243A/N: Thank you for the reviews! : ) By request I'm posting a new chapter of this one next… Happy Easter and Happy Spring too!
And now…
Chapter XX
.
Christine stood within the fringe of shadow at the edge of the stage, near the empty covered wagon that held the piano, and out of sight of the crowd that half filled the wide expanse of grass. Dusky twilight cloaked the land in its blue-shadowed silver veil. The flames from lanterns strategically placed around the raised platform that acted as a stage created golden spangles of light amidst the audience that had gathered, while other lanterns hung from nearby trees crowned with spring's finery. Men and women and some children expectantly stood, awaiting the curtain to sweep aside and reveal the players in the melodrama to take place.
Just as a fortnight ago, when she first observed the crude but entertaining production as a curious member of the audience, Christine felt a tremor of that same titanic excitement which had made goosebumps rise on her flesh each time the orchestra's first symphonic strains struck the air at the Opera House.
Only this time, she alone was responsible for those opening chords. The precursor to the evening's entertainment.
Months before this she gave her song, her voice, that which was known to her...
The Opera House entertainment was on a much grander scale compared to this outdoor theatrical performance, but it was her first time to play an instrument before a crowd, and she could not remember being so nervous except, perhaps, for her operatic debut. Yet even then she stepped up onto the platform within all of what was familiar…
At present she felt as if she stood before a bottomless pit, ready to fall into its unforgiving depths with one careless step.
And she reminded herself to breathe, her inhale slow and deep. She held the air in her lungs for a moment before letting it out slowly through her mouth.
For you, Maestro…
At a nod from Jareth, who peered at her from behind the curtain, Christine nervously put bow to strings, whispered a hasty prayer for courage beneath her breath, and began a simple tune she had practiced all week, the notes lively enough to whet the audience's appetite for what was to come and a portion to one of four songs the Maestro taught her. She was not required to perform the melody in full, no more than a verse and sometimes a verse with the chorus, and as she played the intro to the audience - those she could see appearing receptive to her music - Christine at last relaxed.
One of the boys pulled the rope hanging at one end, causing the long woolen drape that acted as a curtain to sweep to one side and reveal the players for the first act…
Though the set was crude for this traveling show, the costumes were extravagant, part of what the Fontaines brought with them from the former theatre they once managed. Christine had learned from Jareth that their reason for moving to Avignon was to be near to his mother's kin, also entertainers, and felt a melancholy that she no longer had family to call her own. Not even her theatre family she had left behind in Paris, especially Meg and Madame Giry. They would always be dear to her but never would she see them again. A difficult decision but one she did not regret, despite the pain it caused her. And though the present troupe had cautiously welcomed Christine into their fold, not all were kind and she did not feel entirely at ease in their midst.
She wondered if she would ever again feel as if she truly belonged, or if she would forever be entangled within wistful memories of a bygone time, at the Opera House.
The actors spoke their lines, enacting emotion with a flair commendable, though at points they seemed to overplay their roles to the point of the absurd. Yet the audience loved it, becoming a part of the production - jeering when the villain took the stage, laughing at the comedic bits, cheering and hurrahing for the hero and heroine in their moment of triumph - Christine's violin presenting the gateway between scenes. And though this type of entertainment stood a world apart from the elegance of the Opera she once lived and breathed and would always love, Christine had come to enjoy the provincial world of the melodrama as well.
It did seem odd to see Jareth play opposite his sister as the starring couple, but with a lack of men and women who were well-suited to play the leads, such casting had become a necessity. It was only make-believe, something with which Christine had become intensely familiar, on stage and in her life away from it - in the chapel for lessons with her invisible Angel and five levels beneath the earth with the Phantom, what had become her Angel in the flesh. Indeed, she had more experience with the world of fanciful imaginings than she did with reality, and even her reality straddled the incredible.
Offstage, the Fontaine siblings appeared as if they could barely tolerate each other, and Christine found Julia to be something of a snob, reminding her of a few of the ballet rats who'd given Christine grief.
Upon introduction weeks ago, the pretty young redhead barely acknowledged her, looking down her nose at Christine, though Julia stood a good deal shorter. The young woman had immediately turned to Giles and asked a question with regard to the play, as if Christine did not exist. Since that time, Julia treated her with the same churlish disregard, much like a miniature Carlotta. Christine had spent a lifetime dealing with her sort to let Julia's pettiness affect her - and recently experienced more tragedy than most people knew during the course of their entire lives. Yet one thing could be said for the eldest Fontaine sibling: Julia made a much better actress than Carlotta on her best day. Nor was she a diva in any respect, helping out where she could when asked by her theatrical family and never behaving superior to her peers. It was only with Christine that the girl had an issue, for whatever reason. Christine had hoped, when she learned they were the same age with a similar interest to entertain, that she'd found someone who could be a friend.
