Chapter Fifteen The Performer
Chapter Fifteen
The Performer
If there was to be a show, it would be at The Brass Globe or not at all.
“Prestigious” was not quite the word, but “infamous” might be. A prime example of grit, talent, and the constant comings and goings of star protégées. It was the place to be if you knew what kind of night you were looking for.
The thing about The Globe is that it was shiny.
A shimmer that could entrance anyone at first glance.
Everything from the tall chandelier to the performers was flashy—but that’s all it was.
A bright light to attract the moths. If a hair lighter than the illusion required, you could see every scratch in the wood, every creak of the building, every flaw down to the bedbugs wedged between the seats and the men who lurked behind the curtains.
Much like the activities within, the theater had its own part to play in the performance.
The gaslights were sore on the eyes at full brightness, and the smell was too much some days, which is why they were always on a low dim by the time the guests arrived. We would have to open the skylight behind the stage to air it out, sometimes as early as the morning before the first matinee.
Seeing a theater during rehearsal was like seeing a woman with her hair down. Unrecognizable, yet her true image became clear the more time you looked. No bells, no whistles, just being.
A body or two darted through the doorframe, nearly crashing into me on my way in. In the grand ascending aisles, a costume rack and two seamstresses. In the seats, members of the company waiting to be fitted. A small group in an ocean of upholstered seats.
On the floors, the thumping of ballet shoes as dancers ruined them until completion.
Crushing, snapping, testing their handiwork as they broke the shoes on the hardwood.
Some with needles tucked between their lips, ready to sew in their ribbons.
A few had to alter the color, dyeing them to their skin tone or costume.
The wings of the stage were crowded with either sprites in tulle or creatures in suits.
The two parties shifted in the shadows; some exchanged friendly words, some became too friendly and disappeared in twos.
If you were lucky in this business, in escorting, you might find yourself as a mistress, kept or otherwise.
The goal, after all, was to leave. Not all were so rewarded in their efforts by the time they aged out, and opportunities were fleeting.
On the stage were dancers, some standing and some sitting while completing their stretches and warm-ups. Barres were placed along the back, where one familiar brunette would be.
Lorelei, with her leg up and foot pointed to the ceiling, using a well-dressed fellow’s shoulder to rest her shoe. They were speaking, although breathless. When she looked away, he touched her leg, though it wasn’t to help her stretch, I suspected.
Her face was stern, mature. She almost held herself like an adult when no one was looking and she was determined to get something. Then her eyes drifted and found me at the edge of the stage.
“Petre, darling!” she squeaked, her leg whipping off the man’s shoulder so fast, the breeze misplaced his hair. She fluttered across the hardwood, falling to her knees between two lamps lining the very edge of the stage. “You’re early, I thought you’d be here half an hour later than you are!”
“I thought it would be nice to decompress somewhere familiar before we go.” I smiled. “You’ll have to reserve me a seat for the premiere if you end up with the principal role.”
“You’ll have a seat with your name on it, I promise.” She winked. “Give me a few, I’ll be ready to leave once I redress.” She practically skipped backstage.
I watched her retreat, but I wasn’t the only one.
The man, cigarette in hand, eyes trained like a hound, was watching her move off the stage as if tempted to lunge.
His hair was slicked back, no facial hair, perhaps an attempt to look more youthful.
Though the aging of his skin placed him a little over mid-age.
His attempt at a fresh-faced mask had failed, but it was hard to ignore the quality of his suit and shoes.
Not one piece of lint, not one scuff on his shoes.
This man could afford to groom, and to be groomed.
His eyes only settled when he realized I was watching, and he took a long drag of his cigarette before slinking off the other side of the stage, the snake slipping through the grass. If she and I weren’t spending lunch together, I couldn’t imagine what they’d be up to instead.
What Lorelei didn’t know about this business was what lurked under all the success stories and glamour. There were things, men, that she wasn’t ready to handle—and her current prospect looked exactly the type.
I only prayed that she fully understood the transactional nature of the work, and not to confuse it for something like love.