The Daaé Case (ch5)
I'm increasingly concerned that Raoul comes across as getting rather an 'easy ride' in this story - a magical snap of the author's fingers, and then he's the Perfect Father and Husband overnight. The trouble is, I think, that I'm basing these chapters on the corresponding scene in canon where he really does miraculously scrub up and vow to do better... but without the corresponding tension of the unspoken bet on his marriage, and without the Phantom lurking around in the background waiting to make his own claims on Christine. Having been prevented by a fluke from being taunted into his reprehensible bet in the first place, all that is left of the character here is his genuine attempts at reformation. Which makes it come across as if I arbitrarily decided that Raoul is really a Nice Guy because I want him to be :-(
I considered replacing "mon vieux" with "fiston" as Raoul's form of affectionate address to the child, having come across this in Violonaire's Fantômes -- but I'm just not confident enough with it, and a check on Google Ngrams suggests that while the term 'fiston' did exist in the literature of this period, it's a term that has only really taken off in the last generation or so. So I'd better stick with what I'm fairly sure of so far as the French goes! Chapter 5: Before the Performance
There were police at the Manhattan Opera in the end, that night. Not in the auditorium or outside the gallery entrance - the Daaé had scribbled a note for McWhirter to enclose with the ticket, promising there would be no trap, and she was dead-set on keeping her word - but outside the star dressing room, where a couple of big cops tapped nightsticks lightly on their holsters like they were just spoiling for someone to start making trouble.
If Mr. Y took a fancy to try something, of course, it wouldn’t be that crude. Jos could have told them that, and Miss Daaé had to know it better than any. But if fixing up protection for her with the management made her husband feel warm and wanted - well, it was no business of his how the theater was run. For Jos Perlman, the job had ended at ten o’clock this morning, when he produced the missing artiste and her party at the door of McWhirter’s office, signed, sealed and delivered. Another foul-up cleared; another disaster averted. His specialty. He’d gotten a fat commission out of it, too... and if at half six that evening he found himself paying a backstage call at the opera house, then it was purely on his own account. Besides, he told himself, he had to make sure she’d gotten everything she needed after their little undercover exit.
They’d pulled off the vanishing act by broad daylight. Lucky for him Coney wasn’t much of a morning place; he’d packed a single bag with essentials, raided the hotel laundry, and smuggled the family out by the service entrance in used staff uniforms, one by one. If Christine Daaé set a foot out of her suite, he’d lay odds Mr. Y would have known about it within ten minutes: maybe less. But if a chambermaid, bell-hop or a sleepy night-shift porter took a quick rain-check out the back, surveillance wouldn’t turn a hair. And they hadn’t.
He’d gotten a good look at little Gustave - “not so little”, as the Vicomte had added proudly - in the process, too. The kid had taken to the whole adventure like a duck to water, and announced he was aiming to be apprenticed to Jos when he grew up; he was a bright type and sweet-tempered with it, and Jos took to him at once. Given the problems Mr. Rowl had admitted last night, though - and a few observations of his own - it was hard for an outsider to avoid one all-too-obvious conclusion.
He wondered if Christine regretted it. He wondered if Sal- No. Time to clamp down on that idea, and fast. Christ, he’d thought he’d gotten over this; he’d have sworn she hadn’t crossed his mind in years.
He’d let Mr. Rowl get to him, that was the thing. Let himself get involved, let himself care when he’d sworn off caring. And Sal... Sal would have loved this morning’s stunt. Sal would have found a way to slip the baggage out as well, with monogrammed cases in full view, French steamer labels and all. She’d come up with crazier plans to hide the pair of them, way back when.
Maybe she’d be out there tonight. Freddie was a subscriber at the Met, but that didn’t mean much; an opera house didn’t get loyalty like a baseball team. Half the buzz coming from up in front right now was from rich socialites comparing the new accommodations with their regular boxes at the Met, and swapping gossip about the models for the painting in the dome above, and the fancy harps old Oscar had used for bannisters. Maybe she was sitting there next to Freddie, nudging lightly against his knee...
With an effort, Jos got an iron grip on his imagination, nodded to the cops either side the door, and gave it a firm rap just below the big brass number 1. He’d half-expected to see an actual star, like in the picture papers; it was a shade disappointing.
“It’s me - Jos.”
Low voices from inside, and a laugh.
“Enter!” the child’s voice sang out cheerfully, echoed an instant later by Mr. Rowl, and Jos went ahead and did just that, with an inward grin.
The dressing room looked like a whirlwind had hit it. Borrowed costumes were draped here, there and everywhere; seemingly the Daaé had found one in the end that fit, some kind of gathered silver concoction, but he couldn’t make out much of it from where she sat, save for the plunging dip at the back of her neck and the soft lace around her throat in the mirror. Already half made-up, she didn’t turn when he came in but went on applying tinted powder with a steady hand. But her eyes met his in the reflection, and smiled.
