A Phantom Enchantment (10 page)

C
HAPTER
11

A
pparently, I had been in some kind of trance, and Elise had grabbed hold of my shoulders and shaken me, so forcefully that she'd knocked over the chair I was sitting in. She also seemed to have knocked some sense back into my muddled brain.

“What happened?” she asked.

I tried to explain about my trip into the mirror and the appearance of Gray and how frightened I'd been in his presence. “He wasn't Gray anymore,” I said. “And he wouldn't let me leave. I couldn't get away. It was like he wanted to trap me there with him.”

“I've never seen anything like it,” Elise said. “Your eyes were open, but you couldn't see me or hear me.”

“How did you know to come in my room?” I asked.

“I heard some struggling and a kind of strangled cry. But when I knocked, you didn't answer. I could see candlelight flickering under the door, and I got worried so I let myself in.”

Thank God she had. What if she hadn't heard me? Would I still be stuck in the mirror? Would my body have fallen into some kind of eternal slumber, waiting for its other half to return?

Elise insisted on staying with me the rest of the night to make sure I was okay. When she finally left, I slept fitfully, replaying my trip through the mirror over and over again in my head. If Gray was really dead, then it was his ghost that wanted to lure me permanently into his world of illusion and death. I couldn't let that happen again.

 

It was only after this epiphany that I really began to mourn him, to accept that he was truly gone from my life. The grief I felt over that next week was almost unbearable. The worst part was that I wanted to remember Gray as he had been in life, the heroic Coast Guardian and my faithful boyfriend for so many months. But the most potent memories now were of that frightening specter from my dreams.

Despite my best efforts to move on, Gray haunted my steps. And not just figuratively. On my way to and from classes, I felt his presence at my side, felt his eyes on me while I waited in line at the patisserie or picked up my mail at the administration building. I covered up the mirror again, but on some nights, that purple shroud seemed to glow from within, as if Gray's spirit lingered in its depths, just waiting for the moment to break through to the other side.

Thanksgiving came and went, and I felt a wave of homesickness that nearly incapacitated me. I began spending more and more time with Elise. With things so rocky between her and Owen, she had begun helping Jean-Claude write his libretto, a retelling of
Cyrano de Bergerac
set at a punk rock club in Manhattan circa 1973. In his version, Cyrano is a gifted singer-songwriter and club owner with a very large nose. Even though he should be the lead singer of his band, he decides to hire the vocally mediocre but physically stunning Christian to pose as their front man. But when Cyrano writes a song dedicated to the lovely Roxanne and Christian “performs” it, Roxanne falls in love with Christian instead of him.

“If Jean-Claude advances to the second round, I'm going to sing the part of Roxanne,” Elise said. “Jean-Claude will play Cyrano, and Georges will play Christian.”

It was perfect casting. And all team loyalties aside, I had to say the concept was really strong. I wondered if my Phantom even had a shot.

The following Friday, Luke came into our opera class beaming. I knew what was coming and steeled myself for disappointment.

“I have very exciting news,” he said. “This morning I received word that not one but two of our student groups have qualified to advance to the second round of L'Opéra Bastille's libretto contest. Those students will have the opportunity to perform a student-produced version of their operas in L'Opéra Bastille's smaller Studio space for an audience of two hundred guests. Judges from the opera company will choose the best of the two, and that opera will be produced by professional members of the opera company in next year's fall season!”

Gasps and excited murmuring filled the room as we waited to hear the results. “The first winner advancing to round two is . . . Jean-Claude Bourret.”

Everyone clapped, and Jean-Claude and Georges hooted and hollered.

“And the second winner to advance,” Luke said, “is our American guest, Emma Townsend!”

The class applauded again, and I felt a surge of adrenaline and excitement that made my entire body buzz with energy. Luke eventually calmed the class down. “Congratulations to the winners. There is much work ahead. I'm sure Jean-Claude and Emma will be calling on some of you to help with the next steps of the process: writing the score, casting and directing, costumes, makeup. It is all very exciting!”

Elise shot me an enthusiastic smile, and then my euphoric feeling turned to sudden dread when I realized what this meant: I was going to have to pull together a one-hour opera for a live audience. I knew I couldn't do it alone. And I needed Owen and Flynn, the very friends I'd alienated a few weeks ago.

That afternoon, I walked to Owen's hostel with my completed libretto in hand, marked in red with all of Luke's notes and suggestions. I knocked on the door to his room, but Flynn answered instead.

“Emma!” he said. “Love of my life! Where have you been hiding?” At least Flynn was no longer angry with me.

“I've been taking that class again on how not to be a raving lunatic,” I said by way of an apology.

“And how's that going for you?” He flashed me a cocky grin.

“I'll let you know after they release me,” I said. “Where's your better half?”

“I assume you're referring to Owen, who at this moment is drowning his sorrows at his favorite Gallic watering hole.”

“Name, please?”

“I'll do better than that. I'll take you there.”

I can't tell you what a relief it was to chat with Flynn, who despite all outward shows of misogyny and hedonism, was really a big old softie. His hair had come back in, lush and black, and he had grown a scruffy beard for the winter.

Sometimes I wished I could be like Elise, sampling cute men as one might sample
macarons
. But I just wasn't built that way. I longed for a deeper connection. I wanted the real thing.

We arrived at a splendidly debauched-looking bar, appropriately called Café Rabelais. Once we walked inside, it might as well have been midnight for the lack of windows and the tea lights lined up along the bar. I didn't think of Owen as the type to idle away hours at a bar, drinking liquor and listening to Edith Piaf songs, but there he sat, head cradled in his palm as he drunkenly watched the candlelight flicker in the mirror.

