A Phantom Enchantment (25 page)

“I missed it for me,” he said. “Nothing could make me happier than this moment. Not even fishing.”

His presence soothed me and gave me the final surge of confidence I needed. Over the next hour, audience members began trickling in until the boat was at full capacity. We stood out on the deck for a brief cocktail hour as the motor revved and the barge slowly departed from the dock. Our opera teacher, Luke, was there, looking very proud of his young protégés. I couldn't believe I had known nothing about opera at the beginning of this year, and now I had written my own libretto.

Just as a misty rain began to fall, the lights along the outside of the cabin began to flicker, signaling that the guests should take their seats. Monsieur Crespeau stood at the back of the theater, playing the part of usher. My father and friends and I walked down to the front row, where seats had been reserved for us with a white ribbon.

Mademoiselle Veilleux took the stage. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to a special, one-night-only performance of L'Opéra Bastille's Young Artists' competition featuring original librettos by two students from Lycée Saint-Antoine: Monsieur Jean-Claude Bourret and Mademoiselle Emma Townsend.”

The crowd applauded, and for the first time, I felt so impressed by what I had accomplished, not just because everyone kept telling me how proud they were but because I was proud of myself for having had the courage to put myself out there and make myself vulnerable. I felt like a real artist now.

Even once the other team began performing their version of
Cyrano,
I no longer felt jealous or nervous; in fact, I was thrilled to be a part of the project and so awed by the talent displayed by my rivals that I didn't care who won or lost tonight.

Jean-Claude was commanding as Cyrano, singing his solos with poignancy and strength. And Yseult, for all her mean-girl bravado, displayed a sweetness and vulnerability as Roxanne that I wasn't expecting. The songs they had written blended operatic melodies with punk rhythms and rawness.

The ending was heartbreaking. Fifteen years after Cyrano's club was forced to close in financial ruin, Roxanne is still mourning the loss of rock star Christian, who died of a drug overdose years ago. Cyrano is now himself dying of lung cancer, but he visits Roxanne faithfully every day, never revealing that he was the one who penned all the love letters she thought were from Christian. On Cyrano's last visit, Roxanne asks him to read the final letter she received from Christian before he died, and Cyrano sings her the words, so sincerely and passionately that Roxanne finally knows the truth. In the final aria—a fusion of Joni Mitchell soulfulness and Kate Bush sweetness—Roxanne tells Cyrano that she has always loved him, and he is able to die with the knowledge that he did not live in vain, that someone loved him despite his flaws.

As the crowd began to clap, I was a weeping mess, not sure how I was going to pull myself together in time to perform our show. That final scene reminded me so much of Crespeau, who had dedicated his life to serving a woman who had never returned his love. I turned toward the back of the theater, searching for Crespeau by the door, but someone else stood in his place. Even though it was dark, I knew it was Gray. But he no longer looked pale and ghostly, like the frightening specter from my nightmares.

He looked strong and handsome and capable. And I knew his goodness had returned to him, since he'd come to my show simply because I had asked him to.

The lights rose slowly, and Mademoiselle Veilleux announced that there would be an intermission to allow the second team to prepare for their performance. The audience filed outside as my team headed toward the backstage area, but as we began changing, I could hear the winds picking up above deck and the rain pattering harder on the roof.

Elise, still bereft of her full vocal capacity, served as our costume-and-makeup person, dashing around to make a tuck here, swipe some blush there, fasten a clasp here. Once I was dressed, I sat in front of the mirror for one final check. Since we'd lost the few costumes we'd had, I was wearing the red velvet dress from the masquerade ball. My hair was pinned up with loose curls falling around my face, which Elise had made up with porcelain foundation and a deep red lip stain. As I stared into the mirror, all of the chaos going on behind me faded so all I could see was my own reflection staring back at me.

But my reflection no longer seemed like a stranger to me. The mirror didn't lie, and it didn't fill me with dread or fear. It just showed me myself as I truly was: strong, confident, and ready for my solo.

There was one moment after I took the stage but before the curtain was drawn aside when the entire house was silent but for the rain beating on the roof. I took a deep breath and drew up my courage from some well deep inside me. And then the curtain parted, but I didn't even look out at the audience. For the next hour or so, I was Christine Daaé, the promising singer whom everyone had discounted until she got her chance to shine in the spotlight.

