The Holiday: Chapter One

The Holiday: Chapter One        


        How I detest Mondays. Of course this dislike is deliciously cliché, but I feel entirely justified in my frustration. This particular Monday was presenting itself as one of the worst in quite some time: indeed, I had only been observing rehearsal for an hour and already my head was throbbing.

The usual was taking place, only exaggerated to such an extent that had I been in good health, I would have been doubled over with laughter. Signora Guidicelli was persistently griping about God knows what at the top of her operatic lungs, blurring her French and Italian into one indistinguishable mess. Something akin to pity rose up when I surveyed the poor conductor: he looked utterly exhausted and had long ago abandoned arguing with the diva, instead electing to take a well-deserved nap in the orchestra pit. The acting manager looked no better: he continually raked his hand through his now disheveled hair, feebly attempting to reason with his leading lady. The remaining performers stood idly in the background, so accustomed to such drawn-out scenes that several had started a game of poker. Antoinette Giry looked beside herself with fury, as her ballerinas either could not or would not focus; resulting in the shoddiest choreography I had ever had the misfortune to play audience to. It was, in short, an enormous disaster.

I groaned softly from the shadows of Box Five, wishing desperately for the opium stored in the bureau five floors below. Winter was normally a welcome change, but this year it had heralded illness after bloody illness. I had been suffering from another nasty case of influenza for the past week and a half, something that undoubtedly grieves me more than others: sneezing is repulsively messy without the aid of nostrils. My body still ached with fever, and I was certainly in no shape to be up and about, but obligation to my beloved opera proved stronger than petty physical ailment.

“…And tell-a my make-up arteest that she ees as good as-a fired! I look-a like a toy doll!” Carlotta screeched, snatching the curly black wig from her head and viciously hurling it to the floor.

“Madame, calm yourself,” stammered the acting director, “Everything can be easily corrected—“

“Easily corrected?!” Her heavily painted eyes narrowed and she stuck out her jaw, “I complain of problems like-a these since forever, and what you do? Sit-a there and-a pretend that nothing ees wrong! I cannot-a work in conditions such as-a this!”

“Madame—“

“*Chiuda la vostra bocca, voi idiot! All of you! Problems, all-a day Carlotta has-a problems and no one does anyting! You still expect-a me to work? You should-a be grateful that Carlotta still-a graces your stage! I am-a done with this, do you all-a ‘ear?  I want solutions!” Tugging unceremoniously at her bosom, she rounded on the unfortunate seamstress, “And you make-a my dress too tight!”

“N-no, Madame…” The tiny Irishwoman was actually trembling, bless her, “T-those’re the same measurements tha’ I used on yer las’ costume.”

“What-a you saying, eh?! You tink, maybe that I am-a fat? Ees that what-a you say?”

“—N-no! N-n-not at all, Madame. P-perhaps you’ve, erm, grown a bit—“

Carlotta let out a howl that could have raised the dead.

“You stupid-a woman! You trying to make-a me look bad! You trying to make-a me look like a tub! ‘Ow dare you? I should ‘ave you fired! You know what? I am-a mad now. Really mad! You see dis?” She pointed to her face, “Dis is not a ‘appy face and SOMEONE ‘AD BETTER MAKE-A DIS FACE ‘APPY OR CARLOTTA WILL BE BYE-BYE FOREVER AND YOU WILL ALL-A BE VERY SORRY--!”

“Enjoying the performance, Erik?”

I jumped slightly, spinning around to face my visitor.

“Damn it, Nadir, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Giving you a taste of your own medicine, is all,” he chuckled, taking a seat in the chair adjacent to mine, “So what is on the program today?”

“Carmen, although that wretched woman distorts ‘Habenera’ in such a way that you’d think the entire production was one long series of mating calls,” I grunted.

Nadir laughed.

“That bad, hmm?”

“Mon Dieu, Nadir, you have no idea…this woman butchers everything she wraps her vocal cords around, and I mean everything. How many times I’ve insisted the role go to a mezzo, I’ve lost count, but of course our dear managers refuse to embrace common sense. Let me tell you something, there is nothing worse than Carlotta Guidicelli’s vibrato: she sounds as if someone has just stuck a large pole right up her—“

“You look awful, Erik,” Nadir interrupted, his thick black eyebrows furrowed.

        I blinked.

