She startled a couple next to her when she jumped up and exclaimed, “Let’s do it!”
Time to be spontaneous.
The foyer was a feast for the eyes, and Stella could only stare at the grandeur. She was greeted by marble in various colors and shades, bronze statues and sculptures, sparkling mosaics, and gold-leaf flourishes everywhere.
As soon as she bought her ticket, she was on her way to the enormous double white marble staircase with its red and green marble balustrade, and from there to the foyers and the many floors of the magnificent theater. This was so much more than a theater.
This building was a shrine. A shrine dedicated to art, music, passion—and to the past.
Stella imagined the swishing of petticoats and silk or cotton dresses of the women who walked here since its inauguration in 1875. She could almost hear the playful laughter and flirting, the tinkling of lead-crystal glasses bubbling with champagne, and the confident, maybe possessive voices of husbands and lovers. These walls must have seen their share of scandal and shame.
As if she was pulled by invisible strings, she climbed stairs and followed hallways—until she entered the horseshoe-shaped auditorium and halted.
And saw red! Red and gold galore!
Red upholstered velvet seats, red curtains, red carpet, golden columns, golden balustrades, golden ceiling.
She craned her neck, looking straight up. And what she saw took her breath away.
A bronze and crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling; a ceiling painted with such vibrant colors there was no doubt in her mind whose art it was.
She admired Marc Chagall’s work and made it a point to see it in person wherever she was. His distinct use of bright, lively colors, and his almost poetic, figurative style, spoke to her, and made his work easy to recognize. His figures floated in the air, untethered and free.
She continued to gaze up at the ceiling, hunting for the small images and references Chagall was famous for, then decided to do more research about this amazing work of art later. Or maybe they sold a book about it at the gift shop. She’d have to stop there on her way out.
A nearby English-speaking tour guide told his group, “This ceiling was inaugurated in September 1964. The twelve panels, plus the central panel, are Chagall’s interpretation of scenes from opera and ballet.”
Someone asked, “Is this the chandelier that plays a part in the musical?”
The guide explained, “Yes. In 1896, two of its heavy counterweights broke off and fell through the ceiling during a performance, causing one death and several injuries. This is the accident that inspired Gaston Leroux to write his novel.”
Stella checked the time and saw she only had a little over thirty minutes left before meeting Naomi.
Hmm. Not enough time for the Library-Museum. Instead, she decided to look at some of the costumes and stage props exhibited everywhere while making her way to the exit.
Unfortunately, it also meant she didn’t have time to find out if the underground lake was real or invented by Leroux for his novel. The Phantom’s lair, where he hid from the world, where he plotted his schemes, and where he found love—and lost it again. Stella’s eyes misted just thinking about the Phantom’s solitary life, and she blinked a few times to stop the tears.
Standing with her back to the stage, she studied the five tiers of galleries and private boxes. She didn’t think she’d enjoy being in one of them, where all the people in regular seats could watch her.
Turning to leave the auditorium, she saw people entering one of the boxes on the middle level. Two men were deep in conversation, with one of them pointing to the stage.
Then a third man entered the box.
Their eyes met across the theater.
Stella’s heart hammered. She couldn’t breathe.
She shook her head and closed her eyes.
When she looked up again, she saw only two men.
CHAPTER 11
David—July 2018
D
avid followed his agent Aaron and Jerome, the Musical Director of the Opera House, through numerous hallways and staircases and had lost all sense of direction. They had finished touring the backstage and dressing rooms, when Jerome said, “Let me show you one more thing.”
He led them through carpeted foyers until he stopped in front of three wooden doors, where he inserted a key in the middle one and said to David, “It’s not loge 5. But I’d be happy to show it to you later.”
David smirked and replied, “No, thank you. I know better than to enter the resident ghost’s personal loge.”
Jerome opened the door, swept his arm in a wide arc, saying, “David, you’re looking at Europe’s largest stage, built to accommodate up to four hundred fifty artists, and our auditorium has a capacity of two thousand seats.”
David stepped into the private box. He didn’t see the stage.
His glance fell on a woman turning to leave the auditorium. She looked up and their eyes met.
Stella!
Stella?
The blood rushing through his ears was louder than any orchestra warm-up. His heart raced. He swallowed. Swallowed again. His mouth was dry.
Her eyes, her face, her voice had haunted him for the past twelve months.
He had to go to her.
He had to talk to her.
David raised a hand toward Aaron and, without a word, ran out of the private box.
Damn… Which is the shortest way to the auditorium?
He hurried to the central staircase, running down two steps at a time, ignoring the people gaping at him or pointing fingers.
Breathing hard, he raced into the auditorium, scanning every box and aisle and seat, every corner and exit, and then the stage. Thank God he was close enough to see most of the backstage area—on the slight possibility she had ventured there.
He couldn’t draw a complete breath. The air had been sucked out of him. Loosening his tie and gasping for air, David crouched down in front of the stage, oblivious to the curious stares.
She was gone.
Again, he swept the auditorium from left to right. This was where
