Afternoons in Paris

by Janice Law

  “He’ll see me disappear!”

  “You vanish backstage several times. He won’t know the stage business has been changed. He’ll expect your return right until the curtain calls.”

  Inessa shook her head. “But Jeanne’s dialogue makes no sense without Human Hope. Everyone will know something is amiss. And Alexi, you know, he sleeps with one eye open.”

  In my opinion, Mademoiselle Berger’s dialogue made little sense even under the best circumstances. “We’ll think of something,” I said quickly. “Remember, just at nine, Jules gives you the signal, that little extra blast from his machine’s horn. It’s your best chance to leave. And to find Pavel. Remember that.”

  She bit her lip, gave me a hug, and nodded.

  “Places, everyone!” Monsieur Leandres called.

  Houselights down all the way. A soft shuffling as the performers found their marks. Music, courtesy of our violin, clarinet, drum, and piano, rose from the pit for the last Parisian performance ever of Monsieur Leandres’s great Surrealist Entertainment. I made my way from the wings to the machines. “Alexi’s in the house,” I whispered to Jules.

  Jules began to swear under his breath. “Is he armed? Does he carry a weapon?”

  Something I’d not considered. “I don’t know. Inessa spotted him out front.”

  “Christ! That’s all we need. What a nightmare.”

  “But if he’s in the house, you’ll have a clear exit from the stage door.”

  “The play falls apart without Human Hope. It will be obvious Inessa’s gone. And what he might do then is anyone’s guess.”

  “Someone’s got to take her place. What about Duguay?”

  “He has shoulders like a rugby fullback. And he has to lift Human Hope at the end.”

  Oh, right. Another of Leandres’s symbolic touches. “What about LePage?” As soon as I mentioned him, I realized that he was no good, either. He was much taller than Duguay, and he’d have no time to get out of his own complicated costume and into something approaching Inessa’s white gown.

  Jules shook his head. “Terrien’s out, too. He’s got to work the rigging for the flies.”

  “Well, there’s Mademoiselle Berger’s niece.” She hadn’t been a great success, but she was slight and female. “Where does she work?”

  “Over by the Opera. She’d never arrive in time.” Jules wiped the sweat from his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Leandres giving me a glare. His performers were supposed to be focused all the time.

  Not possible for me, but I do find there’s nothing like a crisis to help in the concentration department. “Wigs, Jules. Are there wigs?”

  “Maybe. They’d be downstairs in the costume store.”

  I edged back from the machine, waited until one of the so-popular shadows filled the background, and made my return to the wings. Ignoring a hissed question from Leandres, I clattered down the metal stair to the hallway and the storerooms beneath the stage. Props and bits of scenery leaned against the walls, along with cleaning supplies, extra rope, light fixtures, and lengths of wood. Two doors down was the costume store, crammed with racks of frocks and jackets and men’s trousers in all lengths and styles. There were capes, hats, and gowns, many of them tiny, not too many of them white. I considered a satin number, a touch risqué for Human Hope, but marvelously suitable for Inessa, before I spotted a toga in the men’s section. It would have to do despite an ugly purple border with a gold link design.

  Wigs, now. Much less choice. A couple of powdered deals left over from a costume drama. A frightful black thing suitable for Medea, and several old man–old woman affairs that suggested a Human Hope on her last legs. I folded the toga over my arm and went upstairs. Dim sounds of laughter and applause. By some quirk in popular taste the Surrealist Entertainment had become a favorite with the arty crowd.

  As I reached the corridor to the dressing rooms, Mademoiselle Berger came hustling out of the wings; the Voice of the Earth only appeared intermittently in the action.

  “Francis! Come to bid farewell to our little production? And perhaps collect a souvenir?” She nodded toward the toga with a sharp, suspicious glance.

  I decided to trust to her goodwill. “We need help, Mademoiselle. Inessa is running away with Jules.”

  “Ah,” said Mademoiselle. “An elopement! Good for her! I always thought that surly Russian was no good.”

  “No good at all, but he’s in the center row tonight. And he might be armed.”

  Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. “This is an excess of drama, Francis. Very romantic, very exciting, but more melodrama than surrealism.”

  “To avoid Alexi, they are leaving at nine on the dot. We’ll have to fake the rest, Mademoiselle. For Jules’s machine, maybe Duguay would take the last few minutes?”

  “To assist Mademoiselle Inessa? Of course, that goes without saying. I will tell him. I am, after all, the Voice of the Earth.”

  “Thank you. That would be excellent,” I said. I was sometimes unsure just when Mademoiselle was joking.

  “Human Hope is quite another matter.” Mademoiselle made a face.

  “She has no lines. Whoever takes her place just stands.”

  “Providing a vision of ethereal beauty,” Mademoiselle said drily. “I think the lights must be very low from nine on. Get into the wings and inform Terrien. He will pass the word to the rest and to the lighting technician. Everyone must know, every member of the cast. We must all be on high alert.” Having expressed a sensible disapproval, Mademoiselle Berger now seemed enthusiastic, even excited.

  “Yes, of course, and, Mademoiselle, it would be good to find a blond wig.”

  She gave me a look and held out her hand for the toga. “I have fifteen minutes more or less. Come straight back to my dressing room, and we will see what we can do.”

  I had not taken Leandres’s references to our “theatrical family” seriously, but now it seemed I had only to mention Inessa, universally admired, and Jules, universally liked, to see the group close ranks. The lights would be dim. The ushers alerted. Old Jacques, the doorman, would keep watch for my uncle’s arrival and alert for any sign of Russian reinforcements.

  Back in Mademoiselle Berger’s dressing room, I found her combing out a blond wig. It had a towering topknot and long side curls with a sort of horse’s tail in the back.

  “Grecian,” she said as I came in the door. “Suitable for a Muse of Poetry, I believe. Or maybe Messalina. It could pass for Roman and it really looks more her style. Try it on.”

  The wig was a scratchy number that tickled the back of my neck and provoked a laugh from Mademoiselle Berger. “Ah, Francis, you are a real trouper.” She turned me so that I could look in the mirror. Anyone less like Inessa would be hard to find. This was a crazy idea even if it was my own.

  “The houselights better be all the way down,” I said.

  “Nothing a few inches of makeup can’t cure. Do what you can with the toga, and when I come back, I’ll do your face.”

  I must have looked doubtful because she added, “You must go on to save Inessa. And she will be good, I think, for your melancholy friend.”

  I nodded. I was for it; our theatrical family expected no less. I spent the next twenty minutes struggling with the toga. I rolled up my shirt and wrapped it twice around my chest and tied the sleeves to make a band. I took off my socks and stuffed them strategically into the shirt. I left my trousers on, thinking I might have to make a quick exit, but I rolled up the legs so that my bare feet would show properly. Why on earth muses and spirits of this and that have to be barefoot is beyond me. My personal muse, if I ever acquire one, will have fishnet stockings and quality footwear.

  At five minutes to nine, Mademoiselle Berger breezed in. I’d done what I could with the toga, and I’d been dabbling with her makeup, whitening my face, darkening my eyebrows, and lining my eyes. Her profe
ssional assessment was, “not bad.” She took up a brush and tried to give my round face cheekbones. This was only moderately successful. She took another, smaller brush and put shadows over my eyes. By this time it was two minutes to nine. I could almost hear Jules’s warning toot.

  “I’d better get to the wings,” I said, but Mademoiselle Berger was a pro, and there was a spot of paint to be applied here and a tuck to be put in the toga there. She didn’t let up until we heard the signal from Jules’s machine. I jumped up from the chair, hustled out the door, and almost collided with Inessa hurrying from the stage with Jules right behind her, carrying her sack.

  “Bonne chance!” I said and Inessa turned, looking flushed and lovely even with her eyes dark and enlarged with fear.

  “Merci, Francis!”

  Jules gave a wave as they bounded down the steps to Jacques’s booth and the stage door.

