Sunday: Dude, Yoda is so leet
It wasn't far to a small park with wrought-iron benches, peeling paint, and a sad patch of grass. A worn tweed jacket and brown trousers were draped over the back of the bench.
"Where the hell have you been?" I demanded, oddly comforted by Alex's James Bond routine. Alex actually glanced around to be sure no one was listening before answering.
"Around. I heard your audition. Nice work, by the way." Alex grinned.
"Too bad they don't have an open spot for bass guitar."
"Too bad."
"So," I asked hesitantly, "this is really happening?"
"I guess." It was startling how scary it was that Alexander Holmes, the all-seeing and all-knowing, was as lost as I was.
"Welcome to 1900." I said, trying to wrap my head around the idea.
"17 August, 1890. I found this kid selling newspapers." He explained. "While you were ingratiating yourself to the London opera scene, I was trying to figure out where we were. And finding these." He patted the jacket and I noticed that it was slightly damp.
"That's not very nice, stealing from clotheslines."
"It was a well-stocked clothesline." Alex replied defensively. "Anyway, what happened to the other dress I stole you?"
I had forgotten about the new dress, but I refused to be embarrassed by it. It was much more girly than my usual wardrobe, but once I got used to the sensation it was about to slip off my shoulders I rather liked it. Anyway, what do guys know?
"I've got camouflage and gainful employment. Which is more than you've got." Alex shrugged.
"I don't plan on staying long. You'd better get back to the Opera before you're missed. I'm going to see if I can find any clues in that alley we arrived in."
"What, like a giant neon sign: 'Time machine, over this way'?" I said, but Alex ignored my sarcasm.
"Here's the plan. You stay at the Opera and do your thing. If I can't figure out how we got here, we might be a while and we'll need a place to stay."
"We?"
"What, you're going to make me get a hotel room?"
I rolled my eyes and tried to look annoyed.
"I think I'm getting too old to be sneaking boys into my room."
"You, sneaking boys around? I don't believe it," Alex said.
"Do y'think…" I started. The thought seemed a bit crazy. Alex waited patiently. "I mean, it is kind of convenient that I show up at the right time to get hired. And that woman with the coin back…home. Do you think there might be a reason that we're here and if so, does it have something to do with the Opera?"
"No such thing as a coincidence?" Alex shrugged, but he looked worried.
"I'm going to re-trace our route from the pub last night and see if I can find…something. Take another smoke break around six-ish, I'll meet you outside."
We walked back to the cigarette-strewn alley behind the Opera House and parted ways. I was a little irritated at being dictated to by Alex, but I didn't have any better ideas. After all, what could we do? Declare we were from the future? That would only get us thrown in the looney bin. Try to get back to the University? They'd only laugh at us, and especially me. I suppose we could become superheroes or something, fighting to change the future for the better. But I had a feeling that if that was the Universe's plan, aYoda-like person would soon reveal himself and tell us so.
So, in lieu of anything better to do for the hour until sunset, I practiced my music. Bharata was not especially long, as operas went, but it was still a massive ream of sheet music to get through. I suppose I could look on the bright side and be glad it wasn't Götterdämmerung .
I found a baffling practice room. There were several practice rooms, all in a row, but this was the only one with a piano. The reason it was baffling was that the piano was much larger than the door. There was no possible way for it to get into the room, even turned on its side, without a significant portion of the wall being removed. The only solution I could think of was that the piano was there first, and the wall built up after it.
I pushed the problem of the impossible piano from my mind, and turned to the slightly less impossible problem of the sheet music. I was beginning to think I was in way over my head. I'd never really played piano professionally before, much less with a large Opera company. The possibilities for crashing and burning were endless.
About half way through a tricky segue on the twentieth page, I became aware that someone was listening at the door. My concentration lapsed and the measures came crashing down on me in a horrible atonal mess. I sighed and turned to greet the intruder.
"Hello."
"Oh, hello. I'm sorry I interrupted you." The woman inched around the doorway, and I saw that she was the one whose dress I was wearing. She was a bit shorter than me, but she wore heels that more than compensated for it. Her long blond hair fell artistically over her shoulders and she carried herself with a sort of authoritative grace that many actors try to acquire.
"You play very well," she added, in an obligatory sort of way. "I'm Brook Waters. Soprano."
