Invisible in a Bright Light Read online

  She stopped for a moment to take in the magic of the auditorium. It had been silly to let a dream upset her.

  Celeste had her hand on the banister of the spiral staircase when she became aware that someone was watching her. She spun round. In the shadows she could see only a pair of buttoned boots and two elegant hands resting on a gold-topped cane.

  ‘Do you often come this way?’ said a gentle voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Celeste, ‘but it’s the quickest way to Madame Sabina’s dressing-room.’

  The owner of the boots and gold-topped cane laughed.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here either,’ said Celeste.

  The gentleman stood and stepped into the light.

  ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  He didn’t look anything like the head on the coins, she thought, or the marble bust at the top of the stairs in the auditorium. All urgency left and curiosity took its place.

  ‘Why are you here alone?’ she asked. ‘Shouldn’t there be soldiers to protect you?’

  ‘Protect me from what? Dragon divas? I came to watch the dress rehearsal. I was told that Madame’s voice is transformed but I could hear no difference.’

  Her large eyes took in the gentleman before her. She was standing upright, hands behind her back.

  ‘You were the little dancer in the first act. You were the best thing about the dress rehearsal.’

  ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘I can’t dance.’

  He laughed. ‘Now you are being modest. Were those real wings on your back?’ he asked.

  Celeste said again, ‘I can’t dance, sir. Perhaps you have mistaken me for someone else.’

  ‘There is no mistake. It was you and you flew – it was enchanting. And now you are dressed in the costume of a street urchin.’

  Shyness overcame her.

  ‘No, sir. May I go, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He put his long finger to his lips. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Not a word,’ said Celeste. ‘And anyway, no one would believe me if I told them I’d met the king.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Mr Gautier was a small man whose role as the director of the Royal Opera House made him appear bigger than he was. But today, as he sat down to eat his lunch, he felt the lack of every inch. For the first time he had to admit that if this morning’s dress rehearsal was anything to go by, the production of Frederick Massini’s new opera, The Saviour, was doomed to failure.

  This time two years ago he had been full of excitement at the prospect of staging the opera. What had happened then had been a tragedy. Ellen Winther had been one of the greatest opera singers the city had ever produced but she, along with her husband and children, had been lost at sea. Not for the first time did Mr Gautier wonder if something in his fortunes had suffered a sea-change. Tonight’s Grand Opening should have been the jewel in the crown of the Royal Opera House’s autumn season. Instead, Madame Sabina Petrova was making everyone’s lives miserable. Sitting with Massini in the empty auditorium, the director had felt his age.

  The dress rehearsal had started at ten o’clock. Immediately, the gauze that hung in front of the scenery had been badly torn by the batten of one of the main painted cloths. Mr Gautier had waved it aside as unimportant and the rehearsal continued. Madame Sabina refused to go on stage without it in place.

  He had made a mistake when he’d told her the gauze was unnecessary and, if anything, distracted from the glorious sets. Madame had retorted that it made all the difference in the world to her, and that no one was there to see the scenery.

  ‘They are here to see me,’ she’d said. ‘The scenery doesn’t sing – I sing.’

  Madame Sabina took to her dressing-room and refused to come out until Mr Gautier had apologised and assured her that the gauze would be in place when the curtain rose that evening.

  ‘Now, please,’ he’d begged, ‘we must finish the dress rehearsal. Imagine what tonight’s performance will be like if we don’t.’

  To his complete surprise, she had said, ‘I don’t care. All I have to do is sing.’

  When she had reappeared, she had just walked through her part. Then to the consternation of the conductor and the orchestra she had started to sing an aria from another opera altogether.

  ‘Stop, stop!’ shouted Mr Gautier. ‘Madame, what are you doing?’

  ‘I am singing an aria that I am famous for. This opera of Massini’s has no memorable tunes at all.’

  Frederick Massini had stormed out of the theatre.

