Fairytale Endings
It was our final rehearsal before the play was to be performed. Tomorrow was opening night, and the air was charged with an energetic feeling. I risked a glance over at Christian, to see him beaming, his derby tilted back from his forehead and eyes alight with a happy glow. His happiness seemed to radiate outward to touch everyone – it struck me in that moment that he was the type of person whose shy, carefree personality filled a room. He had a way of making you feel as if you were the center of the universe when you were held in his gaze.
Or, perhaps, I was slightly biased. I offered him a smile in return over the Argentinean's shoulder, then continued with the song.
"Come what may!
Come what may!
I will love you!
Until my dying day!"
Then the song began to fade, and everyone wore a smile as we looked at each other in triumph. We were finally doing it; we were proving love conquered all –
But the happy moment was ruined as a voice that had not been part of the rehearsal sounded out in the renovated dance hall.
"I don't like this ending!"
The Duke, speaking from his place of honor at the foot of the stage, where there would be an audience crowded the very next evening.
"Don't like the ending, my dear Duke?" Harold asked, stepping forward.
I glanced toward him and saw a look of consternation on his face – and who could blame him? After all, if the financier of the entire show wasn't happy, that meant the production was at risk. I broke apart from the Argentinean and folded my arms across my chest in a gesture of annoyance.
The Duke had risen from his seat, and now looked at us all in search of an answer. "Why would the courtesan choose the penniless sitar player over the maharajah –" he asked, making an imperious gesture in the air with his hand, "– who is offering a lifetime of security? That's real love."
He paused, and my discomfort rose as he went on, "Once the sitar player has satisfied his lust, he will leave the courtesan with nothing. I suggest in the end, the courtesan choose the maharajah."
As his words tapered off, it became clear to everyone that there was no suggestion about it. The Duke, used to having his every wish granted, out of a lifetime of privilege, was making a demand.
"But – but, sorry!" It was Toulouse who came forward through the cast of actors, dancers, and musicians to put up a protest. "But that ending does not uphold the Bohemian ideals of truth, beauty, freedom, and –"
"I don't care about your ridiculous dogma!" the Duke shouted rather suddenly, silencing the painter's words. "Why shouldn't the courtesan choose the maharajah!?" he demanded forcefully.
"Because she doesn't love you!" Christian's words rang out, silencing the cacophony, as everyone chose to instead stare at the normally quiet writer. In the hush, he seemed to realize his error, but by then it was too late.
"Him. Him. Because she doesn't – she doesn't love – him," he stammered in correction of himself.
"Oh, I see," the Duke said slowly, a gaze of dislike and disdain lingering on Christian before he turned sharply back to Harold, his tone short and clipped.
"Monsieur Zidler, this ending will be rewritten," he informed us, "With the courtesan choosing the maharajah, and without the lovers' secret song. It will be rehearsed in the morning, ready for the opening tomorrow night."
Harold was the first to recover from the shock of Christian's words, and stepped forward, protesting, "But my dear Duke, that will be quite impossible –"
"Harold," I interrupted, deciding that I would have to try to put this right again myself. I could see everything crumbling, and I was possibly the only one who could fix it.
"The poor Duke is being treated appallingly," I went on in an incredulous tone, before turning to the Duke and moving slowly down the steps. I could see the look in his eyes – I knew what he wanted.
"These silly writers let their imaginations run away with them," I told him carelessly, as if I'd expected no less out of the rehearsal. "Now, why don't you and I have a little supper . . . and afterwards, you can let Monsieur Zidler know how you prefer the story to end, hmm?" I purred, a brow lifting in suggestion.
The Duke's eyes swept up and down me, and a thin smile curled beneath his mustache. "The Gothic Tower?"
"I'll see you there," I responded with a coquettish smile, then turned and sashayed away.
I could feel Christian's gaze boring into my back – I knew without looking, the expression of hurt I would see on his face. He wouldn't understand why I was doing this, but it was only one last time . . . I would have to make him see why I was doing it.
Backstage, Elizabeth – a new girl of no more than sixteen that Harold had hired, and who I couldn't help but see turning into a story much like mine – took the elaborate headdress I had been wearing in rehearsal. I gave her an absent thanks, then patted down my hair and started toward my dressing room.
Before I made it that far, however, Christian – who had been waiting off to the side of the hallway – interrupted me and pulled me around the corner.
"I don't want you to sleep with him," he protested, though he did not have to speak the words for me to know as much.
I turned to face him, my heart in my eyes, willing him to see things as I did – willing him to understand what I was doing, and moreover, why.
"He can destroy everything," I responded weakly. He was making an already difficult task even harder. "It's for us."
He said nothing, and I pressed on, reminding him, "You promised. You promised me that you wouldn't be jealous. You . . ."
I sighed, knowing I couldn't truly ask something like that of him. I couldn't ask him to withhold his feelings – I could only hope he would turn a blind eye to what I was going to do. "It will be all right," I assured him softly.
"No," he pleaded again, voice cracking with emotion.
"Yes, it will," I insisted, then sighed. "He's waiting for me."
I started to turn away, but his hand caught at my elbow with another protestation. "No . . . no."
I sighed again, and leaned up to whisper in his ear softly, "Come what may . . ."
He drew in a shaky breath and nodded, though as I leaned back again, I could still see the doubt in his eyes.
"Come what may," he repeated, then I turned to go.
I could only hope as much would really be true.