Post by Liessel on Nov 27, 2019 15:15:23 GMT -5
Charlotte:
"Still too tight."
Adaline Hewlitt tried another breath. She heard her understudy's suppressed sigh and then heard--and felt--the fierce jerk the girl gave the corset to get some slack to work with.
The name of the understudy was Victoria Pemmel, and all around Adaline Hewlitt and Victoria Pemmel sopranos, altos, tenors and basses were running scales and diction exercises as they readied themselves. Backstage at the Tybalt Theater smelled of electrical shorts and gas lamps, the mildew that a leak in the roof had caused in a heap of storage in one corner, greasepaint, powder, perfume and perfume and perfume, starring tenor Osric Steinham's cigar, starring tenor Osric Steinham's liquor, and starring tenor Osric Steinham's gross flatulence that felt like the invisible spider web that you walked face-first into no matter what path you took or how careful you were to wave your hands before you first.
Director Harold Smith-Johnson had three fears on opening night. Fear number one was that starring tenor Osric Steinham might fart on stage. Fear number two was that starring tenor Osric Steinham might fart on stage and it might result in an explosion of the footlights. Fear number three was that the light opera, penned by the famous Julius Saint-Marieau, would garner snorts of derision from the jaded London crowd.
It was Julius Saint-Marieau who had insisted on Osric Steinham for the lead, or Harold Smith-Johnson and Tybalt theater owner, Andrew Lord, would have canned the overstuffed fright of a man the first week.
When they felt more generous toward him, they feared he was dying of Plague.
Backstage, and down below, you could not hear the audience arriving. But you could feel it. Adaline Hewlitt and all the others, from the starring tenor to the lowliest of the cleaning crew, would have sworn it was a psychic gift that only those of the stage possessed. The sense of all those eyes, come to see you. All those ears, come to hear you. All those hearts, come to love you.
It was unmistakable.
And true.
The theater, with its great bank of velvet seats, and its high bonnet of box seats above, was half-full now. Ladies chatted and filtered into their rows, helped by gentlemen they liked and sometimes gentlemen they did not like. Grandmothers, foreigners, lords, wealthy patrons from everywhere, saw these moments as a social event every bit as potent as that which would come after any performance, when they would wax eloquent about their passions, or call down thunder--with glee--on any mistakes they'd noticed.
Bobbi:
In good order the show had gotten underway. The house lamps were dimmed, leaving only the footlights and stage lights to illuminate the theater. Quiet had fallen on the crowd, broken by the occasional murmur from one mouth to another's ear, while some heads bobbed in silent appreciation and others jeered to their companions with glancing disapproval of this or that. It was only past the second act of the play, the house lights had been brought up and a short intermission had been settled on the audience. While patrons fled their seats to stretch and catch up on light chatter beyond the curtain, the world on the otherwise of the heavy velvet fabric was changing just so. No crack of thunder preceded it, and it came with no dimming of lights. There was a small shift to the air mid-stage, however. It was a light little shimmer, as if the air had suddenly become water and was rippling in small breaking waves. They thinned and stretched quickly, thinned and stretched and rolled back inward. Once, and then twice. Anyone with sensitive lungs may have perceived it as a lightening of air, a tax on the breath. After the second roll inward, a hand pushed through the watery-looking ripples and was soon followed by an arm and a shoulder, a neck and head, and then the rest of a body. It was an utterly feminine form with rounded shoulders, and unmistakable curves. The new comer to the Tybalt's stage was catching her breath as the waves ceased around her. Her skin was pale as fresh cream, but flushed with a hint of redness to her cheeks. She was not a thin person by any standards which was to say she was not sickly in appearance or build. Draped across her form was a dress-like robe made of a gauzy lightweight material. Her hair was fine and golden colored, shimmering with the stage lights like lit filament when she turned her head to take in her surroundings. Across her forehead laid the mark of her station, a thin blue line of a tattoo that ended with a teardrop, running as it did down the middle of her forehead to end just above the space between her eyebrows. The teardrop was at the center, and beneath it cupping, but not touching, was a halfmoon of a dark red color.
Charlotte:
The newcomer would find herself in Egypt.
Well, a largely two-dimensional Egypt, complete with (currently stilled) rippling waves of the River Nile in the form of alternating painted cutouts of wood.
Dressed as she was, she could easily have been mistaken for a member of the cast--or, more likely, a fellow thespian or singer come to greet her colleagues.
Except for the fact that Adaline Hewlitt, who had been re-lining her eyes with thick black paint, had seen her appear.
Yes, the singer had witnessed, from the wings, the very air birth the blond-haired woman into the world.
So Adaline Hewlitt lowered her brush.
Then Adaline Hewlitt screamed the highest, most piercing and long-lasting note of alarm ever screamed in the history of the Tybalt Theater.
