Что-то на меня нашло и я решила перевести текст на английский. (Понравилось, очень!) Вот, пожалуйста. 
Если (1) будет прода, (2) у меня будет время, и (3) перевод нравится, то попробую переводить дальшe.
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The Day Before Christmas
Author: Lita
Pairing: Erik/Christine
Genre: Crossover with horror themes (insofar as I can do horror). Most importantly: HUMOUR. Otherwise I’d be scared to write it.
Summary: Let’s say the Masquerade at the Opera and the duel both took place before Christmas. Whether that was actually the case, I don’t know. The fic is based on the 2004 film, everything comes from there.
Anyway, so – early one morning Christine comes to the cemetery...
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Fog drifted across the snow-covered cemetery. Christine walked slowly along the paths, singing to herself a song about her father. The girl’s slender figure wrapped in a black cloak seemed ghostly, as though Christine’s feet did not quite touch the snowy ground. She walked along the alleyway amid mournful statues, approached the Daaé crypt and, in a nerveless sort of way, sank down onto the lowest step. The song’s last notes stilled in the frozen air, and a silence fell. Christine lowered her head, lost in thought. From behind a marble angel atop somebody’s grave, yellow eyes watched her in fascination. Five of them. There was a stifled wheeze, accompanied by the sniffling of a runny nose.
“What a charming girl!” whispered somebody.
“And what a plunging neckline!” disapprovingly noted somebody else. “Strolling around with cleavage like that is just asking for it. How can one keep from biting? And then we hear public outrage about vampires having no self-restraint! Modesty – that is the key to the security of your arteries.” The voice had assumed a lecturing tone.
“Why is she here at this ungodly hour of the morning?” asked a third voice, which was as hoarse as a smoker’s. “Must be, huh-huh, to bring us Christmas cheer. Seeing as we’re so huuungry...”
“Atchoo!” exploded one of the cemetery vampires (evidently these were vampires and not, say, zombies). “Aaaaa—” The next sneeze did not come, presumably owing to a hand pressed to the creature’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said, and proceeded to blow his nose. Loudly.
Christine glanced up at the stone angel, but it remained standing there with its sorrowful expression quite unchanged, and clearly did not suffer from a runny nose.
“Let’s get her already, or something,” suggested the hoarse one in a businesslike tone. “No use just sitting here.”
At that moment, the crypt resounded with a man’s captivating voice, melodic and passionate. Christine, noticing nothing around her, started up the stairs, aware only of the faint light coming from behind the iron grate. The vampires were affected, too. Even the undead can appreciate beauty.
“How well he sings...” said the first, dreamily. “Can’t work out what he’s talking about, though.”
The second listened closely for a moment. “Says he’s an Angel.”
The vampires gave a unanimous “Ha!”.
“An Angel, sure!” The one who sounded like a smoker gave voice to the general thought. “We know the sort of Angel he is. I’d bet a tooth it’s Guillaume the Cross-Eyed hunting out here, the jerk. Started the stake-out early, the bastard, found his spot in the crypt and waited there until someone comes along. And the voice is his, definitely. No wonder I hadn’t seem him around last night.”
“And what are we waiting for?!” yelled the second. All three lunged towards the path, but just then came the clatter of hoofbeats. A rider emerged into the open space before the crypt, jumped off his horse and, baring his sword, rushed up the stairs. All three vampires lurched back into the shelter of the stone angel. Another man, in a spectacularly billowing cape, jumped down from the roof and a fight started. The duelists ran between the graves, blade ringing, leaping over low headstones and hissing unprintable words at one another when they were sure that the lady could not hear them. Meanwhile, their audience grew.
One of the gravestones fell aside, and a head emerged from the ground, followed by a torso. Or rather, the skeletal remains of one. The deceased cast a glance around the well-trodden landscape, nodded a greeting to the three vampires, examined Christine without much interest and likewise proceeded to follow the duel. Making himself comfortable, he rested his elbows on the side of the grave and propped up his jaw with a hand. The inhabitants of two neighbouring graves, in various states of preservation, appeared next: shreds of skin, teeth, protruding bones, caved-in noses.
Erik and Raoul, still noticing nothing, were trying to reach one another with at least the tip of a blade. Following the fight avidly, the vampires cheered, jeered and offered advice, which, it must be said, went unheard.
“That’s it, get him! From the left, come around from the left!”
“Not from the left, this way!” interrupted another. “Aha, gotcha! Here it is, blood! Red, hot, ahh...”