  Mr Gautier knew that if Sabina Petrova insisted on singing that particular aria, Massini’s opera would be a disaster. It was a song that had been made famous by Ellen Winther. It also happened to be the last song she’d sung on this stage.

  He had asked to speak to Madame Sabina alone. He had waited in his office, pacing back and forth, wondering who had been responsible for making this woman into an unbearable monster.

  ‘It would be most inappropriate…’ he had said when she eventually arrived, but Madame Sabina wasn’t listening.

  She demanded coffee and ‘some of those little pastries’. Mr Gautier, conscious of every wasted second, watched them tick-tock away, defeated by a flurry of china coffee cups and pastries, forks and napkins.

  ‘Don’t you want a pastry?’ she’d asked with the innocence of a lamb.

  ‘No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The aria you sang…’

  ‘Beautiful, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That aria would remind His Majesty of the loss of his son. It was a tragedy, you will remember, that also took the life of Ellen Winther, one of the opera house’s most beloved singers. That was the last song she ever sang on this stage.’

  ‘Most beloved?’ repeated Madame Sabina. ‘I don’t think so. I am far more highly regarded than ever Ellen Winther was. Her voice was rather thin, I recall.’

  ‘Madame, I’m sure, like us all, you want to impress the king,’ said Mr Gautier, speaking slowly as if he was dealing with a toddler on the cusp of a tantrum.

  ‘Of course.’

  Mr Gautier swallowed before saying, ‘Then I suggest you sing the role Massini has written for you. I believe the opera stands a chance of being a success but not if you refuse to sing the correct score or act the part.’

  Madame Sabina had stood up, knocking what was left of the pastries onto the floor. She’d flounced out of his office.

  But to his surprise his words worked for she returned to the stage and finished the first act, singing the right words to the right score. But this time, instead of wearing the costume designed for the part, she was dressed in a gown sprinkled with diamonds.

  ‘No, no, no!’ Mr Gautier had shouted. ‘You are supposed to be a poor, homeless woman in this scene.’

  Madame Sabina replied that she would wear what she pleased and it was so very unpleasant to be dressed in a nasty, shabby costume.

  Raising his arms to the domed ceiling of the opera house, Mr Gautier had given in. And so the dress rehearsal continued only to be interrupted again when one of the footlights spluttered and set fire to a piece of painted scenery. The flames were doused but the damage meant that the scene painters would be working until the curtain rose. The gas-lighter, whose job it was to light the production, had strode on stage, announcing the place was no better than kindling. It wasn’t safe, and he wasn’t going to be held responsible if a fire broke out.

  Mr Gautier had thanked him for his concern and suggested the rehearsal continue as they were running out of time.

  It was at the end of Act One, when he was hoping things might improve, that Camille, the ballet school’s second-best ballerina, had tripped as she made her entrance. She sprained her ankle. There was a pause while a replacement, the best dancer from the corps de ballet, was found. By then, the stage had been transformed into a forest and in a pool of light a young girl, no older than twelve, tiptoed onto the stage. There was a hush, then the orchestra soared and for a few minutes Mr Gautier was transported by the clever little danc
er. He could have happily watched her all day. How much better to work with children than with monstrous adults.

  ‘If she can sing,’ said a voice from the row behind him, ‘you should give her the role of Columbine in the pantomime.’

  Mr Gautier had turned, pleased to see his old friend, Quigley, the clown. He was dressed, as always, in his chequered Harlequin costume.

  The director had made a note to find out about the little dancer.

  At the end of the dress rehearsal he’d said, ‘Well done,’ to the rest of the company, though none of them were happy with how it had gone, and all complained bitterly about Madame Sabina. She had sent Miss Olsen to tell the director that she wouldn’t see him until she’d rested.

