Beyond Rue Morgue Anthology (29 page)

And so we roamed the interweaving corridors, stairwells, alcoves, and landings. Before long it was not hard to imagine a clever infiltrator scampering from floor to floor or room to room unseen. Skulking round the Romano-Byzantine labyrinth, several times I wished for Ariadne’s ball of twine, fearful that we had lost our way, while Poe counted his footsteps into hundreds, storing myriad calculations of I-knew-not-what. But then, I seldom did.

A swell of music rose up and I was momentarily reminded of the old adage of a dying man hearing a choir of angels. The gas-lit passageway gave the notes a dull, eerie resonance, making it tricky to know whether the source was near or far. But when Poe opened a door and we stepped into a fourth-level box overlooking the stage, the voices and orchestra took on voluminous proportions.

The tiny figures before us were dwarfed in a five-tier auditorium resplendent in red velvet, plaster cherubs, and gold leaf. The magnificent house curtain with gold braid and pom-poms was raised above the proscenium. And presiding over all—in fact partly obscuring our view—hung the magnificent seven-ton crystal and bronze chandelier which alone, if you are to believe the controversy, cost thirty thousand gold francs.

I am marginally more familiar with
La Traviata
now than I was then, and could not have told you in those days they were rehearsing Act Two, Scene Two—the
soirée
at Flora’s house, in which Alfredo, here a beefy man with the build of a prize-fighter, sees his love, the former courtesan Violetta, with Baron Douphol. After winning a small fortune from the Baron, he bitterly rounds up the guests to witness her humiliation—
“Questa donna conoscete?”
—before hurling his winnings at her feet in payment for her “services.” Whereupon she faints to the floor.

“She faints in Act One, too,” said Poe, paying less attention to the stage than he did to the fixtures and fittings of the box. “Never a good sign.”

“More to the point, Guédiguian hasn’t wasted any time in finding a new Violetta. I presume that’s her understudy.”

Poe arched an eyebrow.

As we listened to the guests turn on Alfredo—singing
“Di donne ignobile insultatore, di qua allontanati, ne desti orror
!”— Poe could no longer bear the pain and left the box, muttering that high art was invariably highly dull. The art of the street, the Penny Dreadful and barrel organ, he found more rewarding, he said—and more honest. “I don’t know about you, but I have seldom been accompanied by an orchestra in my moments of intimate passion.”

“But is there a clue in the play?” I caught up with him in the corridor.

“Why would there be?”

“I don’t know. Do you? I’ve never stepped in an opera house before. I don’t even know what
La Traviata
means.”

“The Fallen Woman. It is based on
La Dame aux Camélias
, a play in turn based on a novel by Dumas,
fils
—in turn based, some say, on a lady of his own acquaintance. The play was a big success when I first arrived in Paris, especially after it was vilified by the censors.”

“For what reason?”

“A high-living prostitute depicted as a victim of society? Especially when she never sees the light? In London, I believe they tried to get an injunction to stop it. But then, it is never entirely a bad thing for a work of art to be pilloried by the Church. In America they say the plot is immoral, though no worse than
Don Giovanni.
Here, it was first performed at the Théâtre Lyrique on the Place de Chatelet with Christine Nilsson in the title role. Too chaste-looking for a harlot, if you ask me.”

“You saw it?”

“Yes, which is why I abhor opera with every fiber of my being. Rarely does an art form offend all the senses at once, and the buttocks more than any. Nothing less than the crucifixion of Christ should last more than forty minutes. And God forbid that Judas should sing about it. Though, given time, I’m sure he shall.” Keeping up his sprightly pace, he turned a corner. “The truth is, my dear Holmes, I endured this mellifluous obscenity once and did not care for it. In fact, I walked out.”

He strode on several yards before replying to my unspoken question, but did not turn to face me.

“You see... the soprano was too old, too obese... almost to the point of being flabby, to play—to
conceivably
play, with any hope of conviction—the part of a young woman dying of consumption.” His face creased and twitched with the most intense inner agitation. “That she sang with such—abnormal gusto, with superhuman energy—with such buoyant, lustrous, glowing
health.
And the fact that she was applauded. That people
cheered
...”