But that was clearly not meant to be.
xXx
The journey to Avignon was surprisingly slow, the company settling in the area outside a town or village for days, much like traveling gypsies. During that time they accrued enough for any repairs needed or purchases required, sometimes staying as long as a fortnight in one place, with performances three nights at the end of each week.
Christine had been with the troupe for over a month, taking an hour each day to seclude herself inside the large tent she shared with two other women. Each day she practiced on the violin, wishing to excel in memory of her brilliant instructor, bringing all he had taught her into her practice and performance and wishing that he was still alive to hear her marked improvement.
Wishing he was still alive…
And that her nameless Angel had not also abandoned her.
Such wishes were futile, a drain to her emotions, and with dour thoughts fueling her practice, she finished her warm-up exercise of the double stop, switching between bowing a single string and then two, going back and forth. She commenced into playing a full scale, with a quarter note on each note, afterward repeating the scale, playing two eighth notes on each note, then a third time with four sixteenth notes, as Monsieur de Ranier had demonstrated for her to follow. An exercise that required precision and concentration and of course, skill. An asset she still needed much practice to attain.
Yet with each day that passed and with each evening's performance, she felt more confident that she could succeed.
For the hundredth time she wished her former teacher and friend could be there to see her, to coach her, that he could be there every evening of every performance. And in her heart, he was. Just as she once sang for her Angel of Music, she played for her Maestro of the violin.
"Christine…?"
She turned toward the entrance, the flaps of which were pulled back and secured during daylight hours. Jareth stood outside the tent in the glaring sunlight, and she lowered her violin from beneath her chin and shoulder where it had rested.
"May we speak?" he asked, and she nodded for him to enter.
He stepped inside the peaceful glow of the shaded interior and looked at her then away. She had been with him long enough to recognize his unease to say what he wished to and wondered what troubled him.
"Thing is," he began, then shook his head. "Da asked that I speak with you and let you know the lay of things…" He hesitated. "Old Hans isn't coming back."
"Oh?"
"But his brother did."
When he said nothing more, she looked at him in question. "I don't understand."
"Seems they are both musicians."
"Oh…" She blinked. "So you're letting me go."
Christine felt her heart drop, recalling how daunting it was to journey alone through the foreign countryside. She had carved a comfortable niche here these past weeks and wished to remain for however long they would let her. Despite any unease she felt due to others, she did like her new place here.
Jareth stared at her in shock. "No - no, that's not it at all! I'm making a right mess of this - I told Da he should speak to you, but he thought it best coming from me, being as how we've become friends. We are friends, aren't we, Christine?"
She smiled in amused tolerance at his agitated behavior, but nodded. "What is it that you need to tell me, Jareth?"
"It's just that Da decided to go with the piano and the violin - you'll play together, in part. The intro, for instance. During the sad bits, you will play and with the more lively bits he will, and the finale you'll play together. Thing is, you'll have to split the profits from each performance." He shuffled his feet, clearly embarrassed to inform her of what had been decided.
A cut in pay, Christine could manage. It was better than nothing, which is what she would have in earnings if she were to travel alone, and the troupe did provide shelter and food. Thankfully, she still had a portion left of what she borrowed from her Angel's funds, nestled within the deep pocket of concealment in his cloak which Monsieur de Ranier had pointed out to her.
"Rest easy, Jareth. I am in agreement." Carefully she set her Papa's violin and bow in its case and snapped it shut, then wiped her damp hands down her skirt. "I suppose if we are to play together, I should meet Hans's brother and discuss the arrangement."
"No need for that."
"What?" She looked at him in surprise.
"Well, thing is, Erik - that's Hans's brother - knows the music. Da told him the current lineup, and he agreed, though he asked to play his own music when he solos. But best give him a wide berth, unless he approaches you first. Like Hans, Da says Erik prefers to keep to himself and will be living like Hans did. Keeping to his wagon for the most part. Like two peas from the same pod they are - in appearance too. They must be as old as Methuselah, with long white hair and both being a bit stooped in the shoulders - though Erik is a good deal taller and walks with a cane - but both play like the masters… I heard him," he admitted. "I was there when he arrived this morning. It was while you were bathing, at the spring."
"I see."
Christine had not been able to resist what had become a morning ritual, though she wished now she had remained at the campsite to meet this new member of their troupe. She did not understand how they would be able to play together well if they did not meet to rehearse.
At the Opera House no member of management would even consider such a thing - one of two reasons her Angel's appearance on stage that long ago night had caused such a stir and a shock among the cast and crew - to witness someone they believed to be unknown and hear how well his voice blended with hers and how seamlessly they engaged in their roles together, not an eye in the house having strayed from them during their passion play onstage… then to realize a short time later that they did know him, as the Phantom.
