Woo I'm pumping these out! If you're still here and reading, I hope you enjoy! It'd be awesome to hear from you.
This story is pretty cheesy, I'm realizing as I reread it. It's pretty much purely for fun on my part, not as dark or super-seriously as some of my other stories. So forgive the cheese, please. :)
Thanks for reading!
That night, when I returned to the dancer's tent where I slept, I found a note on my cot. It was written in French, in an elegant, spidery hand on thick creamy parchment and simply read:
"Tomorrow you will report to M. Castro. It is time that instrument of yours was trained."
He signed with an elaborate Y.
My heart leapt. Mr. Castro was the chorus master, in charge of vocal training. Had my singing impressed Mr. Y? Was I to join the cast?!
I was disappointed on that point. Castro briskly informed me the next morning that Mr. Y wanted me in voice training, but considered me far from ready to join his show - even on the chorus line. Still, I was thrilled with this newfound endeavour, and commenced daily practice, both private and with the other singers.
Fall, 1891
One crisp autumn morning a few months later, Molly flew to me with her feathers all ruffled.
"We're leavin', Belle!" she cried, tears in her eyes, and she hugged me hard.
"What?" I asked breathless. "Where are we going?"
"Why do you think she's crying, Mouse?" Corvo asked, appearing silently behind me (as was a usual practice of his). "You're not coming with us."
"What?!" I shrieked, unable for a long moment to process what was happening.
"Only the main cast is goin'," Molly explained tearfully. "He says they'll have crew in other theaters. We're travelin', Belle."
I felt like sobbing, but I only nodded, thinking this over. A traveling company was not unheard of, and I agreed that this show needed to be seen by everyone who could. The world would benefit from Mr. Y's genius.
"Europe," Corvo said. "And then into Asia - Y has an obsession with Persia, I think."
"How long will you be gone?" I asked. Corvo shrugged, but he tugged at my curls in a way that told me he was sad to go, too.
"Years, probably."
That night I wandered Main Stage again after strike. I didn't have an agenda, but vaguely thought it possible that Mr. Y was in the building. The auditorium seemed empty, all the sets and props having been dismantled so they could be packed. It was very sad. I felt a chapter in my life was ending. And the unknown scared me. Everything seemed alien, though I'd lived here nearly a year.
(Cue: "As if We Never Said Goodbye" from Sunset Boulevard)
"I don't know I'm frightened," I sang.
"I know my way around here.
The cardboard trees,
The painted scenes,
The sounds here…
Yes, a world I can discover.
But I'm not in any hurry.
And I need a moment…"
"You are improving, mademoiselle."
I started, looking toward the wings to find the source of that deep voice, resonating with just a rich touch of vibrato. And this time he did not hide from me. I saw the figure of Mr. Y, unmoving in the shadows, watching me. It sent shivers down my back, though I wasn't sure if they were pleasant or not.
He spoke in French, which comforted me - as though he preferred my language instead of English. I followed his lead.
"Monsieur," I greeted, sweeping him a curtsey. He took a few slow steps toward me, but otherwise stayed silent. "Mr. Castro is an excellent teacher."
"With time, perhaps you will be fit to sing in my production."
"I would love that, monsieur," I replied sincerely. "Thank you. I'll work very hard, and when you return you will hear a new Belle."
(Cue: excerpt from Phantom of the Opera)
Mr. Y smiled beneath his mask, and started towards me slowly. He sang:
"No doubt you'll do your best.
It's true, your voice is good.
You know, though, should you wish to excel
You have much still to learn.
And so each day you'll return to him,
Your teacher… Your teacher."
He looked at me, long and silent, and I flushed under that direct gaze. What was going on behind those black eyes?
"Go now," he said. "The theater will be locked from this day until my return."
With a last, hasty curtsey I fled from him. Why did he make me so nervous?
They left a week later - Corvo, Molly, Max and Claudia, along with about thirty others. Louis stayed behind, as did more than half of the cast and all of the crew. I was glad to have Louis, but despaired losing the rest of them. The carnival felt empty, even though we tried to keep it the same as ever.
