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Post by Carlos Castro on May 14, 2008 10:03:15 GMT -5
*Though he'd never have told anyone, Carlos had not kept his lush apartments in Paris. He had, at the time, vowed never to come back.
Hopefully, everyone had forgotten that particular detail.
The lure of besting his demons--namely, Daae--had won out, and until he could secure more permanent lodgings this hotel would suffice. At least it kept the riff-raff out.
He fingered the purse the "maestro" had tossed at him. Now, with the incident behind him, he berated himself for his cowardice. Was that shadow not just a man? And men were nothing to be afraid of. The more he thought about it, the greater Carlos' sense of being insulted. How dare that man, who refused to even show his face, dictate his technique?
He was Carlos Castro, and he had made a name for himself. He was at the top of his profession. Lessons? Him?
Carlos stormed pointlessly about his rooms, wondering to whom he could write a strongly-worded note about his displeasure with the current opera staff.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 14, 2008 11:22:04 GMT -5
Destler grinned behind his scarf where he stood in the street. The boy had been so easy to follow. He waited only a few minutes before sending up a package with the concierge and then taking his leave.
The little box was delivered to Castro's room a short while later, and contained nothing but a small, fine gold lapel pin in the shape of a sitting cat with bright eyes made of two brilliant saphires. Along with that, a calling card with spidery scrawl:
Write on this card the name of your harshest critic and leave it in your dressing room. You will have another, finer gift.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 14, 2008 11:35:34 GMT -5
*The knock on the door interrupted his stalking, and the gift aroused two conflicting emotions: fear, that he had been followed, and flattery, that he was deemed worthy of real sapphires.
Well, of course he was. But it went a long way to mitigate his annoyance at being upbraided.
He studied the cat and the card. The man's handwriting was childish and inelegant. And Carlos' first impulse was to write--in even copperplate script--that he had no critics. But that wasn't strictly true, was it?
M. Lecoq of Le Matin had supported Daae at his debut. Called Carlos "absurdly magnificent and all too corporeal" next to Daae's epicine beauty. And Lecoq had been too proud to touch, when Carlos had rounded up his friends and paid the other critics.
After all, he reasoned. Daae had had a phantom to do his bidding. Why should he not have his own protector? In his case, at least, such protection was not unwarranted.
The card appeared in Carlos' dressing room the next day.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 14, 2008 11:46:43 GMT -5
And that evening, the young man would find another small card tacked up to the door of his wardrobe.
Lessons begin tomorrow, here, in your rooms promptly at nine in the evening. Herein: Your gift! I hope that it will fit you. ~M.
And of course, inside, the neatly arranged corpse of the named critic, which had been skinned all but for the face (ironically) so that the man could be recognized. Destler had taken the time to clean the body as well--he was considerate!--so that no blood would mar the room.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 14, 2008 12:44:32 GMT -5
*Carlos shrieked with the power of his well-trained lungs. The man's lifeless face stared at him, eyes glassy and open but so real, as if he might speak at any moment. Probably to say something nasty.
This was not what Carlos had expected or invited.
Was it?
He'd slammed the wardrobe door shut and was pacing the room. His heart pounded and he felt somewhat sick. Whether it was the actual gruesome display or the memory of signing the man's death warrant, Carlos was uncertain. Probably a combination of the two.
Not that he hadn't hated Lecoq. Not that he was at all sorry to see him gone. Or, rather, incapacitated. He was altogether too much here, in fact. What was he supposed to do about that?
In the end, Carlos decided he was much more angry about being left with a skinless dead body than anything else. He'd have to call in favors from corners he had long ago abandoned in his rise to fame.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 14, 2008 12:59:53 GMT -5
Whatever became of the body didn't seem to concern the teacher. He didn't imagine that Carlos would call in any authorities--he had condemned the man to death himself, after all, and could be easily implicated in murder.
Destler appeared directly before the scheduled lesson, or rather, manifested vocally in the young tenor's room.
"What did you think of your gifts, I am curious to know." He said with a grin ringing in his timbre.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 14, 2008 13:37:25 GMT -5
*There were too many links to the body for Carlos to call the Suerte. The card, for one--which was missing--would turn up, he was sure, if he tried anything. So he'd called in those favors, from unsavory men he no longer wished to associate with. But that association was preferable to the gentleman in the wardrobe.
He'd ordered a thorough cleaning, as well.
Now, he jumped slightly at the Maestro's voice, frowning at his own reaction. He glanced about the room, seeing no one.*
"Where are you?" *he demanded.* "And what do you mean, leaving that... thing in my room?"
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Post by Erik Destler on May 14, 2008 13:41:56 GMT -5
"Nearby, as always." The voice shifted a bit, moved to the other side of the room, near the vacated wardrobe.
"You were not pleased with the present I made of your critic? I only wished to show that nothing, and no one, can stand in your way, should you decide to accept my training willingly."
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 14, 2008 13:54:26 GMT -5
"Well it's hardly a conversation piece," *Carlos grumbled.* "I had to pay someone to get rid of it."
*And that was only after he'd restarted his heart.*
"Is your 'gift' also meant as a demonstration of what my unwillingness might produce?"
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Post by Erik Destler on May 14, 2008 14:00:54 GMT -5
"Perhaps." The voice mused around the room, not without humor.
"Or perhaps you may in the future be known as Carlos Castrati." he chuckled and his voice ticked at the young tenor's ear.
"At any rate, you shouldn't have to see another one. We begin!"
A violin rang out, climbing a quick, frantic scale. "Follow!"
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 14, 2008 14:10:06 GMT -5
*Carlos blanched, resisting the urge to swipe at the voice he knew was not there. His mouth set in a frown, he started to formulate a response--but he recalled the grotesque vision that would haunt him every time he opened his wardrobe and knew the man was fully capable of carrying out his threat.
Absurdly bad pun that it was.
Spurred by that certainty, Carlos sought to keep up with the wildly spinning accompaniment that he still could not place. He would have to search the hotel. When this was over. If it was ever over.
Imagine! He, the great Castro, bearded in his own rooms and forced on pain of unmanning to sing scales!*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 14, 2008 14:19:15 GMT -5
The Maestro was warming the boy up, testing his range, and this went on for several minutes before the notes started to dip lower and soar higher, reaching in both directions out of the young man's range until he hit a note Castro could not match and stopped the violin with an angry screech.
"This won't do--you'll have to stretch your range. Gradually. For now, you are sufficiently warmed. Tell me what your first performance will be, we will work on that. For now."
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 14, 2008 15:47:00 GMT -5
"Stretch my range?" *he echoed.* "Whatever for?"
*He was insulted by the scales, by the lesson, by the man's infernal know-it-allness. But he feared displeasing him. There was a madman in his house, after all.*
"Er... Madame Butterfly, I think. It's not due to be written until next century new."
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Post by Erik Destler on May 14, 2008 15:55:15 GMT -5
((XD Destler's not one to talk about time travel.))
"Because you will need a greater range to perform the lead in my opera. And what role have you secured in this new production?"
The voice seemed a bit more relaxed now, floating lazily around the room. Pleasant notes of the violin chased after it, weaving a barely-heard phrase.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 14, 2008 16:13:41 GMT -5
*Now that it wasn't spurring him onto ludicrous exercises, Carlos found the violin rather... nice.*
"Pinkerton," *he said in a tone that actually meant "duh." He blinked.* "Your opera?"
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