  Lunch was brought to his office. He ate slowly. Better, he thought, to go into battle on a full stomach than an empty one. But he wasn’t hungry, and he got up from his desk, which was covered with papers and manuscripts, and went to the window. He looked out over the copper domes of the city and he knew that he had four hours before the critics came, the curtain rose and his opera was destroyed by the eager scratching of their fountain pens. Four hours. He felt not unlike a man about to go to his execution. Not even the enchanting little dancer at the end of Act One would be able to save The Saviour.

  CHAPTER 4

  Celeste stood in a corner of the diva’s dressing-room, once more foxed by the strangeness of everything. What she saw was nearly right and at the same time all wrong. Her confidence was beginning to fade. Perhaps it was possible that children, like grown-ups, could lose their memories. She seemed to have lost hers. She knew she had it before she went to sleep, before she woke up in the costume basket. But where could it be? The trouble was that if she thought back further than waking up, there was nothing, a long corridor of nothing, with only a vague sense of those she loved. What they looked like she had no notion – even thinking of them made them into ghosts. What didn’t leave her was a sense of emptiness, as if a part of her was missing. It was no good telling herself that this was a dream. Dreams weren’t solid, they didn’t have furniture you could touch, they didn’t have a wardrobe mistress and a glove in them. All the dreams she could remember had been wishy-washy and lacking reason.

  The one thing she was sure of was the theatre. She remembered its corridors and staircases and where they led. There it was, a silver fish of something, someone half-remembered and instantly forgotten. She closed her eyes in hope of catching it. No use, it vanished, a vital piece of information swimming away from her. If only she could reel it in then this dressing-room, the diva and everything else might begin to make sense.

  The dressing-room was the largest and the grandest in the Royal Opera House. Its furnishings were lavish: a piano, a day-bed, a huge dressing-table covered with paint and brushes and expensive bottles from a famous perfumery. An elaborate gilded mirror doubled the size of the room. One of the button-back armchairs was occupied by an overfed and under-loved girl with mouse-coloured hair who made the art of sitting look clumsy. This, apparently, was Hildegard, the diva’s daughter. Celeste had no memory of her mother’s understudy ever mentioning a child. Then again she had little memory of anything before the dream.

  The soprano, resplendent in a kimono, was taking no notice of her daughter. She was more interested in who had sent flowers and the many gifts that had arrived. One of these was a box of chocolates tied with an extravagant bow. Her daughter asked if she could have them and her mother waved an unconcerned hand.

  The girl took the box and sat down again. She removed the lid and let out a sigh of pleasure – there were so many chocolates to choose from. She started to eat them one by one, throwing papers onto the floor.

  There was a timid knock on the door and the wardrobe mistress crept in.

  Madame Sabina said, ‘Where have you been, Olsen? I need my corset loosening.’ Then to Celeste, ‘You, girl, pick up those wrappers.’

  Miss Olsen gave Celeste a push and she did as she was told. At that moment the director strode in. He had decided over lunch to tell the diva exactly what he thought. Nothing else had managed to pierce her armour-plated skin.

  ‘I hope, Madame,’ he said, barely containing his anger, ‘that tonight you will grace us with your voice. The dress rehearsal was a farce – you made no effort. How is the conductor to know when to bring the orchestra up if you will not sing?’

  ‘Do not be so petty, so small-minded,’ said Madame Sabina. ‘No one cares about your directions. There was no point in exhausting myself with them. I know how my voice sounds, but your production…’ She shrugged. ‘The audience have paid a lot of money to hear me sing. And no, Gautier, I am not going to move about the stage. I am the great Sabina Petrova – I stand, I sing, I look wonderful. That is what I do.’

  Mr Gautier was shaking with rage.

  ‘If you would only do what is asked of you, we would have an opera of startling originality.’

  ‘Rubbish. Absolute rubbish. Don’t you agree, Miss Olsen?’

  Miss Olsen said nothing.

  ‘At least,’ said Mr Gautier, ‘you will wear the costumes that have been designed for your role.’

  ‘No,’ said Madame Sabina. ‘No and no again. My costumes have been created for me in Paris and are embroidered with diamonds – real diamonds.’

