Chapter One: Christine

I still went religiously to every performance, disappointing as many of them were. Although La Carlotta, the Opera's infernally annoying prima donna, mangled the music at every opportunity, I still enjoyed the diversion. But I rarely attended the rehearsals. Often, as the company first began rehearsing a new opera, I would watch and make helpful comments which were occasionally ignored. But I couldn't bear to listen to Carlotta's squawkings more than I needed to, and when I no longer found pleasure in skulking around the Opera House and frightening the corps de ballet, I immersed myself more and more in my music.

I was composing a full opera, which I called Don Juan Triumphant, and which would probably die with me. I was not writing it to be performed. It was an outpouring of all my frustrations and fears and hopes, in the guise of a faery-tale-like story of seduction and love. I worked on the opera until my body forced me to stop, to eat and sleep. When I would come to a point in the music where the notes and I were wrestling it out and neither of us winning, I would pause and take refuge in music that I had written a long time ago, or music that others had written. And if anyone heard faint violin music, seeming to come from beneath the floor of the Opera House, they either attributed it to the Opera Ghost or vowed to give up the particular alcohol they had been drinking, depending on how sober they were at the time.

But that one day, something had gone wrong with the music. The notes were not coming out the way I needed them to, and when I threw the manuscript down in disgust and tried to soothe myself with my violin, I was unable to accurately complete even the simplest runs. With a low cry of frustrated rage, I left my 'lair', as I called my sub-Opera residence, and stalked around the passages in the Opera House.

I was for some unknown reason restless, and I paced for hours. When at last I had calmed, I was reluctant to return to Don Juan. If I did, I would end up in the same emotional mess, and would have to spend more hours calming myself, hours I was reluctant to waste. Instead, I decided to watch the rehearsal which was in progress on the main stage. The company usually didn't rehearse this late in the production run, but the last night's performance had been a disaster. I knew it; Carlotta knew it, and wasn't terribly pleased; and for once, the manager knew it without any scathing notes on my part.

I made my way through the hidden passageways until I was able to access Box Five. I had hollowed out one of the columns, from which I could see the stage through small slits and holes which were, from the outside, hidden by shadows. I could, and often did, stand there for hours, although I crept out to sit in the box seats when the lights dimmed for a performance. The box was reserved for my personal use: another of the luxuries to which I convinced Montcharmin I was entitled. The manager had tried a few times to sell it -- this was before he was fully convinced of my power -- but when each time the occupants complained of strange and inexplicable laughter during the performances, he ceased opposing me in that matter.

I had stashed several blocks of wood inside the column, and a carving-knife, with which I amused myself during intermissions and the like. I took one of these blocks out now, an unfinished carving of a hideous winged beast -- my carvings often dwelled on the fictitious and fantastical, especially the uglier varieties thereof -- of which only a rough outline of the body had yet been carved. I lazily trimmed the wood, shaping it slowly, as I listened to Carlotta's solos.

After about fifteen minutes of rehearsal, however, her voice started to roughen; it was even more painful to listen to than her usual melodies. After a few minutes of such torture, she shook her head and demanded a break. She could not sing any more right now, she stated firmly, if she were going to sing well tonight.

For once I agreed with her. This was not another of her irrational whims, but was rather the concern of a musician, and I watched with only mild disappointment as the chorus, dismissed until the performance, milled about in slight confusion, slowly dispersing. The chorus master, M. Reyer, summoned the leads into his office for a brief conference which was probably more of a pep talk, and at last only a few people were left on the stage: ballet dancers who were rehearsing some of the moves.

I worked idly on the wings of my little carving, glancing up occasionally to watch their progress. After only a few moments, they stopped, laughing and chatting, and started to leave the stage. Only one of the dancers was left; she hung back, almost shyly.

"Are you coming, Christine?" another dancer called back.

"No," Christine replied softly, "you go on ahead. I'll be along in a moment."

The other girl shrugged and exited, and Christine was left alone on the stage. I bent over the statue once more, ignoring the dancer. She probably had fantasies of grandeur, and liked to dream about the day when she would become the prima donna.

A dream which would very likely not come true...

