Page 63 of Our Strange Duet

Unbelievably, Maestro Messenger had continued and was now holding the orchestra in an impatient vamp as he waited for Carlotta.

Glancing from him to the audience to all of the company members now gathered in the wings, she grabbed my hand, improvising the blocking. Her grip was painfully tight, squeezing the blood from my fingers. Her eyes were dark with terror, but she held her chin aloft and took a long, steadying breath.

“Poor fool, he makes me laugh. Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ha—”

Another croak burst from her, like a hiccup. Like a belch. She sounded like a drunkard stumbling home after last call while struggling to contain the urge to retch.

Again and again, the ghastly sound squelched from her.

She hunched over, unable to stop the noises from escaping, and I feared she might become sick onstage, hacking up whatever it was that had caused this distress. I tried to help her, but her skirts were too voluminous, and I could barely feel her body within them. We both fell to the ground in a tangle of satin and hooped caning. The audience tittered heartlessly as her wig toppled off, revealing the knit cap holding back her own chestnut curls.

There was a commotion in the managers’ box, and I could just make out the shape of Monsieur André hurrying into the hall.

High above us, in the great painted dome of the house’s plastered ceiling, came laughter. It rained down like a summer storm, vicious and maniacal.

“Behold!” Erik cried. “She’s singing to bring down the chandelier!”

As if compelled by his voice, the chandelier began to sway, rocking back and forth with so much force I feared it would snap the velvet-covered chain holding it aloft. Its gas-lamp globes flickered worryingly as Erik began to laugh again.

What was he doing?

I knew how angry he’d been when the managers had ignored his notes and cast the show as they saw fit. But to do this…to threaten not only them, but all of us onstage…It wasn’t Carlotta’s fault. It wasn’t any of our—

Carlotta released her hold on me, casting aside my hand so hard I felt my shoulder nearly wrench out of its joint.

“Non posso più!” she screeched around the croaks. Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, causing the heavy stage makeup to run in grotesque rivers of color.

Ubaldo rushed onstage and pulled Carlotta to her feet. She collapsed in his arms, wailing. “I cannot go on! I cannot—” Her final croak ripped free, and she floundered offstage, sobbing.

The audience was aghast. Whispers turned to murmurs, which turned to all-out chaos.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Monsieur Firmin shouted from his box. A spotlight shifted to him and he covered his eyes, wincing around his momentary blindness. “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize. The performance will continue in…in ten minutes’ time.”

It was such an absurd statement I nearly laughed. Then I looked to Maestro Messenger. He looked as every bit as horrified and bewildered as I felt. There wasn’t a chance in the world Carlotta would be back to sing. Not in ten minutes. Not ever.

Monsieur Firmin seemed to come to the same conclusion as Carlotta’s whimpers from backstage rose over the audience’s din. She sounded like a wounded animal. “Uh…yes,” he said. “The…the performance will continue, with the role of the Countess now sung by…” I felt his eyes land upon me. His mouth twisted with grim resignation. “Miss Christine Daaé.”

Chapter 21

Before I could wrap my mind around Monsieur Firmin’s words, a battalion of stagehands—wardrobe assistants and wig masters—rushed onstage, shouting orders for gloves and hosiery, rouge and ringlets.

I looked up and spotted Raoul leaning over the railing of Box Five. His eyes were wide with panic and concern.

“Raoul!” I cried out, reaching for him, but was yanked away, hurried off into the wings’ shadowy chaos.

Monsieur André had made it onstage and now stood at its center, calling out to the audience, trying to assuage their growing worries. I wondered if they noticed how his hands shook, nearly dropping the crumpled program they held.

Someone spun me around and began pulling at the buttons and eyehooks of my Serafimo costume. I could do nothing but stand there, allowing them to work around my placid form.

“While you wait…” Monsieur André began, shouting to be heard over the confused panic spreading through the auditorium. He leaned back to peer into the wings, and his face turned scarlet as he watched Madame Barbier strip my livery uniform off, leaving me in nothing but a short chemise and bloomers. Her assistants hurried to clothe me in a dress similar to Carlotta’s gown, though not nearly as large or ornate. “While you wait,” he repeated, and dabbed at his brow with the ruined program. “We are pleased to offer you the ballet…”

Offstage, both ballerinas and stagehands gasped. No one was ready for such an unexpected change of order. The stage was cluttered with furniture. The drops were all wrong.

“The ballet…” Monsieur André went on, gesturing wildly for Maestro Messenger to begin the music. Out of the pit came the rustling of turned pages and muttered curses. “From Act III. Maestro? The ballet, if you please.”

“I’m working on it,” the conductor growled through clenched teeth.

Madame Barbier forced my arms through the gown’s bodice. The sleeves were somehow both too big and painfully tight. It was clear the dress had not been fitted for me, but there was little to be done about it.