Chapter Eleven: Along Came a Spider
Φ
Leah
Orpheus made his case before the minions of hell as I coiled a lock of hair around my finger.
Anxiety writhed inside me, driving me to my old habit of calming myself. Only a few strands of dusky colored down had escaped my severe hair style. Now I fingered them thoughtlessly, twisting them about my unsteady fingers. Hortense would have a fit, I thought absently as I watched the bright colors of the performance from my hushed scrap of floor.
The typically reserved girl had offered to help dress my hair in an unexpected surge affability. She had spent nearly an hour in labor under the hot electric bulbs that illuminated the mirrors of one of the three community dressing rooms.
I still smelled faintly of the cologne and booze that unvaryingly occupied those rooms as surely as girlish gossip. But the twittering of my fellow ballerinas during the last dress rehearsal had been forgotten long ago.
Now the air of the backstage was pervaded by the tang of sweat, nerves, and the unmistakable fragrance of grease paint. It was a thin relief to my pride that the other young women around me seemed to be faring no better.
Even 'La' Sorelli, as she had begun to title herself, was showing signs of weariness. She and several others leaned back against a dusty set piece that the stagehands had failed to remove in time for opening night. But they were not the only ones to take refuge there, I was pleased to note. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a sharp jump from the great one herself. Her abrupt expression was beyond any nominal value I could name as she barely suppressed a squeal of terror. She appeared well ready to faint until Lisset removed a tiny spider from her shoulder
"How easily the mighty have fallen." I mused with a smile. "She's not very graceful when she's thrashing around like a dying insect, now is she?"
But scene one of act two was coming quickly to a close, and I had no time to revel in my private comedy. Now only one ballet segment stood between me and the stage. Unfortunately, that portion was Sorelli's newest triumph, a short duet with Ingvar. That boy was the waking dream of every woman within a three hundred foot radius. (And to think, my tutor had once said that my trigonometry was hopeless.) I sighed, watching his toned, Finnish legs soar about the stage. He carried himself like the stunning apparition that he was, making an excellent match for the picturesque Sorelli.
"She would have been better cast as a harpy." I groused to myself in bleak jealousy.
My bitterness was cut short by the orchestral cue for my entrance.
Thought instantly fled, and my feet took up the slack. All the extra hours of practice during my sleepless nights had ingrained the routine in my recollection. Now I gave every ounce of my concentration over to the character. I fell into practiced step with the rest of the corps, reveling in the way our movements fit together like puzzle pieces. My insignificance in the grand scheme of the opera, while biting, no longer concerned me. In a breeze of tulle and pale lace, I was a spirit of another world. Gone were the nagging concerns of tired legs and an envious heart. I was exultant and free.
I was bliss in toe shoes.
Fluttering off the stage in a state of ecstasy, I supported my tingling body on a shadowy prop while listening to the next selection. Madame Jocelyne Taillon, the resident lyric soprano, filled the auditorium with the ethereal notes of the aria of the blessed spirit.
When the last bows had come and gone and I had changed into a less flimsy frock, I began to steer my numb legs towards the safe harbor of our bed room. My course should have been made in open water, as I did not remain behind with the larger number of the ballerinas to 'greet' the Populaire's younger patrons. Beth had told me which corridors to use to avoid unwanted attention. Besides, no self respecting rogue would bother to pursue a chaste ballet rat who fled from the dressing rooms.
Or so I thought.
Inwardly I cursed myself for not having a better sense of direction. Obviously I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, for an obstruction now hindered my passage through the halls. Actually, several obstructions.
In elegant evening suits.
Privately joking amongst themselves, their faces were contorted by laughter. An air of easy grace hung around them, as if they could do no wrong. And they knew it. Strangely, I found that their arrogance was almost an attractive quality. I slowed a bit to observe them as they sauntered closer, seeming not to notice my presence. My girlish heart fluttered anxiously as their faces became clearer in the dimness of the hallway. All three were quite handsome.
Stalking closer, I could feel their eyes on me. The sensation was unnervingly similar to the imaginary presence I had once felt in these halls, yet these gazes held no terror for me. Until now, I had not understood why so many of the other girls were so eager to flit about with subscribers. But as they looked at me, as he looked at me, I felt a pinprick of understanding. That critical observation caused an upwelling of new emotions. I felt strangely pretty, as though his approval validated my beauty.
