After opening the door, I fumbled around trying to feel the walls to find the light switch. I finally found it on the wall to my right and turned the light on. I descended the dimly-lit flight of stairs and turned right again to find another flight of stairs leading down. I found another light switch on the wall to my left and turned on the light. I descended the second flight of stairs and came to a hall going to my left and a door in front of me. I took a moment to get my bearings. Jean is right, I thought, you CAN get lost in this place. Let's see, the workroom is on the second level of the basement so this must be the third level and Erik wanted me to meet him on the fourth level. I wonder where this door goes? I tried the door handle, half expecting to find the door locked, but like the door on the second level of the basement, it was unlocked as well. I opened the door, found the light switch on my right, turned on the light and saw another flight of stairs leading down to a landing. I descended these stairs as well, and at the landing found another light switch, which was again on my left. I turned on the light and descended that flight of stairs as well. This time, however, I came to a wall in front of me, a wall to my right and a doorway to my left.
The doorway seemed to lead to a large open area but it was dark so I really was not sure what I would find. I felt along the walls on both sides of the doorway before finally finding a light switch on the left wall. Unfortunately, even after I has turned on the light, the room was still pretty dark. The reason the light did not help very much was because the area was crammed full of old sets and large props, all of which cast eerie shadows throughout the entire room. I stood still for a moment, trying to let my eyes get accustomed to the dim light when I heard maestro say, "Good morning! You're right on time!"
"Where are you?" I asked. "Over here by the large backdrops, just as I said I would be." I peered through the dimness, trying to find the backdrops when he said again, "Over here, a little to your right."
I looked to the right and finally found some rather large backdrops. They were mostly gray with some black at the bottom of them. Erik, being quite thin and dressed in black as well, almost literally blended in with the scenery. "There you are!" I said as I walked over to him. "I couldn't see you in the poor light and all this stuff! Are we having our lesson here in this room?"
"Yes, but not right here. Come, follow me, please." He took out a small flashlight, and after placing it in his left hand, he took my left hand in his right hand, and turning on the flashlight, we walked through the maze of backdrops to a small area at, what I think, was the far right corner of the room. There, I saw an old spinet piano with a small lamp on it. Maestro seated himself on the stool in front of the piano, and after feeling around the base of the lamp, turned the lamp on. He then moved it over a little, centering it on top of the piano. He lifted the lid to the keyboard a little and then slid it foreward and opened up the piano. "Let's begin our lesson," he said as he started playing the same warm-up exercises that he had played from my last lesson.
I tried to follow his playing just as I had before and I must have been singing a little better because maestro kept playing. At first he kept going up the scales and I followed his playing until I could sing no higher that a high "G". Then he started going down the scale and I kept singing until he got to low "C" and I could sing no lower.
"Madame." he said as he stopped playing, "I have discovered two other problems and I think I know what they are. In the first place, in addition to your improper breathing, you have been singing much too high. I believe, if I'm not mistaken, that you are a contralto and that you have been trying to sing in the soprano range. Obviously, that doesn't work and that explains much of my irritation whenever I hear you sing. If you must sing melody, particularly the melodies of the songs performed here at the opera house, sing them an octave lower. That will also reduce strain on your vocal chords, not to mention reducing strain on my nerves. In the second place, you need to stand up straight! Now I realize that's hard to do, particularly after you have spent all day hunched over your sewing, but you must stand up straight! Think of it this way. Imagine yourself being a puppet with a string coming out of the top of your head and it's being held taunt by the puppeteer." His imagery must have worked because I immediately felt myself standing straighter. "That's much better," he continued, "In addition to those breathing exercises I gave you at our last lesson, I want you to practice standing straight in front of a full-length mirror. Speaking of which, I have something to give you." He reached into his pocket and took out a business card and gave it to me. It was from a store that sold glass and mirrors and other related housewares. I recognized the name of the store and realized it was one that I passed on my way to work every day.
"I think I know this place," I said as I looked at the card. "It's not very far from you," he said. "How would you know?" I asked. "I felt that you needed to have a mirror and so I went to several stores here in Paris, and priced them. I know that you don't have much money nor do you have a car. So you would need something cheap and some way to get it back to your place without breaking your budget or your back. Since most taxis charge less if there are short distances, you shouldn't be spending too much money."
"Well, thank you for the card but may I ask how you know where I live?" I must have sounded like I was paranoid but I was uncomfortable with near-strangers that seemed to follow me around.