Owen and Flynn and I sang our hearts out, and by the last aria I felt as emotionally spent as if I had just lived through all the heartbreak and fear and longing and guilt that Christine had endured. And in a way, I had.

For the final scene, I was alone onstage, locked in Erik's penthouse apartment during the final round of the singing competition. But Raoul had sacrificed his chance at stardom to come and save me. However, this had been part of the Phantom's plan all along. Erik had never left his apartment and had been using me as bait so he could trap and kill Raoul.

But when he sees Raoul's reaction at finding me alive, the Phantom softens and realizes that Raoul and Christine truly love each other. He is torn over whether to exact his revenge or to let Christine go. Feeling a surge of pity and love for him, Christine sings her part of the duet, “Last Good-bye,” in which she sets him free with her words, and Erik weeps because he knows their story has come to an end.

During the last moments of my part, the noise of the rain ceased and the acoustics made the room a temporary echo chamber, signaling that we were going through the Bastille tunnel. This was my big finale, the moment the audience had been waiting for.

Christine is so moved by the Phantom's tears that she sings the words—“I will love you always, but my heart must be free”—and the two are so overcome by emotion that they're brought to their knees. The Phantom takes Christine's hand, and she pulls him toward her one last time and kisses him so tenderly that he rises from the floor and opens the door for her.

At this point, Owen reached for my hand, and together we walked through the door and offstage, leaving Flynn alone for his final scene and the second part of the duet.

Suddenly, the rain began beating on the roof again, and the acoustics shifted back to normal. Flynn's voice rang out with brilliant clarity, “It is over; you are no longer with me. My heart forever chained to yours must be set free,” and he climbed atop the wooden frame meant to be a window overlooking the Seine. Just as he was about to leap through it in his final suicidal flight, we saw a flash of lightning outside and felt a lurching of the boat as if someone had jammed on the brakes. And then the stage went dark.

In fact, the room was plunged into a darkness so total that the audience gasped. There was a brief moment of silence before the house erupted into applause. They thought this was part of the show. But then when the lights didn't return, the audience began to murmur.

Before anyone could panic, Mademoiselle Veilleux took the stage and made an announcement. “Please do not be alarmed. The engine seems to have malfunctioned, but the captain is working to restore power. Just remain in your seats, and we'll have you all safely back on dry land in no time. The judges will have their verdict momentarily.”

She kept her placid demeanor in front of the audience, but as soon as she came backstage I could tell something was very, very wrong. Owen, Flynn, Elise, and I were huddled there, wondering what to do.

“I'm afraid we struck something,” she told us, her forehead knotted in worry.

“Or something struck us,” I said, thinking of that lightning bolt. It seemed somehow appropriate that my supernatural adventures had begun with a lightning strike and might end with one.

“How can I help?” Flynn asked.

“Yeah, what can we do?” Owen said.

“Come above deck with me,” she said. “I'm worried because I can't find Nicholas.”

We took the rickety staircase from the cabin up to the deck of the barge, which was slick with rain. We could barely walk without sliding toward the edge, as the boat seemed to be listing slightly to one side.

Thierry was already on deck with another man, presumably the captain, and they were both looking at something in the river. I watched the captain toss a life preserver over the railing.

“Mon dieu!” Mademoiselle Veilleux cried, racing over to the edge. “It's Nicholas. He's fallen overboard.”

Before I could even think, I was racing back toward the cabin to find Gray. He was still standing by the exit door, so I grabbed his arm and yanked him outside before anyone else could hear the panic in my voice.

“It's Monsieur Crespeau,” I said. “He's fallen overboard. He's got a bad back. I'm not sure he can swim.”

I began running toward the stern of the barge, and Gray followed until we saw everyone braced against the railing, peering into the river at a dark spot churning in the water below. The life preserver was floating several yards away from Crespeau, and I doubted he'd be able to get to it in the churlish waters.

Gray tore off his jacket and shirt and kicked off his shoes, then flung himself over the railing and dove into the river. Mademoiselle Veilleux screamed at the unexpectedness of it, and we all watched helplessly as he swam out to Monsieur Crespeau. The captain had tossed a rope ladder over the side, and Gray was able to pull Crespeau close to the boat, but Crespeau was too weak to get a foothold on the ladder, and Gray seemed to be struggling under his weight. As heroic as his instincts had been, Gray wasn't strong enough to have attempted this rescue.