  In the wings, I strained my eyes for Inessa’s green chalk marks. As if it would matter! But some of the cult of the theater must have rubbed off on me, because I not only spotted the marks but began rehearsing Inessa’s last appearance. What was required? Solemn walk from the rear corner of the set. Forward to the marks, which must be found without looking down. Arms raised—I could manage that, they’re my best feature—with an expression of transcendent hope and joy to quote Leandres. That was probably not on.

  Music rising, cast milling about—I believe this represented Human Confusion but opinions differed. Hector all smooth and practiced on my old machine. Duguay was not so sound on the other for the head was weaving about in an alarming manner though the shadows were certainly dramatic. And out in the house?

  Dazzled by the stage lights, I saw the theater as a black void. Was Alexi still there? And what was he doing? I hoped he was not even now lining up for a shot at his faithless love. Don’t think of it, Francis! But the idea made its way from brain to legs to feet, which refused to move until Leandres stepped behind me, and with a great shove and the command, “Marks!,” sent me across the stage just as the final drumroll—the Storms of Human Life—began.

  I stumbled, stubbed one bare toe, hopped, caught myself, and commenced what I thought was a slow and solemn walk but obviously was a bit faster than that, as LePage hissed, “Slower, slower,” from behind his outsize mask, and there was a little ripple of laughter and unease somewhere out in the darkness beyond the footlights. So, slow! Slower! I risked a glance down. A green scuff on the boards. Look up. Violin beginning in the pit, a thin wail that better ears assured me was quite lovely. Raise arms and think, not of the impossible transcendent hope and joy but of the safe escape of Jules and Inessa.

  Actors who had been sprawled on the floor now arose and began stepping forward, the piano joining in with the violin and the thought crossed my mind that we were actually going to pull this off when suddenly the spotlight came up. Human Hope was bathed in white light and there was a shout: “Inessa!”

  I lowered my arms. A seat clattered as a figure lunged toward the stage, igniting an uproar in the theater such as the Surrealist Entertainment hadn’t seen since its opening nights. I started backing away from the footlights. The other actors jumped up, and Mademoiselle Berger shouted for the curtain. A rumble above and the heavy velvet drapes began their descent. I whipped off the blond wig and shrugged off the toga. The curtain began to bulge and sway as Alexi, it had to be Alexi, crossed the footlights and thrashed against the fabric looking for an opening.

  At this, Duguay and LePage rushed to push back against the curtain, which bulged and billowed like a giant amoeba. Beyond, the auditorium was in an uproar, and Leandres stepped out at the extreme side of the stage in an attempt to calm the crowd. We could hear him shouting, “Messieurs, Mesdames!,” and imploring everyone to be tranquil.

  All he did was to indicate an entrance for Alexi, who leaped back, causing Duguay and LePage to tumble forward over the footlights and into the house, while the Russian charged our director. Leandres wound up flat on his back, and Alexi more or less fell onstage after him. With my exit through the wings blocked, I dropped behind my old machine and slipped inside the compartment.

  Alexi kept shouting for Inessa, although Monsieur Leandres, who had gotten back on his feet, was attempting to assure him that Inessa was no longer in the theater and that he, Leandres, personally knew nothing of her whereabouts. Rather than calm Alexi, all this did was to turn his attention to “le garçon” who had impersonated her. You can bet I kept my head down, but I might well have been discovered if Messieurs LePage and Duguay had not picked themselves off the floor and, reinforced by some of the sportier types in the audience, attacked the stage.

  I looked out cautiously from the shadows around the machines. The actors and several audience members were attempting to subdue Alexi, who seemed more than their match. Their numbers began to tell, however, and it looked as if he was going to be brought down on the floor when there was a terrific bang and a ricochet off something metallic high up in the fly loft.

  Instantly, cast and recruits dived toward the curtain, the machines, or the scenery, and Alexi charged through the wings toward the dressing rooms. I stuck my head out of the machine. Leandres was alone on his hands and knees, and my first thought was that he’d been shot. I clambered out, touched his shoulders and his back. “Are you hurt? Have you been hit?”