Bobbi:
How curious of a world it had seemed at first. The fake water, and dimension lacking buildings. The non-realness of it was suddenly shattered, and so were her eardrums, by the shrill sound of a harpy letting loose her death-song. The newcomer's hands were swift to cover her ears, the woman looking toward where the sound was coming from and then around for a quick escape. "Aye! Hush! You'll wake the dead with noise like that!" The words may not have reached Adaline Hewlitt, as the woman in the blue robes hadn't spoken them loudly, nor were they in English. Her second reaction was to move toward the screaming woman while reaching into a pouch that hung from a two inch wide belt around her waist. Something that looked like a little red round candy was pulled out. Without her hands over her ears the sound was so much more shrill. She popped it into her mouth as she got closer to the screaming woman, this all in a matter of seconds. Her aim was to get close enough to Adaline in order to clamp a hand over the lead saprano's mouth with a hissed "SHHHHHHH!!!" To follow closely behind.
Charlotte:
And all of that worked, because (as Adaline Hewlitt was certain that she was being charged by a demon or a Puritan or something) as the stranger got right up to her, Adaline Hewlitt decided it was time to faint dead away.
Which redrew the picture thus:
The blue-robed woman rushed up to silence Adaline Hewlitt, and Adaline Hewlitt was indeed silenced, and as the woman's hand clamped across her mouth her knees buckled and she dropped like a sandbag.
... revealing, of course, her much shorter understudy behind her, who may or may not have been immune to the prior moment's screeching, and who made no move to catch Adaline Hewlitt. Victoria Pemmel, not a day older than twenty, stared with wide eyes at the suddenly arrived woman, her mouth hanging open and...
... beginning to smile?
Difficult to say, as everyone from the surrounding ten counties was rushing in to investigate the commotion. Militiamen, constables, ladies-in-waiting to the late Queen, Egyptian Pharaohs (long dead), crocodile gods, evil heathen priests, slave girls, and good solid redcoats all came. They shared a singular expression: a half-scrunched, half-terrified sort of expression. An expression as if they were dolls whose faces had been sewn all wrong, a key thread snagging and puckering all one side of them.
Thus was the power of the star soprano.
"What the Devil's going on!" demanded a deep-voiced dead Pharaoh with skin all gold his beard wrapped tightly in linen. A peculiar smell came with him.
Bobbi:
The quickness with which Adaline dropped was some concern, as was the woman that Liessel now found herself looking at. The odd quirk of a smile that came to Victoria Pemmel's face was the cause for the scrunch that came to Liessel's own. The look lasted for just a moment. There was not much time after that for the expression to hold. Adaline's body was dropped as soon as the woman had withered, the release more from the suddenness of the fainting than from lack of caring from Liessel. It had been as if Adaline was made of tissue, and Liessel had been a strong breeze. A good gust, and the tissue was shredded. Or in Adaline's position, blown into unconsciousness. And soon to follow was a flood of faces. None of which she recognized. The words were not known to her, but the tone was. The man with the death-painted face, the Pharaoh with the funny smell, must have been in charge. Liessel had turned, her only recourse just then, to face the man, "I must leave," she stated in her unfamiliar tongue, "You must let me go."
Charlotte:
"Ah!" Victoria Pemmel burst into action. She spun to Liessel's side and clutched for her arm as if they were the best of friends. Timely, this move, whether Liessel tolerated it or not, as men were knifing in to kneel to inspect and assist Adaline Hewlitt.
"This is my dear friend! She is Russian, you see, they--"
The dead Pharaoh instantly addressed Liessel in Russian. "What's this commotion?" he demanded.
Bobbi:
Victoria's cling to her side was not shrugged off. She didn't know what was being said, but reading the sentiment of what was being said told Leissel that the understudy was trying to help. More words she didn't know, spoken more insistently and directly toward her, Liessel said "I -must- go. You -must- let me."
Charlotte:
A further bustling came from behind the gathered actors and singers, and the group parted. Julius Saint-Marieau came through, dabbing madly at his sweaty forehead with a folded handkerchief. "What is this?" he demanded. His accent? French. "Everyone heard that! Everyone! Harold is up there trying to convince everyone it is to build tension for the third act!"
Then, as if he were a character in one of his own plays, Julius Saint-Marieau noticed the heart of the problem and jolted like he'd cut the wrong wire. "Ah! Madame Hewlitt! God hates me! Hates me! WHERE IS MISS PEMMEL! MISS PEMMEL, I SAY!" Several of those gathered indicated the young woman standing less than a yard from him. "Oh, Miss Pemmel! You must go on in her place!"
"She may need a doctor!" someone protested.
"Absurd! Miss Pemmel looks fit as I!"
"... Madame Hewlitt...."
Julius Saint-Marieau seemed irritated by the distraction. "Yes, yes. Send away, send away, but let Miss Pemmel through! She must dress! Where's the wig?" He looked down and bowed to sweep the styled mass of piled black curls from the very unconscious Adaline Hewlitt's head, leaving the woman's pasted-down hair and pins visible. Julius pushed the wig into the hands of Victoria Pemmel, and began to push her, in turn, through the crowd.
For some reason, Victoria Pemmel--delighted beyond delight--saw fit to push Liessel ahead of her.
Bobbi:
It was a strange affair, to be sure. What kind of world had she brought herself into? Watching, biting back on a feeling of horror, Liessel saw Julius sweep the hair right from Adaline's head and push it into the hands of Victoria Pemmel. Confusion did not belong to the cast alone. A moment was all she had to look down at Adaline's head with hair all pinned and slicked down. Such a strange strange world! And it was getting even more odd by the moment! A push came from Victoria, and Liessel moved with it. These did not seem like violent folk, given their strange ways, but they were all on edge. And if movement got her closer to not being there then move she would!
