Crash.
The discordant smash of piano keys being thumped in irritation splintered the stuffy air of the rehearsal room.
"Signor Piangi, if you please," the chorus master, Monsieur Reyer, sighed with strained patience, "we say Rome. Not Roma. Rooooome. Please make an effort, Signor, not to add an 'a' to every word you speak!"
The fat tenor paused as a smattering of hushed laughter rippled across the assembled company, then began repeating the offensive word to himself in an attempt to correct his error. He was still pronouncing it wrong.
Reyer gritted his teeth, clenching his hands on the edge of the piano where the singers couldn't see it. The casting for the new production of Hannibal was a complete travesty, as it always was at the Paris Opera. Ubaldo Piangi, the principal tenor, was pompous and overblown as the title character, and it utterly failed the chorus master's mind to see how anyone was supposed to act as if they were in love with him. Well, not completely. La Carlotta Giudicelli, a prima donna in every sense of the word and then some, had been cast as the Queen of Carthage. The blustering tenor and the reigning diva went together like two rotten peas in a pod.
The chorus was unwieldy and overbalanced, and while the ballet girls were a fine dancing lot, none of them could sing. Unfortunately, singing was required of them in this opera. Eight of them were clustered in the back of the room now, whispering and giggling and generally making a nuisance of themselves.
The vague whispering was steadily growing into an uproar now that he had been silent for all of two seconds, and Reyer banged on the piano again to attract the company's attention. "Principals, rest and look over your score, please—I would like to work with the chorus on Hannibal's entrance into Carthage. Ballet, that means you—wake up and pay attention, please!" This said with a glare in their direction. Reyer, who had always been short on patience as a rule, found himself especially lacking in it now. Under his withering gaze, the ever-excitable dancers were obliged to sit up a bit straighter and quiet down, a turn of behavior they usually exhibited only in the presence of Madame Giry, the ballet mistress. Piangi was still muttering to himself, while Carlotta seemed to be preparing to put on a great show of requiring attention.
Reyer gave the chorus an appraising eye, then began the introduction to the women's chorus on the piano and cued them in at the appropriate moment. They were a half-beat late, wobbly and unsure, though he was prepared to let that slide for the time being if they got back on track quickly enough. After all, this was the company's first real run-through together. Reyer was a perfectionist and normally very insistent in everyone getting everything right the first time, but certain allowances had to be made with this band of artists. They had become notorious for never getting anything right at all.
Despite their unsatisfactory start Reyer kept the chorus singing, determined to get through more than one measure, and had succeeded in going through one and a half when Carlotta suddenly exploded in a flurry of exclamations in her native tongue, clapping her hands over her ears as if in pain. Reyer stopped playing the accompaniment; the chorus came to a clumsy, prolonged halt as the last chord died away. Carlotta was still shrieking in her incredibly high-pitched voice, oblivious to the fact that everyone had stopped singing.
"Signora!" Reyer thundered.
Carlotta abruptly quieted, taking her hands away from her ears and composing herself somewhat. Somehow she managed to look slighted, insulted, annoyed, and holier-than-thou all at the same time.
"What is it now?" Reyer continued acidly, perturbed at her blatant disregard for rehearsal etiquette.
Carlotta huffed, wounded by his continued refusal to play nice. "I simply cannot bear to listen to those little sprites in the back! They cannot sing! Is it not obvious how off pitch they are?"
The ballet dancers immediately grew red-faced and indignant. Someone in the chorus tittered. Reyer had actually thought they were doing quite admirably given their lack of vocal training, but he wasn't about to let Carlotta know that. She would want to put on an air of superiority, argue about the lack of talent at the Paris Opera, and expect Reyer to agree with her, and rehearsal would effectively be shot. "I didn't write the score, Signora," he replied, as calmly as possible. "I apologize if it offends your ears but the ballet is required to sing in this opera, so sing they shall. If you do not like it, wear earplugs."
Carlotta folded her arms and put on a martyred look, but did not reply. Reyer cleared his throat. "Now that that rude interruption is past us, I should like to try that entrance again, chorus. Try to be a little more confident. After four." He played the preceding measure of music and gave them the cue to come in. The majority of the chorus was once again half a beat late but this time they were more sure of themselves. And again, they had no sooner reached the measure where the ballet girls entered than Carlotta began kicking up a fuss.