  “No, no,” he said, struggling to his feet. “This is an outrage! Riots, yes. Catcalls, yes. Rotten fruit, yes. But shots? Never in the history of the theater! The police will be informed.” He was threatening to contact the Soviet embassy when he took an unsteady step forward, and I had to keep him from toppling. As we stood swaying together on the stage, Mademoiselle Berger’s contralto rang out from the dressing rooms. Alexi had a pungent vocabulary, but Mademoiselle’s was not far behind. Her voice gave the rest courage, and the actors, our director, and a good half dozen of the audience surged through the wings to the corridor.

  We heard one last shout of “Inessa!” before a clatter on the stairs. A warning from old Jacques, then the stage door slammed. Alexi was gone, and although there were congratulations and boastful remarks all around, no one seemed keen to follow him. I had dropped the toga in my haste to hide in the machine and now struggled to unwind my shirt. In Mademoiselle Berger’s dressing room, I found my discarded shoes. I took a towel and wiped my face. She had not been joking about the inches of makeup.

  The rest of the cast and our citizen volunteers soon appeared, including Terrien, down from his perch up on the catwalk. Leandres, who had sustained a cut lip and what looked to be a black eye, poured drinks for everyone from a very welcome bottle of cognac. Mademoiselle Berger arrived, assisting Jacques, who’d been knocked off his high stool beside the stage door. “Like a flash, gentlemen! Like a whirlwind, Mademoiselle! Out the door before I could stop him. I said, ‘No one but the cast uses that door,’ but he was like a bull with the red flag.”

  “No one blames you,” Mademoiselle said kindly. “There was carnage on the stage! But no one seriously hurt, I don’t think.”

  “No, no,” said Leandres, “thanks to our valiant troupe and to friends of the theater.” He made a big sweeping bow toward the recruits from the audience, who seemed willing to overlook the many deficiencies of the performance and the absence of a creditable Human Hope in exchange for budget cognac and the excitement of the evening.

  “Though there was a shot,” said Duguay. “Someone might have been hurt, even killed.”

  This idea was, as Nan would say, like a sweetie in their mouths. Everyone had an idea or an observation, and I think the total number of shots had reached five and would have gone higher if Leandres had not mentioned the police. I realized that he had not yet called them. This was a hopeful thought.

  “Alexi will be long gone,” I said.

  But, protested the group, a dangerous man was on the loose, the public must be protected, such an outrage could not go unreported. />
  “Yes, yes,” said Mademoiselle Berger. “That is all true in theory, but we must think of Inessa and Jules, to whom we owe so much. To bring this incident to public notice will maybe endanger them.”

  “Meanwhile, that crazy Russian is on the loose,” said Terrien.

  “He threatened Francis, didn’t he? Didn’t I hear that?” Le­Page­ asked.

  Press coverage, questions from the police! Did I want that when I had just committed myself to one of Uncle Lastings’s schemes? No, indeed. “I didn’t take that threat seriously,” I said.

  “Though he was promising you a slow and painful end,” LePage added.

  “With the police comes press coverage just before our provincial venture,” said Leandres. “That might be extremely valuable.”

  “Questions from the police might also delay your departure,” I suggested.

  “Oh, no, all is scheduled,” said Leandres, but his face fell. He’d been kidding himself that he could have the publicity benefits of the latest ruckus without any of the inconveniences.

  “And for myself, questions and publicity—well, wouldn’t they attract Alexi’s attention? I don’t know where Jules and Inessa have gone, but he will be convinced that I do, and as Jules’s friend, I’m a target for sure.”

  “Francis is right,” said Mademoiselle Berger, whose vast theatrical experience gave her opinions extra weight. “And I think that you must not go home tonight, Francis, in case Alexi knows where you live. It is possible that he does.”

  There was general agreement about this because Jules and I had rooms in the same building, and Inessa might have let the address slip. The cast had a solution. Duguay and Terrien were to strike the set along with LePage, who would drive the truck. They assured me that I would be welcome to stay and help. “We plan to sleep in the truck. No one think of you there,” LePage said.