Charlotte:
Victoria Pemmel put on some speed and got ahead enough of Julius Saint-Marieau that he was satisfied she understood the import of her role in the future of the Tybalt Theater. He surrendered her to her course and spun back to try to minimize the loss of cast that might occur should any of his singers and gentleman players think they should continue to aid Madame Hewlitt.
That meant that, within a few yards, Victoria Pemmel and Liessel would find themselves in the utterly deserted backstage recess, with every hand and actor knotted around the erstwhile leading lady.
"At last!" Victoria breathed, laughing a little, giddy and thrilled, patting Liessel's shoulder like a dear friend as she whisked them along. "I thought we might be done for!"
Bobbi:
Backward glances were cast until Liessel was sure that no one had followed behind them. The robed woman waited to try tugging Victoria to a stop in the abandoned recesses of the backstage area of the theater. "Thank the blessed." She breathed in her native tongue. It was a mixture of several languages as a whole but flowed like French when spoken, "Miss Pemmel," came from the woman easy enough, Liessel having picked up the name from Julius, "I must leave," 'leave' was a word that, in its spoken form sounded something a lot like the word 'exit'.
Charlotte:
Victoria slowed, but did not stop, her arm hooked through Liessel's in a familiar, companionable fashion. She squinted hard at the words flowing from the strange woman. She felt she should understand them, there was a rhythm that fooled her ear, but comprehension did not come. Language barrier or not, though, Liessel's distress was clear. Victoria patted her arm, leading her toward the dressing room of Adaline Hewlitt.
"Never fear, never fear! I know what to do, my dear! --Oh! This is too exciting!" She pulled the curtain back. The room revealed was not much larger than a closet, but it featured a mirror at a tiny table, a pink velvet-cushioned chair, a rack of costumes, and Madame Hewlitt's personal things. It was more privacy than anyone else (save Osric Steinham) received.
"Come in! Hurry!" Victoria released Liessel to man the curtain, urging her inside, ready to yank it closed behind them once Liessel was within.
Bobbi:
Victoria, Liessel guessed, was not too much younger than she was. The younger woman's excitement seemed to bubble through her entire being. Still, Victoria seemed confident enough in tone to not shake Liessel's resolve to trust the actress. Ahead was a curtain, and with arms linked that curtain drew closer. What was revealed beyond it was a room full of plush looking chair, an array of personal items and more clothing that Liessel was sure she could count! It was not a big room, the smallness of it doing little to take away Liessel's astonishment. So much had been crammed into the little closet-like space. The clothing alone....bidden to enter, Liessel did, stepping past Victoria and heading for the rack of costumes. She disturbed nothing, and took everything in. "Such beautiful things." The remark was made, Liessel looking toward Victoria. That Victoria wouldn't understand her was not lost. She was hoping what her words didn't convey, her tone would, "Beautiful like Sol and Luna."
Charlotte:
Victoria Pemmel was not highly educated, but she was a singer, and in theater, and Liessel had at last said two things she recognized! The curtain shot closed in her wake, billowing heavily, as she joined Liessel near the costumes. "Sun and Moon! Oh, yes! --Here."
She reached in among the ornate gowns, bejeweled with sequins and false gems to better shine from the stage, and pulled out a gauzy, layered gown of soft pink. It was soft pink to strike a feminine contrast against the bold set of the Nile that would be used next. To a discerning eye, it was clearly the design of a person who had heard about Egypt, but never actually been there.
Rather than offering Liessel the dress as some sort of disguise, Victoria Pemmel heaped it into her arms and began to quickly undress herself. "No one will believe me! Oh, the girls will be so jealous! --Could you?" She'd turned her back to Liessel after stepping out of her skirt and gestured back over her shoulder toward the lacing of her corset.
Bobbi:
Liessel heard, but was not listening until Victoria had put her back toward Liessel and gestured toward her lacing. Liessel, pink dress heaped in her arms, had been looking toward the curtain and listening for any warning sounds of approach. That quickly changed, though. The flutter of Victoria's movement drew Liessel's attention. It took her several moments to catch on to what was before her, but when it happened Liessel was draping the dress over the rack, "I really must go," she said for what felt like the ten thousandth time, even so she reached for the lacing of the corset. Her fingers plucked against the lines that criss-crossed and pulled the binding garment shut tight but nothing moved. "How do I do this?" Was a question asked more in frustration than anything else. To wear something like this and not be in pain! Victoria had to be a woman of magic!
Charlotte:
Victoria leaned forward, bracing, waiting for the-- "Hurry! Just tighten it! Everyone will be watching me!" Over her shoulder, she waved an urgent hand.
Shuffling outside--someone moving past their curtains--would prove the trickle at the start of the thunderstorm, as within moments the bustling sounds of backstage were restored, muffled only slightly in the dressing closet. Hushed "shouts" could be heard, as the set yet needed to be shifted for Act III. The Tybalt Theater was alive again. No telling what had become of Adaline Hewlitt out there, but there was no time! The electric feel was back; intermission was stretching thin, and some of the audience already returned to find their seats once more.
