Rude Awakenings
When I gradually came to from the fainting spell, I was instantly confused – at the fact I was lying on the bed, and that the equally confused-looking writer was looming over me. I blinked a bit and attempted to force back the lingering dizziness, and realized the writer was looking not at me – but at someone else entirely. I turned to look at the doorway just in time to see the Duke standing there, and I drew in a deep breath, attempting to catch up on the situation from what I could gather on assumption.
"Oh, Duke . . ."
But he had a jealous glint in his eye as he strode forward. "'It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside'?"
"Beautifully spoken, Duke," I complimented, then took hold of the writer's face and turned his head toward the Duke. "Yes, let me introduce you to the writer . . ."
"The writer?" he demanded, stiffening.
By then I realized what must have happened – the writer must have caught me and laid me on the bed (though how he ended up atop me, I wasn't certain), and the Duke walked in at exactly the wrong moment.
"Yes, we were – we were rehearsing," I elaborated falsely.
He wasn't to be convinced so easily, however. "Oh, ho, ho, ho . . . you expect me to believe that scantily-clad, in the arms of another man, in the middle of the night, inside an elephant, you were rehearsing?"
The writer and I untangled ourselves from each other and got to our feet, and I waved a hand through the air, reaching for an explanation – when Toulouse and the other Children of the Revolution came crowding in through the opening at the front of the elephant. I wondered less about how they had gotten there, conveniently forgot the fact I was going to kill Toulouse earlier, and concentrated more on appreciation that they had shown up.
"How's the rehearsal going?" Toulouse called out, waving his cane at the writer and myself. "Shall we take it from the top, eh, my queen?"
Relieved by this sudden and unexpected rescue, I turned back to the Duke, summoning my most convincing expression. "When I spoke those words to you before, I filled me with such inspiration –"
He met me with a skeptical look, but I pressed on, "Yes, I realized how much work we had to do before tomorrow, so I called everyone together for an – emergency rehearsal."
I was pleased with myself, but further concerned as he questioned, "If you're rehearsing, where's Zidler?"
I gave an offhanded wave, attempting carelessness. "Oh, no, we didn't bother Harold –"
Then, at precisely the wrong moment, the door swung open and hit the wall with a bang, and Harold rushed into the room, apologizing profusely to the Duke – no doubt for the sudden arrival of the Bohemians. "My dear Duke, I'm most terribly sorry –"
"Harold! You made it!" I called out, eager to interrupt him before the Duke could ask any more questions. "It's quite all right," I added forcefully, "The Duke knows all about the emergency rehearsal."
"Emergency rehearsal?" he asked, not quite picking up on what I was trying to do.
"Mmhm . . . to incorporate the Duke's artistic ideas," I elaborated slowly, as if reminding him.
"Yes, well, I'm sure Audrey will be only too delighted –"
"– Audrey's left!" Toulouse interrupted, and causing me to wonder if this could get any worse.
Quick to recover, I interjected, "Harold, the cat's out of the bag. The Duke's already a big fan of our new writer's work. That's why he's so keen to invest."
I drew out the last word with some emphasis, because after all, if there was anything that would inspire Harold, it was money.
"Invest?" he repeated. "Invest! Oh, yes, well, invest! You can hardly blame me for trying to hide our young –" he hesitated, waiting for a name.
"Christian," Toulouse provided.
"– Christian away."
So that was his name. I paused, looking at the Duke as he spoke up again. "I'm way ahead of you, Zidler," he said smugly, looking rather proud of himself.
"My dear Duke, why don't you and I go to my office to peruse the paperwork, mm?" Harold prompted, making a motion to lead him from the room.
But the Duke halted him, asking, "What's the story?"
Harold froze, looking confused. "The story?" he echoed.
"Well, if I'm going to invest," the Duke went on, "I need to know the story."
"Oh, yes, well," Harold stated. "The story's about . . ." He trailed off, then questioned, "Toulouse?"
All eyes turned to the littlest Bohemian, and he froze, stammering, "The story's about – the story's about – it's about, um . . ."
I was just about to suggest something of my own, when the writer – Christian – finished for him, "Love! It's about love!"
"Love?" the Duke asked with a sneer.