I recognized one of them as a regular attendee of my mother's galas. My twittering heart ceased to beat flatly in my chest as I failed to breathe. I had accidentally run into him in the empty hallways of our house one night when the grand hall was full. He had been achingly polite and we had spoken briefly. I had spent several weeks afterwards thinking of him. His lean, lanky form. His rakish coal curls. And only three years my senior at that. My impressions of Rene Bouguereau from last year were still very fresh in my mind.
Would he remember me?
I was equally torn between praying he didn't and wishing he would.
My prayers eventually won out. The boys did indeed take notice of me, but it seemed that Duke Bouguereau was oblivious to ever having made my acquaintance. That little detail didn't prevent the trio from forgoing the formalities, introducing themselves with polish but hinting in a manner less than polite. The burly blond on the count's left was the first to speak up, a cool young man with a well chiseled face.
"Bonjuor, Mademoiselle." There was a strange glint in his eyes that automatically sent my defenses back to their heightened state of caution. He deftly slipped my fingertips into his cool, gloved palm and trapped them in a hot breathed kiss before I knew what was happening.
"Do I dare request a name from the lips of the lovely Mademoiselle?" He asked audaciously.
"I'm not sure Monsieur, I suppose you will have to make that choice yourself." I replied cautiously, trying to feel out his intentions.
Well, he was rather handsome… And besides, it couldn't hurt to flirt back just a little. Not every man in the backstage was looking for sex. Just most of them.
He seemed a bit surprised to meet with resistance on my part. And improbably enough, a bit amused.
"If that is the case, I suppose I shall just have to risk my pride and dare indeed." The corners of his eyes were well suited to laugh lines.
Rene and his other companion apparently decided that this was their cue to exit the stage. But not without one pass at me. I felt a spidery clutching at my skirts. I turned to see a smirk on the dear count's face. How dare he… he… grope me!
I never liked him that much anyway.
But my attention was soon refocused on my new acquaintance as he muttered something less than noble under his breath.
"Please forgive my cousin. He can be a bit of an ass when the occasion presents its self."
I couldn't quell my quiet laugh. Perhaps I might enjoy his company after all. He didn't seem so bad.
"You have a lovely smile Mademoiselle."
My eyes grew round. This was a rapid change. What was he after? I was beginning to get a bit nervous.
That is until I saw an unexpected face coming towards us from the end of the hall.
Henry was most definitely his mother's son, and it had never been more evident than now. He stalked closer to us in the dim hallway that echoed with the shrill laughter of ballerinas and the low booms of their companions. He was a panther hunting in the jungle of the Populaire cloaked in his dark tailored suit. And his murderous eye was fixed on my new acquaintance.
If my brother had possessed a tail, it would have been lashing violently.
"Philippe!" He positively spat the name.
"Henry?" The young monsieur, Philippe apparently, seemed as genuinely confused as I, "What's wrong my friend?"
Henry ignored him, pushing him aside and breaking our handhold. I had not noticed that Philippe had still been clasping the stolen appendage. How sweet…
But I had no time to ponder the endearing qualities of this…Philippe, as my dear brother filled my view. He roughly grabbed me by the shoulders.
"Did he touch you Leah? Are you alright?" He all but screamed.
I was so shocked that I could not find my voice. He had NEVER been rough with me like this! Well, if you discounted fencing matches. But one look into his wide open eyes revealed his panic and worry, returning my power of speech.
"No! Henry, I am fine!" My annoyance began to build. He may very well have prevented my first kiss! "And there is no need to let the whole opera house in on our little conversation!"
"Oh…well, yes…I suppose you're right…" he stammered embarrassedly. A quiet apology could barely be made out of his unintelligible mutter that accompanied a little smile.
"Wait a moment!" Philippe interjected with obvious bewilderment, his forehead adorably distorted by all the wrinkles of a worn out bed sheet. "Henry, do you two know each other?"
