Saturday: The After Party

Solei

The intermission came with a collective sigh of relief on the part of the cast. More than half the orchestra schlepped off to the pub during the break, but I turned down the invitation to come with them. Instead I bummed a cigarette to calm my shaking nerves and then went to track down Alex.

As I turned down the hallway leading to the practice rooms I heard yells and a loud crash. Jenkins stumbled out of a doorway, careened off the opposite wall and accelerated in my direction. His hands were still in the handcuffs and at some point he'd been gagged, but he still showed the same boneheaded determination to escape

I doubt he noticed me as anything other than an obstacle to dodge until he tripped over my foot and went sprawling across the floor. Alex and Watson were only a few steps behind. The two guys dragged the dazed Jenkins back into the practice room. I glanced around; no one had even noticed.

"Where's Mr. Holmes?" I asked.

"Apparently there was some kind of miscommunication with the real cops." Alex said as he and Watson deposited Jenkins in a corner of the practice room. Watson took up his post at the door to prevent any more breaks for freedom.

"The guys who were supposed to be in the audience weren't there, or were in the wrong spot or something like that. Mr. Holmes seems well irate about it, though." Alex said. He took a fifty pence piece from his pocket and began flipping it into the air and catching it with the other, something which turned into a sort of Chinese water torture device after awhile. It was hypnotizing to watch as well. Jenkins the Stagehand/Saboteur's eyes were locked on the coin as it followed an elliptical orbit from hand to air and back again.

"Are you quite all right? Watson asked me.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You are sure you are not injured?" He seemed to be having difficultly reconciling me with the usual examples of womanhood he encountered.

"More bruises in the morning, probably." I shrugged and dropped another piece of information that would no doubt baffle the good doctor. "I've gotten worse playing soccer."

"Football," Alex corrected automatically.

"Whatever," I watched Watson's reaction out of the corner of my eye with interest. First was shock, passing slowly through disbelief before finally settling on careful politeness. Holmes burst in at that moment, trailing two uniformed police officers, providing welcome distraction.

"Bureaucracy, Watson," he said angrily. "The source of all foul-ups. Never trust the bureaucratic establishment to accomplish anything properly."

I glanced over at Alex, who had once said something very similar, but less printable. Alex just continued to bounce the pence piece off the floor.

"It seems we must wait until the crowds have left before the Black Maria will arrive to escort our prisoner. The manager, Mr. Squires, wishes to avoid all traces of a scandal." He sounded rather disgusted by the turn of affairs. I agreed with him; the British fondness for "keeping up appearances" could be incredibly counter-productive.

I was about to say something to that effect when I realized I could hear the sounds of the orchestra getting ready for the second half.

"I think I hear my piano calling me," I said. "I think the three of you can manage this."

"We shall try to get by without you," Alex said, without looking up.

The second half went more smoothly that the first. After nothing inauspicious occurred in the first half, the cast began to relax and concentrate on the music. My nerves relaxed as the threat of falling spotlights and ballistic sandbags vanished. Unfortunately, it was soon replaced by a completely different sort of nerves: the fear of nearly completing a difficult composition and blowing it on the last eight measures.

The last notes faded into the ovation of a sold-out crowd. The singers and ballerinas came out for their final bows, which seemed to go on forever. I tried to ease the muscles in my shaking arms. It was always like that after a performance. All the anxiety from before the show came rushing back as euphoria, but with the same effect as before, which was to reduce me to a quivering wreck.

The lights suddenly swung down to focus on the pit and the orchestra rose for their bow. The sudden glare of the lamps blinded me, but I managed to stand without falling over. I clasped my hands in front of me and bowed in the general direction of the house. It might have been my imagination, but there was a considerable upswing in applause as I did so.

I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed until my muscles stopped shaking, but any hope of sleep seemed like a distant prospect. The instant I stepped off into the wings I was accosted by Brook and Mr. Squires and dragged off to a VIP party going on in the foyer of the Opera House.