Bobbi:
It was not the voice of Victoria, or her words that pushed Liessel into deciding movement. It was the scuttle of movement, the sounds of those hushed and quick shouts. Her fingers were not smooth, but rather hesitant and very much less than graceful and practiced in her work. Pulled, tugged, and grunted softly while gathering the lacing and forcing the garment tighter. Or maybe it was looser. She hadn't any idea of what to do, beyond tugging at those thick strings that kept the corset taunt around Victoria's form. Quick eyes moved to the curtain every few seconds, and the thought that someone might burst through cause her clumsy fingers to work faster.
Charlotte:
Victoria was so tolerant of the mighty tugging and adjusting (however clumsy) that it might have seemed as if she were immune to being crushed. Instead, she was merely used to it, and the excitement of taking Madame Hewlitt's place dangled before her a goal that fixated her on imagining how she must look and behave.
And there was one more small detail that made this part easy: Victoria, like Adaline, was a singer. The corset she wore had extra lateral (and strange, to a normal lady's eye) boning that kept the tightening of the back laces from tightening everything equally. The singer had to be able to draw from her diaphragm. At the same time, the singer had to be the most slim-waisted, desirable heroine imaginable. Necessity is the mother of invention.
At last-- "There!" Victoria said suddenly, her head coming up. "That feels right! Tie it off!" More hurried gesturing.
And if Liessel understood that, and her knots were adequate, she'd find Victoria pulling down the pink costume and sliding it over her head. Liessel would be expected to fasten the dress, too, and if she were successful on that front...
... she would be treated to the pleasure of watching Victoria lean to the mirror and apply make-up. Bold black around her eyes, with curiously long horizontal lines stemming from the corners of her eyes. Black over her eyebrows, extending horizontally past her brow as well. Overdone rouge over the pale powder and paint she'd already been wearing, and finally her lips, turned rose-red. In those few moments, she'd transformed into a younger, thinner version of Adaline Hewlitt.
Lastly: the wig. Her hair was already pulled up tight (just in case), but now she hastily pinned and pasted it back, and tugged on the wig, turning this way and that to make sure it was just right in the mirror.
In the full perspective of time, Victoria Pemmel looked monstrous.
Through the lens of her time, she looked like a fetching woman successfully going undercover in Egypt, as the opera’s plot required.
With a call from the far side of the curtain, and at last satisfied, Victoria turned to grasp Liessel by the shoulders. "You must wait here for me!" she said. "You'll be safe in here, but I must perform!"
Bobbi:
Intent and working through fumbling fingers, Liessel's brow had broken out into light sweat as she struggled with the bindings. Her tugging and pulling stopped with Victoria's exclamation. The hurried hand gestures from the actress were curious, but they cut Liessel's work short and after a few attempts a knot that was as equally clumsy as her work on the lacing had been was tied. It was tight and holding, but nothing at all like something that would be tied by someone used to corsets. The fastenings of the dress were far more easily dealt with, Liessel's fingers working there with far more surety. But then, while Victoria moved to finish preparing, Liessel stepped swiftly toward the curtain, lifting the edge back just enough to catch a peek at the backstage beyond. When Victoria was done and stepping toward her, the woman from time turned and found herself looking at someone who had turned into the approximation of a queen. Taken by her shoulders, Liessel found herself once again trying to understand the language the younger woman was speaking. Instead of listening she turned to watching Victoria's painted face, listening to the woman's tone. Her response was a nod, though she may have looked ready to ask a question. Things were clear enough for Liessel to know that Victoria Pemmel was about to disappear beyond the curtain.
Charlotte:
Misreading the querying look, Victoria smiled at Liessel and pivoted to gesture toward the pink-cushioned chair, hand outstretched. Offering it. The hand still on Liessel's arm tugged her encouragingly toward it. "Stay here!" Victoria said. "Enjoy the music from here! I'll be back for you as soon as I can!"
And whether Liessel had acquiesced to budge even an inch, Victoria would lean in and give her a swift kiss on the cheek before rushing to tear her way through the curtain and (unless Liessel remained glued to her) close it fully again behind her.
Bobbi:
The chair. Sit. The confusion disappeared and was replaced by consternation. Sit? No. Liessel shook her head, "-I must leave-." The time traveler insisted, those last words should have been recognized by now. Victoria had heard it from her several times since their meeting. But there was no one there to speak to. Victoria had kissed her cheek and disappeared beyond the curtain. Left alone, Liessel stood looking around the small dressing room for a moment before stepping swiftly to the rack of costumes. Flipping through them, she began looking for any garment that might cover her and hide her face.
Charlotte:
She'd find plenty of candidates. Though mostly modern in silhouette, the costumes tended to be confections of wrappings and veils and long trains. Adaline Hewlitt and Victoria Pemmel shared a general size, even with the understudy several inches shorter than the lead, and every dress would work for both of them.
Beyond the curtain, the bustle quieted. Down in the orchestral pit at the foot of the stage, the mismatched sound of the musicians warming up settled into silence. After a few minutes, the violins sang softly to life in unison. The woodwinds joined in, and the deeper strings with them. The clarinet played the melancholy, shamelessly Arabesque melody of the opening of the third Act.
