Thursday: Down to the Pub

London was caught in a blistering heat wave. Or so the locals said. I, on the other hand, had spent a couple of summers in Phoenix, Arizona; where you really could fry an egg on the sidewalk. It wasn't so much the heat as the humidity, which hovered around 100%, like a thick wool blanket drenched in hot water. The dark and cavernous spaces of the Opera House afforded some protection against the heat, but there were still a greater number of people than usual lounging about in the back alley.

Alex had tracked down a tobacco shop and was now having fun rolling his own cigarettes. We had come to the understanding that we would quit just as soon as we got back home. Virgil seemed happy that we had stopped stealing his. For some reason he was the only member of the stage crew that didn't try and avoid us. I think I shocked them. And I think Alex annoyed them. He tended to do that while in philosophy-mode.

Today's lecture was on Plato's Republic, specifically the allegory of the cave. I'd heard it a million times already, so I eavesdropped on the conversation of a group of scene shifters. I didn't know anyone's name, so I had mentally assigned them names based on physical appearance.

"If it goes on at this rate, they'll have to close the Opera." Said the youngest one, now dubbed Junior.

"Shows what you know boy." Blond said. "The Opera always goes on. The roof could fall in on the orchestra and the singers would keep on singing."

"That's bloody stupid." Junior said.

"Course it is. 'The show must go on' and all that nonsense." Scruffy Beard said. "Why, I remember when they played Aida back in '78. The lead bass had a heart attack in the middle of the second act. He finished out the act and keeled over in the wings. The conductor had to go out and ask if there was a doctor in the house. Then he asked if there was anyone who could sing bass in the house." There was a brief silence as his audience digested this information.

"Was there?" Junior asked. "A bass in the audience, I mean."

"Yep. A visiting music professor I think. He finished the third act to a standing ovation."

"What about the bass?" I had to ask. Scruffy Beard looked at me, surprised, not that I had spoken, but at the question itself. "Did he live?"

"Yeah, I think so." He said. Clearly that wasn't the important bit.

"Anyway," Blond said. "If we give in now and delay the première, those bastards in the Other Theatre will have won." There was a murmur of agreement.

"Did Mr. Loman sponsor a new opera company?" I asked. "Seems pretty daft seeing as how there was already one established."

"Ach now. There's a question." This came from the oldest man on the stage crew, who I thought of as Eldest. I had seen him around several times, usually supervising the work of younger men with a cigarette stuck behind his ear.

"Bad blood between Mr. Loman and Baron LaValle." He said with quiet Scottish deliberation. "I hear tell there was a woman involved. They both loved her, but she would have nothing ta do with either of them, and each blamed the other. She married another man, but Mr. Loman and the Baron have hated each other ever since. They oppose each other in everything. The quarrel has existed so long that it needs no reason anymore." Eldest replaced the cigarette in his mouth firmly.

"Huh. Women." Junior said.

"Pfft. Men." I replied in the same tones. Junior blushed and the other men chuckled at his discomfort.

A sudden change came over the group, like ripples in the wake of a ship. The men straightened up and attempted to discreetly hide their flasks and cigarettes. I looked around and saw Brook standing nervously on the threshold, surveying the cigarette-strewn alleyway. I quickly crushed out mine and stood up. Brook caught sight of me and looked enormously relived that she wasn't going to have to venture out into the alley.

"Mrs. Jhavari is here." She said, as I followed her inside.

"The saris are ready?" I asked, sounding like a sophomore at the mall and not caring.

"The saris are ready."

I am what you might call a tomboy. Always have been. When I was eight my mom forced me into ballet lessons. She lasted a month before finally caving into my whining and letting me take drum lesson instead. To me ballet was the epitome of wussy girlyness. I didn't want to look graceful or charming or wear little pink dresses with frills on them. I wanted to go skateboarding with the boys next door and come home covered in dirt with a scraped knee.

This was a point of eternal dispute between me and Mom, who was always buying me fancy clothes that I refused to wear as a matter of principle. Only recently, under the influence of my best friend Lei, had I begun to discover the positive side of the fancy dress and sparkly jewelry.

I had wanted a sari ever since I saw a pair of women in London strolling down the street in their saris. It was one of the few times I had ever regretted being a perennially broke college student. When it came down to the choice between a sari and eating for the next month or two, the decision was difficult but inevitable.

