Page 8 of Our Strange Duet

When her finger brushed the silvery surface, actual flesh aligning with its reflected counterpart, she let out a startled sound. “What? It was fine,” she said, then shook her head, clearing it. “Fine. Let’s warm up upstairs. It’s too drafty in here. We’re certain to catch a chill.”

I swept my eyes over the mirror once more, struck by a strange certainty it would show us the wrong reflection somehow. Our figures would move out of time, or it wouldn’t be Meg standing beside me. The glass felt alive, charged with possibility.

But our doubles acted just as they should, and the only thing I saw move was Meg’s brow as she frowned, waiting for me.

“Christine?”

Her voice broke the spell the mirror had cast. “Coming.”

Chapter 3

“Seigneur, daignez permettre à votre humble servante de s’agenouiller devant vous!” Carlotta trilled hours later as we began the second scene of Act IV.

We dancers were spread across downstage in a deep V formation, like a flock of migrating geese. Scattered throughout our lines were dozens of supernumeraries—silent members of the company who neither sang nor danced but took up space like living scenic pieces—frozen in dramatic leering poses as we waited to begin tormenting Marguerite at prayer.

Giant pillars of painted marble rose all around us, sprouting from trapdoors on hydraulic lifts, as a soaring cathedral took shape. It was a spectacle amazing to behold…the first dozen times you saw it. Now, I could only think of how the mechanisms caused the whole stage to rumble. I could feel the vibrations through the floor, an uncomfortable hum that seemed to center in my aching knees.

There were still nearly two acts left, but the corps had most of the fourth off. Meg and I usually shared a croissant and cups of tea in the greenroom as we waited for our next entrance. In my mind, I was already there.

From upstage center, a massive scenic unit was wheeled out—part staircase, part altar. It rolled into place as a rose window, painted to look just like stained glass, flew down from the fly loft, like magic. From my position, I noticed that the chocks, meant to secure the wheels at their new mark, had not been set. The whole structure swayed uneasily as the chorus—sixty singers strong—descended, hurrying down the treads in their haste to complete the blocking in the allotted measures.

“Marguerite!” they sang ominously.

“Qui m’appelle?” Carlotta answered.

I dared a quick glance back into the darkened house behind me, certain someone else had noticed the impending disaster and would call a halt to the rehearsal. Our chief répétiteur, Monsieur Reyer, perhaps. Certainly, the conductor, Maestro Messenger.

But the music went on, everyone rushing about to hit their marks, to hit their notes.

And then it happened.

As the last chorus member came off the stairs, the entire structure pivoted and went careening into one of the cathedral arches. High above us, the column began to split.

“It’s the Phantom!” Meg screamed, jumping up as the altar groaned her way. Other dancers and company members fled as the broken piece of column splintered away. Caught on a rigging rope, it swung back and forth, a nightmarish pendulum ready to slice anyone in its vicinity.

I wanted to run but could only stare up in horror. My feet felt immovable and my costume, so airy and ethereal, had become dead weight, holding me to the floor.

Carlotta was too far downstage, too lost in her lyrics, to notice the chaos erupting around her. It wasn’t until Maestro Messenger stopped conducting, covering his mouth with dread, that she paused, brow furrowing as she prepared to lay into him.

The jagged shard snapped free, ending my daze and spurring me to action.

“Carlotta, run!” I cried, racing toward her. I crashed into her, and we went toppling into a papier-mâché confessional.

The sound of the arch hitting the stage was deafening. It boomed all around us, thunder and madness. Dust and splinters of wood kicked up, stinging our eyes.

“Get this beast away from me!” Carlotta shrieked. “She’s trying to kill me!” The beading on her gown raked open welts all over my skin as she fought to free herself.

“I saved you,” I protested, ducking under her flailing bejeweled fists.

In the tussle, her veiled headdress came loose. Carlotta ripped the costume piece off and flung it downstage, just missing a cellist in the orchestra pit.

“You, again!” she cried, recognizing me.

“Me,” I agreed unhappily.

I struggled to stand as stagehands rushed on, followed by Carlotta’s entourage of handlers. She had a retinue—of dressers and make-up artists, a maid, and her aging mother—who trailed after her almost everywhere she went, cooing and fawning.

Though he wasn’t meant to be on for another two scenes, Ubaldo wandered out, looking up at the broken arch with wonder.