Bobbi:
None would fit her particularly well, the custom size and stitching being the problem more so than anything else about the garments. One was pulled from the rack. Made from layers of black soft and flowing fabric it seemed to be made for a fit that was not too close cut. It looked almost like a blanket with shoulders and formless wrappings that could be pulled up and over her head. Sliding it off the hangar, Liessel was quickly slipping it around her shoulders. The third act was starting. Hopefully the backstage would be quiet and clear enough for her to slip by. Before exiting the small dressing room, Liessel pulled the extra folds of fabric up and over her head to hide her hair, and she hoped most of her features from view.
Charlotte:
Yet, when Liessel finally opened the curtain, she would discover the backstage area busier and fuller than ever. With only dim lights, people scurried around, back and forth before the dressing room, whispering across to each other. Singers waited in the wing visible from the atmosphere, and it was true that as Victoria Pemmel's voice soared into being above the orchestra, and a moment later Osric Steinham's tenor provided a fierce counterpoint in thespianic argument, many eyes were on the stage. The light coming from there was blue, simulating night.
The hands, however, were everywhere, organizing props and passing instructions along to those whose positions had shifted slightly thanks to the mayhem that had lost them Adaline Hewlitt.
Bobbi:
What to do? Liessel fell short in her steps at the renewed energy of life backstage. To go, or to stay? Gathering the folds of lightweight cloth around her, pulling the mess closed to cover her blue robes, she set out in search of her exit. Her direction was away from the simulated night of the stage in hopes that there would be another way to get out that didn't involve her heading toward the wings and audience that lay beyond. She carried herself with her head down just a bit, hoping that the dim light could cast enough shadow where the folds of fabric failed, and she moved carefully with her sandaled feet, doing her best to avoid stagehands and their eye contact along the way.
Charlotte:
There was no way to avoid stagehands. In places, the squeeze between stacks of crates, lines, sandbags, was clogged by milling actors waiting for their cues or whispering to one another in the aftermath of their time onstage. Working in Liessel's favor was the general hurry of those buzzing about. Working against her was the close confines... and the fact that the people of the Tybalt Theater had been working closely with one another, sometimes for years, and knew who was meant to be where, and which costumes belonged to whom and when they must be worn.
At first, all she got was a glance or two. Soon enough, however: hard stares. She had not gotten far, in the atmosphere created by the soaring music and powerful soprano of the very young Victoria Pemmel, before someone she was passing reached out to grip her by the arm. If she looked, she would find a feminine face every bit as painted and unrecognizable as Victoria's had become. The puzzled look might have been difficult to discern under all of that, in the dim.
Bobbi:
Her idea of being careful was squashed into a tiny shred of itself in the close confines. Where she could be cautious she was, and where she couldn't Liessel kept her head down and avoided the stares coming her way. And it worked for the most part and all up until a hand caught around her arm. Ripping her arm away, Liessel didn't look up to see who it had been. Her determination was to push onward and find her escape.
Charlotte:
Questioning looks met the woman who'd snagged Liessel's arm, and to explain--even as Liessel was yanking her arm free--she hastily hissed: "That's not Madame Hewlitt!"
There was no reason to point out that Victoria Pemmel was onstage right then. Her solo was echoing from every damp corner.
One of the men the woman had been conversing with got in Liessel's way, stepped right in front of her, alert and squinting for a recognizable face. Someone else murmured, "Someone's stealing the funeral costume?"
Bobbi:
By witness of the blessed, if she only knew that language they were speaking. Some of what she'd been hearing sounded -almost- familiar, but understanding was still a ghost. Tone, however, wasn't. Accusation was met with a man stepping in front of her which caused her to duck her head down further, looking for more shadows to hide her face. No words were given from Liessel. They wouldn't have been understood anyway. Her hands, she reached out with them with every intention of shoving the man out of her path.
Charlotte:
Even cloaked, Liessel's fierce reaction created an equal and opposite fierce reaction. Not only was she attempting to shove a strapping young actor out of her way, but there wasn't much out of her way to be had. His big hands snapped to to grab her by her wrists as others closed in behind him and at the back of the woman who'd first tried to stop her.
Bobbi:
"'Ey, let me go!" Large hands closed around her wrists, causing Liessel to attempt to twist her hands and arms for freedom from that grasp, "I've done nothing wrong! I just need to leave!" A crowd was drawing in, pushing closer to the man who now held her, Liessel, and the woman who had tried to get a hand on her. Those behind the man might have caught a glimpse of her face as she struggled.
Charlotte:
The crowd closed in, all hard to see in the shadows and blue light, many made ghastly by facepaint and unsubtle stage make-up. There were Shhhs from all sorts of places around them. The singers knew the cues: Victoria's solo had just been joined by the entire orchestra, which meant that there wasn't much time.
Against the man's muscular grip, Liessel's twisting didn't do much but make him redouble the strength of his grip. "Stop!" he was hissing at her. "You'll only hurt yourself!"
On tiptoes behind what was now two ranks of curious onlookers, one of the girls from the harem chorus caught sight of Liessel's face and whispered, "That's the lady Miss Pemmel said was her Russian friend!"
"But she's gone mad or something!" someone else observed in dismay.