"One of them sings like a dying sparrow!" she said loudly as the chorus came to a screeching halt, ignoring Reyer who was giving her the look of death from behind the piano. She stood and turned to glare at the ballet girls. "None of you deserve to be called singers! But one of you I will not tolerate any longer!" Carlotta turned to Reyer. "I demand you expose this absurdity now!"
What in the world is she up to? Reyer heaved a long-suffering sigh. He had learned long ago that the best way to achieve any semblance of peace in rehearsal was to submit to Carlotta's every whim. Of course, that didn't mean he had to grovel like the Opera's manager, Lefevre. And that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.
"Very well, stand up, you lot," he said, gesturing to the dancers. "Sing your first line and perhaps we can get on with rehearsal." He played their opening note, then indicated that they should come in. The ballet girls sang their line like weak mechanical robots, but Reyer could not detect anyone so miserably off pitch as to incur Carlotta's wrath. He raised an eyebrow at the diva. "Satisfied, Signora?"
"No." Carlotta pointed seemingly at random to one dancer, a pale little thing with dark hair and wide eyes who, to Reyer's knowledge, had never uttered a word to anyone expect Madame Giry and Giry's daughter, Meg. "Make her sing by herself."
Reyer frowned. "Just who is running this rehearsal, Signora, you or me?" In the back all the ballet girls save for the younger Giry had broken out in another fit of whispering and giggling. It seemed to be directed at Carlotta's chosen victim, who looked positively stricken. It looked like someone was about to be made an example of, and it wasn't going to be pretty. Reyer thumped the piano keys again to quiet the chatter and fixed his perpetually irritated gaze on the ballet girl. "For the sake of rehearsal, mam'selle, yes? You can begin when ready."
There was a silence in which the ballet girl mustered her courage and began. Reyer could see her lips moving, but could hear no sound coming out. The other ballet girls began snickering in earnest. Reyer's brow furrowed. "Well?"
"She sang it, sir," little Giry piped up in defense of her friend.
Carlotta's exquisitely painted lips curved up in a triumphant smirk, almost as if she had known all along what the outcome of her request would be. "I was wrong. She does not sing like a dying sparrow." She paused. "She sings like a dead sparrow!"
At that, the entire assembled company burst out in raucous laughter. The little ballet girl shrank down in her seat and looked as though she wanted nothing more than to die on the spot. Reyer, who had absolutely no patience for Carlotta's vindictive turns, brought his fist down upon the piano keys in a fury. The resulting crash of chords shut everyone up immediately. "Signora, that is enough!" he spat. "I can see that this rehearsal has been conveniently ruined. You are all dismissed until the afternoon session." He glared at Carlotta. "I trust you will be conducting yourselves in a more civilized manner."
Carlotta stared back at him for a moment, looking oddly pleased, then without a word stood and swept out of the rehearsal room after wrapping her furs securely about her shoulders. Piangi stuck his nose in the air and followed like the trained dog that he was.
The rest of the company watched them leave, then began to gather up their things and make for the exit in groups of two and three, happy at the prospect of escaping practice for the morning. The ballet girls all left together, as was their custom, save for Meg Giry and her timid little friend. Reyer didn't notice. He was sitting on the piano bench trying to keep from shredding the open score before him with his bare hands and fuming. God, how he despised Carlotta! He really was not paid enough for this, this insipid bowing and groveling and kissing dirt to appease the diva. His contract never said that a good grasp of Opera politics was part of the job requirement! He was only here to teach the singers their score and to run rehearsals, not to play resident company diplomat. Perhaps if things had gone differently for him he wouldn't be trapped in this mess—
Reyer was startled from his silent rage by a sniffle. He peered over the top of the piano to see the little ballet girl still hunched in her chair, apparently engrossed in a self-pity trip of her own. He coughed, loud in the silence. "Mademoiselle, you had best be getting on. Madame Giry will be missing you."
She looked up at him quickly, and blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You have ballet rehearsal as well, do you not?"
