Fantôme – Chapter 6

With the embargo on Box Five lifted – although the Box Office were loath to begin selling it, and took handsome persuasion from Moncharmin to add it to the roster of saleable tickets – the managers had dusted off their hands and considered it a job well-done… for the day, before they came face-to-face with Opera politics. This time, it was Monsieur Mercier, the acting coach, who brought it to their office door.

“I hear from my student Little Meg Giry that you have put her mother on paid holiday and refuse to see her – I have a letter for you, Messers the Managers from that noble lady, via her daughter.”

Richard rolled his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch, and Moncharmin beckoned Mercier over with the letter.

“My good sir,” said Richard, “your respectful language is admirable, but you cannot convince me that you feel that gullible humbug is a noble lady.”

“Monsieurs, the Giry family have served the Opera perhaps fifty years between them; besides, Meg is a dainty and expressive dancer who clearly has a sensitive soul.”

“And I thought it was her bold good looks that put her front-and-centre of the dancers? Certainly many of the patrons remark on what a pretty little thing she is. Perhaps I am simply cynical?” Mercier said nothing.

Moncharmin took his glasses off and sighed. “Firmin, it is this same business about the ghost.”

“And what are we to do about it?”

Moncharmin read directly from the letter. “Cease to sell Box Five lest He become angry. And this, his second letter on the subject, ought be considered as a threat.”

“I will not be threatened, not even in jest!”

“Calm down, Firmin. Let us approach this rationally: is there any special worry about Box Five? Does it, perhaps, suffer from an impeded view, or are the cushions worn thin?”

His companion shrugged in response.

“And do you not think that it is worth establishing if there is a reason we are finding ourselves directed to Box Five, and our paying customers directed away?”

At this, Richard threw the blanket off his legs and stood, dramatically raising his fist in the air.

“To Box Five!” he cried. Moncharmin smiled, and simply said “Indeed.”

So it was that the group of men tramped over to Box Five, picking up Monseieur Remy, their long-suffering secretary, en route, and spent a merry half-hour on their hands and knees inspecting cushions, leaning their full bodyweight on the ballustrades, and sitting on every seat to determine the quality of its view to all angles of the Opera House, before concluding that it was, in all ways they could think of, identical to both of its neighbours.

“Honestly, gentlemen – this is maddening.” said Richard, “I do not see a reason for this silliness surrounding Box Five. Why, if anything, it is in rather better condition than the other boxes!”

“Probably due to lack of use,” agreed Moncharmin, “and it will perhaps shame us into spending on costly renovations of the others.”

It was, at this point, that the orchestra began tuning up, and Carlotta stomped her way onto the stage and shouted at poor Gabriel, as she did nigh-on every day. Carlotta, as the Prima Donna, thought that the orchestra should facilitate her, and she felt that this should apply to rehearsal times as much as it did to when the audience was in. To her, the orchestra was a single entity, not one made up of individual players who each had to co-ordinate with his fellows; though she had gone through musical training herself, she no longer allowed her diction or her expression to be swayed by even the chorus-master. Gabriel mopped his brow as Carlotta’s inherent musicality and ability to project her voice rained down on his ears and that of the orchestra, hitting also the men up in Box Five.

“By Jove!” Richard exclaimed, then shouted down “Carlotta, wait half a minute and then call out again!” before rushing from the room. He emerged on the balcony next door and listened, before shouting down once more. “No, Carlotta, this simply won’t do – it is not scientific enough. Can you sing for me, my treasure? Perhaps a line or two of Konstanze?”

Richard had good tastes, and he knew the ego of his singer well. She launched full-throatedly into “Martern aller Arten”, and the man dashed about, in between boxes, his method imperceptible to his colleagues. The orchestra stood on – one piccolo player accompanied Carlotta from memory until his neighbour jostled him and bade him pay attention to Gabriel the conductor, whose fear of Carlotta was evident from his face. A capella the singer wobbled slightly in her tempo, not quite singing as the master had written, but her voice was robust, and that was enough for Richard’s peculiar work. At the end of the aria he stood across from his colleagues in Box Two.

“Gentlemen! I have cracked it!” he shouted. “I shall come back over to your side. Carlotta, my dove, it was only with your help that I would have known. Please, do not strain your voice – go back to your dressing room, ignore the orchestra, come back in twenty or thirty minutes for your own warm-up and they will be ready to accompany you.” Richard turned sharply on his heel and left the box; Carlotta smirked and left the stage down left for her own room, her luxurious gown sweeping a path in sawdust as she went.

It was with certainty that Firmin Richard addressed his colleagues in Box Five. “My fellows, it is not the worst by any token; in fact, we were being directed to something only a true connoisseur of music could discern. Box Five is, in fact, the best box! Not only are the furnishings the fullest and the view of the stage good, due to some quirk of the building, this box has quite the best acoustics! Yes, our dear Carlotta’s voice rang the most true in this very box – and that is why it is empty, those rogues the old managers must have kept it for themselves – or, if I am being more generous, for a true VIP, should a sultan or Sarah Bernhardt grace us with their presence.”

Moncharmin gave a jolly chuckle, “And this, my fellow, is why we are excellent partners – your musicianship to detect such a thing and my analytical mind to bring us here, truly a match made in heaven.” He clapped his partner on the back and continued to laugh heartily. “If this is a test, my dear man, we have passed with flying colours – yes, we are quite capable to run the Opera between us!”

“Heavens!” said Remy, white as a sheet. He was staring upwards into the middle distance, to a higher balcony opposite. It was Moncharmin who interrupted him.

“Remy, my good man, what has made you nervous now? You are constantly ruffled, my man – are you quite alright about your duties? You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, but The Phantom! I fear that he is aggrieved we are removing the box from His possession – with the knowledge it is the best, could he be considered the VIP?”

Richard followed his underling’s gaze. “My dear chap, it is just the full lights of the House catching the velvet of that curtain as it is askew – it billows in a shape as though there is a man behind it, but there is no such thing as ghosts, and certainly no Phantom here – and what member of Opera staff would lurk in such a way? Why, we have veritably solved the mystery today – do not allow your eyes to search any more for Phantom figures!”

Despite this rallying inducement from the scientific mind, Remy’s eyes could not pull away from that spot of curtain until he had left the room entirely. His blood ran cold at the thought of the china-white face he had seen before the curtain began to billow in the way that the Managers had seen. The Secretary was unconvinced there would not be more trouble to come… but what could an underling do to prevent tragedy, if his Managers would not listen?