It was all that either of us could do suppress the equal amounts of humor and uncertain horror. The question was so foolish that it deserved no answer, but neither of us could reveal who I had been. If anyone knew that Henry was my brother, the fact that I had left the house would do Henry little good with getting into our stepfather's good graces. For some odd reason, he actually seemed to like the man!
"Well … we used to …" I began tentatively.
"…know each other better." Henry finished for me. As an after thought, he threw a sly, implicating glance in his friend's direction. I was a bit insulted by what my hermano was hinting at, but at least it would serve as a good cover story for meeting him another day.
There was a short, ungainly silence that was only ended by Henry's quick wit. He offered me his arm, and politely asked if I would accompany him elsewhere for a while. It would have been difficult not to laugh if poor Philippe did not look so downhearted at my departure. To be honest, I was a little disappointed myself.
I would at least be polite I decided. Part of me still wanted to see him again. But my chance to speak was snatched away, by the object of my thought no less. Even as I was looking back at him, he caught my hand and halted our flight.
"Mademoiselle…"
"Iglesias" I replied smoothly. My invented surname.
"I will speak to you again, Mademoiselle Iglesias." He grinned uncertainly.
"Nos verrons." I replied cryptically, with a mysterious grin of my own as Henry finally succeeded in maneuvering me around the corner.
Φ
The Next Morning...
She burst into a fit of giggles.
And they were utterly infectious. The entire morning had been like this, full of quiet laughter and long hallways as we aimlessly explored our home. Everyone else was still fast asleep in the dorms, exhausted by an arduous performance last night. Only we two were awake, I because I had only been in one number and she because she had come too late in the season to be included in this production. I continued retelling my experiences of the night before to the willing audience of one elfin blond who bobbed along beside me.
"Once we got around the corner, I thought Henry was going to explode like a Chinese firecracker! You should have seen his face. He was so very red."
"What did he say?" piped Christine as we passed another intersection of hallways on the third floor.
"Oh, he just told me to be careful. He said that Philippe wasn't always trustworthy around pretty girls. Then I told him that there was nothing to worry about since I wasn't a pretty girl."
"You're so silly!" She tinkled.
"Philippe sent me a note just this morning, asking to see me again." I beamed with a touch of pride, happy that such an important man might be interested in me. Christine was still too young to understand such things, but I was eager to begin courting, and Philippe seemed like as fine a boy as any to see.
"Well…" she squirmed "What did you say?"
She was nearly jumping.
"I was tempted to just say 'we shall see' again, but I couldn't do it. I said yes!"
"OOO! Really?" She squealed. "Hey, where does this door go?"
Christine always managed to find some way to keep me smiling. So full of life and inquisitiveness, it was hard for her to keep her mind on any one subject for more than a few minutes at a time. So adolescent at all times. I glanced up at the door she was referring to.
"Hmm. I'm not entirely sure. Why don't we take a look? We have two hours to left to wander around."
Yet another squeaking door.
Damn.
My grandmother's moral admonitions stirred within me violently. "I didn't say it!" I tried to defend myself to them mentally.
Outside the realm of my odd thoughts, the d … blasted … door gave way to a musty stairway.
"Up or down?" I asked her. Christine pondered this for a moment. "Down." She decided and promptly proceeded to gallop down the rough stone steps of the service stairwell, dragging me behind her.
We tripped downwards until the stairs ended at yet another … accursed … unoiled door. A faint blend of scents tickled my memory from beyond the obstruction. Musty, faded greenness … where?
"Ooh!" came little Christine's squeak. "It's a stable! Did you know there was a stable here Leah?"
"No, I suppose I didn't." I followed her voice out of the shadows and into a brighter section of the large room, mildly interested in her discovery. Abuela had never allowed me near our stables, though I had occasionally wished to get a better look at the horses. I had never even learned to ride. In light of my other less than feminine pursuits, I truly could not blame her.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Christine's unexpected expression. She was softly stroking a fat dappled mare while staring blankly at the back of her stall. Her mouth was slightly tipped up at the corners and her candy blue eyes were unfocused, as though she were lost in thought.
"What is on your mind, Christine?" I asked, raising my hand to rest on her shoulder.
"Just thinking about the smell of hay."
"The smell of hay?" I giggled.