"I have business in the area and I have seen you coing and going on occasion." He then added in an apologetic tone of voice, "I'm sorry if I have offended you."
"I'm sorry if I seem upset. It's just that I had some bad experiences when my family lived in the D.C. area." "D.C.?" "Washington, D.C." "Of course. Again, I'm sorry if I have given offense." "You really didn't offend me. It just startled me, that's all." "Well, then," he said, changing the subject, "when do we meet for my next English lesson?" "Would seven-thirty this evening be all right? Everyone with the exception of Andre will have left for the evening by then." "That will be fine. Do you think you can find your way back upstairs? It's nearly eight-thirty and probably time for you to get to work."
"I think so," I answered. "Good! Until seven-thirty, then," he said as he closed up the piano. I turned to leave and as I was walking back to the doorway to go upstairs, I turned around to see if I could still see him and, as usual, I saw nothing. I don't know how he does it, I thought to myself. This man can disappear at a drop of a hat!
I went upstairs to the workroom and started sewing when Jean-Baptiste walked in. "Good morning, Roberta! You're in early again, I see," he said as he hung up his jacket on the coat rack next to the door.
"Yes, I am," I replied as I put my sewing down. "Jean, I've been meaning to ask you if I could start coming in early every morning, say around seven, and then take time off in the afternoon before coming in at, say, four and staying until about nine in the evening." "Why would you want to have hours like that?" he asked.
"I found that I'm able to get more work done without so many people around. Also, things might be quieter around here if Carlotta and I aren't going at it all fo the time." "That's true! Why don't you go upstairs and ask mamgement about this? I think I saw Mme. Giry come in this morning." "I'll do that right now while I'm thinking about it. Besides, I might just avoid Carlotta if I do." "You won't have to worry about her. She has the next few days off."
"I thought rehearsals started last Monday." "They did but she got the time off anyway." "And management lets her get away with behavior like that?" I asked incredulously. "She as...connections, if you know what I mean," he replied. "She must!" I said as I left the room.
I went upstairs to the managers' office and knocked on the door. "Entre," a woman's voice called out. I walked into the room and closed the door. "Ah, bonjour, madame. Ca va?" Mme. Giry greeted me as I walked into the room.
"Bon matin, madame (Good morning). Ca
va bien ce matin." I answered as I walked up to her desk, where she was
seated. I continued. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about
my hours."
"That is a subject I would very much like to talk about with you,"
she replied and then continuing, she said, "I understand you work very
long hours here and although you are on salary, and I really hesitate to
say this for fear of dampening your enthusiasm for your work, but M. Hauptmann
and I feel that you are working far too many hours. Please understand
that we don't wish to offend you or want you to stop working entirely but..."
"Perhaps I can make things a little easier for you. I don't mean to interupt you while you are talking but I have an idea. I was thinking I could come in early, say, around seven and stay until, say one. leave for about three or four hours and come back at either four or five. whichever would be better and stay until nine. That would give me nine or ten hours a day which would be enough time to get my work done and I would be gone in the afternoon when Carlotta is here. I could get my work done and also avoid any trouble with Carlotta. That IS the real reason you're concerned about my hours, isn't it?"
"You know, that might work out. You're right, of course. The conflicts between you and Carlotta were causing us some concern. So much so in fact, that we had to give her a few days off for her to calm down. I'm sure you know by now that she doesn't like foreigners, paticualrly Americans, and that she's not shy in expressing her feelings."
"So I have discovered," I replied and then added, "Would you like me to start my new hours today?. I came in somewhat early this morning to finish a project." "Yes, that would be fine. Thank you for being so cooperative. I'll tell M. Hauptmann about this and I think he will approve."
"Thank you for letting me do this. I'll go back downstairs and get back to work," I said as I turned to leave the room. It was then that I noticed something that I had not noticed before. There were several photographs that were grouped on the far wall of the room, not far from Mme. Giry's desk. As I walked over to look at them more closely, Mme Giry looked up and asked if anything was wrong. "Nothing," I replied, "I just didn't notice these pictures before. Who are these people?" I asked, pointing to the photos.