It was all a blur of silk hats and diamond necklaces. Brook and I seemed to be the main attraction for these opera-going elite. Names and titles came fast and furious while I nodded and smiled and pretended to be having a great time. I greeted some of them with the lone phrase of Hindi that I had picked up from Lispin, a girl in my chemistry section. It was a rather salacious greeting, but I knew none of them would know the difference. I doubted even the Army Colonel who had served in India would know what it meant, but I kept to the unoffending "Namaste" when greeting him, just to be safe.

It took a while for me to notice that the Opera contingent of the party was almost entirely female, while the VIPs were mostly male. More than one young Lord was chatting up a ballerina or actress and I suddenly remember that Theatre women occupied a rather grey area of Victorian social structure, somewhere between genteel and courtesan.

Brook was much better at deflecting amorous advance than I was. She simply smiled in her naive way and you couldn't help but treat her like a younger sister. I had to be rather firm with a couple of them.

The hardest bit was keeping a straight face while saying, "No, I haven't heard of this Kama Sutra of which you speak. Is it a song?"

Some paper or other had sent a camera, a huge black box which stood in magnificent isolation in one corner of the room. Brook and I, along with members of the ballet corps were herded in front of the camera for a photo, and I learned why people in old photos always look like they're at a funeral. Early cameras required a long exposure to actually fix the image onto the film, during which time you couldn't move without causing a blur on the finished image. You try smiling for about a minute without moving.

The photographer bossed the girls about in the timeless way of photographers everywhere, arranging us by height. More than one girl was battling a giggle fit before the picture was finished, and the grown men standing behind the photographer and making faces like thirteen year-olds weren't helping at all.

"Brook," I said after the photo. "I am going to my room and I am going to sleep till noon tomorrow. Perhaps one."

"You're sure you won't meet Sir Charles Barlow? He's been eyeing you all night." She said with a giggle.

"Definitely sure. Sir Charles Barlow will have to learn to make his move quicker." I left the after party with a sigh of relief. Normally the parties which evolved at the end of a gig were a blast, but these people were a lot different than my usual crowd.

I exited through the deserted house and headed straight for the backstage door. The alley itself was empty, but for the large police wagon parked at the far end. They had pulled up to the back of the Opera House instead of the front, so as not to cause a scene, but police vehicles tend to create a scene wherever they go.

Alex, Watson and Holmes were standing with their backs toward me, observing the commotion as Jenkins was loaded into the back of the police wagon. Jenkins had finally resigned himself to his fate, but police constables make a commotion wherever they go.

"Where were you?" Alex asked without turning around. Watson turned, startled to see that I had suddenly appeared behind them. I doubt Mr. Holmes knew I was there either, but he wasn't about to let on.

"After party. Y'know, press, pictures, the works."

"Hand out any autographs?"

"Couple. Would you like one? I think I've got a pen somewhere."

"I suppose I owe you thanks. Both of you," Holmes said, ignoring our little war of words.

"You're welcome," I said. "Happy to do it. We do it all the time, in fact," I added in a sardonic tone. Holmes considered this for a moment. I sensed a question building, but Holmes didn't ask it.

"Do keep in touch," Holmes said, and with a tiny flick of his fingers, a small rectangle of white paper appeared in his hand. Alex took it without a word.

"Come Watson. I believe we may yet be able to get a table at Simpson's." Watson tipped his hat at met and the pair of them strolled off, into the proverbial sunset. I peered over Alex's shoulder at the card. It read:

Sherlock Holmes

Consulting Detective

221B Baker Street

We looked at it for a long time before Alex spoke, quoting our friend Lei.

"'Who needs TV when your life's a soap opera?' Shall we go find that pub?"

"Yes. Let's."

Questions? Comments? Criticisms? Complaints? Review!

.•´¨•»¦«•Kerowyn•»¦«•´¨•.