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Backstage at the Passion
part 1
by Feech
The Kelly Theatre is rather a small place to
be putting on _Jesus Christ Superstar_. Long
before the house has opened, when the orchestra is
arriving and putting together instruments and
making last-minute time adjustments with German,
the atmosphere in the dressing and make-up area is
stifling with anticipation, noise and close
crowding. We have a cast of the Group and then
some, and this particular show fills a space and
flows over into the people present, even before
it's begun. For some of the numbers, German has
blocked it out so that singers will be offstage as
well as on, to avoid overwhelming the audience.
The stage is so close to the audience, it makes
the opera as intimate as it really should be, but
then you don't need to throw it in their faces.
It's already there.
Being Publicist and Assistant Director, I
don't have anything I really _have_ to do right
now. It's been an intense several weeks, what
with the already controversial nature of
'Superstar' and the resultant anxieties of the
multi-denominational and multi-species cast and
crew. Of course, German planned it that way. He
didn't get into theatre to avoid challenges, and
neither did Larry. They intend to make a point to
the public, and I believe that this time German
wanted to extend that to the Firehouse Group as
well. Prove what it really is to _want_ the
stage. We've had to want it to put up with some of
the reactions we've already gotten, and this just
now being opening night.
I wander out to the short hall that serves
mainly as a required fire exit and find the bar
that unlatches the door to push it open. I've got
my cane, but I don't use it-- everyone is crowded
into the dressing areas for make-up call, or out
front manning the Box Office. I usually only
employ the cane when I might run into someone else
going the other way.
A chill blast of Spring night air cuts in
around the opening side of the door. It's not
really Spring yet, I know, but at least it's not
February anymore. The weather seems to change
constantly. I decide to sit outside anyway. The
air will be charged so strongly inside all night
that I might as well nab a break now, before we
all get jostled around the reception afterwards.
I shove the door the rest of the way open and
promptly step out, and right into the back of a
person seated on the cement step. Damn. I should
have used my cane. At least then it wouldn't seem
like I was kicking the person.
Whoever it is turns around so violently that
it has to be Dan. What the heck is he doing out
here?
"Dan?"
No answer, just a short gasp and, I think, a
lot of fast headshaking while he brushes at his
face. I can hear his sleeves brushing against
each other and the soft sound of palms on facial
skin. I pull myself back against the brick wall
on this side of the theatre. We're between the
theatre and the bookstore next door. There'd be
room to sit down on the step if Daniel moves over,
but I don't know yet that he wants me to. This is
just great. And he was doing so well, too.
"Yeah, 's me." He's controlling his voice
with extraordinary care. Still, if he doesn't
want to say anything, no point in pressing him for
explanations. One problem is obvious, however.
"What are you doing out here? They'll be
going mad looking for you. It's well past your
make-up call."
More face-rubbing. "I know."
I sigh, hopefully not in a way that sounds
overly impatient. I tap my cane idly back against
the wall behind me, pressing my lips together
thoughtfully. "Er... may I?"
"You may as well."
I sit down as smoothly as possible. I try to
keep my arms to myself. He's obviously nervous.
"Why aren't you inside?"
"I can't go inside. I can't."
There doesn't seem to be much answer to that
except for: You're called fifteen minutes ago,
you'd damn well better get in there, there is no
such thing as _can't_, so I don't say it. I just
sort of flick an ear without thinking about it and
then reach up to feel the ear, because I don't
have anything else to do with my fingers.
Dan sighs a long, shuddery sigh and breathes
outwards, toward the sidewalk, for a time.
"Is it about the crowd scenes? About Kent?
Anything like that?"
He sighs, a short one this time. "Sort of
like that."
"Dan, there is no time for 'sort of', even
though I'd like to let you sit here as long as you
damn well please. What can I do to get you ready
to go inside?"
"I... can't. I just didn't-- wasn't--"
There is a long pause wherein several leaves
make their way down the sidewalk in the direction
of the visitors' door, gusted by the wet wind. I
brush a finger across the front of my nose. It
always feels odd to me, to touch an ear and then
my nose. I feel so asymmetrical. Others say I
don't look it, but to me I feel that way. As if
it's not balanced out, somehow, with only the ears
changed. But they changed evenly on each side,
fur-dusted with extended tips. I don't know.