But Main Stage was closed down - dark and empty. No one went in, not even to clean. I think it depressed us to even look at it.
Months passed, then years, and they did not return.
Each day we performed our sideshows, each night we missed the splendor of Main Stage and Mr. Y's masterpiece. I practiced singing and illusion in equal measure, and soon I was proud of my accomplishments in both. I was a keen soprano with a wide range - Louis stopped calling me Mouse and started referring to me as Bird. Which, I suppose, was a step in the right direction.
We lost customers though. Without the headliner and the amazing Main Stage spectacle, Phantasma ceased to be the most attractive carnival on Coney Island. My world became much emptier - there was always less energy in the air.
Spring, 1893
When I was almost seventeen, Mr. Castro decided I should have my own act. We had the space, and excess cast and crew, and perhaps something fresh would bring in revenue. I was also the youngest girl in the company, and Castro said I had a life to me, and a real presence on stage.
"You can't fake stage presence like that," he said, and I flushed with pride. "That's real talent. You know how to move and speak up there."
The prospect of my own show thrilled me, and I worked long days and nights to put it together. I was given one of the empty tents just off the thoroughfare, and decided to include both illusion and music - a heretofore unexplored combination. I enlisted the help of Louis, who I considered a senior magician, and together we crafted a moderate yet bewitching stage show.
Castro and I wrote new songs for it. While they would probably make Mr. Y cringe in dismay, I was proud of them. I'd never written songs before, but Mr. Castro had taught me how to plunk out tunes on the piano, and I found I had a natural ear for what sounded good. This wasn't to say it was easy. Those months and months of preparation were probably the hardest I'd ever worked.
My show became my obsession. And I don't know when it started, but along the way I had this idea that if I threw my soul into it, Mr. Y would finally see me. Even if it was rough around the edges, he'd appreciate how much of myself was in it.
I started to dedicate it to him - that idea of a man, that vague, distant shadow. I did not even know him then, but he was on my mind constantly.
My pining for him made its way into the show. Louis and I played star-crossed lovers - a maiden and a pirate - who are cast together and apart by the winds of circumstance. Through the power of magic, we are almost able to be together in the end - until a terrible storm takes the pirate captain's life. His maiden wanders the shore hence, singing and calling for him, until she becomes part of the ocean and joins him in the afterlife. It was a melancholy tale, but I thought it would suit Mr. Y's sensitivities - if he ever came back, that was.
Fall, 1893
Louis and I rehearsed and rehearsed, and one night, many months later, we decided we were ready. With no more ado, we added our act to the bill, and our tent was open for customers.
I was giddy and nervous the night of my debut performance. Not only would it be my first time on stage before an audience, but I was the lead.
I wore a long white dressing gown with a black sash, a white corset (also laced with black ribbons) and stockings, wanting to look the part of a virginal maid (which, by all accounts, I was. Louis had kissed me drunkenly on my last birthday, but except for that I had no experience with men. Though Louis' long fingered hands and broad back were starting to enthrall me. I thought it was probably because he was the only halfway decent looking man around). My pale blond hair curled softly around my shoulders and my lips were painted bright red - a virgin, but a seductive one.
Louis, on the other hand, was dashing in his black pirate's shirt and striped breeches. Just before the show, I ran to him, sweating and shaking.
"Louis, I'm really scared," I told him furtively. He just grinned and put an arm around my shoulder.
(Cue: "Razzle Dazzle" from Chicago)
"Birdy, you got nothing to worry about," he said. "It's just a circus, kid. A three ring circus. And kid," he chucked me under my chin. "You're workin' with a star."
I laughed as he began to sing.
"Give 'em the old razzle dazzle.
Razzle dazzle 'em.
Give 'em an act with lots of flash in it
And the reaction will be passionate."
He moved away from me to twirl around the tent.
"Give 'em the old hocus pocus.
Bead and feather 'em.
How can they see with sequins in their eyes?"
I retorted with logic with my own, "What if my hinges all are rusting?
What if, in fact, I'm just disgusting?"