“Why, thank you. It is truly comforting to know that I can always count on you to lift my spirits.”

He ignored the biting retort and continued frowning in concern. "I am quite  serious…you’ve lost more weight. I hadn’t believed that there was anything left for you to lose! Are you ill?”

“No.”

His jade eyes stared straight through me, and I deliberately stared straight ahead.

“You are, aren’t you? Do not lie to me: I know you too well, as much as you may detest it. You work yourself to the breaking point, and continue to work even while you are practically half-conscious upon the floor!”

“Ah, you may enjoy this, Nadir,” I said mildly, gesturing to the stage, “Look, Carlotta has just punched one of the ballerinas. Oh dear…Antoinette doesn’t look too happy about that, does she? And here is La Sorelli…why, I had no idea that she could spit so ferociously.”

Nadir was not amused.

“Divert your attention for a minute, will you? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”

I glared at him.

“You know what I mean!” He was scowling at me, “Why don’t you take a break, Erik? The holidays are approaching, and perhaps a week or two away will do your spirit some good.”

“My spirit is dry and shriveled beyond any hope of redemption.”

“Your optimism is heartwarming.”

“Where would you have me go? Shall I stroll into a grand hotel and request a room? I’m sure the concierge would love that. Perhaps the other guests and I could go caroling on Christmas Eve. I know! I’ll dress as Saint Nicholas. Won’t the children be beside themselves with excitement when I show up?”

“That would certainly be better than staying here and wallowing in the cellars,” came the cool reply.

“Wallowing in the cellars is my profession. I have a theatre to run, as you may recall. Are you suggesting that I leave Carmen in the clumsy hands of the managers? The production will be a complete and utter catastrophe.”

Nadir scratched his nose and discreetly motioned to the stage where Carlotta was whacking the acting manager upside the head with her fan. The actors had abandoned the game of poker and were now surrounding the brawling pair, with rousing cries of  “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

“…You know as well as I do that only so much can be done when Guidicelli is involved…” I said matter-of-factly.

He groaned and massaged his temples.

“I wish that for once in your miserable life you would listen to what I have to say. But do you care? Of course you don’t. It’s all about this ruddy theatre, isn’t it? Allah above, you should be arrested for the stress you bring upon yourself.”

“I will never be arrested, Nadir. The police shall be very sorry indeed if they ever choose to do so. But I despise talking about myself. What is that in your lap? You’ve been playing with it ever since you sat down.”

I gestured to the cream-colored envelope beneath his fingers. He paused to stare at it for a moment, as if just realizing it was there, and then handed it to me. The familiar tiny script on the front bore my name.

“It’s from Miss Daae,” Nadir unnecessarily explained, “She just returned home and wanted me to deliver it to you. I had every intention of doing so when I entered the box, but the sight of your ribcage poking through that vest was a bit distracting, you see.” He sounded like an angry parent scolding their naughty son. It brought back rather unpleasant memories.

“That will do, Daroga,” I growled, slicing open the envelope with the tip of my finger. Inside was a neatly folded parchment, penned in the same precise lettering. Curiosity was bubbling like mad beneath a stoic surface—what sort of pressing matter led her to write a letter, rather than address me in person?

Dear Erik,

Before you read any further, calm down: nothing is wrong.

I am back from Perros and will ask Nadir to deliver this to you while I make myself presentable. Antoinette sent him a plate of her raspberry crepes, however: he may be delayed for a short time!

I certainly hope you’ve kept yourself healthy while I was away.

Raoul is taking his annual holiday trip to the south to visit his sisters. He was such a dear in suggesting that I accompany him, but I politely declined. I don’t particularly get along with Annette, and Giselle makes me a bit jumpy. Raoul assured me that he understood (he and I have had nasty encounters with Giselle’s cooking). I do worry that I’ve upset him, but I have something else in mind for Christmastime this year…

I would be delighted if you would meet me near the stables at eight tonight. Don’t fret: all of the workers will have departed by then, and we shan’t have to worry about being overheard. I don’t know if you’ve been outside lately, but it was positively frigid at the train station! Bring a coat, dearest, for it looks as if it may snow.

