Sunday: New Friends and Old

The London Opera strongly reminded me of high school; the same pointless drama, the same intense competition, the same god-awful cafeteria food. Room and board were both provided backstage. Apparently the demands of an opera cast member were so intense that even leaving to sleep in one's own apartment was too much of hassle. I think the real reason had more to do with keeping the stars out of scandal than anything else. This suited me just fine, since it gave me time to catch my breath with a roof over my head.

I was sitting alone at dinner. The other tables were occupied by clearly-defined cliques which I did not yet have membership to. Normally I would have been miffed at being snubbed like that, but I was trying to think logically about my situation while fighting down a rising sense of panic.

Alex was still MIA. This was a fairly usual state of affairs; Alex had a talent for disappearing when he wanted to. But he was also physical proof that I wasn't suffering from some complex combination of hallucination and amnesia, so I rather liked having him in sight.

I had been ostensibly kidnapped by forces unknown and was now a member of the 1890-ish cast of the London Opera. There were a number of strange new thoughts associated with this idea and it was hard to think properly about this with the remnants of a hangover still knocking insistently against the inside of my head. I was so totally absorbed in my thoughts that I didn't even notice I had company until he cleared his throat.

"Ahem." I jumped and stared at him. He was a youngish man with dark hair and a dab of paint across one cheek.

"Er, hi."

"Hello. My name is Virgil Hawkins. I work on the stage crew."

"Solei Watson. I'm with the band." I never get tired of that line. Ahem, moving on. Virgil looked like a stage hand but he was built like a dancer, or a rock climber. Thin and wiry, probably with a surprising amount of strength. Rather like Alex, in fact, although in Alex's case I knew it was cross-country running.

I noticed that Virgil and I were being surreptitiously watched by more or less half the dining room and came to the conclusion that he had been deputized to figure out who this new girl was.

"So you've just arrived from India? You're going to be the talk of the season."

"So it seems." I said evenly.

"Where exactly in India?"

"Calcutta." I lied, remembering Squires little speech earlier.

"Calcutta does not have a maharaja." Virgil pointed out.

"Mr. Squires exaggerated a little." I replied, thinking furiously. It might have been a trick, designed to prove I wasn't from India. Though my mother was British, I had been raised and educated in America, which had left me with a somewhat shaky grasp of international history. It had also left me with an accent that I took pains to conceal under a proper West End dialect, because when fifteen people open the conversation with "American, eh?" it really makes you want to punch number sixteen.

"I heard you playing earlier. You are quite good." I shrugged off the compliment.

"Natural talent, I suppose. I certainly never practiced much."

"What brings you to London?" Virgil asked.

"Mom sent me back." I said, after a moment's thought. I was going to have to think up a more comprehensive alibi if everybody was going to be as inquisitive as Virgil the Stagehand. "I guess she thought London was a better environment for me, or something. Not too many opportunities for a white chick in India."

I winced as soon as I said it. I was also going to have to cut back on the slang. Virgil refrained from comment; in fact, he seemed to be thinking about something else entirely. He came to a conclusion of his own and stood to leave. "Well, if there is anything I might do for you…"

"Actually," I said, knowing full well that no one ever expects to be taken up on that offer. "I am just dying for a cigarette."

Every theatre in the world has a back door where the crew goes for their cigarette breaks, and every one of these back doors looks exactly the same. There are always a few crates piled up nearby in lieu of seating and the ground is always coated with cigarette butts, so that it looks like the aftermath of some weird snowstorm. It was comforting to know that some things never changed.

Virgil presented me with a hand-rolled cigarette and struck a match for me. Clearly some changes had been made in the tobacco industry over the intervening century. The tobacco flavor was much more intense and the smoke was charcoal black.

As I said, I'm a pre-med student. I knew full well what I was doing to my lungs, but I found it hard to care. I could quit once we got home. I had plenty of practice at that.

I took a pull and nearly choked, my lungs unaccustomed to the acrid smoke. It was rather like sticking your head in a barrel of oil and taking a deep breath.

Virgil was puffing on his own cigarette, apparently staring reflectively off into space while watching me out of the corner of his eye. I would have given a lot to know what was going through his mind. Probably something along the lines of "Crazy foreign wimmen." Then again, he was in show business. After awhile, very little seems shocking anymore.

"So," I said, after the silence had deepened a bit, "what brings you into the wonderful world of London theatre?"

"Can't sing, can't act, can't play, but I can lift heavy objects." He shrugged, amused and without regret.

"Born here?" He gave a general wave of his hand to indicate he had been born in the general vicinity.

"How long have you worked here?"

"Here? A few months. As a stage hand, five years, or thereabouts."

"What happened to the pianist who was here before?" I asked.

"He was courted away by the Opera company at the Theatre Royal . Quite a few of the people who used to work here now work for them. Ruining the cultural life of our Great city." He added, sounding as if he was quoting someone.

"I wouldn't think that this town could support two Opera companies."

"It could," Virgil said. "Just not these two companies. There is … bad blood between the management. Neither will be content while the other still exists."

"Arias at twenty paces." I chuckled. "This'll be interesting."

"We're sure to win out, with you in the orchestra that is." I looked askance at Virgil. He was staring intently at the tip of his cigarette, as if he'd said more than he meant. Holy crap. He was actually trying to flirt with me. How cute.

"Oy! Virgil! Get yer arse back in here!" One of the other workmen stuck his head out the door, caught sight of feminine ears and edited himself for content.

"Virg, we need you to help with the backdrop." Virgil stamped out his cigarette, tipped his hat at me and followed the other man inside. I puffed on my own cigarette, mildly bewildered and slightly pleased.

I heard footsteps in the alley and turned to see who it was.

"Those things will kill you, y'know." Alex said casually. Alexander Holmes, college student, bass player, professional amateur detective, one of my best friends and band mates, was leaned casually against the wall.

"Not if I get them first." I replied, determined not to be outcooled. He'd probably been waiting around the corner, waiting for a dramatic moment. Alex broke first and grinned at me.

"Good to see you again."

"Ditto. I was beginning to worry I was going nuts."

"You are nuts." Alex replied automatically. C'mon, let's go somewhere else. The walls have ears and all that."

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.