5. Theatre

Layers of poppy red curtain have been draped around the circumference of a raised stage, held aloft by a bronze hoop, which in turn is held in place by fine, spidery threads. It is rippled by some unfelt draft. There is a hushed murmur pervading the scene. I await with baited breathe some extraordinary performance.


I see before me, across and behind me, luxurious nobles. They shush each other playfully; I avert my gaze as partners touch each others hands, necks, thighs. Their mirth unnerves me, each smiles with full, toothy grin. I am seated to the east, at median distance from the stage, I can not view the exit.


...


The theatre dims suddenly, the audience begins to pounding their arm-rests to a plodding beat. Some uncontrollable members call out random words from behind clasped hand and bit lips, cheeks a-blush, eyes darting like naughty children. This contagious Tourettes unnerves me further. I sink into my seat and wait. I feel it will be worth it.


...


The curtains are pulled skywards in one swift, spinning movement, instantaneous applause rings out, which I absolutely must join in with. Much of the audience has risen, so I am unsure to whom I owe the ovation. This continues. My arms ache. This is going on for far too long, in my opinion.


...


At last; beautiful women lay upon the stage, in no particular pattern, as if thrown. I strain to listen as I detect the slight parting and closing of lips. I listen intently, grimacing at a rotund, elderly lady next to me who hums what must be an approximate of the tune. I note the buttons of her blouse have been buttoned incorrectly.


The women in contrast, the soulful nightingales, are dressed in Victorian best, royal blue (with pale yellow accents) dresses of sloping, gentle shoulders, bodices ending low about the waist, artful, but with embarrassingly large bell skirts. One shifts a leg, revealing barely anything, but causes most of the audience to bellow. They bring to mind sugar.


I find is so difficult to hear them as the crowd assembled jeers and whinnies; one man marches back and forth his aisle drumming his chest like an ape. I ask them for silence, but they are lost to common sensibilities.


...


Blinding light.


A boisterous young usher steps in front of me, flashing a torch to and fro, he speaks now, though he sounds like a recording,


"Have you looked at those girl's necks, sir?"


He turned on the spot, no movement of heel or toe. His light shone upon the stage.


My mind's eye hovered into the air and directly over the stage. Then down, down to the singers. Closer still I came, until it struck me like a hammer.


Their necks, from laryngeal prominence had fine piano cord passing from inside their throats and out onto queer growths issuing from their collar bones. Theses cords controlled their voice. I had no doubt beneath their clothing hid other appalling alterations.


...


The curtains dropped and there I was, sat in my seat as those around me clapped like seals. I attempted to wade through the ignobles, but the harder I pushed the more there seemed to be of them, until I was unable to move an inch. The usher blew out his torch as if it was a candle.


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