"Those are some pictures of former members of the company," she replied. Since I did not know much about French opera singers at that time, the faces in the photos meant nothing to me. However, three faces stood out from all the rest. Why those three faces, I could not say, only that they seemed to beckon to me. One face was that of a young black man with a large afro hairstyle. The second was that of a young woman with strong Scandinavian features wearing long hair. Since all of the photos were in black-and-white, it was difficult to tell what color of hair these people had, the young woman in particular but I assumed that she was a blond since she had such Nordic features. The third photo was that of a young man, perhaps in his twenties, with a somewhat oblong face with a very strong, square jaw wearing mutton-chop sideburns. Although his photo was in black-and-white like all the rest, I could tell that he had dark, curly hair.
"Really? Do you know anything about them?" I asked. "No, I'm afraid I don't. I heard from somebody-I don't remember who told me this-that the young woman left the company some time ago but the others, I don't know anything about. You might try asking Michel. He's been here at the opera house longer than anybody. He might know." "Thank you. I probably will," and changing the subject, I added, "Well, back to work for me, I guess." I left the managers' office and returned to work, still intrigued by the pictures I had seen in the office.
The image of those photos, particularly of the last two, stayed in my mind all day. Perhaps it was the way the photos were arranged on the wall, or perhaps it was the contrast between them but somehow I got the feeling that the people in those photos had known each other and perhaps even had worked together. At any rate, there was just something about them that seemed to say that those people belonged together. This was one of those things about the opera house, along with many other things that both attracted me and at the same time, frightened me.
At about one o'clock, I started to put my project away when Michel walked in to the room. He must have noticed what I was doing because he asked, ":Leaving so early?" I stopped what I was doing and said, "Yes, I worked things out with the management. I changed my hours a little. I'll be coming back at five and I'll be staying until nine."
"Trying to avoid Carlotta?" "You bet! Oh, there is something I'd like to ask you. There are some photos of former company members up in the managers' office..." He nodded his head and I continued, "...and there's a couple that I'd like to ask you about." "Ask," he said. "One is of a young woman with long, light-colored hair and another is of a young man with dark, wavy hair and long sideburns." He started to shake his head, so I added, "The photos look like they were taken sometime in the early 1970's."
The expression on his face changed from a somewhat puzzled look to a pensive one. He finally spoke after a long pause. "I think I know which ones you're talking about. Did the young woman have a somewhat thin face?" I nodded my head. He continued, "That would be Christine Daee. We called her our modern Jenny Lind. She had the most extraordinary voice. It was the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. It was a rich soprano voice with a clear, bell-like quality to it. You said there was another photo?" I nodded my head. "Next to hers?" he added and again I nodded my head. "I think that one is of Tomislav. Tomislav...oh, what was his name? It'll come to me eventually. Anyway, was his face long with a square jaw?" I nodded my head again. He continued. "That's Tomislav all right. His voice was another one of those voices that you just don't hear every day. Usually men's voices fall into one of four groups--tenors, baritones, baritone-basses, and basso profundo but this guy could sing either tenor or baritone with complete ease and that's pretty unusual. Usually a baritone will sing falsetto on the higher tenor notes and a tenor will growl out the lower baritone notes but not Tomislav. He could sine anything!"
"What happened to him? Mme. Giry says that the young woman...Christine? Was that her name? Anyway, that she left the company but what about the young man?" I asked as I stooped to pick my purse up from off the floor.
The expression on Michel's face changed from
a somewhat pensive look to one of anger mixed with disgust. "The
last I heard, he was in prison. I hope he rots there!" Michel
said emphatically.
"Why? What did he do?" I asked. "He tried to kill Christine,"
Michel said as he walked over to the work table. "What? Why?" I asked
incredulously. "She fell in love with another man. You
may have seen his picture as well. It was just above hers on the
wall. That of a black man." I nodded, remembering which one
he was referring to. Michel contiuned, "That's Raoul de Chagny."
"De Chagny? That sounds French!" I exclaimed. I decided to sit down and delay my break. I could tell that this was going to be quite a story. "The name is French but he was Cuban. It seems his great-grandfather had gone over to Cuba from France in order to help build the railroad in Cuba and he ended up marrying a Cuban girl. Seventy years later, his great-grandson--that would be Raoul--returned to France to sing in this opera house. At any rate, Raoul and Christine fell in love and Tomislav didn't like it and tried to kill Christine."
"What a tragedy! I thought that stuff only happened in America!" I shook my head and then added, "What happened after that?" "After he tried to kill her, you mean?" I nodded and Michel continued, "Tomislav went to prison and Christine and Raoul got married and moved to Cuba. End of story and end of her career." "Why?" I asked. "There was no place for her there, I guess. At any rate, the last I heard, they were still together and that's been...Oh, let's see...twenty-five years, I guess. I heard that you visited France at about that time. You must have heard about this whole affair."