But he just smiled that infectious smile and hugged me tight.
"Razzle dazzle 'em," he sang, "and they'll never catch wise."
He thought a minute, then finished with, "Razzle dazzle 'em…
And they'll make you a star!"
And you know what?
He was right.
We were mentioned in not one, not two, but three newspapers the next day. The reviews were glowing, and more than flattering.
"New and fabulous talent in a forgotten venue!"
"Phantasma astonishes us once more! Coney Island's best!"
"Beautiful, sensational and fascinating! A tour de force!"
I celebrated that night with Louis and the rest of the cast of my little show, getting well and truly drunk.
In the days that followed, the glowing reviews brought a new resurgence of customers, and we decided to perform the show twice every night to accommodate the crowds. My tent was filled to bursting, and suddenly everyone knew my name.
Posters were produced, with Belle and the Pirate flourished across them. That hadn't been the name of the act when we'd first performed it - my character's name had been Paulina, not Belle. But everyone knew my name and face now, and called my character Belle anyway. So, shrugging our shoulders, we simply decided to change the name.
Louis relished the newfound fame, but I was bewildered by it. I didn't know how to behave when people rushed me, asking for my autograph and picture. I didn't know what to do when gentlemen asked to buy me drinks or take me home. I blushed and smiled and waved them off, while Louis laughed behind me, saying I should get laid now or forever hold my peace.
The act ran the year, being continually tweaked and changed by me, Louis and Castro. We were proud of our brainchild, and the consistent yet surprising changes in illusions and songs kept our fans' attention. One man I knew, an aging, shy accountant, came nearly every evening. He made me laugh, and he knew the show inside and out, so we soon adopted him as our personal critic - an outside opinion on where we were lacking, and where we were doing well.
Summer, 1894
On my eighteenth birthday, we heard news of Mr. Y and the traveling show.
They arrived tomorrow from France - after three years - back to Coney Island and Phantasma!
I was a flurry of excitement, shaking and giggling when I heard the news just before my show that night. The girl doing my hair tutted and fussed at my constant movement, but Louis was less than impressed. He lounged in his chair, one long leg flung over the arm, and adjusted his makeup.
"You know what this means, don't you, Birdy?" he asked.
"That our friends are coming back and Phantasma will be everything it once was?" I replied, a bit sharply, disliking his tone of voice. He threw me an ironic glance.
"No, chit," he replied. "It means we'll be thrown aside. To make way for Mr. Y's," he gestured in a vaguely irritated way, "extravaganza."
"You're wrong," I told him firmly. "If anything, Monsieur will be pleased. Proud, even." I hoped so. At the back of my mind, for the past three years, I measured my little act against what Phantasma's master was capable of. Every note I wrote, every note I sang, was dedicated to him. I hoped he would like them.
"You're a fool, Mouse," Louis scoffed. "And I still don't understand why you insist on calling him monsieur." His American accent made the word sound vulgar. I stuck my tongue out at him.
"He's French, idiot," I replied. Louis' eyebrows raised.
"And how, exactly, do you know that?" he asked. I'd never told them about my solo encounters with Mr. Y, but part of me wanted to keep it secret. Something only the two of us shared. So I shrugged.
"He has a slight accent," I said, though this wasn't true. I'd never detected a hint of a French accent from Mr. Y. He sounded like a blue-blood American, rich and rounded tones, which just made him more mysterious - because the way he spoke French was the way a native did. His tongue was versatile, at the least.
Louis hadn't heard an accent, either.
"No," he said slowly. "He must've told you…" Then, he snapped his fingers. "You slept with him, didn't you?" I opened my mouth in horror, and he snickered. "You bad thing, that's why you're obsessed."
"I was fifteen when he left!" I argued. Monsieur was a grown man. The very thought was disgusting, though of course Louis didn't find a problem with it.
"Yes," he mused. "He was your first, wasn't he? Always said, didn't I? That Mr. Y, he's a deviant."
"You're vile," I replied. "No, I hardly met the man. He spoke French to me once."