“There's our cowboy now,” Flynn said, “in need of a feisty wench to get those spurs back in action.” He winked at me and goosed my side, and I slapped him accordingly.

“Might the feisty wench have a few minutes alone with the cowboy?” I asked.

“Sure. I see a damsel in distress who needs tending,” he said, leaving my side and approaching a woman at the bar.

I took a seat on the stool beside Owen. “Howdy, partner,” I said, continuing Flynn's joke even though Owen had no idea what I was talking about.

“Oh, hey,” he said, looking surprised to see me.

We sat in silence for a few seconds until the bartender came to take my order. I shook my head and asked for water. Owen needed a sober sidekick more than a drinking buddy.

“So I wanted to give you something,” I said.

“Is it my heart on a platter? Oh no, Elise already gave me that.”

I laughed a little and put a hand on his shoulder. “I wanted to give you the finished libretto for the Phantom opera. I was hoping you could help me finish the score, seeing as I advanced to the second round.”

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. “Really?” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Really.”

“Oh, Emma, that's fantastic!” He got up from his stool, teetering a little drunkenly, and hugged me with such force I thought he'd knock us both over.

“Will you help me?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Because I haven't been very nice to you lately,” I said. “I wanted to apologize for being a jerk at the cemetery. I'm sorry I yelled at you.”

“It's okay,” he said.

“No, it's not. I acted like an idiot.”

“You were hurting,” he said.

“And I still am. I probably will be for a long time, but it wasn't fair for me to take it out on you. You were only trying to help me face the truth. That's what friends do.”

“Friends,” he repeated. “Always just friends.”

I knew exactly what he meant. Owen was the guy you would marry someday, not the guy you made out with passionately at the back of a nightclub. I'm sure his future state of marital bliss didn't make it any easier to accept girls rejecting him now.

“So, I've been thinking,” I said, trying to distract him from his wallowing.

“Never a good idea.”

“Ha. Seriously, it's so cold in Paris right now, and you've been depressed, and we've got tons of work to get this score ready. What if we went away?”

“You mean, the two of us?”

“No, I meant you, me, and Flynn. A sort of writers' retreat.” I couldn't help but catch his look of disappointment. “What if we took the train to . . . I don't know, Provence maybe. Arles! We'll get inspired by van Gogh and write songs on the verge of beauty and madness.”

“When?”

“What about next weekend?” I said. “We can take the bullet train, tour the town, have some dinner, split a hotel room, and stay up late writing.”

Owen seemed to be wrapping his head around my proposal. “Let's do it,” he said, and I beamed. Owen was always up for an adventure. We laid some money on the bar and hopped off our stools to tell Flynn about our travel plans. When we neared the front of the bar, I saw that the woman Flynn had gone to hit on was Mademoiselle Veilleux.

“Emma!” she said. “I see you discovered my favorite café.”

“I guess I did,” I said, surprised because this sordid little place didn't seem to suit her more elegant persona. I introduced her to Owen, who extended his hand to shake hers. She gripped his hand and pulled him in to kiss her cheek and said, “Enchanté.” Owen looked a bit stunned.

“I'm sorry we spoiled your secret hideout,” I said. “I'm sure you don't like running into students off-hours.”

“Oh, I don't mind,” she said. “In fact, your friend here has been excellent company while I wait for my date, who is becoming more unforgivably late by the second.”

“Is this the guy . . . ?” I was going to ask if it was the man she had gone out with before, the owner of the Left Bank brasserie.

“Oh no,” she said, finishing my thought. “Philippe,
c'est l'enfante terrible
. Terrifically talented, but his ego took up the entire room.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Flynn has been regaling me with stories about your modern version of
The Phantom of the Opera
. I had no idea you were interested in opera, Emma.”

“Well, I wasn't until this year. I'm taking Luke's opera class, and I just found out today that my libretto passed on to round two of Opéra Bastille's competition. We're going to be producing a version of it this spring in their Studio space.”

“Emma, why didn't you tell me?” Flynn said.

“I don't know,” I said. But I did know. I wanted to tell Owen first.

“Congratulations, Emma,” Mademoiselle Veilleux said. “I am envious of you. You will have so much fun planning this production. Did I ever tell you about my opera days?” I shook my head. “I played Carmen, Ophelia, Manon, Mimi.” Her face grew flushed from either the wine or the memories.

“Did you ever sing at Palais Garnier?” I asked.

“Oh no, I was not that good,” she said. “Believe it or not, we performed on a barge.”

“A barge?”

“
Oui.
It was called La Péniche Opéra, and we sailed down the river and performed in various locations on the Seine. We were quite
les bohèmes
ourselves, dressing up each night in garish costumes and performing under neon lights, then drinking till dawn at the cafés or roaming restlessly through the parks. We were a veritable mob. But oh, it was fun.”

I couldn't reconcile this image of her as a bohemian opera singer with the sophisticated woman sitting here in a floral scarf and silk dress.

“That sounds so cool,” Flynn said.

“It was. Although it began as a way to spite my parents when I didn't get into La Conservatoire. They could not forgive me for that, and so I made them regret ever giving me singing lessons in the first place.” She smiled faintly, and then she looked directly at me. “Never pursue something to fulfill the wishes of another. It will only lead to unhappiness.” I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just nodded as she got down from her stool and flung her bag over her shoulder. “It seems as though I have been stood up,” she said. “Alas, it was not meant to be.”

“But the man of your dreams is right here,” Flynn said, winking.

She gave him a kiss on both cheeks. “You are adorable and
trés dangereux
.”

He clutched his heart as she left the café. As soon as she was gone, he asked us, “Do you think it would be inappropriate if I asked Claire out on a date?”

“Claire?” I said. “You two are on a first-name basis?”

“I've got mad skills with the ladies,” he said, and Owen and I cracked up.