Yet someone else noted, "Doesn't sound like any Russian I've ever heard."
"Get that doctor in here," another, lower voice could be heard, trying to whisper over heads to the far side of the knot.
Bobbi:
The more she moved, the tighter he held on. That was becoming evident. So, what if she did the opposite? As the idea dawned on her, in the echo of the actor's words, Liessel gave one last weak tug to try and free herself. Words, words and more words, all spoken from people she didn't know or understand. "I have to leave," she told the young man, her tone desperate and imploring, "Please, let me go."
Charlotte:
"I don't know what she's saying." The young man did not let go, but he looked around, straightening from the focused hunch he'd used unconsciously in an attempt to keep this chaos contained and quiet backstage. "Does anyone speak Russian?"
Besides Osric Steinham, who was currently striding across the stage with his soldiers in the moment when they apprehended Victoria.
Bobbi:
A tsk of frustration came from her, and another attempt to free her hands but with more purpose this time than to simply fight him. "Something to write with, yes?" If her hands were freed, she'd make motions of drawing in the air, as if she were trying to scribe something invisible. If her hands weren't freed, she'd try again.
Charlotte:
The man did not let go, did not understand, but one of the hands behind the woman who'd first noticed her sneaking out in the costume caught some edge of that, some aspect, subconsciously in the words or in even deeper intuition, and said, "I think she wants to write."
"She was taking the costume!" someone else hissed.
"And acting crazy--but the doctor left with Madame Hewlitt."
Discussion ensued. But in that chaos, some paper and a dull-tipped, much-chewed old square-cut pencil were passed in, and in the confusion the man who held Liessel by the wrists felt obliged to reach for them and offer them to Liessel.
Where would she go anyway? Half the company surrounded her now.
Bobbi:
Suddenly her hands were free, but only because the man that had held her captive was letting go and offering her a pencil and paper. It was crude, and she held the implement as if it were her first time doing so. The square structure of the pencil was something new between her finger tips. With the discussion going on around her in the odd language they were speaking, Liessel looked about for something solid to write on. When nothing really stood out to her as a quick answer to the need she dropped to the floor at her feet in a flutter of light weight cloth, the hood she had created from the folds of gauze material floating back off of her head, and began scribbling. It did not take very long, and was over in just a few moments. What she was presenting to the young man who had held on to her was a hand drawn picture. It was made of a few simple elements. There was Liessel, a stick figure drawn with a teardrop on her forehead cradled by a halfmoon, standing to one side of a rectangle with an arrow pointing toward the space between the lines of that shape, and on the other side of the rectangle was a sun and a few crudely drawn trees. As she handed it over she said again, "I -must- leave." In her own odd language. With a point toward the side of the page where the sun had been placed.
Charlotte:
The picture was met with puzzlement. The lighting backstage was fairly nonexistent, reflected from the mainstage, or from a few small, well-shielded lamps here and there. First came the squinting.
I must leave, in Liessel's language, had been heard several times now, and did not bite deeper this newest time than it had before.
"That's the sun," someone said helpfully.
"Well, obviously," a woman sighed, rolling her eyes.
"And trees," pointed out someone else.
"My girl creates better trees than that...."
The marking on the stick figure was puzzling until someone leaned in to get a very, possibly uncomfortably, close look at Liessel.
Discussion about her markings spun off in new and exciting directions, leading to some talk of a Hindu woman one of the singers had once seen, who sported a red dot at her brow. No, he could not recall any crescent--and wasn't that a sign of the Muslims?--but neither could he say for certain that there had not been one. Lines he did not remember at all, but he had seen that one of her hands was decorated with a tracery of red-brown designs, and he had been told that she was soon to be married.
And so on.
"WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?" asked the man who'd stopped Liessel, holding up the picture for her as if she needed to see it. If it was possible for one to be very hushed while enunciating as if diction were life or death, this man achieved it.
Bobbi:
While the discussion waged around her, Liessel was deaf to it. The conversation was just noise. To the picture she pointed several times, each time more exasperated than the last until the young man held it up and asked his question. The blessed were, apparently, not willing to help her out in this little moment. She'd have to take matters into her own hands. It was something she should have been expecting. It did not make living it any easier. Huffing, Liessel reached out to grab the young man's right hand while moving to step around him. "Come," she tried to sound patient as she gave him a light tug to his hand, "I'll show you." What other way could she get them to understand? It was obvious that the drawing had not had the effect she had intended.
Charlotte:
The procession of guardsmen, the Pharaoh, and the wretched, betrayed fair heroine, was coming slowly from the stage into the wings as the lights dimmed. The orchestra played the slow, doomed march, getting deeper and deeper, losing layers of the music until at last all that filled the house was a low timpani, sounding like a fading heartbeat.
As a result of this, and of finding hands not where they should be, some whispering ensued. Victoria Pemmel pulled off her wig and pushed swiftly toward [i[her[/i] dressing room for her costume change, and Osric Steinham and the other men scattered the same. They did so in a wave of gossip. That Victoria's good Russian friend was acting in a peculiar fashion and was at the heart of the disorganization backstage.
Among those gathered around Liessel, the change in the music and the blackout reminded them very suddenly that they had tasks to perform! The crowd thinned prodigiously very quickly, though it was such a claustrophobic place that the thinning came first with a crush as people tried to push past one another to get to their places.