"I'm Solei Watson. Piano." I replied, doubting very much that was the name she had been born with.
"They say you've just arrived from India." Brook offered, not very subtly fishing for information. I had been expecting this, and I'd been compiling a rough fictional biography in my head.
"My father was in the Army in India, but he died when I was very small. My mother loved the country, so she decided to stay there with my aunt and uncle, who was also in the army. She was the one who taught me how to play the piano. She also decided that I should return to my native land, for a little while at least, so I returned to England."
Brook listened politely and immediately launched into the story of her own origins. She was the daughter of a soprano and a conductor, so she had also learned her art at the feet of her mother. As she recited, I noticed that she skipped lightly over the details of her parents, focusing instead on how much she loved the Opera. By the end of it, I was pretty sure her illustrious parentage was a front for a less dramatic childhood, especially when kept mixing up upstage and downstage.
Granted, I didn't know a thing about 19th century theatre terminology, but it was a pretty safe bet that upstage and downstage were still the same. She grew more animated as the one-sided conversation grew longer and I realized that I was going to have to make my escape soon if I was going to see Alex.
"Oh, but aren't I a silly thing!" She interrupted herself. "I completely forgot why I came looking for you. Mr. Squires sent me looking for you. Your room's been set up and I think whoever they sent to the shops for some of those Indian dresses is back."
Brook led me through the house and upstairs to a rather large office that seemed to be doing double duty as prop storage. Both Mr. Loman and Mr. Squires were waiting for us, along with a tiny Indian woman in a Western dress who was introduced as Mrs. Jhavari. She set to work without a word, taking measurements and muttering to herself in Hindi. After a few minutes work, she stood back and pronounced her judgment.
"Too pale. Too scrawny." She said in precisely accented English. Mrs. Jhavari shook her head at ugly duckling she was being forced to clothe and I hid my amusement. She pulled out her fabric swatches and we decided that I might be able to pull off purple with silver embroidery, and a scarlet and gold number.
"The saris will be done in one week. The price is fifteen shillings." She told Mr. Squires, and to my surprise he didn't try and haggle. Mrs. Jhavari gathered up her fabrics and showed herself out, casting an amused glance back at me.
Mr. Squires pronounced himself delighted that I would be getting my Indian dresses back and he was sure that Brook wouldn't mind lending me some clothes until the saris were done.
"There is something else I would like to talk to you about, Miss Solei." Mr. Squires said, casting a pointed look at Brook. She reluctantly admitted that there was something elsewhere she could be doing and left.
"Now, Miss, er, Watson, is it?" he asked. I nodded. "Hmm. Better lose that. If anyone asks you don't have a last name.
He clearly wasn't expecting an argument, and under normal circumstances I would have given him one. But I had more pressing concerns at the moment than one self-centered male. Like keeping track of my own self-centered male and getting home.
"I am sure you are aware you would not normally be hired so quickly. You may not be aware that your arrival has given us a magnificent opportunity. Your origins will arouse the interest of many of our patrons who have not come to the opera in some time and give us an edge over the …Other Theatre." Squires seemed reluctant to say the name. Mr. Loman made a disgruntled noise. I noticed that he had appropriated a stage throne, encrusted with gilt and glass.
"You mean, the Theatre Royal?" I asked, purposefully pushing buttons. Loman made an extremely disgruntled noise and began pacing the room. Squires winced, but when no outburst came, he kept talking as if I hadn't said anything.
"We are playing a new opera. The title is Bharata, but the story is essentially Romeo and Juliet in India. Exotic setting, exciting drama, epic conflict between castes, and now, a pianist from India? Bellissima!" Mr. Squires looked as if he was in melodrama heaven. He went on at some length, with the essential point that I was the advertising coup of the year and I should play up the Mysterious Woman from the Wilds of India angle.
"So in addition to your wardrobe, perhaps you could be a little more open about your childhood. Learning music at the hands of an Indian mystic perhaps and the perilous journey back to your motherland, yes?"
I nodded, unable to trust myself not to laugh. It would be one huge act, with the express purpose of boosting ticket sales. Only in showbiz.
"And you had to sell all your possessions in order to pay for the passage to London. Surviving by your Talents Alone…" Squires was talking in playbills again, so I excused myself and left him to it.
Brook was waiting just outside the door, probably attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation.
"What was that about?" She asked.
