Chapter Four The Performer
Chapter Four
The Performer
My mother was right: I was hideous.
The reflection that peered back at me was less than deserving of existing within such an ornate mirror.
Delicate lacings, custom hand stitching, and fine silk clung to my body, but I did not feel as if it fit. Some days I thought my proportions were too long, too stalky and thin.
She was right about another thing—the bruises were unsightly.
I pulled on a long silken robe to cover myself, as if there were anyone else in the room to judge me other than myself.
Despite my less-than-glowing review of my appearance, I tried my best to be presentable. I let my hair down, still curled from its styling the previous night.
Last night . . .
Suddenly my situation settled on me like a new roof on an old brick house.
Arkady hadn’t even stepped foot into my room.
A stab of cynicism pierced my gut and squeezed my fluttering heart. It wasn’t much of a surprise that he hadn’t joined me, more so that there was not even a shallow attempt to engage further. Which, admittedly, is to the credit of my drunken temper.
When you are young, they make it seem like marriage is something to look forward to. The dress out of a princess story modeled after a long line of gowns worn by royalty. The feast as an excuse to splurge, a milestone to be celebrated with traditions kept alive in time.
I knew it would be exciting in some sense, but I couldn’t have imagined this. Marriage seemed so much more magical when I was young. Now, it is a convenient piece of paper.
With an exasperated huff, I left my room and peered into the hallway.
Empty.
Every step down the stairs creaked in a different pitch.
There was a haze left by the afternoon light penetrating the living room. The tea table was cluttered with books stacked dowdily upon each other, and the love seat was unkempt from a guest using it to slumber. The candle on the table was burnt to the end of its wick, cool wax pooled in the holder.
Placed upon the table was a business card, writing scrawled across it.
My contact number, call for emergencies only, the “only” underlined several times. Printed on the card was a phone number and the address of a studio. There was no business or studio name aside from his own. Arkady Kamenev. Artisan.
His penmanship was terrible, chicken scratch at best. The business card was handmade, as indicated by the basic typeset and a small smudge on his name.
Aside from the measly card, there were no signs of the stray I’d married.
“Look at that one, I don’t think I’ve seen a green that bright before.” Lorelei gestured slightly to a woman passing us.
“I thought greens were outdated?”
“I think people say that because they are secretly jealous that they can’t afford it. It’s even more expensive since the shade was discontinued.” She lowered her voice as if sharing some daring secret.
The two of us sat for a leisurely amount of time on the same bench we always frequented at the park. Most days we watched the promenade and took the time to soak in whatever fresh air we could before we spent our days in the musty theater for rehearsal.
“You weren’t at the audition yesterday.” Lorelei stared doe-eyed at me, endless brown eyes reflecting my pale image. “Your absence threw me enough where I think it was my worst audition yet!”
“I was married,” I mumbled.
“Married?” Her mouth hung open in disbelief before smiling wide. “I see, you are joking, that’s what you’re doing. You’ve always been so funny!”
“No, I am sincere.” I sloped my head to the side to peer at her, holding up my left hand.
The ring was my mother’s, refit for a bloodred cabochon-cut ruby just for the occasion.
Even when the correct size, the prongs cut between my fingers if placed unfavorably, rejecting the fit.
But that part didn’t matter. As long as it’s impressive looking, it doesn’t matter how it feels, I’m sure my mother thought.
“Mon Dieu,” Lorelei muttered, grasping my hand and holding it close as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “To whom?”
“One of my father’s artisans.”
“I missed your wedding!” she exclaimed, dropping my hand as her thoughts registered.
“It was uneventful.”
“What is he like? What does he look like? How much older is he?”
“I am older than him, by three years.”
“He is twenty-one?” Lorelei looked horrified. “I don’t understand the pairing.”
“Ah yes, I’m withering away at twenty-four.” I rolled my eyes. “An unorthodox match for an unorthodox family.”
“No! I mean, I half expected someone much older,” she explained. “Well . . . that should be good for you, no?”
I lifted a shoulder before it slumped again.
“Is he handsome?” Lorelei grinned.
“Very.”
“What is his name?”
“Arkady.”
Lorelei raised a brow. “And his specialty?”
I plastered a smile across my face. “He works with clay and stone, sculptures mostly,” I commented through a taut jaw.