He had told me before of Virginia, his cousin and child bride. Her icy pallor, cheeks rubbed with plum juice to fake a ruddy complexion. Her dry lips enlivened briefly with the color of cherries. The coughing of blood onto a pure white handkerchief. He had also, once, intimated that the disease gave spells of excitement, even desire; that there was an aphrodisiac quality to the fading bloom. I think it was this that haunted him most of all. I cannot imagine what he had suffered. To bear helpless witness to a death so inevitable yet so gradual. To see loveliness—one’s very reason for living—wither on the vine, and all around feel harangued by the prejudice of others, not knowing whether to blame habits or heredity or himself. Then to be there as the leaf takes to the wind, leaving its heavy load behind...

“From the opening music we are in the presence of death. Eight first and eight second violins portray the frail consumptive. Curtain up on a party scene. We are told the hostess is seeing her doctor. I know that feeling well. I have been in that scene, that room, many times. She wants to enjoy life fully because it is fleeting. Parties will be the drug to kill her pain. I understand that too. They drink a toast because love is life.
Fervido. Fervido
... A fever... A passion...”

The female voice rose again, distant as the angels.

“It is a lie, as all Art lies. There is no aria at the end. There is only the incessant coughs, the swelling of joints, the loss of weight, the cadaverous emaciation, delirium, torment—and, if one is lucky, the uttering of a lover’s name.”

Straightening his back he walked on, anxious not to meet my eyes, though he would never have admitted it. No more was said on the subject. He had closed a heavy door and I knew I could not open it. Only he could do that, when—and if—he wished.

We found a staircase. Narrow. Badly lit. And descended.

I made to speak, but Poe raised a finger to his lips. We entered the auditorium and the music swelled louder.

* * *

We crept nearer to the stage, where Laurent Loubatierre, the tenor playing Alfredo, stood delivering an aria. We settled into a couple of seats off the central aisle, far enough back not to be noticed by the several people with their backs to us who formed a meager audience—costumier, copyist, dramaturge, dance manager, and so on. Or so we thought.

Poe sank in his chair, thin neck disappearing into his collar, long white hair sitting on his shoulders, and eyes heavy-lidded like those of a slumbering owl. I had placed my notebook on my knee, when I was aware that the tenor’s notes were falling flat, and looked up to see Loubatierre pinching the bridge of his nose, blinking furiously, then shading his eyes with his hand as he advanced to the footlights.

“I am sorry, Maestro! But this is impossible! I cannot work with such distractions!” He peered out, pointing in our exact direction, straight past the hapless conductor. “Who are these people? You! Yes, you sir! Both of you! Who invited you here? On what authority...?” He became apoplectic. “Somebody fetch Guédiguian! Fetch him
immediately!”
The assorted lackeys threw looks at each other and one, by some mute agreement, ran out to do his bidding. “I cannot continue—I
refuse
to continue—until you reveal yourselves!”

“I shall, gladly.” Poe spoke calmly, examining his fingernails. “When the cast of this opera reveal themselves and give a true account of their movements on the day Madame Jolivet was attacked.”

“How dare you! This is outrageous!”

“The ravaging of a beautiful woman’s face is outrageous, Monsieur Loubatierre. Your indignation merely ludicrous.” A couple of ballerinas in the background looked at each other, open-mouthed. And if Loubatierre was already red-faced with anger, he was now virtually foaming at the mouth.

“You told the police you visited Monsieur Rodin the sculptor at his
atelier
on the Left Bank to sit for him, but according to my enquiries Monsieur Rodin has been in Italy and only returned yesterday, for the unveiling of his
L’Âge d’Airain
at the Paris Salon.”

“I don’t have to account for my whereabouts to you!”

“You might find that you do.”

“Who is this man? That is an unspeakable accusation! I have a good mind to thrash him within an inch of his life!”

“I would very much prefer an answer,” said Poe with lugubrious contempt. “Need I point out the truism that a man who has recourse to violence usually has something to hide?”

“Beckstein!” Loubatierre, supremely flustered, addressed the most smartly dressed and rotund of the assembled, whom we later came to understand was the opera house’s dramaturge. “Throw him out this instant! I insist! I
insist!”

The singer turned his back sharply, appealing with extravagant gestures to the gods. Other members of the cast hurried on in their tights, bustles, and blouses, trying their best to placate him, though he shrugged off, equally extravagantly, any attempt to do so. Poe, to my amazement, started to applaud and shout “Bravo! Bravo!” which served only to agitate the performer further. The poor man was incandescent to the point of immobility.

