A series of modern short clips between Christine, Erik and Raoul dealing only with their interactions during voice lessons, or when they are discussing the voice. Events will happen in-between but will be left mostly as inferences within the text. This is a study of the phantom less as a romance and more as a story contrasting different styles of vocal teaching, and the transition from girl to adult. Though there is romance in there I promise

Messa di Voce

The voice begins at a heavy whisper but gets no thicker only louder, more audible, and then just when it has reached the loudest the singer can achieve it slowly and effortlessly dies. This is the arc of life and this is the arc of the messa di voce. Any singer can decrescendo, and too many can force out screams disguised as fortissimo, but to live at ones fullest only then to die, and always clothed in the beauty, that is to create art.

I heard about him from Madame Giry, and I had to admit even though I had put up a fight for Raoul, this guy sounded pretty impressive. He had been to Curtis, Julliard the whole bit, offered a Fullbright scholarship, though I wondered why I hadn’t heard his name before, as the resume was pretty impressive. He taught professionals, and as Madame Giry so deftly pointed it out, isn’t that what I was trying to be. As for my current voice teacher Raoul Chagny, he was just a graduate student sure, but he was on his way up, and look hadn’t I improved in leaps and bounds since my first year?

I looked at the piece of paper in front of me angrily the numbers written in a brisk ball-point scrawl. Giry had said this didn’t have to be the end, but I knew that twinkle that almost shown reverses in her eye. The words, harsh must have been festering in her a while, what did she think I wasn’t ready to receive her wisdom four years ago when I started. Who said I was ready now? I didn’t feel ready, my heart shook inbetween the little red stringy things that tied it together and my eyes ached from not blinking.

And anyways he was a nice guy, Raoul I mean. He didn’t charge a lot. I dialed the first number, my hand shaking slightly. Giry was probably just angry with me because I had waited until the last second to learn the piece again. I told her I didn’t like the Mozart, especially that quartet, and it’s hard for me to learn music I’m not wild about it. And Raoul didn’t exactly help, we always got distracted. I dialed the next number a three, angrily.

She could have been nicer about it, Giry, even though that wasn’t exactly what she was known for she didn’t have to scar the words onto my skin with that disapproving glare. I dialed another number; Raoul never said my high G’s were strained. They were good they just needed a little work that was all. I dialed the final number.

And we were working, Raoul and me, this was working. “Hello?” I asked, my voice shaking. Maybe this Erik Destler would hear it and decide that I had a goat bleat in her voice and decide not to take me on, and I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. I ran her fingers through her long curly blonde hair, highlighted with streaks of darker brown, straddling sophistication and confusion. “Hello?” I asked, relief boring into my voice, freeing the tension in my jaw and shoulders. “This is Christine Daae, I’m calling about voice lessons?” There was a long glorious silence, I couldn’t say I didn’t try, not everything would have to change all at once. Everything didn’t have to change then, I almost wept realizing that I had an excuse to stay with him, Raoul, that there weren’t actually any greener pastures to long after so whateve-

“Hello Christine it’s very pleasant to meet you, please relax I can hear your tension over the phone.”

Oh god. I can’t even describe his voice, it was so painful. Not like nails on a chalkboard painful but beautifully painful. I always wondered why people use that expression, I never understood, but now I do. It’s because his voice all silver and velvet reminds me of all the things that I am not, that my voice is lacking. I swallow, and my heart pounds louder, but I do not speak. “Sorry,” I mumble, finally, pathetically. “Madame Giry recommended me to you, and I know you work on an audition only basis so I have a couple of pieces prepared.” My rehearsed speech tumbled out but it didn’t feel like mine, it felt like fate or something had forced me to say it because all I wanted was to hang up the phone. Turn away from his blinding beauty, it was so daunting. But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t.

“How do Wednesday’s at seven’ o clock work for you? I usually hold lessons at my private apartment, in Ginnisburg. 186 Vilvail St. right across the way from the used book shop, Hartrigs and Haileys. And do you have a parent accompanying you Christine? I usually like to meet with the person who will be paying for the lessons.”

I was really angry. After he died, my dad, and mom, well she left, I always figured it had been broadcasted on national news, like it ripped my whole world apart, so shouldn’t everyone know. And for a long time everyone had, all I got were consoling glances and consoling gestures. But that’s all they were gestures, I didn’t have any friends because friendship long-term commitment isn’t a gesture, it is an action.

“I am eighteen Mr. Destler I will be driving and paying for myself. Wednesday’s sound great.” I said weakly, but it came out stronger somehow. He didn’t notice, or he did but didn’t say anything. I didn’t know him very well but I guessed it was probably the latter.

“I will see you then Ms. Daae.” The way he said my name, was the French way I think. It was really pretty, all rounded and smooth, I felt so crass. He made me feel crass for even thinking in jumbled slow thoughts like I do. Though I quit French in fifth grade and even then Raoul says it’s really my weak point, so maybe it was the French but somehow I knew it wasn’t.

“Sure,” I replied disquieted.

I hung up first.