"Mmm. I love the smell of hay. It reminds me of papa." There was a bitter sweet quality to her words as she began to tell me about how the two of them had traveled far and wide over Sweden. We sat down in the hay, and she crawled into my lap and began to finger a wisp of my hair in her chubby hands as she recalled her father's stories of little Lotte, giant, fairies, and angels.
"Angels?"
"Yes! That was one of our favorites. The angel of music."
I sat up straighter, my interest sparked.
"The angel of music, hmm?"
When Christine did not respond, I turned to see a glimmering of reflected light on her cheek.
"Oh Christine!" I murmured, taking her delicate hand in my more substantial one. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have brought up your father."
"No, it's not that…" She sniffled. "Well, it is…but it isn't. I miss him so much. I keep thinking of his last promise to me. He said he would … he would…" She began to hiccup.
"You don't have to explain if you don't want to. I understand." I said as I pulled her closer to me. My prying nature did deeply want to know what she was mumbling about, but I wouldn't force her. She was so sad as things were.
"No, I want to tell you." She gave me a lopsided smile as she drew herself up. "The angel of music was one of our favorite stories. Papa said that the angel of music was the spirit that god sent to inspire every really good artist. Musicians and painters and poets and dancers … and singers." She beamed at the fond memories, but slowly her smile faded.
"When he started to get sick, he told me those stories more. He would lock the door to his room and we would sit there. He would play his music. Sometimes he told me how much he missed Maman. We would stay up till the sunrise, just us."
"But he got worse. When Mama Valerius took him to the hospital, he made me a promise. I told him not to die. I didn't want to be alone. He said that I would never be alone, that he would send me a friend. When he was in heaven. He promised me the angel of music. I tried so hard to tell him. I didn't want any angel! Even the angel of music."
"I just wanted him. But he wouldn't stay."
"Tina." I could only whisper her nickname into her trembling curls as I continued to stroke her hand.
"I'm so stupid." She sobbed. "I've been waiting and hoping so hard! But no angel is coming. There is no heaven! Papa is gone and I will never see him again."
She fell apart again in the straw next to me.
"Yes there is! There is a heaven!" Inwardly I cringed upon hearing myself.
Who was I to say such a thing? I wasn't even certain if God existed, much less heaven. And yet, I couldn't just leave her hanging like that. She needed reassurance in what she had clung to for so long. I wouldn't let my personal doubts deny her that.
"Even if it does, who cares? I'm not there, I'm not with him! I haven't even gone to church since he died. I can't…"
Our exchange was quickly cut short by the thump of a door at the other end of the stable.
"Hello?" A baritone voice echoed slightly around the cluttered space. "Who's in here?"
Utterly embarrassed, I quickly brushed the sweet hay from my simple tweed skirt. Checking the delicate cuffs of my chocolate blouse, I helped an unsteady Christine just as the intruder came around the corner.
And my breath proceeded to vanish.
No one thing about him was particularly stunning. A bit shy of six feet, he was well muscled and broad shouldered. His skin was tanned the color of a rich toffee, even darker than my own unattractive hues of light bronze. Once again I unconsciously lamented my olive complexion, the one part of my heritage that I was less than proud of.
His clothing continued the theme of drab browns throughout his stockings, breaches, leather vest, work shirt, and oversized cap. The hat obscured his eyes, but freckles and fistfuls of burnt straw hair stuck out at odd angle from underneath it.
And yet, something about him spoke to me.
Maybe it was his devilish grin.
When he saw us, a smirk rose up on his face. He was near the brink of laughter.
"I guess no chorus girl can resist the allure of these charming animals. I am never done chasing all of you out of here, am I?"
Φ
Eric
"Who does that damnible boy think he is?" The question echoed about my shriveled skull.
After the initial shock of discovery had worn off, Christine and her friend warmed up to that stable scraping rapidly. They seemed so at ease with him.
It should have been me down there, making the niceties and introducing myself, comforting the little girl with a foolish joke to make her smile.
Why not? Were we truly so different? We each had the same body parts. Hands, legs, a head, and the like.
Hell, we didn't even dress so very differently.