What am I supposed to think? If I saw me, maybe
I'd know. But the rest of this sort of came with
the package.
"I didn't think anything would happen. I
thought I was ready."
"What happened?"
He lowers his head into his arms, if the
sounds of his movement and breathing serve me
right. His forearms would be across his knees.
"I wish I didn't have to talk about it."
I'm glad he realizes he has to talk about it,
at least. I'll get him in for his call yet. It
wouldn't do any good to go bother anyone else to
coax or order him in, not when he's in his touchy,
vulnerable mood. We'd only drive him further into
whatever's scaring him.
"How fast can you put on your make-up?"
"Oh... fast. Damn, I have to go in, don't I.
Of course, I know I do. Don't listen to me."
"Too late. But I'll disregard what you just
said. Tell me something else. Talk to me about
what happened?"
"Shh..." He's still talking into his folded
arms.
I wait. The party of leaves has moved on and
there don't seem to be any more. Someone pulls a
car up in front of the glass visitors' door and a
number of people in hard-soled shoes, at least one
set high-heeled, emerge and tap to the doorway.
They're talking animatedly, but it doesn't sound
negative. That's a good sign, anyway. I think
most people here tonight will really be here to
enjoy a good night of theatre. The creeps who've
been badgering us all during production wouldn't
bother to _sit through_ the show.
A nasty thought comes to me and I turn my
head towards Dan, wanting to reach out with a hand
to make contact before asking him anything, but
knowing I shouldn't until invited. If he lashed
out at me now, he'd be so upset with himself I'd
never get him to respond reasonably. "Daniel?
Don't tell me anyone--"
He makes a sound, not vocal, as though he is
nodding against the undersides of his arms, then
remembers and mutters, "They did."
"Shit."
"Tell me about it."
"Come on, you've got to get inside. You're
just letting them win if you don't put on the show
of your life, now, you know."
"I can't. I'm shaking. I can't do it. It's
half my fault anyway. I kind of threw the first
punch."
I almost have to sit on my hands to keep from
touching him to assess the damage. "Well, how are
you? Do you need a doctor?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I think my eye
is swelling up, though. Here... feel."
He takes my left hand and places it under his
right eye. "There's a lump, yeah," I admit. "I'm
sure Angelo can take care of it, though. He can
fix anything, or so I hear."
"Damn, Feech, I can't go in there for Opening
Night looking like this. And I can't-- I can't--"
"But we've worked on this for weeks. You're
the best. You're perfect. No reason why you
can't do it again. Trust me."
He sighs. I think he frowns-- his voice
sounds like it. "I'm afraid I'll screw up, hurt
someone, and since I'm scared it makes it worse...
I'm more scared... I'm more..."
"I know, Dan. We've been over this."
"I _know_. Come on, tell me what I need to
hear. I don't know what it is, but time is
running out before someone like German will come
out here screaming at me and I'll have to start
all over again."
"German won't come out screaming. He knows
you better than that."
"I just don't know."
"Okay. Well." I take my hand from beneath
his eye, and run my fingers over the top of his
head before putting my hand in my lap. It seems
like he doesn't have anything else wrong with his
face, and his breathing, except for the nerves, is
normal. Maybe he can go on with a minimum of
fuss, if he can get himself in there and onstage.
Just getting through the rest of the cast and into
his costume will be difficult enough, but then
maybe he'll be ready as ever. My hand does come
away with a few flecks of something dry-soft on
it, though. "You shedding, Daniel? That's all
you need."
"I know. I know, damnit, everything happens
at once, doesn't it. I tried to soak all the skin
off before I started out tonight but some of it
wasn't ready to go. Now I'll look like I have the
world's worst dandruff. Jesus, with dandruff.
How do you like that."