"Bonded you, did it?" Louis said, his eyes glinting. I threw a shoe at him.
My excited energy was reflected in the show that night. Everything went perfectly, not a single misstep the entire night (which, if you've ever been in a live show, you'll know is unheard of). Louis had never sounded better, never been more fluid with his hands during the illusions. He'd never kissed me with such passion or flung his body around the stage so determinedly during the sword fights.
The chorus and dancers were unprecedented. They outdid themselves. Like angels. Every note was pitch perfect, not a voice out of tune. Every dance step was en pointe, precise and lovely.
And the audience! They laughed when they were meant to laugh. They cried when they were meant to cry. They thundered their applause and screamed their delight.
It was as though a spirit was in the air, an energy that brought the production to a startling pinnacle. I was swept up in it, letting my voice soar in a way it hadn't before.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mr. Y's masked face. He was my mysterious, unreachable muse, and I sang for him.
That night, after the crowds had gone home and the cast had passed out in drunken slumber, I paced backstage in my tent. I couldn't sleep, too excited by the thought of their imminent return. I would see my friends again - Molly, Corvo, Max, Claudia, all the rest… Mr. Y… He would be home again, to fill the Main Stage with his music and beauty.
I still wore my costume - my ivory corset and dressing gown, tied with a black ribbon around my waist, but my hair was let loose and my makeup was washed away. If I was a lady in a grand house, instead of a lowly performer in a circus, I would be appropriately dressed for washing up before bed.
A glimmer of light under the dropped curtain caught my attention. Slowly, I shifted the cloth aside and peered through, to find the center spotlight had been left on.
Sighing at the incompetence of the crew, I almost turned around to go turn it off, until a flash of red caught my attention. Looking closer, curious, I saw that a single red rose had been left on the stage, in the perfect center.
Fascinated, I stepped through the curtain, towards it. It hadn't been there earlier - I had swept the stage myself not thirty minutes ago. Slowly, gently, I stepped into the spotlight fixed so perfectly on the rose. I bent and picked it up.
Around the stem, someone had tied a black ribbon. I touched the silk, entranced. Who had left this here?
I looked towards rough hewn benches that held the audience in the dark of the tent, empty now… except…
(Cue: "In All My Dreams I Drown" from The Devil's Carnival)
I stiffened when I saw the dark shape sitting alone on the bench, in the very back row - just a shadow, a gleam of white. When he had my attention he rose to standing, very slowly. I felt music prick my ears, felt it in my soul.
Then he sang, a deep bass, smooth and silky. It was a song from my play, one I had written myself, usually performed by Louis and I in a haunting duet.
"The ship, it swayed, heave-ho, heave-ho
On a dark and stormy blue."
Knowing instinctively what he wanted, I joined my voice with his, feeling his very presence pulling at me. I was not yet sure who he was, but I thought I knew.
Together, my voice high and sweeping, his low and rumbling, we sang.
"And I held tight to the captain's might
As he pulled up his trews.
'You haven't slept,' heave-ho, he said,
'In many suns and moons.'
He started towards me, up the center aisle, his hands moving gently with the music. But I still could not see his face.
"'Oh, I will sleep when we reach shore,
And pray we get there soon.'"
And then he came into the dim light, and I saw his broad shoulders, his long black coat, his ebony hair. He looked exactly the same as he had three years ago, but with the clarity that comes with age I realized for the first time that he probably had some West Asian blood in him. He was not dark skinned - the complexion was practically pallid. But those exotic, lidded eyes, the fullness of his mouth, the curve of his nose - all subtly suggested Persian heritage.
He was beautiful, but also unreal to me in that moment. Those high cheekbones, the expressive mouth and eyebrows... that white, porcelain mask… Was I looking at a man at all? I'd never known one who, with only his voice and his eyes, could make me feel like this. My entire being buzzed with a feeling I'd only ever felt in his presence.
Again, our voices soared together.
"He said, 'Now, hush, love,
'Here's your gown.
'There's the bed, lanterns down.'
