Ch 3 - Cantabile

A/N: "Cantabile" is a singing style with an easy, flowing, tone – sort of the way Christine sings naturally.

By the time Christine arrived at the Opera House, I had already stepped into the role of Phantom and wore it comfortably. Despite many shakes of the head, cluckings of the tongue, and mon Dieus from Madame Giry, I think she rather enjoyed the act at times. It was her idea to ask Lefevre for a salary for the Opera Ghost.

"After all, you can't live on air," she said.

Christine had no idea that her Angel of Music and the fearsome Opera Ghost were the same creature, and that creature a man, until many years later. I took pains that she would not make the connection. She was the one being I did not wish to fear me. She was mine to look after; to comfort and soothe. Instead, she connected me with the spirit of her father. This touched me. I liked it. I took no pains to disabuse her of the notion.

And so, eight years passed. Opera people came and went, Christine grew, and the Phantom became ever more feared and powerful. I had built a small, secret empire of which I was the sole ruler. I knew the wheres and hows and wherefores of everything. I knew the Opera House better than anyone. I had familiar routines; I felt well-shielded.

Then the rug was pulled out from beneath me.

I was passing down a hidden corridor behind the ballet dormitories, when I heard a voice that stopped me in my tracks. A clear, light, soprano, singing a common folksong:

Helas! Je sais un chant d'amour
Triste et gai tour a tour…

(Alas! I know a song of love, sad and happy by turns)

It was the purest, most bell-like sound I'd ever heard. A completely untrained voice, but what perfect pitch! What a clear tone!

I had to see who was making such a heavenly sound. I knew well how to see without being seen.

…It was Christine! My Christine! My heart was beating too fast for speech. All these years I'd been singing to her, never dreaming that she herself possessed such a magnificent instrument. What could I not do with such a voice? What heights might not we achieve?

Later that day, I spoke to her when she was alone in the chapel.

"Christine…" I sang her name, softly, the way I always did.

"Angel?" she was used to me now.

"I heard you this afternoon." I was speaking now, instead of singing, which was rare for us.

"You did?" she smiled. "When?"

"When you were singing."

"Oh…" she said, clearly not knowing what to make of this. She really had no idea of her talent.

"How would you like to learn to sing? To sing properly, the way a diva does?"

She looked doubtful. "I'm a dancer, not an opera singer…"

"Your voice is lovely. It would be more lovely still if it were trained."

She considered this, chewing on her lip. "I'll have to ask Madame Giry."

"Why don't you do that?" I'd have a word with Antoinette, myself.

The lessons added greatly to our happiness, Christine's and mine. She was an apt and eager pupil, and when we sang together, my heart was full. Her technique progressed at an amazing rate: the way she learned taught me things, which we used together to build her voice. And so we shaped each other, my Christine and I.

Even Antoinette was impressed.

"You would have made a great teacher," she told me one day.

"Most singers are less than willing to take instruction from invisible masters," I said, acerbically. "Christine is a rarity."

"She is exceptional in many ways," Antoinette said.

As if I didn't know that!

And then everything changed again.

Christine arrived one day for her lesson in costume for the latest production. She was tired and out of breath, but still eager to learn. The costume left little to the imagination. I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all. I didn't like the way I couldn't take my eyes off of her when she moved. I didn't like what I was thinking. Nothing about this was right.

"What is that thing you have on?" I asked harshly.

"The costume for – "

"It's bad. It's very bad. I've never seen anything worse. Today's lesson is cancelled," I said. I was really angry.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "What is wrong? What did I do? I'm sorry…"

But I heard no more. I was running, and I did not pause for thought until I had reached the other side of the lake.