I was becoming increasingly more skeptical of this writer, despite the talent he had displayed, but he went on, "It's about love . . . overcoming all obstacles."
"And it's set in Switzerland!" Toulouse offered enthusiastically.
"Exotic Switzerland!" Harold added, as the words 'exotic' and 'Switzerland' didn't quite seem to belong together.
The Duke didn't appear all too enthusiastic over the idea of romances between goat-herders and milkmaids, either, so the writer corrected hastily, "India! India! It's set in India."
Hesitating, the writer turned toward me, then went on, "And there's a courtesan – the most beautiful courtesan in all the world . . ." Then he pivoted on a heel to face the Duke. "But her kingdom's invaded by an evil maharajah."
The Duke recoiled a bit, but the writer continued weaving his tale expertly, "Now, in order to save her kingdom, she has to seduce the evil maharajah . . . but on the night of the seduction, she mistakes a penniless –"
Pausing, he self-consciously began to point to himself and say 'writer,' but obviously thought better of it, searching the room for something else. Grabbing a sitar that was lying in the corner, he held it up and finished, "– a penniless sitar player for the evil maharajah, and falls in love with him!"
Looking back to me, he concluded earnestly, "He – he wasn't trying to trick her or anything, but he was dressed as a maharajah, because . . . he's appearing in a play."
"And I will play the penniless, tango-dancing sitar player," the Argentinean interrupted suddenly, stepping forward and grabbing the stringed instrument from Christian's hand. He strummed a single, sour note, and elaborated, "Who sings like an angel, but dances – like the devil!"
Everyone was caught up in the story by now, including myself – but it was the Duke who finally asked, "And – and what happens next?"
"Well, the penniless sitar player and the courtesan, they have to hide their love from the evil maharajah," Christian went on, emphasizing 'evil' at every chance presented him.
On cue, I turned my back to the Argentinean, looking at him over my shoulder, as if having to steal a glance.
Then Satie piped in, gesturing at the wooden sitar the Argentinean held. "The sitar player's sitar is magical," he offered. "It can only speak the truth!"
"And I will play the magical sitar!" Toulouse jumped into the half-circle we'd created around the Duke, taking the sitar from the Argentinean and plucking out an off-key note, giving a suggestion of what the magical instrument might say.
"You are beautiful," he said to me, then strummed another note and turned to Harold, noting bluntly, "And you are ugly."
Then he turned to the Duke, and we all lunged forward to cover his mouth.
"And he gives the game away," the Duke suggested, prompting positive applause from everyone.
"Tell them about the can-can," Harold told Christian.
"The – the . . . tantric can-can!" the writer improvised, only to be shoved aside as Harold took center stage again.
"It's an erotic spectacular scene that captures the thrusting, violent, vibrant, wild Bohemian spirit that this entire production embodies, Duke," Harold informed him.
"And what do you mean by that?" the Duke asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"The show will be a magnificent, opulent, tremendous, stupendous, gargantuan bedazzlement," Harold went on, quite possibly drawing out every large word he could think of to describe it. "A sensual ravagement. It will be . . . spectacular, spectacular, no words in the vernacular can describe this great event. You'll be dumb with wonderment. Returns are fixed at ten percent. You must agree, that's excellent."
He paused, then began to sing.
"And on top of your fee . . . you'll be involved artistically."
The next few moments passed in a whirlwind as we all joined together in the song and worked to pitch the show to the Duke, who looked a little lost through it all. When he interrupted our grand number to ask how it would end, we all scattered about the room, grabbing props left and right, until a curtain had been dropped between us and where the Duke sat.
The writer stepped out in front of the curtain, narrating as we acted it out. "The courtesan and sitar man are pulled apart by an evil plan . . ."
"But in the end she hears his song," I provided.
". . . and their love is just too strong," he finished, giving me a knowing look.
The moment, however, was interrupted as the Duke joined in with an off-key rendition of the song Christian had just earlier serenaded me with. "It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside . . ."
We all stared at him in a moment of silence, not quite certain how to reply – but then our routine started up again, and continued until we gave a grand conclusion.
The Duke simply blinked at us, looking a little lost, before finally stating to overall delight, "Generally, I like it."