He swept onto the stage, and I turned to face him as we sang. He kept a wide berth, pacing around me like a stalking cat. His eyes were focused directly on me, intense, unwilling to break away.
"But I don't want to go to sleep.
In all my dreams, I drown."
As we went into verse, Mr. Y approached me slowly, step by step, his hand outstretched, simultaneously conducting my voice and reaching for me.
"The captain howled, heave-ho, heave-ho,
And tied me up with sheets."
He swept behind me, his hands hovering an inch above my shoulders. His fingertips ghosted against my neck and goosebumps raced up my arms.
'A storm is brewing in the south...'
The next words were growled into my ear by Monsieur alone. I felt his hot breath stir the hair by my ears.
"'It's time you go to sleep.'"
Shakily, I joined him with my voice again. I felt every melancholy, longing note, the sexual nature of the lyrics making me flushed and warm.
"His berth, it rocked, heave-ho, heave-ho,
The ocean gnashed and moaned.
'Like Jonah, we'll be swallowed whole,
And spat back teeth and bones.'"
Mr. Y stepped away then, leaving me desperate for more of his warmth. I turned towards him and met his intense gaze, wondering what all of this meant. It felt like more than simply a maestro conducting a pupil - and besides, it was so unprecedented. The way he looked at me, with fire in his eyes… The way his voice broke with yearning…
We sang:
"He said, 'Now, hush love,
'Here's your gown.
'There's the bed, lanterns down.'
But I don't want to go to sleep…"
He stopped singing to let me finish the chorus myself.
"In all my dreams I drown."
Taking a step closer to him, I broke into my own solo at the bridge. I reached for him and he watched me sing:
"Captain, captain!
I will do your chores,
I will warm your cot at night,
And mop your cabin floors.
Scold me, hold me.
I'll be yours to keep.
The only thing I beg of you -
Don't make me go to sleep."
For the first time, I saw a closed-mouth smile grace his full, pale lips. He narrowed his eyes at me and once more our voices entwined as his hand came up to beckon.
"The sky, it flashed, heave-ho, heave-ho."
I rushed to him.
"His pillow dulled the brink."
I clasped his hand with both of mine, and he looked down to where our skin touched, confusion and sadness stealing over his features. He did not sing the next line with me, apparently startled:
"The curtains ran between my legs
As we began to sink."
But then he pulled his hands away, meeting my eyes as though trying to unravel a great mystery in them. He reached for my face as once again we sang together.
"I closed my eyes, heave-ho, heave-ho,
As the ship was rent and felled.
Eddies in the water headed to the mouth of hell."
His thumb skimmed my lower lip for the briefest of instants, his dark black eyes flicking to my mouth. I heard yearning in his voice when next we sang, and I echoed it with yearning of my own. I yearned with all of me.
"He said, 'Now, hush love,
Here's your gown.
There's the bed, lanterns down.'"
And then he began to back away, towards the curtains and the shadows, leaving my skin burning where he'd come so close to touching it. I watched him go sadly, as we sang the last few haunting notes of the song together.
"I'm begging you, please wake me up.
In all my dreams, I..."
The music died away, and for a long moment we stared at each other, Monsieur and I. I longed to ask him if he'd felt that - if he'd heard it and sensed it and loved it like I did. We had been magic for a few short verses, and the energy between us was real, by god! Was he proud of me? Did this mean he liked what he had seen?
But his eyes were unfathomable. He did not say another word.
After a long, silent moment, he turned and swept through the curtain. I watched his coattails disappear after him as he veritably melted into the shadows. There was never a more empty silence.
And then, his voice came again, soft and sweet and breaking. It soared through the rafters somehow, though I'd just watched him go backstage (he was a talented ventriloquist).
"Brava," he sang, "brava, bravissima…"
I shivered as goosebumps swept over my entire body, taking a long moment to stand in silence and listen for anything else. But nothing came.
For the first time in what seemed like eternity, I took a breath.
Hope you liked it! I gotta apologize for the rather cheesy use/change of lyrics from POTO up there ("No doubt you'll do your best" etc). Not sure I like it, but I left it in anyway. What did you think?