Love,
Christine

I could do nothing but sit, limply clutching the parchment in one hand. Tendrils of fog wrapped themselves around my mind, though (for once) not due to illness. Her motives baffled me; she knew that I did not set much in store for Christmas, or any other holiday for that matter. It was just another day—just another grueling, miserable day—in the regrettably long story of my life. It made no difference that normal men across the globe were commemorating peace and joy: notes would show up on the managers’ desk regardless, and O.G would continue to prowl the shadows of his kingdom as per usual. Very simply, my attitude toward the entire celebratory issue was something akin to “Bah Humbug.”

But of course I would oblige to Christine’s wishes. What choice did I have? Within her lies a great and terrible power that turns even my sturdiest resolutions into sanguine puddles of goop. I would willingly follow her to the ends of the earth.

Nevertheless, apprehension slithered into view. What did she mean, “something else in mind?” Would this “else” involve humiliation on my part? What if, God forbid, other people were a part of this “else?” I would have to put my foot down. Christine would just have to accept the fact that the human race and I cannot coexist without bloodshed.

But surely she knew this? As much as she wished to change my incredibly reclusive habits, she knew that isolation was as much a part of my daily life as breathing.  Surely she would not attempt to sway the natural order of things by forcing me to enjoy myself?

“Erik?”

I’d forgotten Nadir was there. I turned to face him, still lost in a dreadful series of “what ifs,” barely registering his presence.

“What is it? Did something happen in Perros? Is she all right? Is she hurt?”

I managed to shake my head, staring at everything and seeing nothing. There will be people involved, filthy, stinking masses that leer and gape and point. Her reputation will sink to the depths of the social pool for associating with a specter such as myself. I am a wanted man! I will not endanger her with my company. I will explain the gravity of the situation. She must listen…I am too much of a threat, an unnecessary burden.

The steady hum of Nadir’s voice increased in volume.

“Well, what is it then? Are you going to be sick? Your hands are trembling. Erik, what…oh, it’s that damned opium isn’t it? You’re getting tremors now, you idiot! I warned you—“

“Nadir, for the love of all that is holy, shut your pestering pie hole.” He looked ready to claw my eyes out, but I continued in what was a pitiful excuse for an indifferent tone, “Christine wrote to request my…presence. She wishes to meet tonight in order to discuss any, er, potential…holiday frolicking between…between the two of us…that is to say, s-she and I.” I winced at the butchered explanation as my heart rammed against my chest.

Nadir relaxed and a delighted smirk tugged at his lips.

“Oh ho, what do you know?” he chortled, waggling his eyebrows and clapping me on the back, “We’ve got ourselves a regular Don Juan here! What did you do to win her fair heart, hmm? Midnight serenades? Candlelit dinners? A walk in the park, perhaps?”

“Yes, that is exactly it. We skipped through a field of poppies singing gay little tunes while I giggled like a schoolgirl and wooed her to pieces,” I snapped.

“You cantankerous dog,” he muttered, “All jesting aside, where are the pair of you meeting?”

“The stables…I haven’t the faintest idea what is going through her head.”

“You aren’t supposed to. The mind of a woman is a web of indecipherable complexities, Erik.” He stood just then, stretching and running a hand through his graying hair before replacing the customary fez cap. “I best be on my way: looks like it may snow something terrible. I’m getting far too old to walk home, especially in that sort of mess.”

“Shall I hail a brougham?”

“No need. There should be one waiting near the Rue Scribe entrance. Take care of yourself, Erik. You need to be in good health so you can tell me all about your little romantic rendezvous.” He winked.

“Goodbye, Nadir.”

He turned and left, laughing quietly to himself.

My nerves were in a tither. I was to meet Christine in little less than three hours. She was in her dressing room at that very moment, beautifying herself (though there was absolutely no need) for me. It would only be polite if I did the same: my clothing very much resembled crinkled parchment, and I feared that the rather unpleasant odor filling the air was a result of entirely forgetting to bathe for the past several days. Thought I was loath to admit it, Nadir may have been right: work often consumed me entirely.

I rose, deciding that it would make no difference whether I had a hand in Carmen or not: Carlotta would ensure its failure either way. Eventually, another note would find its way to the manager’s office regarding her retirement, but for now, there were more important things. For some strange reason, Christine desired my company tonight and I would show up without question, though not entirely without anxiety.

I have a date. The thought was so outrageous that I laughed audibly, a booming, echoing sound that stopped the rehearsals in their tracks and gave way to fresh shrieks of “it’s the ghost!”