Mrs. Jhavari was waiting for us in the dressing room shared by the Corps de Ballet. It was currently empty with all the ballerinas onstage.

A sari is basically a brief blouse, petticoat and about six yards of silk. It looks simple, but like many things that look simple, it's incredibly complicated. One wrong fold and the whole thing can come undone. The skirt is can be folded hundreds of different ways depending on social status, region and what you're going to be doing.

I tried on the purple one first. The blouse was purple, with silver embroidery along the hem of the sleeves. The skirt was the same indigo color, with embroidery along both edges. It took the help of both Mrs. Jhavari and Brook to wrap me in the skirt properly. The skirt fabric was passed around my waist a few times, and the edges tucked into the hem of the petticoat. The rest of the fabric was draped across my front from hip to shoulder. I was going to have to pin the folds together until I got the hang of moving in the sari.

"There. Go. Look." Mrs. Jhavari shooed me in front of the mirror.

"Wow." Brook said.

"Yeah." I twisted around, trying to judge how it looked from the back. Pretty damn good, actually. Despite my blond hair and white skin I looked like I had just descended from the back of an elephant. All I needed was a bindi (those little forehead dots) to complete the picture. Mrs. Jhavari looked terribly pleased with herself.

"You must wear jewelry too." She said. "What is a tree without her blossoms?" The three of us ransacked the costume room for brass and glass ornaments. One of the trunks left over from a production of Aida proved to be a proverbial goldmine. At a sufficient distance and with the right lighting, brass could become gold, and rhinestones were diamonds.

"You look beautiful." Brook said, with a touch of envy.

"Yeah." I said, a bit dazed. I'd never worn so much jewelry in my life. I had a necklace, bangles, earrings, an ornamented hair comb and even a set of ankle bells. Then practicality took hold.

"I won't be able to wear the bangles or the anklets." I said, removing them. "They'll just get in the way of my playing."

I tried on the other sari, and Mrs. Jhavari and Brook gleefully sorted through the jewelry to find pieces that would match it. It was a shimmering scarlet, with gold embroidery along the hems. They were having a lot of fun using me as a giant dress-up doll. Mrs. Jhavari wrapped this one differently, so that instead of the end of the skirt draped across my front, the fabric hung over my shoulder from back to front, covering my back but leaving my stomach uncovered.

It was really rather modest, Alex's later sniggering about 'Bollywood item number' notwithstanding. The choli covered most of my stomach, and the drape of the sari covered the rest. It was more the suggestion of immodesty and the exotic outlandishness of a white girl in Indian clothes. I estimated only about 30% chance of riots.

It was decided that I should braid my hair back, instead of the more traditional bun. Over the past few months my hair had been dyed from its natural light brown to black, blond, black again, black with acid green streaks and back to blond again. Needless to say, it was a little fried and didn't take kindly to attempts to tame it. It had gotten better recently, but still resisted all attempts to tie it up.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Jhavari."

"No thanks necessary my child. It is good to find one who appreciates the beauty of the sari."

"I can't wait to see how the others will react. Probably shocked to see real curves." I said, forgetting to editorialize my comments for the time period. Brook giggled, but Mrs. Jhavari roared with laughter.

"Good!" She said something in Hindi. It sounded like a quote of something. "You will show these English sahibs what it means to be a woman."

I grinned, thinking what Alex would have to say about that. I took a final look at the scarlet and gold splendor in the mirror.

"I'll wear this one down to lunch."

I think I blew some Victorian minds. I certainly turned heads. The ballerinas and some of the younger singers stared in open envy, while the older singers stuck their noses in the air and pretended to ignore me. At least the older female singers did. The males stared in shock, some of them literally slack-jawed like in those old school cartoons. Alex, who had seen pictures of my prom dress, grinned at the commotion I was causing. If the reaction of the staff was any indication, my operatic début would certainly cause a ruckus.

Afternoon rehearsals went smoothly for once. The cast and crew adjusted quickly to my new wardrobe, although I caught a few glances in my direction. This was, after all, the Theatre. Radical fashions and behavior were the norm rather than the exception.

