“You have made an enemy there, Erik. It is foolish to play these tricks with him; you are only putting yourself at risk of exposure!”
“There is no need for you to worry. I have no intention of being caught,” he said, and with a flick of his cloak he was gone, disappearing into the shadows.
Antoinette looked down at the prostrate tenor lying at her feet. “And precisely what am I to do with him?” she demanded. It was just typical of him to leave her to clear up the mess.
Erik’s voice hung in the air behind him, and even though she could not see his face she knew that he was smirking. “There is a bucket in the wings collecting rainwater from that leak in the roof. Judicious application of the contents should do the trick.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1567
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Return of the Phantom
Madame Giry was just clearing her desk when she heard the lone voice drifting down the hallway.
No one else ever stayed this late. Well, no one but herself and Reyer, finishing paperwork and looking over their plans for the future, adding to the copious files they both kept on the various artists under their direction. She had sent Meg home over an hour ago, after the penultimate fraught and chaotic dress rehearsal; anyone watching who had never experienced the preparations for a theatrical performance would have been shocked by the apparent lack of cohesion, the nerves and the increasingly frayed tempers. Most of the cast had thankfully knuckled down and were returning to their usual levels of commitment, though one or two were still causing some problems. Clashes of personality, or, more accurately, of ego, were commonplace in the opera world, much to Antoinette’s annoyance. She was well aware that to get on in their profession, as a singer or dancer, one should leave their pretensions at the door and accept guidance from those with more experience; unfortunately, too many of the younger members of the cast imagined that they knew better than the more seasoned performers around them.
Marius DuPre was one of the biggest offenders in that department. He had always grumbled about having to play second fiddle (although most of the time it was third, or even fourth depending on the piece in question) to Ubaldo Piangi completely ignoring the fact that the Signor had worked for twenty years in the opera houses of Italy before rising to the position he had until recently held with the company. Possessed of a breathtaking arrogance which was only truly making itself known now that he had gained his first leading role, DuPre clearly believed that his talent was such that he needed to listen to neither criticism or direction. Madame Giry, watching Erik attempt to drill some advice into him, could see the former Phantom becoming angrier and angrier as the tenor flagrantly ignored his instructions. At the end of the rehearsal, when Marius was still playing the Duke with the hopelessly overblown attitude he had adopted from the start, Erik threatened to allocate the role instead to Gianni, the able young member of the ensemble who was understudy for the part. Gianni had looked astonished, while Marius’s response was to throw his libretto to the floor before stamping on it and stalking from the stage.
Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief at his departure, and Antoinette knew that she was not alone in hoping that he would refuse to perform on opening night. Erik railed against DuPre for some time, calling him every name under the sun and detailing precisely what he would like to do to him; there was no greater sin in Erik’s book than deliberately disrupting an opera. It was therefore a surprise to hear Marius’s voice coming from the stage. Madame hurried down the corridor and slipped into the wings; DuPre stood on the boards amongst the standing pieces of set which had been left in place for the first scene, a grand ballroom with a staircase which could be cleverly folded against the back wall to make room for a quick change of flats. There was no spotlight, of course, but the ghost light had been left burning as usual and it softly illuminated Marius as he walked back and forth, gesturing grandly. The words of La Donna E Mobile filled the air; Antoinette had heard them so many times over the last few weeks that she was sure she could sing the aria herself.
Abruptly, Marius stopped in the middle of a line. Barking a harsh laugh, he kicked at something on the stage. Had he applied himself, he could have been a very good singer, Madame mused. Not outstanding, not brilliant, but good. As it was, he lacked projection in the high notes, wobbling as he tried to hold them, and his pitch was beginning to display the disregard he showed it by smoking. If he abused his instrument for many more weeks, any ability he possessed would be gone forever, destroyed by his own carelessness.
