Chapter 4
I’ve been to the Palatium Theatre before, and each time I step through the doors, the beauty of its architecture takes my breath away.
Today, though…today, my breath remains distinctly unstirred.
Not that the interior has changed in any way since I last visited.
The marble still glitters faintly in the light.
Arches hold the ceiling impossibly high, defying physics itself.
The scent of rich perfumes lingers over everything.
Like the humming of a train, the chatter of lavishly dressed people fills the large foyer.
It’s the embodiment of what I imagine the Palais Garnier to look like when reading its famous story—the epitome of past opulence and decadence.
I queue at the garderobe without any regard for the intricate decorations around me.
When it’s my turn to hand over my coat and hat to the attendant, I receive the stub with a curt word.
I don’t participate in the usual pleasantries or take in my surroundings.
Because with every look and every greeting, I am reminded of the past, of a life filled with wonder and awe for the beauty of things.
And even as hidden as I am forced to exist, I was at the very least still filled with sensations and feelings.
Now, my only thoughts are of Nijinsky. Will he be the thing to pull me from this strange melancholy?
The seat is as perfect as my sister promised.
The centre front row is so close to the stage that I can practically see the fine fibres on the orchestra members’ coats.
Even though the tuning of the instruments was always one of my favourite parts, now, its dissonant song leaves me cold.
So I simply wait and stare at the folds of the heavy velvet curtain while the other patrons seat themselves.
Then, the lights dim, the music swells, and we are left sitting in utter darkness.
The curtain parts, lights flicker on, and the stage opens to a muted geometric backdrop. Dancers in avant-garde costumes dart and flitter from side to side across the waxed wood. Anticipation builds. Nijinsky’s entrance is near.
Silence grips the audience. Even they know how remarkable he is. Perhaps not as I always felt, but even a simple philistine could see that he is not from this world.
Suddenly, he is there. With his arms aloft, he stands still at the centre of the stage. I’m so close, I can see him in perfect detail. Intricate makeup accentuates his features. Soft, plump lips. Tensed muscles. The costume’s colours are rich, and the fabric sways around him like falling petals.
Then, he dances.
Nijinsky’s graceful strength would stun anyone who laid eyes upon him.
I remember this feeling well, and even though I’ve only seen him perform once before, the experience has stayed with me for years.
Whenever I’ve felt downtrodden, I closed my eyes and replayed it in my mind countless times since.
Yet now, I am unmoved.
I merely sit, watch, exist.
The absence of my lifelong joys should be concerning. Perhaps I ought to scramble for the piece of me I seemingly lost. But what would I do with it once I found it again? Would it replace the strange foreboding permeating my being with the infatuation I once so abundantly possessed?
I see it so clearly. The ballet demands my attention, reminding me of acedia and apathy. But seeing is not enough. Knowing is not enough.
When the intermission begins, I politely excuse myself and leave my seat.
The moment I step into the corridor, I catch the attention of a flamboyantly dressed lady. She comes closer, face furrowed, seemingly bewildered. Without a word, she takes the stub from my hand and reads it. Before I can protest, she smiles at me brightly.
“You must be Orlando. Charmed!” the peculiar woman exclaims.
“Excuse me, madam, are we acquainted?”
“Never mind that. I’ve heard so much about you, we’re practically kin,” she says, plucking a stray fibre from my collar.
“Pardon, but…” I try to interject before she interrupts me. “Aphra. She entrusted me to attend to you.” Taking my hand, she pulls me to the back of the theatre without further explanation.
Utterly startled, I follow her through several small doors, down crooked stairs, and into a dimly lit labyrinth behind the stage.
With tightly stacked set pieces and props filling the corridors, we have to press ourselves against the walls to pass through to the other side.
At an unmarked door, she knocks twice, then steps aside.
The door swings open. A brightly lit room. The smell of flowers and powder.
Nijinsky.
Chest bare, legs wrapped in silken dove coloured tights, a pot of grease paint in one hand. He tilts his head toward me, then gazes at the mysterious woman who never introduced herself.
“This is Orlando. A great admirer of your craft,” she says with a flourish.
When his gaze falls upon me again, he smiles. A brilliant smile. His teeth look resplendent against the black paint on his full lips.
“How do you do?” he says in an eastern accent. “You are Aphra’s brother?”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr. Nijinsky,” I finally manage to say. In reflex, I offer my hand to greet him.
His fingers touch mine. Warm skin. Ungloved. A slender hand envelopes my own. Rough calluses. A firm grip.
“Please, it is just Vaslav. We are friends now, no?” He’s still smiling.
I say nothing. My fingers remain in his. Vaslav—
“You must excuse me,” he says. “The second act…”
He winks, then lets go of my hand. I let it fall until it hangs oddly heavy from my shoulders.
“Come again after the last act, we shall drink to your sister.” He slips a tunic over his head. “Lady Black, join us. We celebrate our last night in this marvellous city.”
“Splendid idea, Vaslav,” she exclaims as she drags me back out of the dressing room. “Will you find your way back to your seat, Orlando?” Black Kohl rims her eyes. Smudges of it sprinkle her cheeks like freckles.
“Of course,” I reply automatically.
“Very well, I shall see you right here afterwards. Agreed?” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I notice a little fleck of red grease paint on her tooth. When I nod, she squeezes my shoulder once, then swiftly disappears behind another door.
Finding my way back is more challenging than expected, but after a few wrong turns and several blocked passages, I reach the door where Lady Black first spoke to me.
The second act’s music drifts into the corridor. I lift my hand toward the house’s door, its wooden surface gleaming even in the dim light. Yet, I pause.
Only in my most private thoughts would I admit to daydreaming of Nijinsky, of imagining countless scenarios, each and every one of them as fantastical as my mind could conjure.
I would speak to him. Of course, he was riveted by my words, complimenting my eloquence.
Then he would lean toward me, close enough to touch.
There, I could dare voice my admiration plainly.
Sometimes, he blushed, and other times, he brazenly grazed my hand with his finger.
But now that I’m here, I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to stay.
What was the point?
I am but a lifelike effigy made out of used-up air and absence. Effigies don’t want and dream and celebrate.
What becomes of a man who no longer loves, admires, or feels? Could such a creature be called a man at all?
Every being is always filled with something.
This something has been an integral part of human existence since time began.
They are a collection of ephemeral qualities that philosophers have tried to articulate for centuries.
But the nothingness is a concept so abstract, so foreign, that a mere mortal’s mind cannot comprehend it.
How could I possibly begin to convey the utter absence deeply lodged within me?
Not ex nihilo nihil fit, but rather nihil sum. Ex nihilo venio.
I am nothing. I come from nothing.