“Don’t tell me you’re rooting for the masked guy!” cried the first voice indignantly.
“Well of course, and you? Surely not the one in the shirt?!”
“What difference does it make?” said the third voice peaceably. “Whose blood you drink doesn’t matter. Anyway there are three of them, most convenient – and I’ll do you a favour and take the girl myself. Ah yes, it’s been a while since I’ve had a bit of innocent blood...”
“Innocent blood is better for the constitution. Let me have her, I’m the one with the liver problems here,” whined the first one. “I need a healthy diet.”
In the meantime Raoul had kicked his opponent to the ground and set a sword to his throat. The three vampires ceased their argument and watched him with bated breath.
“Aw, come on, come on, cut him, what are you waiting for!” groaned all three.
“Raoul, not like this!” cried Christine.
“Like this, just like this,” chorused the Vicomte’s supporters from behind the headstone. They could no longer remain on the sidelines. “You can even leave the body right here, we’ll deal with him ourselves.”
The Vicomte looked around him warily. “Who said that?”
Behind the nearest headstone something rustled and muttered. “No one at all, pay no attention.” The reply sounded unconvincing.
Erik glared up at the Vicomte from the snow. “There is somebody there, behind the angel,” he hissed, obviously irritated by such thick-headedness.
“Who?” the Vicomte asked uneasily.
“How should I know, go and look!”
Raoul carefully made his way towards the grave, while Erik rose and began to brush the snow off his clothing.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” Raoul demanded.
“What am I supposed to do, just lie here?!”
Somebody emerged from behind the headstone, and Raoul was faced with three people. At least, at first glance they were people.
Christine took a good look and yelped. Erik gave a shudder. Raoul froze.
“Who are you?” asked he, casting a suspicious gaze over the threesome. “And what are you doing here? Aha, I know – you are his accomplices, right?” He stabbed in the direction of the Phantom. “Four against one, very noble of you! This is the sort of crowd you’ve gotten mixed up with, Christine!”
“No, no, we work alone,” explained one of the newcomers – judging from his voice, the one who had criticised Christine for her revealing neckline. “We’re vampires,” he admitted. And indeed, on closer inspection, their belonging to the undead community was rather obvious. Long fangs, very pale skin and bright-yellow eyes, one of which was missing from the face of the shorter vampire, where it was replaced by a black eyepatch. It gave the vampire the look of a dashing pirate, although the expression of bloodlust in his remaining eye spoiled the overall air of elegance.
“There is no such thing as a vampire,” said Raoul uncertainly. Christine watched them in horror, taking Erik’s hand. He stood nearby in silence, waiting for the answer.
“As you can see, monsieur, there certainly is,” replied the first vampire graciously, eyeing the fresh blood on Raoul’s shoulder. The blood was cooling in the freezing air, a noticeable wisp of steam rising from it. The three vampires flared their nostrils at the acrid smell.
“Raoul, you’ll get cold,” Christine said suddenly and mechanically began to unfasten her cloak. She was clearly unaware of her actions, her eyes riveted to the three vampires and wide with terror. Erik twisted his mouth in annoyance, but removed his own cloak and tossed it to the Vicomte. The young man held it in his hand, glanced at Christine’s abstracted expression, then put on the cloak, with a barely hissed, “My thanks.” The smell of blood lessened; the vampires sighed in disappointment and relief.
“So what are you doing here, assuming for a minute that you are indeed vampires?” Erik’s voice also trembled slightly, despite his efforts to conceal it.
“It’s our holiday today, see,” the hoarse-voiced vampire declared. “You know All Saints’ Day? Well, the night before that – that’d be our holiday. So, we’ve come out. And hey, here are all the dead guys, too.” He stabbed a finger to one side. Everyone looked there and saw the old skeleton, who by now had left his grave completely. He lurched along the path unsteadily, deep in the contemplation of something at his feet.
Between the trees, other risen corpses strolled along the footpaths. Christine pressed herself against Raoul fearfully. It had long since grown light, but the sun had not appeared; the sky was overcast, a gust of wind blew. The air filled with the stench of the grave, and the vampire who had a cold gave a giant sneeze. He blew his nose, and Christine started to come back to herself. After all, a creature who sighs while wiping its reddened nose with a chequered handkerchief simply cannot inspire abject horror. And besides, she had a wide range of experience in dealing with supernatural individuals. An angel behind a mirror... you get used to it.