She’d been a beauty on the promotional posters. She’d been enchantingly flushed and young when taken off-guard over breakfast. But seated at the heart of the theater, in the place where she belonged, she fairly glowed - and whatever he told himself, it was more than just the lights burning on either side of the dressing-table glass...
Gustave, who’d been standing next to her, had bounced round when Jos came in, his face lighting up with excitement. For a moment it looked like he’d come running over; but his father, standing behind the two of them, laid a hand on his shoulder, and instead he stood up straight and made a smart little bow, very high-bred but kind of cute.
His mother, laughing, held out a hand, palm upward, for some box the kid was clutching, and said something in French. Jewels sparkled as she opened it, and Jos caught his breath.
Earrings. Big ones - and if he knew anything about jewelry, not paste but real. The Daaé would be wearing a fortune in her ears tonight.
“Borrowed,” Mr. Rowl said softly, his mouth crooking upwards, as the earrings were set carefully in place. But his smile turned rueful. “Your people here, they have been most generous... and the best of Christine’s jewels were in any case long since sold.”
Jos raised an eyebrow, trading back the unspoken thought in a shared glance: better, maybe, to arrive a penniless diva than a threadbare one. And easier on the family pride.
Still, he’d have to get that baggage back out of Phantasma for her some time. Maybe Mr. Y would do the decent thing and send in the reckoning for McWhirter to pay accommodation, and they could all just let on he’d done Hammerstein a favor by putting up his artistes overnight. Sure, right?
The Daaé had slipped in the earrings, and her husband bent to help fasten the circlet of diamonds that went with them; simple but pricy, to Jos’s expert eye. In diamonds with her silver gown she’d be pure crystal elegance on stage tonight. It occurred to him, briefly, to wonder just what kind of outfit Mr. Y had planned for her to wear in front of the crowds who came to Phantasma for spangles on high-kicking showgirls. He’d have had something planned that would catch the eye - ostrich feathers, maybe...
The audience here would be a cut above that - he hoped. Not his department, if he was honest. Never had been. Sal... Sal would have known.
The necklace was fixed at last. Mr. Rowl leaned across to murmur something in her ear, a brush of breath across her neck that brought a faint blush beneath the powder on her cheeks, and the glimpse of an upturned dimple in the mirror.
“You must tell my husband that he is being very young and foolish tonight, Mister Perlman.” She gathered up her skirts and rose from the dressing-table, turning to laugh at them both. “As foolish as when we first met!”
“And how can that be helped, madame,” came the gallant retort, “when it is plain to see you are not one year older-”
“Than fourteen?” Her face had lit up with mischief, and just for a moment Jos wouldn’t have cared to give odds whether she had in mind to get a kiss out of her husband or a box on the ear. He coughed, hastily, and got a saucy look in return. “We met as children, you see. It was a rescue of the most heroic - but wet!”
A brisk double rap on the door, and a shout came from a stagehand outside; the teasing looks on both sides were wiped away of a sudden with a snap that was almost comic. Mr. Rowl pulled out his watch and shut it again quickly.
“Jos, you must pardon us. Gustave and me, we have seats in the center, next to the Mayor - I wish that you could be with us, but...”
Jos shrugged it off.
“Sure, I know. Those tickets were a done deal weeks back, before you left France.” And the Mayor’s face’d be worth a fair few dollars at the notion of sitting by the hired help, anyways. “Besides, I’m not cut out for it.”
He didn’t own a smart opera suit like the one they’d got even the kid in... and he hadn’t been planning on attending the performance. He hadn’t precisely been planning on calling in here. He’d been passing on impulse, he told himself, just impulse - but maybe he ought to hear her sing, just the once, after all.
He gave Gustave a reassuring grin. “Your Ma’ll see me safe with a place in the wings - won’t you, ma’am? Best place in the house, just for your guardian angel: yours truly.”
Gustave looked more than a touch confused; Jos remembered belatedly that the kid was only ten and had most likely gotten all his English out of stiff-spoken books. But the other two had shared a quick glance. Christine bit her lip and wrapped her arms closer, leaning into her husband, who’d taken an almost unthinking step towards her, and Jos stiffened up. “What? What did I-?”
“Maybe... not Angel- or Guardian-” Mr. Rowl managed after a short breath, with a shrug that was an apology. “Just... Jos.” He smiled a little, and it reached his eyes for real a moment after. “‘Just’? No, my friend - always and very much Jos!” And this time, before he could dodge, the owner of that name found a swift hard embrace flung around his shoulders a couple of brief paces later.
Then, before a stunned Jos could react, he’d been released. The Vicomte ruffled a hand through Gustave’s hair, and exchanged a grin with the kid. “Allons, mon vieux”-a sweeping gesture to the door- “vas-y!”
And they were gone.
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