But that was her Angel and teacher, who had written the words performed and knew every step of the final act, having watched it played many times from the shadows...
Shaking off a lingering sense of bittersweet remembrance, Christine forced her focus to the problem at hand. What apparently she alone considered a problem.
"I think, to perform well together, we should rehearse - at least once." If there was a blunder, all eyes would be on her since the pianist would be shielded within the covered wagon and she would be standing in clear view beside the stage.
"It has been suggested that I give you the cue for the intro, as always, and Erik will join in some time after that."
Now that she had agreed and the rough patch was crossed, Jareth had gained a more confident attitude, directing her on what was expected and decided.
She shook her head. "But you said that I will play some parts and he will play others. How will I know which is which?"
"I will pen a list for you, though it's mainly for the sad bits or the more idyllic ones that the violin would work best. We'll try it this way for tonight's performance. If it doesn't work, we'll talk about rehearsals then. I'll go make that list and have it for you when we meet for the midday meal."
Still uncertain about the odd situation, she nodded to Jareth in parting, resigned that she would have to accept things as they were, and moved to the entrance of her tent. Her eyes strayed from his swiftly departing form to the covered wagon across the stretch of grass, in its place near the stage.
Christine did not welcome trouble, but hoped something would transpire to force at least one rehearsal between them, though she would do nothing on her part to err, still leery of losing her place in the troupe despite Jareth's reassurances. The new pianist was a 'master' after all, and she nothing more than an amateur in training. Even if she had become her own teacher.
Yet, as Jareth had done, she would also like to be given an opportunity to meet this unknown musician with whom she would now perform.
She did not think that was truly too much to ask.
xXx
The lanterns of the stage provided glowing spots of gold amid the encroaching darkness, no more than rustic stage lights in this sub-par production tailor-made for the Bourgeois and the country folk and anyone else of little means that happened across one of several rudimentary posters advertising the troupe's presence in the wood. The homespun curtain repeatedly billowed outward, no doubt due to the scurry of overexcited performers hidden within - but his attention remained focused on the sole figure who stood at the edge of the stage, her violin in hand.
She stood within the fringe of shadow but close enough to a lantern that its light gilded her in gold - partially seen by the audience, the details of her lovely features mostly concealed to them. Yet close enough to the covered wagon that he could see and discern her apprehension. Indeed, where he had been stationed, he was closest to her than anyone else watching…
Much as he had been in Box Five.
He watched her through the gap in curtains, these made of rough canvas and not red velvet, noting as her lips moved in what he assumed a prayer. A trait he admired in her, her quiet faith, but never regarded for himself, having long ago been told that God held no consideration for monsters…
What she, with her innocent and pure actions of tenderness and kindness, had almost convinced him wasn't true.
How else could he explain an Angel's existence in his solitary and miserable life, an Angel he later commanded to leave him when all he had truly wished was to beg her to stay.
He did not deserve her, never had, though she was not without flaws. Nor did she any longer put him on a pedestal. Yet the damage he had wrought far outweighed any fickleness on her part, her very presence here perhaps proof that he had judged her too harshly. She had behaved contradictory to what he once presumed and left the boy, along with all else she held dear, now foraging a meager existence among these peasants…
No matter how he felt, he had sworn to himself that this time he would not interfere, allowing her to live her life as she wished, completely apart from him.
And he would do all he must to abide by that vow.
As he watched, she lifted the violin beneath her chin and bow to strings. Likewise, he positioned his fingers to the ivory keys, watching as she slid the bow downward with the opening notes of the introduction. After the first staff of notes, he smoothly joined in, the music written in his blood and as natural as breath, since, after all, he was its composer. Thankfully, she did not know that, believing the music he'd taught her as all having come from the masters of a bygone era.
He was pleased to note her improvement and accompanied her so as not to overshadow, pausing at moments to allow her budding talents to shine - never allowing his own mastery to pour forth, save for during the lively solos that had been prearranged.
The production was overblown and outrageous - he had never possessed an interest for the melodrama - the costumes ostentatious and ridiculous in such a homely setting. And though he did enjoy hearing her play that which she once learned from him in a cramped attic room, he strongly desired to hear her sing once more, center stage…
To sing at all.
With the investigative intermediation of the Daroga, after weeks of searching, the former Opera Ghost found Christine at last, and had settled into this rustic troupe of yokels in an arrangement he never would have chosen. Once again, her guardian Angel, he was resolved to sacrifice all personal comfort to keep watch over her - only until he could be assured that his presence was no longer needed in her life.
Only then.
xXx
A/N: Ah, Erik, at least your heart is in the right place - now if you can just get that stubborn mindset engaged where it should be. ;-) … Well, we shall see what comes of this new turn of events… 0-:-)