“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.