"Oh. Yes." She picked up her copy of the score and stood, embarrassed. Reyer noticed her eyes were red. Letting the score fall awkwardly against the front of her dress, she sniffled again, glanced at him as if to say something, then changed her mind and simply walked out. Reyer watched her close the door, leaving him alone in the rehearsal room. Alone—he could not remember a time when he had not been.
There was nothing exceedingly spectacular about Reyer's life. He had been born in Paris, raised in Paris, and would most likely die in Paris. The son of middle-class parents who never had much to do with him, Reyer spent much of his childhood alone amusing himself and upon entering young adulthood began entertaining dreams of stardom on the stage. At the conservatory he was an average student who displayed a decent amount of talent on the piano. After graduating he auditioned for and landed small roles in a few operas. But fate seemed to have him destined for a life spent behind the stage instead of on it. The Paris Opera somehow ended up hiring him as their chorus master, where he could still sing but only when correcting others in their own vocal mistakes. The bitterness of that disappointment never fully left him, but money was money and he was desperately in need of a steady salary. In time Reyer grew to love his new job but would never have dared to admit that fact to anyone, least of all himself.
Reyer's disposition had never been a particularly friendly one, and yet he never seemed to wonder—or care—why he had no friends. He was still relatively young, in his very early thirties, and still what was considered a decent marriageable age. But his natural tendency towards sarcasm, general unconcern for other peoples' feelings, and lack of any real social skills did an efficient job of keeping everyone but the most casual acquaintances away. Reyer did get along fairly well with Madame Giry, but that was probably because his methods of controlling the Opera populace were very similar to hers. Togther they ran very strict and productive rehearsals.
His professional life was very hectic and took up most of Reyer's waking hours; but in what little time was left for his personal life there was almost nothing at all. His schedule simply did not allow time for close friends of any sort, and his personality was too irritable to attract any.
In the end, he was always left alone. He just seemed too busy to notice.
The afternoon rehearsal was not much of an improvement over the morning's.
Most of the company was slow to arrive, having taken advantage of the sudden increase in their free time by escaping out of the Opera into the cafes of Paris for a breath of spring air. The ballet girls had been the first to return to the rehearsal room. Tired and rather cranky after their hours of practice with Madame Giry, they were not looking forward to the hours of ridicule they would doubtlessly receive from the chorus, so they made up for it by ridiculing the one shy little dancer instead.
Carlotta was nearly late—on purpose, of course; she required crowds for her entrances. With Piangi trailing behind as usual, the diva had smirked at her earlier object of scorn and seated herself haughtily in her self-appointed place front and center by the piano. Reyer had to wonder why Carlotta's latest scheme was. She only tormented those who represented a threat to her position as diva, and as those were very few and far between, why on earth should she now pick a harmless dancer to antagonize? The child would never have a chance of displacing Carlotta in a million years. She lacked ambition, that much was clear. And besides, she was a dancer. She probably couldn't even sing her basic scales correctly.
It took Reyer nearly five minutes to get the company calm enough to begin warming up, something they should have done already anyway. Carlotta put on a great show of boredom, singing her scales an entire octave higher than she was supposed to. Reyer ignored her. That part passed painlessly enough, and Reyer was only too glad to begin working on the score again. To get it over with, he decided to work on Carlotta's Act Three aria. The matter of Hannibal's entrance into Carthage he would deal with last.
One run through Elissa's great aria was enough to convince Reyer it wouldn't have to be rehearsed again, at least not until the dress rehearsals began. Carlotta sang it flawlessly, or at least as flawlessly as she would ever be capable of singing it. She could hit all the notes effortlessly. That was never a problem with her. What grated on Reyer's nerves was her style. Everything she sang—happy arias, sad arias, dramatic arias, and everything inbetween—was sung loudly, flashily, and adorned with every kind of vocal embellishment possible. He knew that she sang that way to remind everyone that she was better than them, but really, she had no sensitivity to the emotions in her roles. And the one time Reyer had tried to make that clear to her had ended in disaster. Well, not everyone could be a singer and an actor…
"Well done, Signora, thank you," Reyer said dryly when Carlotta finished the aria, a self-satisfied smile on her face. He flipped through his score, deliberately overlooking Hannibal's reunion with Elissa, and stopped at the Act One finale. "Signor Piangi," he said, eyeing the man, "have you looked over the mountain song?" The 'mountain song' referred to Hannibal's decision to cross the mountains with his elephants.