I bit my lip in concentration, as my knife carved almost infinitesimal shavings off of the carving, smoothing and shaping it. The wings actually looked like wings now, and I began to work on the face--

And then Christine began to sing, and I froze in silent agony.

Her voice was soft, so weak that I, as close as I was to the stage, could barely hear her, and was very obviously ill trained. But it was pure, perfect, and I saw in it the same potential I saw in a block of wood before it was carved. I could understand why she had waited until she was alone on the stage before singing, for she seemed shy, and her voice was hardly something which the populace would cheer as they did Carlotta. But it was pure heaven to me, and it held me captive, unable to think or breathe, unable to move voluntarily yet trembling rather violently.

After a few moments which seemed like an eternity, I was able to break the spell and set the knife down, so I was no longer in danger of cutting myself -- not that I would have noticed even if I had been cut -- but I could not stop listening. It was as if I were in a trance. I slipped out of the column and stood at the front of the box, looking down at her, not caring if I was seen. Nothing mattered but her.

Abruptly she stopped singing, glanced offstage, and fled as some of the company came on. Only when she left did I realize the danger I had been in -- what would have happened to me, if I'd been seen? I melted back into the shadows, but once I was safely inside the passage just outside of Box 5 I collapsed against the wall, trembling as if I had just fought a duel. It took me five minutes to gather the strength to return to the lair.

That night found me pacing furiously in the lair. I didn't attend the performance -- how could I bear to listen to Carlotta, now that I had heard Christine?

I don't expect you to understand, you who cheer Carlotta, I screamed silently at the audience above me. You do not know what it's like, to feel a piece of heaven in your grasp when you have submitted yourself to hell, to look at an angel as yet unseen, and know that you, and quite probably you alone, have the power to usher her into the world--

And do not pass it off as love, as an old fool falling in love for the first time, who imagines no one else has felt that way before! I do not think so. A fool I might be, but I have passed the point of caring about that. As for what I feel for Christine, it is not love. I am a musician first, an artist second, and a human least of all. Love, between two humans, ranks low on my priorities -- it is a human weakness which I gave up long ago when I found I could get farther with fists and illusions than with love and kindness.

Yet I cannot denounce love completely, for it is my love of music that has kept me sane. I do not doubt that, without music, I would have been lost long ago. It is not Christine I love, but her voice.

I finished the carving while waiting for the performance to be over, but it was no longer a winged monster, but instead an angel, cradling a lute in one hand. An angel with Christine's face... I forced myself to proceed more slowly than usual, for I was afraid that my hands would tremble at a critical moment and mar the figure. I was, and always had been, a perfectionist. I could not allow anything to harm my angel...

I vowed to go to her that night, to tell her who I was and to offer her my services as tutor. But I found out that it was easier said than done. It started well; when I heard the applause signifying the end of the opera, I crept like a cat to a small crawlway-level in the roof behind the main theater. The ceiling over the stage and audience was high, but the ceiling over the corridors in back -- corridors which led, among other things, to the dressing-rooms -- hung low with a maze of pipes and beams, all blackly shadowed, among which I could lurk without being seen.

Christine, having no fervent admirers, went straight to her small dressing-room near the back of the Opera House. She was unaware of my presence, and although there were a few points at which I could have been seen, she didn't think to look up. No one ever does.

She wasn't in her room very long, but she was alone the whole time, and I can't explain why I didn't -- couldn't -- speak. I, who had never been at a loss for words in my notes to the manager, was struck with a strange case of silence. And then Christine left, blissfully unaware that I was cursing myself mentally for not speaking.

And so it went for three nights. Each night I followed her back, and watched her through the full-length mirror (I had long ago replaced many of the original mirrors in the Opera House with one-way mirrors, so I could see through but they could not see me), and each night I found myself as tongue-tied as a schoolboy.

On the fourth night, I followed her back to her dressing room, as always, and as always could not voice my thoughts. I therefore sang to her ... I could have kicked myself for not thinking of this earlier. I sang to her a wordless song, letting the music pull itself out of my mouth, confident that my voice would hold the same spell over her that it had over so many people in the past.

