Free Masque by Bethany Pope

an instant, the way he grabbed her purse, snapping the silver-tone chain of her chatelaine.
    I thought of signalling the driver to stop, but then remembered the train, and the invisible rival who would steal my treasure, and let my hand drop. Right now, for me and my future happiness, every second counted.
    Thirty minutes later we arrived at the station. I had missed the early train by a full five minutes. I would have to wait for the evening departure and travel at night. Luckily, there was a cafe at the station. I bought a coffee, brandy-spiked, a roll with ham, and sat down at the table to eat, smoke, and read the daily newspaper.
    Carmen had been reviewed. The critic did not care for the opera, he thought it was ‘common’, but I blushed with pride to see three full paragraphs dedicated to the glory of Christine.

CHRISTINE
    7.
    I sang my first leading role in spring, a début by Bizet that I loved from my first glance at the score. That composer did something wonderful with folk music, took the simple-seeming tunes and reels of the so-called ‘common folk’ and brought them, blooming, into complex art. I hadn’t heard anything like it since those long-ago days when my father improvised with Nordic farm melodies, his genius shining from him, a heavenly light, as I danced on the dunes, joining my voice to the pure tone of his famous golden violin.
    As for my role, this Carmen, I loved and hated her. She was passionate, beautiful, but more selfish than anyone that I had ever met, insufferable in foolishness. I hated how she squandered the love that she was lucky enough to get. And yet, when I became her on the stage, when I wore her skin, everything that confused me about her character suddenly made sense. The Gypsy took over. My flesh, my face, was simply the mask she wore, my voice the instrument she sang through. I loved her, all of her, her strengths, her flaws, as I pranced bare-toed on that swept wooden stage.
    I never forgot that I owed this chance to my master. He trained, was still training, my developing voice, and more than that, he acted as my invisible manager, arranging my roles. I was supposed to play the smaller part of Carmen’s friend who sings six bars in act three. It is a good role, for a beginner, one that a singer of my status should be glad for.
    La Carlotta was supposed to sing the leading part (and never mind that she was twenty years too old for it – no one could tell from the stage. Her face was smooth beneath the make-up) but three days before the curtain went up, in the middle of a dress rehearsals, her voice suddenly vanished. She had just taken a sip from a carafe of water, fanning her tremendous, glistening bosom with her handkerchief and in the middle of telling a filthy joke to the dresser who was working hard to keep those fatty glories decently contained, her voice was extinguished, mid-sentence. Poof. It went out like a candle.
    She could no longer sing. She could not even croak.
    Of course, it was a disaster. Andre and Firmin ran around like headless hens, squawking about cancelling the show, lamenting all those refunds when Meg, dear little girl, stepped forward and lisped, ‘Messieurs, messieurs, there is no need to fear! Christine Daaé can sing it.’
    I have no idea how she knew. Perhaps she heard me rehearsing the lead role with my master, locked in my room.
    They laughed at first, nervously. Firmin twirled the rim of his fine beaver hat, smudging the nap with his fat fingers and said, ‘It’s true that she can sing, she is a wonderful chorus girl, but she is so inexperienced and even a diva would be hard pressed to learn such a role with only three days’ notice.’ He spoke to the room, as though I couldn’t hear him.
    I stepped forward, feeling invisible eyes on the small of my back, pushing me into the light. ‘I can sing it, sir. My teacher has taught me the whole score. Why, I could sing the role of toreador, if