Piangi nodded, searching his own score for the appropriate place.
"Good." For once, the man had taken initiative. "I will give you a two-bar introduction, then you will come in." Reyer fingered Piangi's starting note on the piano, then began playing the accompaniment with one hand while cueing in and conducting the tenor with the other. That particular trick had taken him a long time to perfect, but now he did it without even pausing to think. Piangi sang well enough—his was not an outstanding voice, merely very good, but deserving of principal tenor nonetheless, despite his tendency to blunder through his roles. He had been principal tenor almost as long as Reyer had been chief répétiteur.
Thus the afternoon rehearsal passed in such a manner, routine and rather boring, with Reyer having to raise his voice only a minimum of ten times, until the last half-hour. Deciding that enough was enough, Reyer finally took on Hannibal's entrance into Carthage again. First he worked with the chorus, who did fine for the amount of time they had been working on the music. Carlotta and Piangi needed no additional instruction for the time being, and Piangi even remembered to say 'Rome' correctly. He saved the ballet girls for last.
"Since I know you've all been looking over your scores"—this said very sarcastically, for the group of them had been surreptitiously gossiping while not otherwise occupied—"I think it due time to rehearse your lines. Please look at Hannibal's entrance into Carthage." Reyer flipped to the appropriate page in the score and fingered the starting note on the piano. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Carlotta gathering herself together expectantly, smirk already in place, and silently cursed the diva for what had to the millionth time since he had known her. Here we go again… "I will give you a one-bar introduction. Do try to come in on the appropriate beat for once."
Reyer held up a hand to prepare them; in the back row the dancers sat up expectantly, doing their best to paste alert expressions on their perky faces—all but the little shy one. She kept her eyes glued to the score. Closing his eyes briefly to compose himself, Reyer played the opening bar and then brought his hand down in a cue for the second measure. The ballet girls sang adequately enough for the most part, and they made it through two entire verses of song without overt objection from Carlotta. That peace was not to last long, however.
"A travesty," Carlotta said after the second verse, in the momentary pause of music while Reyer searched for the next verse the ballet was required to sing. He could sense she was homing in on her newfound victim again. "A travesty that croaking toad was allowed to graduate from conservatory, much less sing at the Paris Opera. It defames me. Where have the national institutions gone? I will speak to the manager. He will not refuse me. He—"
"Signora," Reyer interjected slowly, and at the deadly tone of his voice she was obliged to stop and look at him. The quiet hatred burning in his eyes was enough to give even the most pompous prima donna pause. "I am tired of your outrageous childishness. If you do not cease behaving in such an unbecoming manner, I will be only too happy to forcibly remove you from this rehearsal."
There was a silence in which everyone held a collective breath, waiting for Carlotta's reaction. Very seldomly was Carlotta ever challenged in such a manner, and even then it was usually Reyer who dared to do so. The diva stared at him for a long moment, the fury in her eyes matching his own; then she drew herself up very straight in her chair. "You cannot speak to me that way," she hissed in a low voice.
"Of course I can!" Reyer snapped with equal venom. "This is my rehearsal. Behave yourself or leave."
Carlotta glared murder at him but did not deign to reply. Reyer slammed his score shut with a savage sigh. He'd had enough for one day; perhaps tomorrow would be easier. "Ballet, thank you. Cast, you are free to go. You." He pointed at the shy little dancer in the back. "If you would, remain behind for a moment. That is all."
Everyone got up as one to leave, whispering to each other excitedly, still in awe over the just-witnessed confrontation. Carlotta once again wore her triumphant smirk, though her eyes still blazed; oddly enough, Reyer got the impression she was getting what she wanted. No doubt she expected him to give the little dancer a severe dressing-down. The very last thing Reyer wanted was to be duped into one of the diva's schemes, but what was he supposed to do? The child wouldn't improve without lessons—
Lessons.