"Oh, he just wanted to talk about my remuneration." I said, and saw the word go straight over her head. So much for that attempt at 19th century English.
"Room and board and a small stipend. That sort of thing. Does Mrs. Jhavari work here often?" I asked Brook, who I noticed gazing forlornly at the colorful silk swatches Mrs. Jhavari had left behind.
"Yes, she does quite a bit of our more exotic costumes. Every theatre in town goes to her. I never get to wear them, since I'm just in the chorus." Brook pretended indifference and I pretended to believe her.
"It's been an eventful day," I said, with an exaggerated yawn. "I think I'll retrieve my music and go to bed."
"Oh?" Brook sounded surprised. After all, it was only six o'clock. We returned to the practice room for my music, then headed upstairs to where the rooms of the performers were located. I tried to resist the temptation to call them dorms. Certainly they weren't much of an improvement.
It was a rather circuitous route, back through the house and backstage, then up some rickety stairs to a door which had recently been knocked through the wall.
"Mr. Loman bought the block of flats next door," Brook explained. "But most people have places out in the City. It's mostly the corps de ballet and the understudies here."
"It's probably a bit, er, smaller than you're used to." Brook said apologetically. The room was about six feet by eight feet, large enough for a dressing table, bed and wardrobe. It bore a striking resemblance to the cinderblock dorm I had spent my first semester in. I could see why most people chose to sleep elsewhere.
"It will be fine." I assured her, adding to myself, I don't plan on staying long. A light well set in the wall provided illumination, and an oil lamp sat in a small mound of dust on the table.
"Well, if you need anything, I'm just two doors that way."
"Night."
"Good night."
I waited until I heard her door shut before I hurried back down to the alley door, trying not to look like I was in a hurry. It was turning into a fine summer evening, and some of the gas lights had been lit. I was utterly unsurprised to find that Alex was not there. I debated the wisdom of lounging about in the alley when I heard something behind me.
"Hey."
"'ello, Al. How'd you get in?"
"Same way as last night. I walked." Alex said irritatedly. He hated to be called Al, which was the only reason I did it. "The security around here is terrible."
"It's not a bank," I said. Alex shrugged, as if that was no excuse. "Did you figure out how we got here?"
"No." He slid down off the stack of crates he had been sitting on. "Not a damn thing. Not even your huge neon sign. We probably shouldn't be talking about this here."
I was about to protest when I saw his point. Serious conversations about time travel might raise some questions as regards to our sanity.
"They gave me a closet cleverly disguised as a bedroom." I said. "I doubt anyone will be listening at the door."
We snuck back up the stairs; I went ahead a few paces to make sure the way was clear and Alex followed at a safe distance. But the living area appeared to be deserted. We didn't run into a single person on the stairs, and the hallway was silent. When I knocked on Brook's door to borrow matches for the oil lamp, I didn't get an answer, so I lit it at the hall light instead.
"I think we could scream as loud as we wanted," I told Alex when I returned to my room. "Everyone is out. It is Sunday, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I knicked a paper." Alex fished out a crumpled copy of the Times. The dateline still read 17 August, 1890. For some reason I kept glancing at it, as if the date might change while I wasn't looking.
"So we were just kicked back more than a hundred years, but to the precise day we left." I said incredulously. "That's a bit suspicious."
"I know. I think that might be the reason we're here now. I mean, on this day particularly. Or maybe we're just seeing patterns where none exist."
Depressing thought. He was right though. Nothing about this had made sense yet.
A familiar beeping noise filled the air. Alex reached into his pocket and flipped out his cell phone without pausing to think.
"Hello?" He said, and realized what he'd just done. He looked rather like he'd just been hit in the back of the head with a dead fish.
"Who is it?" I asked weakly.
"Nobody." He replied, just as stunned. "It was the low battery signal."
"You don't think…"
"Don't be stupid. That's impossible."
"Have you looked where we are?" Alex considered this, and dialed our friend and lead vocalist Lorelei.
"No service." He was carrying my phone also (and my keys. Women's clothes never have decent pockets.) He pulled it out and checked the reception.
"No surprise there. Worth a shot though." I shrugged. "We'd better find a good hiding place for those." Alex cast a glance around the room.
"Budge up." He said, and stuffed the two phones and two sets of keys under the mattress. "I doubt a maid will bother with this room, judging from the layers of dust."
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.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.