The train left the station and clattered along the elevated track, letting them look down on block after block of newly built row houses, homes for those who toiled in the factories whose smokestacks dotted the horizons.
Ricar was about to ask her about rehearsing under Chel, when she said, "I just wanted to say that it's an honor performing in your company. I've followed your work for years, since the first time I saw you, back when you were in the Crimson Engine company. It was Carnival, and your company performed Branwen in Furs. You were amazing. I honestly never thought that men could do the Innocent, but ... Oh, I don't even know what to say. I went back and saw every show you were in."
"Well, thank you." He almost winced at the memory of how crude his performances were back then. At least the audience didn't know any better.
* * * *
"Ready, Miss Wynne?" he had asked, poised to go through the door from the player's corridor to the assignation room.
"Please, call me Chel," she said and grabbed his ear. "On three. One ... two...."
With surprising strength for her small frame, Chel shoved him through the door by his ear. He let the momentum carry him across the room, suggesting the tiny woman had thrown him, and collapsed against the wall, right in front of their client.
The client, a grey-haired woman wearing a Servant's black and white dress, gasped as he looked up at her with pained eyes.
"You clumsy oaf!" Chel, looking suitably cruel and sensual in her Fatale's red and black dress, jabbed her riding crop at him. "You'll serve me correctly if I have to beat it into you."
The client raised her hands in supplication. "Please, mistress, have mercy on him!"
"Mercy?" Chel scoffed. "Get over here, you!"
Ricar gave the client a look of suffering, then slunk back to Chel and knelt before her, carefully positioned so the client would have a good view.
"Undress," Chel commanded, tapping her crop against her riding boot.
He unbuttoned his white shirt and set it aside, his face turned away as if ashamed to be half-naked before his mistress and her Servant.
Chel clutched his chin in one gloved hand. "How dare you let me appear in public improperly dressed!" She slapped his cheek. He rocked his head sideways, exaggerating the impact and eliciting a sympathetic sound from the client.
Chel stalked around behind him, positioned so the client would have a good view. "Such willfulness only understands the lash," she stated, and raised the crop high.
On stage, the blows of the Fatale or the Prince were faked, but here in the assignation room the clients wanted the bruises and sometimes even the blood. There were tricks to create the proper impression, of course, but he had asked Chel to use her full force on him. Apparently he had underestimated her. Her crop slashed repeatedly into his upper back, precisely aimed, sending harsh vibrations through his entire body. He had to lean forward and rest his hands on his knees to keep from falling forward under her onslaught.
Chel had shifted her tempo and punctuated her words with crop strokes. "Anything to say for yourself? Any explanation?
Any reason I shouldn't throw you out of my house into the gutter, you piece of filth?" Each strike produced an inarticulate sound from him.
At a break in Chel's ministrations, he shook his head and glanced sideways to implore the client in his anguish. The client was on her knees, raptly watching as he was punished.
Her mouth hung open with panting for breath and her hands worked furiously at the bunched skirts between her thighs.
Her pleasure was spurred by the sign of his beating.
This scenario was tricky. He had noticed that some clients, mostly women, neither wanted to beat nor be beaten, but wanted to observe the Innocent suffering, and to comfort them afterwards. He met Chel's eyes and gave her a tiny nod, the cue for the next phase of the scene.
"Hmph," Chel snorted in contempt. She pushed him with her foot so he fell to the floor, his head in the client's lap.
"Make sure this useless fool is presentable," she ordered, then turned and left the assignation room.
Ricar got to his knees, genuinely tired and trembling from Chel's beating. The client helped him to sit on the bed, and she sat beside him.
"Oh, my..." the client whispered as her fingers traced the marks across his back, making him twitch and gasp. "She is horrible to you, so horrible. A monstrous woman." She reached for the rag and bowl of water waiting on the bedside table, and began dabbing at the marks.
On instinct, he improvised, "I know what you did, but I told mistress it was me instead. I couldn't bear to think of what she'd do to you."
Tears welled up in the woman's eyes. "My darling boy, my treasure—" She clutched at him, mashing his face into her dress. He returned her caresses, gratified by her acknowledgment of his unjust suffering.
His kisses on her bare neck made her shudder. "Only you make my life here bearable."
A bell chimed softly, as the house's discreet reminder that the alloted time was nearly up. She jerked away from him, suddenly embarrassed, and stood up. "I need to, er...."
To his surprise, he reached up to her. He didn't want the scene to end so soon.
She shifted back into character. "I'll come back for you, darling, I swear I will," she said, backing out of the door. He managed a weak wave as the door shut.
Ricar relaxed on the bed for a moment, pleased despite his lapse at the end. It had been his first time playing the Innocent in an assignation, far more challenging than the Servants and Pets he had played before.
He got up, shrugged back into his shirt, then walked back into the player's corridor. He found Chel and the director waiting for them. "I think the client was very satisfied, sir," he said.
"And there were three more assignation requests," Chel pointed out.
"All right," the director said grudgingly, "you can do Fatale and Innocent in the first act, starting tomorrow night."
Chel laughed triumphantly, and she and Ricar embraced as friends.