“Wait, what’s this about All Saints’ Day?” Raoul realised. “It’s on the first of November! And today is the twenty-fourth of December. It’s Christmas tomorrow! You have it all wrong!”
“No, monsieur, you are simply behind the times,” explained the first vampire. “As of this year, All Saints’ Day – according to instructions from the top! – has been rescheduled for the twenty-fourth of December. And renamed accordingly. They found a suitable historical date – 500 years since the writing of the “Necronomicon”. Bleh,” he wrinkled his nose, “Found themselves an occasion. Though the book is, of course, considered a true classic... I agree with you, naturally it is an appalling disregard of tradition, and I assure you that we fully share your indignation – but who are we to argue? They give, we take.”
Erik, Raoul and Christine exchanged stupefied looks.
“And these walking zombies?” Erik wondered. “Are we to understand that they are also celebrating?”
“Those aren’t zombies, they’re the risen dead,” clarified the hoarse vampire. “Zombies are the ones someone has deliberately roused, to order them around. And these ones have come up all by themselves, heh-heh, to get some fresh air. If it’s zombies you’re after, they’re waaaaay over there, in the Western corner – it’s been a testing ground, these last five years, for reincarnation spells.”
“We have to go,” said the Vicomte. “Err, good-bye, very nice meeting you.”
The vampires took a step forward. Erik and Raoul together moved to protect Christine, collided, exchanged irritated glances, but with identical motions drew their weapons. A tense silence followed.
“Oh all right, let them go.” The vampire with a cold sniffed his nose. “No point getting involved – it’d be unpleasant if they actually cut us, and then we’d waste half the day on regeneration.”
The vampires stood aside. The three humans hurried towards the exit.
“My horse!” exclaimed Raoul. And indeed, spooked by the plague of living undead, the poor animal had bolted.
“The carriage is just behind the fence, not far from here,” recalled Erik. “Let’s go, Christine.”
“What about Raoul? He can’t just go on foot. He’s coming with us.”
Erik grimaced and was just about to say that the Vicomte could do with a healthy walk.
“They say the focus of reincarnation energy is at the Opera,” came a quiet voice behind them. “That’s the place to be today, I bet – we’d have some real fun... Could get enough energy for half a year, down there in the catacombs... Though they have them in the Louvre too. Maybe we should head over there?”
“Get real – there are more guards there than at the Cayenne penal colony...”
“Never mind, we’ll work it out. We have the whole day ahead of us, we can do what we like. Let’s have some fun!”
The humans exchanged another look, this time one of horror.
“Hurry, let’s drive!”
They scrambled into the carriage. Erik took the reins in the hope that this way they would get to the Opera faster. The carriage flew in the direction of the city.
* * *
Utter pandemonium reigned at the Opera. This was not the normal and even comforting chaos which indicates that everyone is going about their business – but complete, awful, catastrophic bedlam. Ever since early morning, before the managers had even turned up at the theatre, the entire building had been crawling with strange and terrifying creatures. Many of them resembled humans. But, to the horror of the onlookers, they had horns, hooves and even – somehow this was the most upsetting thing – tails! Some of them were noted to have fangs, while a few could boast no such adornments, but instead – oh horror, horror – kept trying to walk through walls! Themselves being translucent, or worse, entirely transparent.
Naturally, all of this was at first dismissed as the invention of habitually drunk stagehands. But soon all these ghosts, ghouls and goodness knows what other species of devilry began to appear to the ballet girls, the lighting crew and to other theatre workers, some of whom were more moderate in their alcohol intake, and even to those who abstained completely. The conclusion was inescapable: the theatre was in the grip of a paranormal invasion.
The Opera filled with the sounds of screaming, yelping and weeping. Nobody knew what to do or where to run. In the corridor on her way to ballet class, Madame Giry ran smack into a vampire. Admittedly, in response to her indignant cry of “Watch where you’re going!” he rather politely stepped aside. The class had to be cancelled, the rehearsals also. Fortunately, so far there did not seem to be any fatalities.
The managers, having finally turned up at the theatre, at first could not understand what was going on. Who knows, they thought, perhaps this is some new opera. “What realistic costumes the chorus has in this one, Richard! Only why in heaven’s name are they hanging around the corridors instead of going up on stage?” After about five minutes of wading through the chaos in the direction of their office, it began to dawn on the managers that something was not quite right. A little later still, they understood what it was:
“What, are they all... real?!”
“My God!”