The man, therefore, Liessel was trying to guide, got pushed. Not by a lone, desperate costume-thief, this time, but by three singers who discovered that they were on the exact opposite side of the stage than they should be.
Bobbi:
Things changed, again. People were moving quickly. They were leaving. As the man got pushed, and Liessel did her best to not trip or be tripped on, she motioned with a hand toward the singers who were heading to their proper place backstage, "Leaving," she said, letting the syllables fall as carefully as she could with the swiftness she spoken in, "Leaving. Just like I must." There was a pointing gesture made toward herself, then to the crush of the stage hands and actors that were heading to their positions, and again she said "Leaving."
Charlotte:
A connection was made. Somehow transformed into the point-man regarding the strange woman in the stolen costume, the singer had to think fast, as he had his own place to take in the opposite wing. "Leaving," he echoed, trying to copy her word. He did so with a frown and a quick glance over Liessel's head and beyond her. "Yes, but--madame--Osric!"
Relief filled the man as he spotted Osric coming toward them from behind Liessel's back.
"Osric, sir--this woman has been trying desperately to communicate! You speak Russian? You did before...."
Osric Steinham left a silent cloud of stench along the way, but did not seem to have noticed. He was busily dabbing at some black eye make-up that had trickled in the heat of the stage. "Her again? Where's Pemmel? Pemmel! Deal with this! --Excuse me." With that, he'd be pushing past Liessel and the younger singer, and Victoria would be staring ahead in the gloom in surprise.
Bobbi:
It was rough, his attempt, but good enough that she began nodding and smiling while repeating the word back to him. That was short lived as he frowned and looked toward someone over her head. The young man was released as Liessel turned to see who he spoke to. It happened to be the smelly Pharoah from earlier. He looked no less a fright than he had when she had first seen him, and he was no less surrounded by stink either. Futility clung to her heart as Osric pushed past both the young man and her. She turned, waving toward Osric's back and saying the word again.
Charlotte:
From the pit came the low warning strands of the next piece, the intro for the final act. It came with a deep rumble, a promise of a storm coming. The music filled the Tybalt Theater, both to bring the audience along with the tense mood and to cover the sounds of the set being changed and players taking up new positions. The opera's comic tone was to return--but late, a twist that was meant to leave the audience stunned at first when they realized--
Victoria Pemmel suddenly materialized at Liessel's side, peeling back the dark gauzy fabric of her own funerary costume in puzzlement. She gave her own tsk now--a touch condescending, like a nanny to a disobedient but much loved child--and cocked her head at Liessel. "I told you to stay put! I need this gown, now--come along!"
Bobbi:
A quick turn had her grabbing for the picture she had drawn for the young man and the crowd, if he hadn't wandered away with it. Victoria had suddenly shown up, and perhaps with the young singer there was the chance for understanding. Ignored was Ms Pemmel's chiding tone. Liessel was pointing toward the picture, that singular word repeated before she pointed to herself, and then the rectangle, and then the crudely drawn sunny scape toward the other edge of the page.
Charlotte:
It would make no difference now, of course, to Liessel, but Victoria's chiding tone was some acting for the benefit of her fellow singers at the Tybalt Theater, not for Liessel. Victoria balked when the picture was first pushed between them, and looked naturally to Liessel, and Liessel's gesturing, and whatever she understood, or thought she understood, the result was: "Yes! Yes, I know, but for now...." She reached out to try to intertwine her arm with Liessel as she had after Adaline Hewlitt's fainting spell. Dropping her voice, she continued: "... you must wait! Come! Back!"
She attempted to turn, to gesture, hoping that the dressing room would be realized as the obvious destination. "You must wait there! And--my dear!--I do need that train you're wearing...."
Bobbi:
The intertwining of arms lasted for about as long as it took for Liessel to unsnake herself from Victoria. The paper was held, crumpled in the grasp of fingers which had pulled shut tightly around it. One look went the direction of where Victoria had gestured leaving Liessel to shake her head sharply. "I must leave. I cannot be here." The paper was shoved Victoria's way again, "If I stay Septimius will find me."
Charlotte:
The name Septimius stood out--though Victoria's mind automatically wanted to make it Septimus--and she shot Liessel a puzzled frown. She did not try to re-entangle Liessel, but instead kept a hand snared in the dark fabric of the costume she needed. She leaned toward Liessel to whisper in a hurry: "Listen! I know you're from Faerie! I don't know what became of you, but I know people who can help!" She said all of this knowing that the words were likely wasted, just as Liessel must by that time realize the same. That they continued to try regardless was a testament to shared humanity rather than any foolishness. "But I can't leave yet! So you must wait! It's dangerous outside for a stranger alone!"
Bobbi:
Strength of the blessed. She called on that right then with Victoria leaning in and whispering hurriedly to her. The words seemed sharp to her ears, but not unkind. More like insistent, cut with understanding. If she were fighting this and she was not meant to -- if the strength of the blessed was being given through this girl with the heavy face paint -- if this was true then it was no wonder she was not making headway. It was no wonder the blessed were not coming to her aid! They did not hear her because they were already answering! It was Liessel, herself, who did not hear. She was sure of it. The blessed did not abandon! Two fingers from her left hand rose to touch the teardrop on her forehead lightly before she nodded to Victoria.