"But this fad won't last," the director said, shaking his finger at them. "Be prepared to go back to Pets and Servants."
* * * *
More by fortune than design, he had the right qualities to be cast as the lead in Under the Hill, The Innocent Champion, and Branwen in Furs, working with some of the finest Fatales and Princes in the Commedia. Eventually, tastes changed, and there was little demand for male Innocents, but his career continued with new roles.
He realized Miss Alwyx was still speaking and stopped his reverie.
"I had it all planned out," she said. "When I turned eighteen, I'd get an apprenticeship. I knew I'd have to play some other roles first, but I could live with that. Then my little sister got pregnant by some bastard who left town.
Maman fell ill, had to stay in bed. Papa, he's a builder, lost both his apprentices, and I had to help out at work. I had to.... Err, some other things happened. Then, one day, I thought, Maman's living in the hospice now, Papa has enough apprentices for work, my sister can look after her own child, and I'm not getting any younger. I signed on with the first company I could find, and here I am. I didn't really think I'd make the audition at Razor Lotus, but I just had to come out and do my best."
The porter made his way through the car, announcing,
"West Badger station, West Badger."
"That's our stop," he said. He moved to help her up, but she had already bounded to her feet.
He followed her onto the platform and down the iron steps to street level. Though it was early evening, the lights from the pubs and dance halls and eateries illuminated the busy street.
Miss Alwyx looked around, not sure where to go, until Ricar pointed down the street to a theatre. "Over there," he said, beckoning her to follow.
The marquee read, "The House of the Blood Blossom proudly presents The Ruin of the Rakes, featuring Corr Evers Ysonn, the Wonder of West Badger, as The Virago." Ricar smiled. It was about time Corr got her name on the bill.
Ricar p
icked up his tickets and lead her up to one of the boxes. The Blood Blossom was half the size of the Razor Lotus, and Ricar could pick out a certain shabbiness that Davis never would have allowed. Even the punters down in the pit were different: instead of the shopkeepers and clerks, they were university students, ecstatic preachers, artisans—younger on average. The New Citizens, they called themselves.
Miss Alwyx picked at the frayed upholstery on her chair.
"Why don't they take better care of these things?"
"The performance matters more than the furnishings," he said. He actually liked this smaller theatre, where the performance could be more intimate than the Razor Lotus's cavernous auditorium allowed. He even preferred the gas lighting, which gave everything a dreamy glow, to the harsh clarity of the new electric lights Davis bragged about so much.
The orchestra ran through an eight-bar introduction and the host came out to run through the announcements.
"...and to your right," said the host. "I see Ricar, Donal sept, Stefan clan, company director of the House of the Razor Lotus and his protégé. Welcome to our humble establishment, and I hope our company can please you."
Ricar stood up, smiled and waved to the crowd, to scattered applause. When he sat down again, Miss Alwyx leaned close and said, "I'm your what?" under her breath.
"It's nothing," he said. "Just patter."
Miss Alwyx leaned back, but there was suspicion in her eyes that he hadn't seen before.
The curtain rose for the first act. Two Servants entered the Matron's bedchamber, playfully tried on their employer's clothes, then fell into fighting over the jewelry, until one held the other down and made her apologize.
The second act was a Brute and Harlot number. The Brute carried and threw the Harlot around the stage like she was a rag doll, though she got in a few eye punches and shin kicks.
Neither was terribly innovative, but Ricar appreciated the conviction the players put into it.
As the third act began, Miss Alwyx asked, "Who's playing the Innocent?"
"This isn't classical Commedia."
"You mean they don't have an Innocent?" She looked at him like a child struggling with the concept of supper without pudding.
"Not always, strange as it may seem."
The orchestra struck up a simple melody, a fake tree on the stage indicating a pastoral scene. A feminine figure shrouded in white walked out, holding a basket in one hand as she went to market.
"Ah, there we go," Miss Alwyx said, apparently pleased.
Enter the Rakes, stealing her basket and leaping around her, taunting the poor creature, who shrank away, huddling by the tree. The music rose as it seemed the Rakes would soon ravage the woman.
"Watch this," he told Miss Alwyx. "Miss Evers is the best Virago in the city right now."
The Rakes pulled at the white cloak, while the woman crouched down to a tiny ball, her faint protests answered by jeers from her attackers. Finally, the cloak (pre-cut) was nearly torn to ribbons.
Then one of the Rakes screamed and fell down, cradling his injured arm. The music shifted, insistent drum beats. His comrades stopped, confused, and then astonished as the woman stood up, slowly, until she was taller than them, her powerful body seeming to burst through her torn clothing.
The leader of the Rakes rallied them, and they fell upon her, but she defended herself almost effortlessly, throwing them around the stage, grappling a Rake with one arm while beating a second with her other arm. Ricar marveled at the choreography, which made everything at the Razor Lotus look tired. If Davis would just come out and see what players were doing at the smaller houses, he'd see how popular new scenarios could be.
Ricar kept one eye on the stage, and the other on Miss Alwyx. She watched the performance dutifully, mouth in a half-frown.
Her attackers vanquished, the Virago tore the purse from the lead Rake's belt, dropped it into her basket, and swaggered off the stage.