I shook my head and said, "I was here in 1978. I don't remember hearing about anything like this. "That must have been before your visit, then. Look, I'm sorry to have ruined your break. Now, you'll probably want to go home and never come back after hearing a story like this."
"No, that's all right. Even if this one is a terrible story, I'm still interested in what goes on here at the opera house. Besides, this wouldn't be the opera house unless it had such tales to tell." I said somewhat mischievously, smiling as I did so. "Oh, go on and have your break!" Michel said waving his hand as he dismissed me.
Even though I enjoyed my time off, I must admit that I was a little glad to get away from the opera house for a while. The story that Michel told in addition to everything else I had experienced seemed to put a damper on that afternoon in early October which was a shame, since that afternoon that particular autumn was one of the nicest we had had so far. The sunlight seemed dimmer and the afternoon colder even though people were out in shirtsleeves and shorts.
I was able to get three things done that afternoon. I went back to the Fontaine's and made up a lesson plan for Erik. Because he had done so well, I added a lot more vocabulary and made up some dialogue he could practice. While I was at it, I made lesson plans for another three lessons, just in case he continued to progress quickly. I hoped to keep him busy and not let him become bored but it was not easy as I had no text books to use. I made a mental note to write to my brother and ask him to send me anything he could find and I would reimburse him.
The last thing I was able to do was to read the letter he had sent. He did not say much in his letter but he did pass on some family news. Since he was executor of my mother's will, he had the thankless job of dividing up her estate. There was very little money left in her estate and Pete, our sister Sharon and I decided before Mother died to divide what was left among our children. Since Pete never married, both my children and both of Sharon's recieved one hundred dollars each. That was the easy part of Pete's job. The hard part was deciding who got what, since my mother had left no instructions. Part of his letter told about the problems he and Sharon were having trying to decide this question and it did not help matters any that I was in exile and could do nothing.
Another problem Pete was having was in contacting my children. After I had refused to renounce my faith, my children had refused to have anything to do with me or my family and that included my brother and sister. Since my ex felt the same way, Pete was unable to pass on any news of my children and my ex. I was not lying to the managers when I told them my divorce had been friendly. It had been, even when taking into account child custody and child support, for both my children had decided to stay with my ex. In spite of this, my ex and I remained on friendly terms. It was only later, when I was forced into exile that things got a little rough. I thought it had been because I was going into exile and therefore would be unable to make any child support payments but I found out at the emergency hearing I had called concerning the issue that I found out my children were against my keeping the faith. It was not as though I was forcing my beliefs onto them. In fact, the only thing I did was to require them to attend Mass with me as long as they were with me but since their father had long since left the Church, they felt they could do likewise.
Pete seemed to understand my anguish. He tried to console me and even ended his letter by passing on the news that Sharon had returned to the Faith after an absence of almost thirty years. It's about time, I thought as I folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. After two divorces and the problems her children had, you would have thought she would have returned sooner.
I was able to accomplish one more thing. I was able to talk with my concierge and convince her to let me store some of my things in the storeroom up in the attic of the building. I told her I would be getting more boxes of material and of books and would need a place to put them since the Fontaines did not have any more room to spare. She seemed skeptical until I told her that my brother and I were dividing the books our family had accumulated over the years and that my sister had agreed to take some of the collection of sewing material my mother had, thus there would be less stuff for me to put into storage up in the storage room. When I left her apartment, she seemed satisfied that my things would not fill her storage room and thus would leave more room for the other tenants to store their things.
I returned to work at five, just as I had promised I would. I was still thinking of my conversation with Michel as well as thinking about my brother's letter. In addition to all this, I was so hard at work on my sewing that it was seven-thirty before I knew it. "Are you ready for my lesson?" Erik asked, his voice breaking through my concentration. As usual, I nearly jumped out of my chair.
"Yes, I am," I replied as I put my sewing down. Is it seven-thirty already? I thought to myself. I guess time really does fly around here. I put everything aside and cleared off an area next to where I was sitting so Erik could have some room. He sat down next to me and we began our second lesson. This time I stuck to the lesson instead of talking politics. We were able to cover more ground on this lesson than we had the last but I credit Erik's ability to pick up the language more than anything else. When I ended this particular lesson, I asked him how he was able to do so well considering that he had known no English beforehand. He explained that he had been required to learn some German for his previous job and since English is a Germanic language, he was able to pick up on it more easily than he might otherwise have done. I complimented him on his progress by saying,"Very soon, you will be able to strike up a conversation with any English speaker and hold your own."
