Floating... Falling - by by Annecy York

A fraught Rehearsal (chapter 1)







   Wearily closing the door of the dressing-room behind her, Christine stood for a moment slumped
against it.  She closed her eyes, feeling unutterably drained of energy after what had proved to be an
abysmal rehearsal.  Tempers had frayed as M. Reyer found fault with everything.  Completely
without humour, he was hard to please at the best of times, fussing about here and there and picking
up on the most trivial errors as if they were critically appalling and would completely ruin a
production.  Madame Giry had stalked about, eyes flashing and chin upraised as her black-clad
figure weaved in and out of the confusion on stage.  More than once her stick had come down hard
on the boards, making the ballet girls jump and flutter about like anxious little sparrows.

Of course Carlotta threw an almighty tantrum and had finally flounced off in a terrible huff, haughtily
stating that she would not return until the whole ridiculous scenario had been resolved.  A diva of her
standing in the world of opera should not be expected to take part in petty squabbles between such
tawdry, meddlesome amateurs! Her leading man, a plump little Italian tenor, had meekly followed
her beckoning finger and trailed off after her.  And as if that were not enough, old Buquet had
accidentally let fall one of the backdrops.  It landed on stage with such a crash that Carlotta almost
fainted with shock as the girls screamed and rushed frantically hither and thither, excitedly shrieking
that the Phantom was there!

Meg had flown to Christine’s side and they had clutched at each other, collapsing in hysterical
giggles as they viewed the commotion.  Meg’s mother continued to bring her stick down hard,
glaring at all and sundry;  the two managers shouted themselves hoarse but were mostly ignored.  M.
Firmin mopped his brow and took a furtive gulp from his hip flask, followed rapidly by a couple
more.  M. André raked a hand through his immaculate fair locks and raised his eyes heavenwards as
a couple of stagehands strolled on, dragging a large prop behind them and seemingly unconcerned
about the fragile nerves of the leading artistes!

 Really, it was sheer pandemonium and the noise was enough to give one a severe headache,
Christine thought, suddenly longing for her quiet little dressing room.

 Finally, his patience exhausted, M. Reyer had dismissed them all, telling them to return at five
o’clock that evening, when there would be an additional rehearsal.  Everyone sagged with relief at
this welcome break and headed off to their dressing rooms to rest and go over their scripts again,
have a light lunch and in some cases, an illicit but fortifying glass or two of claret.

 As for the ballet chorus, they were to return at four o’clock sharp, said Madame Giry with a great
thwack of her stick and a glacial stare at her charges, else the consequences would be dire for all
concerned!  Still twittering and laughing nervously, they promised to obey and ran off stage in a flurry
of twinkling little legs.

Christine had thankfully managed to lose Meg by encouraging her to spend an hour with Jerôme, her
shy young admirer who worked in the carpentry department.  Much as she loved her friend, she felt
that she could not cope with her endless chatter at present, for she now felt perilously close to tears
and desperately needed time on her own.  She told Meg that she had indeed developed a slight
headache and needed to sit alone quietly in order to calm herself and rest for a while.  Yes, yes, she
would be fine!  Now run along and see Jerôme, dear.  We will meet again later this afternoon.

 In her room, Christine covered a yawn as she opened her eyes;  she looked longingly at the rather
shabby chaise-longue standing against one wall.  Its green brocade covering had faded and was
quite worn in parts, but it looked so inviting that she dragged her tired feet across the room and sank
down on it, a glance at the clock showing her that it was half an hour since noon.  She would have a
little rest – just for a short while, no more than an hour – and would then make some tea to drink
with her almond pastry and go over her lines again.

 Pulling the light quilt over herself, she sank down on the comfortable old bed, resting her head on the bolster.  Letting her taut muscles gradually relax, within minutes she had drifted off to sleep.

And to dream...



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