Free Masque by Bethany Pope Page A

you wanted!’
    And sing I did, before either manager could ask me to reveal the identity of my teacher. The Habanera poured, like wine, from my mouth.
    That evening, after the curtain went down and the tumult died, applause echoing in my ears like the memory of triumph, I returned to my dressing room. I was expecting a letter from my master.
    I was not disappointed. He sent a sealed note, along with a bouquet of flowers, roses, blood red. I could hear him singing, somewhere. He was well pleased with me, and in such moods this was how he often chose to show it; an erudite letter, a small, touching gift, and a childish folk song cheerfully sung through the light fixtures. In such moments, I loved him more than I ever thought it was possible to love anyone but my father.
    I had just cracked the seal, splitting his signature lyre down the centre, when I was interrupted by a knock at the door. The singing stopped, his sweet voice cut out immediately, completely as a candle snuffed.
    It was the boy, the young Comte. I remembered him well, and in that instant I was happy enough to see him, but I was not ready for visitors. I needed to think.
    I said no to dining with him. He took it as ‘yes’. I don’t think that boy ever heard a word I said. In any case, as soon as he had gone I knew that with him in town I would not be free to take the time I needed to perfect my role and prepare for the next one. I made a fast decision then, a plan that I spoke aloud to the walls (I knew my master was near, though still silent. It seemed quite natural to speak into nothing and know that I was heard) and I wrote a note to the Comte to give to Madame Giry who would discover where he lived, and gathered my things. I felt terrible, you see, for being so rude. I should have known by then not to expect empathy from an audience member. The public knows nothing of post-performance exhaustion.
    I had three days to rest and I knew that it would be best to spend them with my father. He had not left my mind since rehearsals began.
    I would have to return by Saturday morning, the seamstresses had done their best reducing La Carlotta’s voluminous costume, but it still required a bit of fine-tuning before the weekend shows. Three days would be enough to get to Brittany and arrange a memorial mass, assuming I caught the midnight train to the coast, which I would if I hurried.
    I packed in a flurry, filling a small valise with money-purse, my good copy of Faust (I left the other on the table, fouled by last-minute rewrites meant to accommodate Carlotta’s slightly deeper voice), and clothes. I brought the flowers and thought I’d packed the letter too, but I must have forgotten it. Oh well, I dismissed it, words are not milk. They keep perfectly well.
    I fell asleep in my second-class carriage, my cloak drawn round me like a coverlet, my head propped on the window pane. When I woke, I saw the coast.
    8.
    The village hadn’t altered much in the five years since the funeral. Father and I had lived with the Countess in her Paris home where he received the best care possible given his disease, not that it did him any good. Right before his death he asked her for two boons, both of which she granted. The first was that, after his body was waked and the flesh had grown cold, he be retuned here for burial. It was the sight of his greatest happiness, I was glad that she allowed him that.
    He lies here now, in the churchyard, the buried coffin has long-since collapsed; the earth hummock has sunk in on itself like Little Meg’s empty cheeks. But when I checked, on my way in to speak with the priest about the service, I saw the old-style Celtic cross I’d ordered. I stooped before it, touched the sharp incision that formed his name. Granite seems to hold its edge forever. I am glad that I won our argument. The white marble the Countess wanted would be worn already. Beautiful things never seem to last long exposed to elements on