That was it! He could give her lessons, just a few, and perhaps the dancer's voice would improve. Carlotta would stop complaining, and his job would be made easier. It seemed so simple a solution, he was glad to have thought of it. Satisfied with himself, Reyer arranged the music on the piano with a less violent hand, preparing for the next day's rehearsal.
"You wanted to see me, monsieur?"
Reyer looked up. The final stragglers were just leaving; a blessed quiet had descended upon the rehearsal room. In front of him, the little dancer was hesitantly approaching the piano with an air of extreme nervousness. He wondered if perhaps she was ill. Her face was very pale, with dark circles under the eyes, and she could stand to gain a few pounds. But she was a dancer, after all, and they were universally known for practically starving themselves to maintain their figures. Vain little sprites, every last one of them.
"Yes," he replied, nodding once and gesturing for her to sit on the piano bench if she so wished. "I do not want to take up your time, mademoiselle, but this cannot go on for much longer. What is your name?"
The girl had settled herself nervously at the piano, and did not look at Reyer; perhaps she was afraid of him. That pleased him somewhat. Fear was good—it tended to keep the populace more or less in line. He was not unaware of his reputation as a tyrant. "Christine Daaé, monsieur."
Reyer folded his arms across his chest and regarded her sternly. "Mademoiselle Daaé, have you any idea why Signora Giudicelli is using you as an excuse to disrupt rehearsal?"
"None at all!" Christine burst out, and Reyer blinked in surprise at the vehemence in her voice. "I have never spoken to her or about her. I go out of my way to avoid her. I don't know why she torments me so—I'm not a threat to her at all."
It had to have been the most words the girl had strung together in one sentence since arriving at the Opera. "We shall see," Reyer said, fixing his eyes on her appraisingly. "Mademoiselle, have you ever considered singing lessons?"
Christine swallowed, her face flushing pink, and finally looked up at him for a fraction of a second. "I am a singer, Monsieur Reyer. I studied voice at the conservatory. But it seems I was a better dancer than singer, and I was placed in the corps de ballet instead of the Opera chorus."
Long-repressed memories of his own career displacement floated up from the depths of Reyer's mind to taunt him; quickly he blocked them out. This new piece of information interested him greatly. If this Daaé was already a singer, then perhaps she did—unknowingly, of course—present a threat to Carlotta's seemingly unshakable position as Opera prima donna. If the diva herself thought so, then Daaé must have some real talent she somehow managed to keep secret from everyone. Suddenly the mental image of the mighty Carlotta toppling from grace was so delicious he almost laughed out loud. What could possibly be sweeter than he, Reyer, Carlotta's oldest enemy, being the orchestrator of her downfall?
Reyer knew then that he had to teach Christine Daaé. He simply couldn't pass up such an opportunity to see Carlotta disgraced. Besides, if she were to achieve fame under his tutelage, it would be like the fame he'd never had a chance to achieve himself.
He simply had to.
Leaning forward slightly, Reyer fixed an even firmer gaze on Christine's unnaturally pale face. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I do believe we could make you a threat to La Carlotta." He paused, wondering how to word what he wanted to propose. "If you would allow me to work with you, that is."
Christine merely stared at him in astonishment, a mixture of awed emotions crossing her face; what little color was present in her face now drained away. Reyer raised an eyebrow in query. "Well?"
She exhaled loudly. "Monsieur—do you truly mean that?" she stammered. "That would be—I couldn't possibly afford to pay you—"
Reyer waved a hand dismissively in slight irritation; he found her extreme state of shock mildly annoying. "No fee," he replied. "I will not make you pay. I am only offering out of the kindness of my heart." And a little else besides, he added silently. "Would that suit you?"
Christine managed to compose herself somewhat, a little color coming back into her cheeks, gazing at Reyer with something akin to barely concealed worship. "Monsieur, I had no idea you had it within you—" She stopped abruptly, stricken. "Forgive me; that was very rude. I would like it very much if you would teach me."
"Good. It's settled, then." Reyer nodded briefly, the barest hint of a smile appearing on his lips. "Please see me as early as possible tomorrow and we will work out a schedule then. I do not want to keep you any longer."