“Richard, I am warning you, I am scared to death of ghosts!”
“And I’m scared of vampires!”
At the office door they found a pale but determined Madame Giry waiting for them. The sight of her gave both managers a little more courage.
“Good morning, madame!” they said together. “Would you be so kind as to explain WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!”
“Let’s step inside, gentlemen.”
Inside the office, strangely enough, it was quiet and empty. There was no sign of demons or other paranormal wildlife. Evidently, the invisible emanations from the financial paperwork, contracts and instructions had frightened away all the supernatural powers. Which is hardly surprising.
Madame Giry briefly explained that this has been going on in the Opera all morning, and that nobody could say why. Then she simply left, returning to her students and leaving the managers at a total loss. Into the door that had been left ajar peered a skeleton. Andre gave a startled cry and raised an ashtray, at which the skeleton disappeared. Andre looked quite proud of himself, and adjusted his grip on the ashtray so as to hold it more comfortably. Then he carefully crept to the door and quickly slammed it shut.
The managers got into lively, but fruitless speculations. The skeleton loitered dispiritedly around the corridor nearby, feeling quite lost.
After a while, there was a polite knock on the door of the office. In response to the cautious, “Come in!”, into the office came a rather handsome middle-aged man, dressed in a long black coat. The hat he wore was likewise black, and across his back was slung a weapon which, had the managers been more militantly inclined, they would have identified as a crossbow.
“Good-morning-what-can-we-do-for-you,” rattled off Monsieur Andre. “Forgive us, but we can’t see you now, we are rather busy...”
“Yes, yes, that is precisely why I am here,” replied the stranger. “My name is Gabriel Van Helsing. I specialise in eliminating the forces of darkness.” He rummaged in the bag on his belt and removed several sheets of paper. “Here, may I draw your attention to these. My licence for a private practice in the area of neutralising living and quasi-living creatures (valid until 1876), my official permit to bear arms, and my Exorcism Specialist’s certificate. All personally issued by the head of the Department of Special Services for Faith Security of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.”
“What a stroke of luck that you’re here... So what are you planning to do?” inquired Firmin in a weak voice, having listened to this monologue.
Van Helsing removed his hat and took out a crumpled piece of paper. “Here is a list of services I offer, as an representative of the Department of Special Services.”
The list comprised thirty-four individual points, which, along with Exorcism of Daemons and the Culling of Werewolves, included such exotic services as a Virginity Inspection for females aged 14 through 75 inclusive (with the issue of a certificate) and the retail of potions for the removal of family curses.
“And – how much are your fees?”
“Please take a moment to examine the price-list,” Van Helsing offered in the same droning tone, extracting a rolled-up sheet of paper from his breast pocket.
The managers unrolled and examined it.
“No no no, Monsieur Helsing, with all due respect we can’t allow ourselves to pay for your services. Just look at this, Gilles, it’s daylight robbery!”
“The Holy Catholic Church, as represented here by my self, has extended a helping hand to you in your hour of need!” declared Van Helsing pompously. “Is now the time to think of money, when the Day of Judgement draws near? The powers of darkness must be stopped, whatever it costs us!”
“And it will cost us plenty!” parried Firmin. “Besides, none of this has been budgeted for. There can be no question of outlays of this magnitude for unforeseen expenses. And by the way, where did you come from that you’ve arrived on the scene so quickly, hm?”
“I always arrive on time wherever I am needed,” said the hunter of monsters impressively. “Well? Do you agree to my terms? I can start immediately.”
“Even our Phantom didn’t have the gall to ask for this much money,” sighed Firmin. And stared at Andre, whose eyes reflected the very same thought:
“The Phantom!” said Andre in a stage whisper. “Maybe he knows...”
“Let him sort it out!” declared Firmin. “He’s one of them. Brought a whole circus here...”
“But he isn’t really a ghost... is he?”
“Who cares! If he calls himself a ghost, let him rattle the chains... Anyway, we better write to him.”
The managers leapt for the writing paper and ink, and a moment later Andre’s pen was scratching busily on a sheet of white paper.
“Who is this Phantom?” inquired Van Helsing in an injured tone. The question went unheard. Andre finished his missive, rolled up the sheet and, without even bothering with an envelope, ran out into the corridor.
“Madame Giry!” he called. “Madame Giry!!”
“On the other hand, Monsieur Van Helsing, your services might come in handy anyway...” said Firmin thoughtfully.
Отредактировано Tango (2006-01-03 17:23:43)