“...bastard...” he muttered, reaching for a bottle that stood on the conductor’s podium and taking a deep draught. “What does he know, eh? Freak comes from nowhere and tries to tell me how to do my job! How many operas has he sung? None! No one would let him on the stage... belongs in a bloody circus!”
Antoinette was already moving forwards, propelled by her instinct to defend Erik, but before she could emerge from the wings a sandbag quite suddenly plummeted from the flies, coming to a halt half a dozen feet above the stage and barely six inches from the left hand side of Marius DuPre’s head. The tenor goggled at it before belatedly leaping backwards, his reactions dulled by the amount of alcohol he had obviously drunk; as he did, another fell, this time on his right, missing him by an even narrower margin. He peered up into the darkness above him, as though he might spot the perpetrator; it was futile, for Madame knew that no one would see the owner of the hand that had loosened the weights unless he wished it.
“I would hold your tongue if I were you,” a voice announced, seemingly coming from the centre of the stalls. Marius stepped towards the edge of the stage, trying to see into the all but invisible auditorium.
“Who’s there?” he shouted.
“Someone who merely wishes to offer you some advice, Monsieur,” the voice replied, this time sounding as though it was right behind him. Spinning around, DuPre gaped to find himself quite alone. “Your behaviour... concerns me. It should be quite clear by now that I will brook no arrogance within my theatre. Remember what happened to La Carlotta when she began to think too highly of herself...”
“Mon Dieu...” Marius breathed. “The Phantom! But they all said you had gone..!”
There was a sinister chuckle which ran right the way round the orchestra pit. Antoinette shook her head; it appeared that Erik was enjoying himself, wherever he was. “I am part of the Opera, Monsieur; I will never leave it.”
“What... what do you want from me?” The tenor clutched his bottle to his chest protectively.
“Just a few words of warning: no one is irreplaceable. You will either take the direction you have been given, apply yourself to your role and make Rigoletto a triumph, or...”
Marius audibly gulped. “Or..?”
“Well, I am sure you would not like to perform another opera in a house with a curse upon it...” Erik purred.
A high-pitched squeak was the only sound it seemed the hapless singer could produce at that moment.
“I bid you good night, Monsieur; sleep well, and remember that I am always watching,” Erik said in that almost sing-song tone he always reserved for the appearances of the Phantom, and down came a third sandbag, right in front of DuPre’s face.
There was a long pause. Then Marius’s eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed in a heap in the middle of the stage, not far from his opening mark for Act I. Tutting, Madame Giry hurried towards him, bending down and feeling for a pulse just in case the poor fool had suffered a heart attack. As she did, she heard a faint rustling of fabric and a moment later Erik landed lightly on the boards beside her, hat tilted over his face and the cloak that settled around his ankles giving him the appearance of a great black bat.
“Is he still alive?” he enquired casually.
Antoinette sat back on her heels. “Yes, no thanks to you. It’s strange... I was under the distinct impression that the Phantom had been retired.”
“He has. But he makes occasional command performances when circumstances require.”
“Much as I dislike the man, surely there was no need to frighten him like that,” she said, and Erik’s visible eyebrow arched.
“There was every need, when he is not only a constant thorn in my side but is also feeding information to that detestable journalist,” he replied coldly. “You have probably not found time to read this morning’s Figaro; it is full of rumours concerning myself and Christine.” He told her exactly what had been seen and heard by Meg, and by the end of the tale Madame’s lips were pressed into a thin line.
“You have made an enemy there, Erik. It is foolish to play these tricks with him; you are only putting yourself at risk of exposure!”
“There is no need for you to worry. I have no intention of being caught,” he said, and with a flick of his cloak he was gone, disappearing into the shadows.
Antoinette looked down at the prostrate tenor lying at her feet. “And precisely what am I to do with him?” she demanded. It was just typical of him to leave her to clear up the mess.
Erik’s voice hung in the air behind him, and even though she could not see his face she knew that he was smirking. “There is a bucket in the wings collecting rainwater from that leak in the roof. Judicious application of the contents should do the trick.”