Page 30 of Angel's Kiss
“Be careful being too familiar with our illustrious artistic director, my friend,” Fontana said darkly. Shaya’s ear perked up all the more. “Speaking of—”
A commotion in the hall interrupted the conversation.
“Why have the police not been called!” an unmistakable woman’s voice cried. “That little trollop’s cabal are threatening me! I want them found!” Strangely, Carlotta had lost her accent in the heat of the moment.
“Whom are we arresting?” Rameau asked with a bored drawl as Shaya dared to peek around the corner. Carlotta was flanked by both managers, her simpering secretary trailing behind.
“Whoever ransacked our office while the door was locked,” Moncharmin replied, speaking to Rameau like he was the only one in the room.
“Good luck sending the police after a Phantom,” Fontana chuckled.
“Or Daaé, since you’ve fired her,” Rameau added, and Shaya was certainly interested in that. No wonder Erik was throwing fits. His pet had been sacked.
“I have endured this abuse for years now and I will not allow it any longer!” Carlotta screeched and raised a finger into Rameau’s face. “I was considering letting that gypsy whore simply linger and fade, but not anymore. And if I hear you mention that damnghostagain, I’ll have you out on the street too!”
“We have the guards sweeping the building,” Richard said with a sigh. “Surely that’s enough.”
“Not even close,” Carlotta snapped and spun to the managers. “As usual, I’ll have to deal with this myself.”
Shaya needed to hear no more. His mind raced as he made for the exit. Would this be the day Erik made a fatal mistake? Would the dismissal of Daaé finally draw him out of the shadows and into a cell or a grave where he belonged?
––––––––
After days of diningon cold food stolen from the Opera stores with a man who barely ate, Christine took immense pleasure in a hot supper in a crowded café with a boisterous, hungry companion. The noise was still overwhelming to her, as was the heat and the brightness of the winter sun until it sank past sight. But it was also welcoming and warm to be part of the crush of humanity again and to share it with a friend.
Raoul had been at sea on and off for two years, earning his officer’s status and making several naval voyages that his siblings hardly approved of. Raoul’s tales were so different from Erik’s. They were bright and boisterous, full of feeling but lacking detail. Not like Erik’s poetic stories of a world explored in secret and at night. Raoul talked of one subject that Erik never did: the people he had met and befriended, something that came so easily to him, of course. Currently he was regaling Christine with a tale of badly translated Portuguese that had seen Raoul’s friend run out of a tavern for accidentally propositioning the innkeeper’s wife.
“He’s Italian, you know, from Naples,” Raoul was saying as Christine sipped on the dregs of her coffee with milk. (Drinking it had been a small rebellion, given that Erik claimed both coffee and milk were bad for the voice. Well, that didn’t matter now.) “I saw him for supper yesterday! He had quite a few things to say about your horrible Spaniard.”
“Why would he know Carlotta?” Christine asked, the shame and anger of earlier rekindling. Raoul gave her the shining grin he had always sported as a teenage boy. It was only more dashing now.
“I asked him, about that name of hers – Zambelli – and the fact that everyone calls her Signora like she’s Italian, not Spanish!” Christine blinked. How had she never thought of that? It was as odd as Carlotta’s terrible mélange of an accent.
“I always wondered if she was less than truly Spanish. Do you think she’s Italian?” Why had Erik never investigated her? Not that he could do much from his sepulcher beneath the stage.
“Well, that’s the thing! He doesn’t think she’s either. He heard from a friend about a scandal some years ago in Naples where some tenor or impresario named Zambelli gave away a lead role at a prestigious theater to some woman who sounded like a broken penny whistle!”
“That sounds like how Carlotta would find her start,” Christine muttered. “Was this woman Spanish?”
Raoul’s smile broadened. “No, much worse.American.”
Christine yelped in laughter. Who knew if it was true, but oh, ifLe Gauloiscould hear that news. “If she doesn’t make peace tonight, that’s an interesting thing to know.”
“If it’s true,” Raoul admonished and Christine sighed.
“I don’t know if truth matters. What they said about me was only half true.” She squinted at her dinner companion. “Raoul, you’re the only person I ever told about Papa. Did you ever share that? I can’t think how else Carlotta or her cohorts could have known, but I know you’d never do that to me.”
Raoul looked down at his empty plate and Christine’s stomach turned. “I...did tell Philippe and Sabine, but that was years ago. I didn’t mean to, though! I was trying to make the case for why I should have been allowed to—” Raoul stopped, a blush better befitting a schoolgirl than a grown man coloring his cheeks.
“To what?”
“Marry you, of course,” Raoul replied, and it was Christine’s turn to blush. “Don’t you remember our plans? We had such dreams that summer and then you left. And then Father died and—”
“What do you mean left? Your family objected to me. My father agreed with them, but I didn’tleaveyou.” Christine still remembered the conversation in front of the fire in Perros. Papa had just started showing his illness and had made it exceedingly clear that they were no longer welcome at the Chagny manor.
“Philippe told me you changed your mind and...and that you left.”
“He lied, Raoul.” Christine’s mind spun at the revelation. Was this why Raoul had never written to her or sought her out until now? Did he think she had chosen not to be with him all those years ago?