  Celeste was picking up wrappers as, chocolate by chocolate, Hildegard discarded them. She looked up to find the girl staring at her.

  ‘How old are you?’ Hildegard asked, quietly enough not to be heard in the argument between the adults.

  Again Celeste’s dream came back to her. Wasn’t that the question the man in the emerald green suit had asked? This time she didn’t hesitate.

  ‘Twelve,’ she said.

  ‘I’m thirteen,’ said the girl. ‘Eeurgh!’ She dropped a half-eaten chocolate to the floor. ‘I don’t like orange creams.’

  For a moment, Celeste had a great desire to put the half-eaten chocolate in her mouth. She was so hungry. A glance from Miss Olsen made her reconsider and along with the crumpled wrappers, it went in the wastepaper basket. Perhaps, she thought, the empty feeling was nothing more than hunger. But in her heart she knew it wasn’t.

  The argument had now lost any politeness. Mr Gautier’s patience had already been overstretched that day and his voice became louder and angrier.

  Celeste watched Hildegard stick out her tongue and put another chocolate on it, closing her mouth around it and licking her lips. What Celeste would give for just one of those chocolates.

  Suddenly the girl’s mouth stopped moving, her hands went instinctively to her throat, her face turned the colour of a beetroot.

  ‘She’s choking!’ Celeste shouted to make herself heard.

  ‘Quiet!’ said Madame Sabina, turning on Celeste. ‘Quiet. It is not your place to speak.’

  She was about to turn back to the director when he cried, ‘My God – Hildegard!’

  Knocking over a vase of red roses he swiftly lifted her by her ankles so that all her petticoats and bloomers could be seen, transforming her, Celeste thought, into a white rose. Miss Olsen slapped her hard on her back. Hildegard’s arms flopped in front of her blue-tinged face and now it was her mother who was shouting.

  ‘Call for help!’

  Miss Olsen gave Hildegard another slap and something flew from her mouth. She took a great gasp of air and Mr Gautier laid her down on the day-bed. The poor girl couldn’t stop coughing and Miss Olsen poured her a glass of water.

  ‘Oh, Hildegard, darling,’ said Madame Sabina, wiping the hair from her daughter’s face. ‘My little mouse, this is too terrible. What did you eat? Was it a nut, my love?’

  ‘No, Mama,’ said Hildegard between bouts of coughing and sips of water. ‘It was something hard, very hard.’ Celeste picked up the offending item. Covered in chocolate, a ring lay in the palm of her hand. An emerald ring, just like the one in her dream.

  ‘Bring it here,’ ordered Madame Sabina, once more in control. ‘No, stupid girl, it loo
ks disgusting – wash it first.’

  Celeste washed it, hoping that what she was holding might really be nothing more than a nut, that it was her imagination that had turned it into something else. But it was clearly a gold ring, set with an emerald. She took it to Madame Sabina.

  ‘Let me see, Mama,’ said Hildegard, weakly.

  Madame Sabina held the ring up to the light.

  ‘It’s an emerald, darling,’ she said, ‘set in gold.’ A smile crossed her thin lips. ‘I would say it’s rather valuable.’ The fact that it had nearly choked her daughter became of little consequence. ‘You,’ she said to Celeste, ‘you – whatever your name is – smash all the chocolates and see if there are more gems.’

  Miss Olsen oversaw the process and when Celeste had broken and discarded every chocolate in the box, said, ‘No, Madame, they are just chocolates.’

  ‘Bring me that box,’ said Madame Sabina. ‘Is there no card? Nothing to say who it is from?’

  Hildegard pointed to the inside of the lid where a ribbon held an envelope in place. With very little grace, Madame Sabina tore it open and pulled out the card. There was a moment’s silence in which the soprano’s face clouded with fury. The box dropped to the floor. She glared again at the card then tore it into four pieces and let them fall on top of the box.