We quit work for the day and I went looking for Alex. We had agreed to meet up and do some more exploring of the Opera House. Most of the sabotage had been uncovered in the morning, so Alex had an idea about this saboteur hiding somewhere in the Opera House and doing his dirty work during the night. Last time I saw him he was moving backdrops in and out of storage, so I wandered backstage.

I moved carefully, watching where I stepped. I had stopped wearing shoes because the ones I'd borrowed from Brook were on the small side and the flip-flops I was wearing on arrival kept catching on the hems of the sari. I hardly ever left the Opera, so shoes were really more of an option anyway. But backstage I had to watch out for stray nails and splinters and other nasty surprises. That's why I noticed the foot sticking out from a pile of drop cloths.

A horrible chill ran down my spine. I looked around quickly; there was no one in sight. I reached down and tugged to the boot. It was attached to a foot. The foot was (thankfully) attached to a man, who was buried under the drop cloths. I pulled the heavy canvas off him and checked for a pulse. I breathed a sigh of relief when I found it, slow but steady. He looked vaguely familiar, but all the stagehands did.

"Uh. Help?" I said. I was reluctant to leave an injured man alone, but if I just stood there and screamed, it was unlikely anyone would hear me. I debated this for a moment, but my problem was solved when I heard footsteps of several people making their way across the stage.

"Help!" I called, louder this time. The footsteps paused, then ran backstage. They belonged to three members of the stage crew, one of whom happened to be Virgil. They took one look at the injured man and gasped.

"They've gotten to the boss!" I looked closer at the man and realized that he was the stage manager. A runner was again dispatched to the doctor and a crowd began to gather as the news spread through the ranks of the Opera.

"Did you see what happened?" Virgil asked. I shook my head.

"I was looking for Alex and I tripped over him."

"You're sure?"

"You didn't see anyone enter or leave?"

"No." I frowned. This sounded suspiciously like an interrogation. "It's quitting time. Everyone is wandering all over the place."

"Hmm." Virgil said. He glanced at Mr. Barnes, the stage manager, who was just beginning to come around, then at the ceiling, then back at me. "The saboteur strikes again." He said, mainly to himself and wandered off. I watched him go, terribly confused.

"Hey Solei!" I turned to see Sam waving at me. The doctor was ordering everyone out and two of the stagehands were loading their boss onto a stretcher.

"We're headed over to the Bow and Staff for a pint. Care to join us?" I wavered for a moment. Alex would be wondering where I'd gone to and alcohol usually went straight to my head, but on the other hand, between the assaults, the time travel and opening night looming on the horizon, my nerves were nearing their breaking point.

"I'd love to. Just let me grab my shoes."

The Bow and Staff was a block away from the Opera House, tucked between a café and a bookstore. It was one of those establishments with a very good reputation in the right circles, so that it's only advertising was a modest wooden sign hung above the door. In this case, the select clientele was the cast and crew of the Opera, as witnessed by the sign. The curlicue letters wove about a fiddler's bow and a G-Staff.

Pints were ordered all around, though I made mine a half. Sam insisted on paying, and I let him, mainly because I'd just spent several paychecks on the sari I was currently wearing, but also because I didn't have any money that would be considered legal tender in this time period.

Most of the orchestra was there tonight, along with a few odd members of the chorus and the stage crew. The main topic of conversation was the attack on the stage manager and general grumblings that this time, the Other Theatre had gone too far. As a central figure in the latest assault I found myself reciting the story of my discovery several times and my glass refilled itself a couple of times without my noticing.

At closing time I was leaned up against the bar, discussing the perils of being a female musician in a male world with the harpist, the lone other female in the orchestra. I had gathered that girls in the orchestra were one of many things that were Not Done around here, which seemed strange, since once you including the ballerinas the male to female ratio of the cast of the Opera was about even. But it seemed that the rules had been quietly rewritten so as not to apply to us.

"Cause the thing is… the thing is…" She was trying to say. I was pretty sure her name was Maria, but I'd just been introduced to her that night and the alcohol was starting to dissolve my short-term memory.

"The thing is men are …condescending." Maria managed. "Like you're a child playing at being a real musician."

"And they always think they're better than you." I said, mainly to the bar. "As if musical talent was contained solely within the Y chromosome."

"What?" Maria asked. That sentence contained a lot of syllables, and by the time I got to the end of it, I'd forgotten the first part.

"Men are jerks."

"Yeah."

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.