The curtain fell, and the audience rose in applause. Ricar joined them. Miss Alwyx applauded, but stayed in her chair.
When the applause died down and the lights came up for the intermission he asked her, "What did you think?"
Miss Alwyx looked up from the soap advertisements on the back of her playbill. "Well ... The Virago is basically the same as the Fatale."
"No, the Fatale rules through the desires of others. The Virago rules through her own strength and the desires of others."
"Oh, I see."
"Didn't that impress you at all?"
"The music was too dissonant, the choreography had no grace at all, and the scenario wasn't involving. As for the lead ... Well, I'm sure some people appreciate that kind of look."
"Have you paid attention to anything I've shown you tonight?" Ricar realized he had leaned forward until she had to lean back to get away from him. He leaned back and took a breath to steady himself.
"I'd best be getting home." Miss Alwyx got up and left the box.
"Wait, wait, please, Miss—" He followed her out of the box into the connecting corridor, struggling to catch up to her in the mass of people heading for the lobby. "I wanted to talk about your future at the Razor Lotus."
She stopped for a moment, then faced him squarely.
"What is this about exactly, sir?"
Ricar decided to come clean. "I'd like to see a Virago at the Razor Lotus. It would take a lot of training, but I think you could do very well in that role. I see such strength and bravery in you ... You're wasted in other roles."
Miss Alwyx rolled her handbill up into a thin, stiff rod. "I don't want to get bigger than this and look like some half-man-half-woman and do fake fights. That's not the Commedia. That's not art."
"And art requires the Innocent, like Miss Dyr?"
"Yes, that's what I've always wanted to do."
He shook his head. "Miss Dyr does two shows a night, plus assignations, six days of the week. It takes a toll. Her performance is already slipping. She's been the star for four years, and she might have another year. I've seen it a dozen times before."
"Perhaps I'm foolish, but I thought maybe, just maybe, you were going to let me replace Miss Dyr. Or at least understudy for her."
"I'm sorry, but I am not going to have you play the Innocent."
She dropped her handbill, which unfurled as it fell. "I'll ... I can lose weight. I can—"
The thought of Miss Alwyx trying to starve herself down to nothing made him speak bluntly. "Can you make yourself younger, and shorter? I'm sorry, but it's my considered opinion, after twenty-one years in the Commedia, that no one is going to pay to see you as the Innocent."
She said nothing, staring down, her bangs over her eyes.
"However," he continued, trying to make amends, "you could do very well as a Beast, a Harlot, even a Virago or a Fatale. You could have a good career, and a longer career, if you just accept that."
Ricar waited for a reaction. Would she burst into tears?
Slap his face? Punch him (perhaps she could do the Virago after all)?
She looked at him, eyes gleaming with suppressed tears.
"I don't want to play the Outlaw or the Virago or anything else. Everybody keeps telling me how strong and tough I am and ... And I'm not. That time Miss Dyr yelled at me, I went home and cried all night. Then I pulled myself together and came to the theatre and did it all again."
If she were younger, and smaller, and had big expressive eyes and a small delicate mouth—if she looked like Miss Dyr—
her tears would have brought down the house. Instead, Ricar was the only audience.
"It's like ... You think of all the things that have happened in your life, all the stupid decisions and the disappointments and the people who let you down and the things that just don't make any sense. All of those things leave a mark on you. But you want to think there's something inside you that's still the way you should be, that feels like that. That's what people come to see. That's why I want to play the Innocent.
That's the
way I want people to see me."
"Miss Alwyx, I'm sorry, but nobody's going to let you do that on stage."
The hurt in her eyes made him feel like he was the worst person in the world.
An usher walked by, announcing, "One minute to curtain.
Your assignations, please—"
"You know, you aren't the first man to tell me what I can't do." She turned away, heading for the lobby.
Feebly, he said, "The intermission's over."
The last thing he saw was her disappearing down the stairs.
He caught the attention of one of the ushers. "I'll have a card, please."
* * * *
The Blood Blossom's assignation rooms were smaller and less well appointed than the Razor Lotus's. Ricar frowned and began fluffing the pillows and straightening the crooked bedspread. Why didn't this House's staff take better care of things?
He heard the door open and stopped. She was still beautiful, her sculpted bare arms, her proud walk, her shoulders set to emphasize her musculature. You couldn't imagine anything hurting her, even though Ricar knew different.
When she saw him, the Virago's feral grimace collapsed into confusion, then scorn. "What are you doing here?" She must have taken voice lessons, as hers had lost that nasal quality.
He took a step closer to her. This close, he could see the almost masculine angularity of her face, which the makeup didn't quite hide. "I see you have your name on the bill now.
Congratulations."
"I don't care to catch up on old times, Ricar." She pulled his assignation card out of her pocket and tore it in half, likely a knowing mockery of how he had taught her the Virago trick of ripping a thick book apart with her bare hands. "If you take this to the box office, your fee will be refunded."
"Please, Corr, I just wanted to talk with you for a moment."
She cocked her head to one side and crossed her magnificent arms across her broad chest. "What about?"
Like a Wisp of Steam: Steampunk Erotica Page 3