"Thank you, madame, but will I be able to use the English without leaving France?" "I'm sure you will," I replied, "Surely there are some English restaurants or pubs here in Paris, aren't there?" He nodded his head and said, "Yes, I think there is an English tea shop that isn't far from here."
This time, I nodded my head and said, "I know of one on the Champs Elysees but this one sounds like it's closer. I tell you what, let's go to this one the day after tomorrow. I know it's Saturday but if we go there at five-thirty, we can avoid most of the rush." "The rush?" "The crowds. The English usually have their evening meal, High Tea, at around six or seven in the evening." "I thought they ate earlier than that," he said.
"That's afternoon tea. High Tea is usually a little later than that and it's more substantial. Besides, this will be our next lesson. We won't meet tomorrow evening but we will meet at this tea shop on Saturday at five-thirty. What's the name of this place and I'll call them to make reservations, just to make sure we'll be able to get a table. I don't know how the French are but in America, ever since Princess Diana died and England became a republic, Americans have really embraced Anglophilia." "Anglophila?" "It means, 'love of all things English'. Americans have always had a soft spot in their hearts for England but never more so than when England became a republic three years ago. Even I like English things and I'm not even of English descent."
"What are you of? Descent, I mean," he asked and genuinely seemed interested in my background. "French on my father's side and mostly German and French on my mother's side." "That explains your fluency in French. Do you speak German as well?" he asked. I shook my head. "I tried learning it in high school but I quit after a year. I figured that I would never use it. Besides, I really don't like the language. You know how it is. Some languages you like and some you don't. Now my mother was different as was...is...my ex-husband. They could, and would, sit for hours just chattering away in German. I'm glad she didn't live long enough to see my divorce. It would have broken her heart."
He remained silent for a moment, and then asked, "Did...do you have any children?" "Yes. Two. A girl and a boy. They decided to stay with their father when I went into exile." "That must have been hard for you to leave them," he replied. Here we go again! I thought, but I could only say, "Yes." After a long pause, I finally said, "What was the name of that tea shop again? You know, the one you said was near here." "The English Rose," he answered. "The English Rose," I repeated softly, and then added, "I think I know the one you're speaking of. Is it on the Rue St. Honore?" "That's it!" he replied, "That's the one! The English Rose. It has a large portrait of the late Princess Diana in the front window."
I nodded my head. "I think I saw it when I first came here to Paris about two months age. I remember passing by the shop while I was looking for a place to live. You're right though. It's not that far from here. Shall we agree to meet there then, Saturday evening, at five thirty?" "Yes," he said after a short pause. He said again, "Yes. I'd like that. To practice my English, I mean, as well as to try English cuisine. The only thing English that I've ever had was tea. I don't remember what kind...orange something or other, I think."
"Orange pekoe?" I asked. "I think so.
It was a very long time ago when I was a young child."
"Did you like it?" I asked. He shook his head and
said, "I don't think so. It was too bitter, even after I added some
sugar to it." I shrugged my shoulders and then said,
"Well, there's more to English cooking than just tea. Lots more,
as you'll see," and then changing the subject, I added, "Well, I hate to
kick you out but it's nearly nine o'clock and I promised Mme. Giry that
I would leave at nine."
"Were you allowed to change your hours?" Erik
asked. "Yes," I replied, "Mme. Giry thought it was an excellent idea.
I didn't tell her that this was actually your idea. I hope you don't
mind that."
"Not at all," he said, grinning. "I'm sure that she will
appreciate some peace and quiet for a change."
"I think that we all will!" I said, nodding my head in agreement.
"Until Saturday evening, then?"
"Until Saturday evening," he repeated as he got up to leave. I stood up as well and started to gather my things. He started walking towards the door when he stopped and turned around. He walked towards me and suddenly grabbed my right hand, brought it up to his lips and kissed it. "A bien tot," he said softly and then turned around and walked out of the room. The whole incident took less than a minute. I was so surprized I could say nothing. I could only stand there with my mouth open. Looking back on it, I must have looked like a complete idiot but I never thought that Erik had a romantic side to him.