Before the music begins, I place a mental bet with myself that she’ll do “All That Jazz” fromChicago—and when I’m right, I can hardly keep a straight face. I’ve never seen anyone dance to “All That Jazz” in cowboy boots, and it’s a vision I won’t soon forget.
She’s talented. A powerful dancer with a strong voice. Well-trained, obviously. But I’m uncomfortable with her take on Eugenie,and I don’t know that she’d be open to critique if I asked her to portray the character differently.
Carlotta goes well over the two minutes we allotted for each audition song. I wonder if I should stop her, but I can’t bear the thought of confrontation. I clear my throat faintly a couple of times, but she doesn’t take the hint until Marj, who has no qualms about confrontation, lifts a gaunt hand laden with rings and waves it imperiously at Carlotta with a loud, “That will do, thank you! We’ll be in touch.”
Carlotta’s showgirl smile falters, her stage veneer cracking just enough for me to glimpse the offended rage beneath, but she pulls herself together, blows me a kiss, and stalks offstage. Her assistant scrambles to collect the boom box and then scurries after her.
“Thanks, Marj.” I exhale with relief.
“Oh honey, I’m from the Bronx,” she replies. “Anytime you need a bitch shooed offstage, I’ll shoo. But you gotta grow some balls if you want to be in this business. You’re not just the writer. You’re one of the directors, and you can’t let the talent push you around.”
“Note to self: Grow some balls.”
She chuckles. “You’re a sweet kid. Loads of talent. But you need that backbone, okay? Gotta have some grit on you.”
“Thanks.” I neaten the stack of papers on my desk and pick up the next sheet. A little thrill runs through my stomach when I call, “Christine Daaé!”
I half expect her not to appear; she seemed so skittish earlier. But she walks to center stage with her shoulders back and her head high, each step so graceful anyone could tell she’s a dancer.
Marj leans forward, eyes narrowed, pen tapping her lips. I’ve come to recognize that pose—it means she’s interested. Gil shifts in his seat, licks his lips, and grins, surveying Christine with a different kind of appreciation.
“She’s one of our in-house dancers,” he murmurs to me. “Hot little piece. Orphan.”
Orphanseems like an odd word to use for a grown woman, and an out-of-date one at that, but I don’t challenge him on it, or on the “hot little piece” comment, though angry heat creeps beneath the back of my shirt collar. I’m a coward for not wanting to offend him, but he’s vital to the realization of my dream and the production ofSidewinder, so I let the misogyny slide. I just sacrificed Christine’s honor on the altar of my ambitions, and I hate myself for it. In fact, I’m so busy hating myself that I forget to ask her any questions, and she stands there awkwardly smiling.
“Miss Daaé,” Marj intervenes, glancing at the audition form in front of me. Bless Marj’s heart, she’s worth her weight in gold. “Why do you want to play the part of Eugenie? And what’s your interpretation of the character?”
“She’s a woman of great strength, of course,” Christine says. “That’s obvious even in the synopsis. But there’s a vulnerability to her, too. She’s not always strong, and I love that, because no one isalwaysstrong. We all have weak moments when we make mistakes and do the wrong thing. What’s important is what we do next. I love how this character isn’t afraid to ask for help and brings others around her who complement her strengths. I’d love to portray her and learn from her.”
Marj glances at me, her mouth slightly tilted at the corner, one eyebrow raised. It’s as good as a gold star from her.
As for me, I feel stricken, unmasked, deeply and uncomfortably perceived. Christine gets it. She gets the character…and me. Because, let’s face it, all characters carry a splinter of their creator inside them, some bloodied shard of the writer’s soul.
“Sing for us.” The words jerk out of me abruptly. “Sam!”
The pianist sits up straight, hands poised on the keys.
Christine walks over and hands him the sheet music. “It’s quite short. This is ‘I Saw Him Once’ fromLes Misérables.”
The song title surprises me so much that I say “fuck” without meaning to. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
It’s rare to meet anyone who knows about that song, much less someone who would audition with it. “I Saw Him Once” was a short piece sung by the character Cosette during the first English production ofLes Misin London. After that, it wasn’t performed or recorded again. It’s a beautiful little song, like a tiny gem lost in a forgotten cave.
Christine returns to the middle of the stage. She hesitates, and for a minute, her face turns so pale, I think she’s about to vomit. Her fingers are visibly trembling. She scans the shadowed theater behind me like she’s looking for someone. Then her fingers curl into fists, and she closes her eyes, inhaling through her nose.
“What’s she waiting for?” Gil whispers loudly, but I shush him.
After another long breath, Christine glances at Sam and nods.
The moment she starts to sing, I am transported, transfixed by her clear, pure soprano. It’s like listening to light itself. On the lower notes, her voice possesses a golden richness, and I know instinctively that she could sing in multiple musical genres and sound just as captivating in each one. Her phrasing could use a little work, but there’s a wild, winsome longing in every note that transports me outside myself into a heaven where only two things exist—music andher. As she spreads her arms, palms up, and lifts her face to the stage lights, I’m reminded of the avenging angel who rescued me in that middle-school hallway.
Forever isn’t long enough to listen to that heavenly voice, and when the last note ends, I’m ready to get down on my knees and beg her to accept the part. I think I might die if I can’t hear one of my songs from her mouth.
“We’ll, um…” I clear my throat, trying to drag my thoughts back down to earth, to reality. “We’ll be in touch.”
Christine smiles at me.
And I fall in love with her.