“Monsieur!” Guédiguian arrived, puffing. “What is the cause of all this—?”

“Exactly.” Poe rose to his feet and shot his cuffs. “Monsieur Loubatierre’s behavior is inexcusable.”

The tenor rounded on him now, head down and ready to charge off the stage, had he not been held back.

“Monsieur Dupin! Really!” blubbered Guédiguian, whose own cheeks were reddening. “Perhaps you can explain—”

Poe cut in before he could finish, with his habitual air of distraction. “Perhaps
you
can explain, monsieur, why we were able to wander every floor of this building with impunity, not once being asked our identity or purpose of our visit till now. But to wander with impunity is one thing, to escape the building without being seen by the watchmen at every exit, quite another. If we solve that conundrum, we solve the crime. Now, I should like to question the understudy. What is her name?”

Bamboozled, Guédiguian could do nothing better than to answer the question directly. “Marie-Claire Chanaud.”

“Excellent. Where is she?”

Guédiguian appealed to his staff for an answer.

“She... she is not here, monsieur,” said Beckstein in a thick German accent.

“Not here?” Poe approached the orchestra pit, and I with him. “Then where? Backstage? Bring her out. It is imperative.”

“No, monsieur. She has been working very hard. She complained of a dry throat. With nerves, as you know, the throat tightens. And a singer is an athlete. They must take care of their most delicate instrument. We thought it best she went to the dressing room to rest...”

“You left her
alone?
Unprotected?”

I barely had time to register the ferocity in Poe’s face as a clatter of footsteps drew my eyes with a whiplash to the wings, where a small boy ran onto the boards, almost tripping over his clogs in his haste. The entrance was so dramatic that for a split second I took it for a part of the rehearsal, until I saw his blanched face and the tiny hand pressed to his chest as he tried to catch breath, ripping the cloth cap from his tousled head as he cried out to Guédiguian:

“Monsieur!
Monsieur!
He’s struck again, sir! The Phantom!” His eyes were unblinking and his lip quivering. “He’s struck
again
!”

Alarm taking hold in the auditorium, Poe and I wasted not an instant in thundering downstairs and through coffin-narrow corridors in pursuit of the lad, who moments later stood aside in terror of seeing what revolting scene might confront him in the dressing room.

Inside, we saw what he had seen—a large bunch of flowers tied in a red bow propped against the mirror, shriveling on bending, blackening stalks as we stared at them—a sickening picture of decay seen through some kaleidoscope free of the strictures of time, speeding toward dissolution. Beside it, the open pages of a poetry book lay sizzling, Gérard de Nerval’s
Les Chimères
turning to acrid vapor in the air. Poe coughed into his handkerchief. I moved forward to enter, but he extended an arm across my body to block the way.

The chair was overturned.

The dressing room—
empty
.

With a terrible, rising certainty that the understudy had been abducted, I ran to the Stage Door, only to find it bolted.

“Here!”

Returning, I saw that Poe had whisked aside the curtain of an alcove to reveal the trembling singer standing there in nothing but her underwear, having narrowly escaped having her face ravaged by the same demon who had attacked Madame Jolivet. He picked up a cloak and wrapped it round her shoulders.

“Did any of it touch you? Madame? Are you hurt in any way?” She shook her head. “Are you sure? If it fell on your skin... or eyes...” He turned to the loons congregated at the door. “Water! Get water! Now!” She stepped forward, but sagged into his arms.

I grabbed the chair to prop it under her before she fell. “Stand back! She needs air, can’t you see? Clear the way. We need to get her out of here.”

The two of us lifted her under the armpits and knees and deposited her gently on a wicker basket in the corridor. She was light as a feather.

“Open the Stage Door and let the fumes out. And nobody go in that room. Be careful how you touch anything.”

In a few moments water came, and a sponge, and I ran it over her forehead and cheeks. “Did you breathe it in?”

Again the young soprano shook her head, her blue-black curls, which fell considerably below her shoulders, shining. In this semi-swoon, with her almost painted eyebrows and porcelain skin, extreme thinness, and long neck, I suddenly thought her the perfect picture of the phthisic beauty of consumption. Uncomfortably, it made me look over at Poe, who was glaring at her.