After several anguished minutes of treading water and grappling for purchase, Gray eventually secured Crespeau onto his back and began mounting the rope ladder himself. Both Thierry and the captain leaned overboard while Owen and Flynn helped ground them on the boat. Together, they were able to grab Gray and hoist him and Crespeau up and over the railing, where they both collapsed in a soaking heap on the deck.

I ran over to Gray and grabbed his hand while Mademoiselle Veilleux knelt at Crespeau's side. Crespeau was coughing violently, spurting up water from his lungs. Wet hair was shellacked to his face, and his lips were blue. Gray looked a little better but his teeth were chattering and his face was pale.

“Gray, are you okay?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered breathlessly. “Worry about him. I'm fine.”

I glanced over at Crespeau, who was sitting up in Veilleux's arms now, shivering uncontrollably, his right hand clutching his left arm. “Nicholas, I'm here,” Mademoiselle Veilleux said, stroking his face. “Nothing bad is going to happen. You're with me now.”

He turned his head to look at her and with the utmost effort said, “I've always . . . been . . . with you.”

He coughed and sputtered again, and she gripped his face with both of her hands. “Shhh, I know, I know,” she said. “You've always been with me. Which means you can't leave now. Please don't leave, Nicholas. I love you.”

His face, which had been contorted in pain and exertion, finally surrendered to some greater power. “I know,” he said, his mouth curling into a peaceful smile just before he passed out.

C
HAPTER
25

C
respeau never regained consciousness. He died of heart failure later that evening, with Mademoiselle by his side. She leaned over and kissed him tenderly, but it was too late. His cheek was already cold.

So Nicholas Crespeau, who had lived a life of pure love and selfless devotion, died without ever having felt the lips of his beloved.

His funeral was held on the barge where he'd died. I asked Mademoiselle Veilleux if I could read something during his service, choosing a passage from Tennyson's “The Lady of Shalott.” As I read, my mouth was dry, but my eyes were not:

Mademoiselle Veilleux sang “Sono Andati?” from
La Bohème,
and I thought my heart would burst. Her voice was tremulous as she told Monsieur Crespeau what she should have told him in life:

The service concluded with Jean-Claude playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the song Crespeau had played so beautifully the night of the masquerade ball. As Jean-Claude played, the barge passed through the Bastille tunnel before emerging once again into the sunshine.

Gray stood next to me on the deck as Mademoiselle tossed Crespeau's ashes into the Seine, where I imagined them flowing all the way to the English Channel, or perhaps to Camelot. Gray leaned over to me, his cheeks stained with tears.

“I'm so sorry,” he said. “I wasn't strong enough.”

“Gray,” I said. “You were stronger than anyone else there. When you saw him in the water, you didn't even hesitate. You dove right in, despite all the risks. And you hardly even knew him. That's why you're in the Coast Guard.”

“But I couldn't save him,” he said.

“But don't you see, you did save him,” I said. “You gave him the chance to say good-bye to Mademoiselle Veilleux.”

I thought back to that conversation I'd had with Crespeau about the Lady of Shalott and his theory that she'd turned around purposefully because she was ready to die.

Why had Crespeau been out on the deck in the middle of the storm? Had he simply been investigating why the motor had shut off? Or had he finally turned from his world of shadows and embraced the real world with all its risks and heartbreak?

Gray grabbed my hand as we disembarked from the barge, and I squeezed as hard as I could, trying to show him how much he meant to me. Because love was a complicated thing. There were so many ways to define it. Mademoiselle Veilleux had loved Crespeau—perhaps not in the way he had wanted—but purely and deeply. Her words at the end had set him free, just as Roxanne's had done for Cyrano. Just as Christine's had for the Phantom. Crespeau's life had not been in vain because someone had loved him.

Perhaps somewhere out beyond the boundary between life and death, Crespeau had felt that final kiss on his cheek and it had given him the strength to take a step forward into the light. He was no longer the Bastille Ghost, trapped in the past and doomed to tread those hallways alone and unloved. He had finally found a place where his parents still smiled, where he walked without a limp, and where forgiveness wasn't necessary because love was stronger than death.

I imagined his heaven bursting with gleaming stars and swirling skies, a world of van Gogh colors such as his enormous heart deserved.