“Lucky for you, I suppose. Well, with all they say about those types . . .”
“What is it they say, pray tell?” I rolled my eyes again.
“How do you not know?”
“I loathe gossip, you know this. I haven’t read a tabloid in years.”
“Painfully boring.”
“Guilty.”
“Well, that is why you have me to keep you in the know.” She glanced over her shoulder before leaning in. “Who else would be able to tell you that sculpting certainly isn’t the only thing his hands will be good for—”
“Enough.” I pushed her shoulder away.
“What? Am I bringing back wedding-night memories?” she teased.
My face became hot; if I steeped any longer, I would steam.
“Cher seigneur.” She grasped my knee. “Did you not?”
I shook my head, focusing only straight in front of me, counting the people who passed.
Shame was the only discernible feeling deep within my chest. It was such a silly thing to be bothered over. It was no one’s business other than my own, yet it felt like an objective judgment of my worth. Maybe it was my own insecurities, conveniently read aloud in my head in the voice of my mother.
“Enough about me, how are your endeavors?”
A grin crept across Lorelei’s face, further defining her lush cheeks. “I have set my sights on someone new.”
I had always been jealous of Lorelei’s energy. She was young, sprite-like. I couldn’t imagine having that lively energy at all times. I supposed that was a given since she was barely nineteen, hardly a woman.
“Oh?” I turned to her in my seat. “Someone mentioned previously or brand-new altogether?”
“The new ballet master.” She shrugged her shoulders in excitement as she clasped her hands.
“I thought you were not going to pursue patrons.”
“I pondered on it, but I am young, and it would be a shame to go to waste. Besides, he isn’t just any patron. I’ll never be in the corps de ballet again, I will be a star.”
“Lorelei,” I warned, “I told you what happens when you go too deep. You won’t be able to get out.”
“There’s too much interest to ignore!”
“Ignore it anyway!”
“When did you become so stuffy?” she grumbled. “You got to have your fun. Maybe you are jealous that I get to have mine?”
My mouth opened to speak, but none of the words I wanted to use would be kind, so I shut it again.
“That’s what I thought.” She crossed her arms.
That is when I spotted a familiar figure.
In my line of sight, just over Lorelei’s shoulder, was a man. A tall and lanky silhouette that resembled his profession entirely.
The coroner stood at the entrance of the park, framed by the iron gates, just waiting.
I supposed the news of my marriage would make its rounds, but I didn’t think my patrons would hear so soon. I assumed they would at least know when I wasn’t in the next show. I thought I had more time to come up with an explanation.
“I have to get going.” I checked my timepiece. Our debates would have to wait for another day.
Lorelei refused to look at me and remained seated.
My shoulders slouched as I dwelled on saying anything more, but I decided against it, departing silently.
I worried for that girl, more than she would care to hear. I remember being foolish once, though I cannot help but wonder why she would choose a life like that. I certainly didn’t. It was clear that, even when leaving it all behind, the shadows of my past were not done with me yet.
I don’t know why I went. Whether it was morbid curiosity or escaping the stalking of someone worse, I did not know. But I was here now, surrounded by the smell of low-settling smog and fish.
Arkady’s studio was by the shipyard, where soot slept and sunshine went to drown.
The building was an imposing brick warehouse with a circular window poised below the gable.
A narrow smokestack stood erect at the back of the building, erosion stains discoloring the brick on one side.
I half expected bodies to wash up beside me on the dock with how bleak the scenery appeared.
I had to push into the sliding door twice, throwing more weight each time, before the rusted metal finally unstuck.
It opened up to statues crowded along the edges of the walls, some with sheets over them and others bare.
The second circular window at the back of the warehouse was enough to light the floor.
In the middle of the room was one unfinished statue, and Arkady devoting such focus that he did not hear me come in.
The smell of petrichor tickled my nose upon entry. Did it give him performance anxiety, having an army of stone people watching? I could imagine why he’d become such a shut-in. At least the statues couldn’t heckle.
Even as he swung the mallet into his chisel, it seemed so effortless, so fluid.
Every ripple of his forearm as he tapped along the form, little chips of stone clattering into the floor.
The particles shimmered as it puffed into the air.
His normally tanned arms now covered in white smears of old clay and dust.
“Is this where you work?” I spoke out. “Quite the audience.”