I unconsciously rolled up the sleeve of my thin cotton shirt and compared the gleaming caramel of his leather vest to the nattered burgundy of my own waistcoat. A discarded prop from one production or another, like most of my 'wardrobe'. The only thing I had not borrowed from the host I played parasite to was the obsidian mask that concealed my detestable face.
At least my trousers were devoid of horse swallop.
"Damn him!" The whispered curse dripped from my sunken lips with all the poison of my wounded heart. Why was it always someone else who did what I wanted? Why did someone else always find a way to do what my heart yearned to?
I was acting the fool. What hare brained idea had caused me to believe that I could be of any use to this girl? What could I possibly do to ease her pain?
Besides, who but an angel would be able to lift that kind of weight off of someone's shoulders?
An angel…
I pondered just how to comfort the child as I returned to my dark, dusty home, and wondered why I was even attempting such a foolish thing. I should have learned years ago with Azadeh that caring about people only caused pain, yet I still could not bring myself to stop trying.
Irritated by my inability to stop dillydallying with trivial things, I perched upon a more important scheme, one that had remained in its protective chrysalis for far too long. I had been plotting my little coup upon the management ever since that fateful night in the box. My box, I reminded myself, savoring the sweet flavor of ownership that I had missed for so long.
But despite my best attempts, I was still at a loss as to how I might go about such an endeavor. I couldn't very well just stroll into their office and demand that they turn over the keys to the theater, though the thought had crossed my mind. It would be rather simple.
I would merely discard my mask in their presence and they would think Beelzebub himself had descended upon them!
I chuckled morosely at the scene painted inside my mind. "The expressions on their faces would be priceless!" I thought drolly. I shook my head at my own ridiculousness. What would I do with out my sense of humor?
And slowly, ever so agonizingly slowly, it dawned upon me.
"Why not?" I asked myself aloud.
I had been called "Devil's Child" more than once. Demon spawn, diseased filth, damnation of God … Satan himself was little different.
Well, perhaps not that title. That was a little too strong, and brought with it a host of childhood memories that were much better left forgotten. But something sinister.
An inane grin began to materialize on my blessedly bare face, the imprisoning mask having been set aside long ago. What had Giry's twit called me? A ghost?
Besides, Polygany was a superstitious little bastard.
Author's notes:
Christita – adding ita to the end of a name is a Spanish term of endearment. It's kind of a way of saying little or baby. So therefore it roughly translates into something like little Christine, little baby, or sweetheart. (ito applies the same way to boys.) At least, I'm pretty sure about that. I picked it up when my mother and I went to Peru. We were at a church down there and all the people were SO incredibly loving. Everybody in the church is referred to as brother (hermano) so and so or sister (hermana) such and such. One of the grandmotherly women called me hermanita, so I asked one of my friends who speaks some English what it meant. She had called me little baby sister. I thought it sounded so adorable. I couldn't resist putting it in here as a little tribute to the amazing people we met there. So Leah may often refer to Christine as Christita or hermanita.
Many thanks to Allegratree, my invaluble fish (beta), for her help with the Spanish. She informed me that it would be more correct to call her Tina or (tenatively) Tinita. I do like the sound of Tinita. I rolls off the tongue and its fun to say.
I haven't had many years of Spanish, so if any of my little inclusions are not grammatically correct, please let me know.
Note: Eric has yet to enter into his trademark formal evening attire. That comes later. Guess how. Go on, guess!
I am pondering the notion that Christine, well my interpretation of Christine any how, may have ADD. Not ADHD, the hormonal disease that causes excessive hyperness, but ADD, which causes difficulty in the area of concentration. My brother has ADD, so if I do write her as having ADD, I feel that I can be fair about portraying it in a character. It's just a thought, but tell me what your reactions are to it. I want her to have a REAL personality, but I do feel that (my) Christine has a kind of spacey aspect to her personality. I wouldn't go so far as to call her ditzy, but definitely not level headed either, so I thought ADD might shine a different light on her. Please respond dearies.
A lyric soprano is a specific type of singing voice. I know what it is, but I can't figure out how to explain it properly. I appeal to any music teachers/professionals.
Jocelyne Taillon actually was a French mezzo around 1920 or so. I thought the name was pretty and suited the minor character.