Her head snapped up, and she froze like some wild animal too scared even to run. After a while I fell silent, and she stood in almost rapturous fear for a moment.

And I found my tongue at last. "Christine," I murmured, only barely loud enough for her to hear.

"Yes?" She sounded bewildered. "Who is this?"

"A friend."

"Who are you? Where are you? Come out where I can see you."

Technically, I could; when I had replaced the mirror, I had adapted it with hidden springs and counterweights, to give me an entrance or exit. But I did not want to show myself to her, not yet. I shook my head, and then realized that she couldn't see me. "I cannot, Christine," I said gently. "You will understand in time."

"Are you the Angel of Music?" she asked suddenly.

The... what?

She smiled blissfully. "Papa often told me stories, mostly from his native Sweden. I--" She paused, and then added parenthetically, "I'm from Sweden too, but I don't remember much because we left when I was three. Anyway, several of these stories involved the Angel of Music; Papa promised that he would go up into heaven, after he died, and send the Angel of Music to sing for me. You must be the Angel, I know you are... aren't you?"

I am no angel, Christine; and I opened my mouth to tell her so, but a thought caught me before I spoke. If she wishes to believe I am her Angel of Music, I might as well not disappoint her, and it would be incredibly easier than trying to explain who I was and what I was doing here. If that is your wish, Christine, than I am your Angel of Music. You will find out the truth someday.

She frowned, although whether it was due to my silence or her inner thoughts, I was not sure. "What do you want of me?"

I didn't answer her question at first, but asked one of my own: "The other day, Christine, when Carlotta called off the rehearsal because her voice was dry. Do you remember?"

"Of course," she said, paling slightly.

"You stayed and sang, when you were alone on the stage."

"You... you heard that? I thought I was alone, the theater was empty..."

"I have my ways," I said calmly. Strangely, she seemed to accept that as an answer.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I wouldn't have sung if I'd realized anyone was listening. I was alone... I like to imagine what I would be like if I had a good voice..."

"Christine!" She looked like a small child, lost and unsure in a world that was far too large, and I suddenly longed to take her in my arms, to comfort her and protect her from that world. "Christine, listen to me. Your voice is not bad, it's just untrained! You have a beautiful voice."

"I don't," she cried wildly, terrified by the thought. "It's not good at all. Please, sir -- Angel -- don't tease me like that!" "Your voice is good," I repeated. Ye gods, she was insecure! "And I would like it very much if you would accept my services as voice tutor."

"Tutor?" She seemed overwhelmed by what I was saying.

Was she doubting my ability to teach her, or her ability to learn? Assuming the first, for it was easier for me to prove immediately, I broke into song -- "Black Rose", a song I had written long before I came to the Opera House, but which remained one of my favorites.

When I had finished, Christine stood quietly, and her eyes glistened with tears. "That... that's beautiful," she breathed, breaking the spell of silence. Then she sat down quickly, turning towards the small dresser. "Oh, I couldn't let you tutor me, I'm not worthy of you. I'm not good enough!"

Oh, Christine, Christine! If you only knew what spell your voice held over me, even there in the theater! Mentally I pounded my head against the wall, frustrated by her insistence insecurity.

"Please don't waste your time with me," she begged. Her eyes were filled with pain, and I knew it was an effort for her to send away the long-awaited Angel of Music, but she really believed she was a bad singer. "I'll never be as good as you, ever," she continued, "nor even as good as Carlotta!"

"Don't ever -- say -- that -- again!" I roared, punctuating each word with a pound of my fist against the wall. Each thud echoed in the tunnel, and a new pulse came before the old one had died away; the noise must have been terrifying to Christine. I was panting by this point, and utterly furious. "Carlotta does not sing, do you hear me? Her voice is like... like a goat's bleating, it is nothing! Nothing! You, you are music itself, but she is of no consequence! You will surpass her, easily! Do you hear me, Christine?"

There was silence for a moment, and all I could hear was my own ragged breathing. My temper died as suddenly as it had come, and I died a thousand deaths as I tried to imagine what was running through her head. I was ashamed of my outburst, and was on the verge of apologizing, when she spoke, quietly but unafraid.

"When do lessons begin?"