Opening Night
The end of Spectacular Spectacular had indeed been rewritten as the Duke wished it to be, with the courtesan choosing the maharajah – and, I supposed, that was how the story really was ending, though it was not a choice I had willingly made. I went over the new pages a final time, committing the lines to memory, but I was devoid of any excitement I might've had over my first performance on a real stage, in front of a real audience. Christian and I had always shared each other's hopes and dreams, and now all of that had been torn apart.
Marie had just put the finishing touches on my hair and makeup when a knock sounded on the door. I turned, expecting to see Harold there, prepared to give me a dramatic speech before the show – but instead I found the diminutive form of Toulouse outlined in the doorway. I was stricken by his sudden appearance, and despite the fact he wore his costume instead of a tuxedo, I was reminded of the evening he had come backstage to ask me to meet with a new writer he had found.
"Toulouse. What are you doing here?" I asked.
"Christian," he responded in his lisping tone, "I came to talk to you about Christian."
He stepped into the room, and I could see that his face looked worried and distraught, though his eyes held a familiar drugged haze. It was clear Toulouse was choosing to damper his nervousness and stage fright with the company of the Green Fairy.
"I . . ." Trailing off, I hesitated, and looked abruptly back to the mirror, pretending to fuss with a part of my costume in order to get it just so.
I was careful to keep my voice steady and impersonal as I stated, "I don't have anything to say to you about him."
"Satine," he said earnestly, "Christian loves you – I know you must still love him . . ."
He shuffled forward, movements impeded slightly by the awkward pear-shaped costume that he wore, headpiece tucked under his arm. "Tell me what's going on, please."
"It's nothing, Toulouse," I responded sharply. "You wouldn't understand."
I knew he was only concerned for Christian – and, I supposed, myself as well – but his prying was simply too much. Of course I couldn't tell him the truth.
Toulouse gave a long-suffering sigh and dejectedly turned back toward the door. I resolutely decided to leave it at that, but before he exited the room he turned back, and I heard him say softly – almost to himself, "Oh, but I understand more than you know . . ."
"She is mine!"
Harold's voice boomed clearly from the stage above as I was being put into place with the help of two of the stage hands, preparing for my own entrance on a platform that would rise up to the stage.
As Toulouse began his chant of I only speak the truth, I couldn't help but be reminded of his earlier words.
Christian loves you, I know you must still love him . . .
He spoke the truth even more than he knew.
I drew in a breath, preparing myself as I came up to the stage, the brilliant colors of the set and the blinding lights assaulting my senses after the time I had spent in the muted atmosphere backstage. Holding my opening note just a few seconds too long, I was given in to coughing, but forced the dizziness back and regained my composure again.
"Kiss . . . hand . . . diamonds best friend.
Kiss . . . grand . . . diamonds best friend.
Men . . . cold . . . girls old . . .
And we all lose our charms in the end."
As I performed the routine, each breath was a struggle, each note testing the weakening endurance of my lungs, but I continued on in any case, Harold's old adage repeating itself in my head.
The show must go on, so on I went.
"Diamonds are a, diamonds are a,
Diamonds are a, diamonds are a,
Diamonds are a, diamonds are a,
Diamonds are a, diamonds are a . . .
Girl's . . . best . . . friend . . ."
In all our rehearsals, this had been one of my favorite numbers, but as it was completed and I felt the heavy weight of the diamond choker about my neck, I was simply reminded again – like a slap in the face – how shallow my life had been before.
Then Harold put his arms around me, stating, "She is mine," and the lights went dim.
Outside, it was a cacophony of cheers – the audience absolutely loved the show, and I should be reveling in the applause, but instead I disentangled myself from Harold as soon as the heavy curtains fell closed, and headed backstage, another cough wracking through me.
The show must go on, I repeated to myself again, but I wasn't so certain Death cared about a perfect performance.