Charlotte:
Victoria watched the motion, and for a moment didn't move. It was not so alien, just that she perhaps had not before stopped to examine so closely Liessel's mark.
The nod, though, was enough.
It changed everything.
Gesturing this time rather than tugging at Liessel, Victoria used the same nearly self-contradictory shooing/beckoning gesture over and over again until (if Liessel did follow) she and the woman were in the cramped dressing closet once more.
As before, this was not destined to result in any great revelations. Victoria threw Liessel a hurried smile and began once more to change clothes. She needed that dark fabric, but first leaned toward the mirror to touch up with ginger swipes of the fingernail of her middle finger.
Bobbi:
Liessel did follow this time, her sandals covering the distance to the little dressing closet quickly. She waited within, though went no further this time than the other side of the curtain. She had stopped to watch Victoria curiously as the singer touched up her stage-face.
Charlotte:
This time when Victoria straightened up, it was with a little hop of excitement, and she only asked for minor help from Liessel (through gestures) to get out of her costume and into the other. Her sweat and the makeup and paint lent a subtle stink to the small confines of the place, but that was not much different than the rest of the smell of backstage during a show like this.
And it was only when she turned to whip the curtain aside to get out there and run some quick throat exercises before her cue that she was overcome--her--her finale!--and couldn't help but to seize the first person she saw (Liessel, of course) by the shoulders and give a great kiss to her cheek in silent celebration.
Bobbi:
Help was given where it was needed, Liessel doing her best with the work to make it quick. In the end, she wasn't sure just how useful she had been but since Victoria seemed pleased there was no need to worry about it. Nor was there a reason to follow after Victoria after the younger woman's excitement took over. To the great kiss on her cheek, Liessel smiled. She only understood half of where she was right then, and only with some similarities seen to compare with what she knew from the land she had been born to life in. Reaching up, she touched Victoria's forehead between her eyes and said "Shine with the blessed." Before urging Victoria toward the world beyond the dressing curtain.
Charlotte:
Liessel would hear the end of the debut starring performance of Victoria Pemmel, soprano, understudy to the stricken Adaline Hewlitt. She would hear the powerful voices of Victoria and the flatulent (but thankfully not audibly so) Osric Steinham soaring finally together in duet, vibrating throughout the house and setting every body a-hum.
Then she would hear the crash of Armageddon.
Thunderous applause came through the Tybalt Theater like a tidal wave, washing up backstage.
The applause was carried on laughter and shouts for encores and bows. The light opera, dipping threateningly into what could have been tragedy, surprised apparently everyone in the audience to reclaim the joyous sense of comedy that they'd bought tickets for. In their immense relief, their jaded sense of expectation had surrendered. They'd loved it.
Then would come the quick, but much more relaxed bustle backstage as everyone dashed back to undress, and dress, and offer toasts, and light cigars, and prepare to head out into the chilly, wet night to be wined and dined by adoring patrons, for romance, for celebration, for delight that they were not dockworkers, lady's maids, and simple folk.
Bobbi:
It was over. The rush of applause washed in, and then out and was replaced by the noise of a backstage that had come into a different kind of life. Hurried feet, rushed words and quick bodies. Liessel found herself at the curtain in that moment, once more peeking out at the innards of the Tybalt theater. This time she was looking for Victoria with all intention of waiting for the soprano.
Char: The singers and crew no longer whispered or felt their way along in the dark. The full lights were lit backstage now, and the place was aflutter with conversation. How well they'd done, who'd missed a note, missed the mark, who'd ad-libbed beautifully, who'd received fresh roses--in October!--which salons the troupe had received invitations for (these were rolling in). There were wealthy guests touring backstage, now, hosted by Julius Saint-Marieau, or Harold Smith-Johnson, or by other well-thought-of patrons of the theater.
The singers and hands bowed and curtsied to these people as if they were royalty. They cleaved to every compliment. Some was vanity, to be sure, but here, too, were potential ways for them to boost their living, to ensure themselves, in a business and art form where opportunities for either were scarce.
A successful opening of a new opera--rare! Especially in London! If one failed to catch that wind and soar, one would likely be scraping together half a living forever.
Bound by that, and swept up no less than the others (and perhaps a great deal more!) was Victoria Pemmel. As the understudy who'd proved herself, she was at the center of the tightest, most flattering knot in the entire house.
Breathless, on the receiving end of no fewer than five ardent proposals of marriage, multiple invitations to sing at the One World Gala at the personal pavilions of London notables, and countless comparisons to great sopranos of the Victorian era, Victoria's immediate return to Liessel was doomed.
The young woman was carried along on the tide, bounced and introduced and danced from one excited group of long-gloved women and long-coated men to the next, and before she knew it she was out the door and into the night, with three different suitors battling to be the one whose umbrella protected her the most from the wind and rain.
Outside was a mess of carriages and new automobiles, a noisy extension of the chaos that was even then flowing away from the theater.
The Tybalt Theater could never have competed with a true opera house. It was far too small and far too poor, but the word of mouth generated this night might well see its fortunes rise.