Chapter Text
It is a crisp, cool autumn breeze that sweeps across the street as attendees hurry into the opera hall. They shed their coats in the entryway, revealing a wide array of sparkling dresses and glittering jewelry, and the champagne flows so freely that it is rivaled only by the intense gossip.
It is, after all, not every day that the Opéra Populaire hosts a show about itself.
Yet the announcements were made ages ago, rehearsals have been held for weeks, and now eager socialites clamor to enter the hall and be witness to the story of the great mystery that captured the attention of Paris for months – and still holds great interest years later, when most of the people involved have passed on or retired or vanished to places unknown.
What is better, they whisper among themselves, than a mystery that has defied explanation for decades?
Eventually, the porters usher the guests in, with the lucky few climbing the stairs to enclosed, comfortable private boxes. The boxes are often reserved for the wealthiest or the most powerful, although all eyes are upon Box Five, a cornerstone of the great mystery. Normally it remains empty during all performances, with a single chair and table with a fresh rose upon it as the only occupants, a tradition that has held fast through countless plays and performances. Yet tonight, tonight of all nights, keen eyed guests spot that there are two chairs in Box 5, and the curtain has been drawn back to allow entrance.
Who is that, they whisper among themselves, to dare be seated in Box 5 and break with tradition?
The guests are seated, the refreshments served, the programs distributed. The lights are dimmed, the curtains lowered, the orchestra settled. And like magic, slowly a hush begins to fall over the crowd, sweeping the room like a wave, until the room is so silent a pin could drop and be heard from corner to corner, and a short, stout man climbs up the stairs to stand upon the stage.
“Welcome, one and all!” cries the man. “You are very welcome, indeed, to the first in our brand new production! It will involve stunning dances, wonderful music, and, of course, the finest singers in all of France.”
The man pauses, ever so slightly, and tilts his head as if he can hear the whispers growing in the crowd. He must like what he hears, for he beams from ear and ear and continues, “As you may have heard, this production details the strange and magical affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery never fully explained – a mystery that transpired right in the very opera house you now sit in.”
A spotlight turns on with a heavy click. The bright circle of light roams across the guests, skipping on the floor and floating as if on water, before it finally settles upon Box 5. When the man points, the guests turn to see that the two chairs are filled now, quite suddenly, as if the box’s occupants had appeared from thin air, drawn out of the shadows by the bright light. Two men sit there now, regal and silent, dressed in the unobtrusively expensive finery that denotes old wealth and an even older bloodline. One has curls that frame an angelic face and a prominent scar high on his cheek; the other has cheekbones sharp enough to slice through ice and an eyepatch as black as night.
“And tonight, we are proud to announce the production under the continued and generous patronage of the Count Lecter, who not only has been a devoted supporter of the arts, but whose husband was involved in the very events that you will see tonight on stage!”
The Count Lecter dips his head, a subtle smile upon his lips. His husband scowls and leans back.
The whispers double, triple, quadruple. The program had promised a bewitching, beautiful, poignant story, a story that has defined the Opéra Populaire more than any production ever has – but this story, this history, with a singer who lived it married to the upstanding and regal Count Hannibal Lecter? It is known that Count Lecter’s husband was an opera star, with a voice so sweet it could charm the very birds out of trees, but the Count’s husband retired decades ago, and now lives a quiet, sedate life, rarely appearing at the sumptuous dinner parties the Count throws. They are, by all counts, respectable members of the nobility, with the Count’s husband a faithful patron of the arts and animals and the Count himself a lauded member of the medical scene.
What happened, they whisper among themselves, that would have involved the Count and his husband?
The Count’s husband turns his head towards the Count, and he must say something, for the Count’s smile widens and he spreads his hands silently, as if pantomiming innocent. It does not appear to fool or appease the Count’s husband, for his scowl grows even deeper and he slumps in his chair, like a child throwing a temper tantrum. The Count leans close to his husband, like a moth to flame, and presses his lips to his husband’s cheek, planting kisses alongside the scar like a farmer plants roses in a garden row. He says something too, whispering into his husband’s ear as though the whole world might be listening it, and whatever he says makes his husband’s shoulders shake in a suppressed laugh – or perhaps in anger.
Either way, the Count raises his hand to the watching audience members and gives a short royal wave, acknowledging the manager’s words, and smiles as though he is part of the play himself, even though only his husband once performed on stage.
With that acknowledge paid, the spotlight flicks off, abruptly as it had gone on, and the man bows and scampers off the stage. Now emboldened with a taste of the night to come, all eyes go to the curtain, ravenous as a thousand wolves, to watch the Phantom of the Opera.
The conductor raises his baton, and the overture begins.