Page 26 of Our Strange Duet

“He’s with us!”

“It’s him, I know it!”

The wall of fabric shifted as Carlotta fought to free herself. Ubaldo was the first to rush to her, pulling at the backdrop as she wailed.

“Cara! Cara! Are you hurt?”

“Joseph Buquet!” Monsieur Lefèvre shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth to amplify himself over the commotion. “For God’s sake, man, what is going on up there?”

Ubaldo let out a howl of frustration as he too became entangled in the cloth, struggling against its weight. “Is no one concerned for our prima donna?”

Monsieur André sprang to action, racing to help. “Good heavens! Will no one save this woman?”

Joseph Buquet stumbled onstage with several of his crew, his eyes glassy. Even from where I stood, cowering with the rest of the corps, I could smell the liquor on his breath. It was no secret that the stagehands often played rounds of belote on the pinrail during slower moments of the evening. Judging from their dull expressions, they must have been passing a bottle of spirits around today too.

“Get her out! Get her out!” Monsieur Firmin ordered, and the crew began to heave back the fabric lengths.

“Buquet!” Monsieur Lefèvre roared. “What the devil is going on? This is the second time this season that—”

“Please, monsieur, don’t look at me,” the stagehand began. “I will admit that I was not at my post, but this…this,” he said, grabbing an edge of the webbing which was dotted with dozens of black corded ties. The bows that had secured the backdrop to the pipe were still intact, but the cords themselves were slashed and unraveling. “This was not my fault. Every one of those ties has been cut.”

Monsieur Lefèvre seized a section of the cloth, studying it with narrowed eyes. “You’re saying someone on the crew—”

“I’m saying,” Buquet clarified, speaking over him, “that it must be the Ghost.”

Several chorus members gasped, crossing themselves for protection.

“It’s the Phantom! The Phantom of the Opera!” Meg insisted, tugging at her mother’s arm.

Upstage, the last of the backdrop was pulled away, revealing the crumpled figure of Carlotta. She was sprawled on the deck, panting and tear-streaked. There was no sign of immediate injury, but it was obvious the experience had frightened her. Though no love was lost between us, I felt the urge to pull her up and make sure she was all right.

Before I could follow my impulse, Monsieur André helped her to her feet, and she turned, throwing herself into Ubaldo’s arms, visibly trembling.

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Ubaldo!” she sobbed, and her voice cracked piteously.

He held her, stroking her mangled wig as if it were her own tresses, murmuring soft comforts. He seemed to be pleading with her.

“No. No!” she said, shaking her head.

“Signora, are you unwell?” Monsieur André asked, stepping too close to the huddled pair.

“What do you think?” Ubaldo snapped, shifting position so that he was between Carlotta and the new manager.

“Of course, of course,” Monsieur André said, all but falling over himself. “But it’s over now, and we’re no worse for wear.” He chuckled nervously. “Isn’t this what makes live theatre so…so…exciting? The drama! The danger! These things do happen, I’m told.”

The soprano went rigid, freezing in Ubaldo’s embrace. Slowly, she turned her head, fixing her gaze upon the manager with an icy glare. “These things do happen?” she echoed in disbelief. “You’ve been here for five minutes. What do you know of it? Si, these things do happen, all the time! For the past three years, these things do happen, and did you ever stop them from happening?” she growled, whipping toward Monsieur Lefèvre. “No!”

“Please, signora,” Monsieur Firmin said, joining his partner. They should have made a formidable wall, two important men dressed in fine, bespoke suits, but their stance was all wrong, cringing against the diva’s justified wrath. “All is now well.”

“You’re both as bad as him!” she yelled. “ ‘These things do happen.’ ” She let out a long laugh, all but cackling against the managers’ absurdity, but then fell silent, her expression dark and dangerous. She looked like one of Wagner’s Valkyries descending upon a winged steed, blazing with murderous indignation. “Until you stop these things from happening, this thing does not happen!” She balled up her scarf and flung it in Monsieur André’s face. “Ubaldo! Andiamo!” she declared before grabbing his hand and storming off the stage.

Half a beat later, the tenor returned, staring down the new managers with a dark glower. “Amateurs!” he shot at them before abruptly turning on his heel and hurrying after Carlotta.

There was a long, uneasy silence as every company member, from performers to crew, shifted their attention to the new management. Even in the pit, some musicians poked their heads up to watch with rapt interest.

Monsieur Lefèvre cleared his throat. “Well. I don’t think there’s much more I can do to assist you now, gentlemen.” He shifted his weight, looking from the men to the rest of the company. “I do wish you all the best of luck…If you should happen to need me…” He took another flurry of steps toward the wings. “If you should happen to…well…I shall be in Frankfurt!”

And without another word, he hurried away, heedless of the new managers’ protests. They chased after him, but when it was clear they would not catch up, the men stopped, just on the far edge of stage right. After some quiet conferring, they turned, looking at the rest of us with sheepish expressions.