Sensing the unspoken dismissal, Christine stood up to leave, gathering her cloak.
"One more thing," Reyer added.
Christine paused in the middle of putting on her cloak to look at him, a kind of newfound admiration in her eyes.
"These lessons must be kept secret," he said. "Speak of them to no one. I can't have every blessed chorus girl in this place begging me for lessons as well, and I certainly cannot be accused of preferential treatment. I am only doing this to keep Carlotta quiet, and no reason else."
Christine actually smiled, an expression which did wonders for the unusally sad cast of her face. "I won't tell, I promise." She swept her cloak on. "Good night, Monsieur Reyer."
Reyer inclined his head stiffly. "Likewise, Mademoiselle Daaé."
Christine exited, a spring in her step that had not been present previously, leaving Reyer alone once more to contemplate in silence. I'll teach her, he vowed to the silence of the rehearsal room. I'll teach her to sing so beautifully that Lefevre won't be able to help but replace Carlotta with her, and then it will be my turn to laugh…
Before leaving that night Reyer went to see Madame Giry.
"'Out of the kindness of my heart'?" The stately woman's lips curved in an amused smile. "I would hardly think you have a heart left, dear Reyer."
Reyer glared at her. They were sitting in the closet of an office the Opera had allowed the ballet mistress, waiting for Meg to return from closing up the ballet rehearsal rooms. It was late for a non-performance day, nearly nine-thirty at night. Since both Reyer and Madame Giry usually remained at the Opera until such hours, a ritual had slowly grown up between them over the years where one would wait on the other, and then Reyer would see Madame Giry—often accompanied by Meg these days—safely home. It had also become a ritual for Madame Giry to kindly chide Reyer over his less-than-sunny disposition, a practice he utterly despised.
"If I didn't have a heart, madame, I daresay I would never have offered to teach her in the first place." He cleared his throat irritably. "Enough about me. What can you tell me about Christine Daaé?"
Madame Giry thought in silence for a moment. "As you no doubt saw, she is very young, I would think about twenty years old," she began. "Her native country is Sweden. She was brought to France with her father, a gifted violinist, when she was just a child. Now the father is dead and she lives by herself not very far from here. That is what my Meg has told me. Meg is her only friend."
"What about her voice?" Reyer persisted.
Madame Giry took another moment to reflect. "Meg has said that Christine is a better singer than a dancer has any right to be. That is all I can say."
Reyer leaned back in his chair. "I have reason to believe mademoiselle has promise. I will be meeting with her tomorrow to see what time of day would be agreeable for a lesson. I assume you will want to be informed."
Madame Giry nodded slowly, the amused smile returning to her face. "Monsieur Reyer, offering to assist a fellow human being and expecting nothing in return. It's unheard of. You never go out of your way for anyone. What makes Christine Daaé so special?"
Revenge, thought Reyer silently, his expression stony. He did not like to be reminded of his less savory personality traits. "La Carlotta has been disrupting rehearsals to torment Mademoiselle Daaé. I merely thought that perhaps a little tutoring was in order to restore peace."
There was a short silence in which Madame Giry regarded Reyer thoughtfully and he tried not to squirm like a nervous schoolboy under her gaze. Every time she watched him in such a manner—and it was more often than he liked—it made him profoundly uncomfortable. Madame Giry had been ballet mistress since before Reyer had become a member of the chorus, and as such she had witnessed the entire span of his Opera career—including the portions he wished to forget.
"It still pains you, doesn't it?" she asked finally.
Reyer stiffened, straightening up in the chair. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded warily.
Madame Giry was still watching him steadily; the faint smile was still there but it had now morphed into something approaching compassionate melancholy. "La Carlotta causing all that trouble. Your being rehired as chorus master. How long has it been, Reyer, eight or nine years? After all this time it still pains you."
Reyer stood abruptly. "This conversation is over," he said flatly. "I will be down in the grand foyer. Please tell Mademoiselle Giry that I am ready to leave when you are." Without another word, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked out of the office.
Madame Giry watched him go with a shake of her head. "He will never change," she murmured to herself, standing and following Reyer's path to go and fetch Meg.