"It's snakeskin, not dandruff. Don't let
what others might see bother you so much." I know
I don't necessarily practice what I preach, but
this is an emergency, he has to be onstage or
else, and besides, ideally I _would_ worry less
about what others think.
"Are you kidding? On_stage_? What else
matters _besides_ what they see?"
"What you want them to see. You know that.
Why are you scared to go in? I'd think it'd be
out of your system after you already had a fight.
What happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Fine, take your time."
"Damn! There is no time. All right. I'll
tell you. But you can't tell anyone else."
"Why not? I won't, but why not?"
"Because. They all hate me anyway."
"Daniel... They do not."
"Just listen."
I nod. "I'm listening."
"Okay." He takes a deep breath and the sound
faces out towards the street before he begins
again. I wonder what he's seeing across the
pavement, if anything.
"Is it very dark?"
"Not too bad. The alleys are black. The
streetlamps are on strong."
"I can hear that."
There's a pause, so he's probably nodding.
"It's dark, cloudy, but the wind is keeping the
sky clear just above the lamps and on down.
Anyway..."
I wait. He's breathing more slowly, more
like when he's in acting mode and keeping his
nervous impulses down to where he has a handle on
them.
"I was messing with my hair, like I told you.
Trying to get the damn skin off."
Daniel has scales for hair, only you'd never
know it to look at him; everyone says so, anyway.
They feel different from hair to touch them. They
just never grow past a medium length and of course
are never cut, and once in awhile they shed their
skin, which seems to be useless to Dan since his
skull and scales never grow nor change. Just an
outward manifestation of the small, rear-fanged
snake SCABS made him on several levels on the
inside.
"Look at it this way-- by the end of this
weekend's shows, you'll look better than ever,
having just gotten the stuff off and having all
fresh skin showing. Alan's always at his best
after a molt."
"Either way, it looks cruddy now."
I can't argue that one anymore. Might as
well cede the point by staying silent.
"So," he continues, his voice falling back
into the steadier manifestation it takes on stage.
He'll make it in in time. If he doesn't, we'll
cope, but-- well, many 'buts'. He'll make it in.
Period. If everything else goes smoothly, once
his mood is back in control he'll be good to go
for the night. That seems to be his pattern, once
we can just settle him into it. I worked with him
privately many times during the course of
rehearsal, getting him used to the pulling and
brushing of hands against all sides of his person
for the healing scene. Often German would send us
and the ensemble off the mainstage just to get
Daniel desensitized to the sensations while German
worked other soloists, or the Apostles. It's all
been a test, in a number of ways. German knew
what he was doing. I just don't know how much of
this he expected.
"It got to be time to head down here, so I
grabbed my kit and left. So far so good."
"Right."
"Lindy said she'd be coming down for the show
tonight. Won't be until later, though, since
there's so long between call and the house
opening, so I walked alone, and I guess it was
stupid to use the usual route. I ought to stagger
it more often. I had a run-in with some
anti-SCABbers a year or so ago, because of Lindy,
and... Well, just about the same thing happened.
I never learn, though. I just never learn. For
all I know, I'll hit or bite someone on stage,
tonight."
"You won't."
"I hope not," he replies, with feeling. "I
just-- I don't know. I have a knack for making
everything worse. That's why I don't want you
telling anyone. They all know they are more
tolerant, everything, just better at this than I
am."
I shift a little on the cement, but don't say
anything. He knows I admire his work and that I
like him. He's tried to chalk that up to his
reminding me of Alan, but Alan told him it wasn't
true. I love Alan, our Burmese python Technical
Director, and I like Daniel for completely
different reasons. He can say whatever he wants
about the others, and he knows I won't agree with
that, either. He's just venting. Anything to get
him inside.
"You're a good Publicist, Feech. Word of
this show is all over the City."
"That's the idea. Somehow, I don't think I
should take that as a compliment, though."
"Oh, I don't know... I mean you are good at
it. I've spoken to a couple of folks who really
liked the posters. Your crew is good. But there
are those who don't care for the parallels we're
drawing here and a lot of them don't know anything
about the show. They just want something to-- you
know-- well--"
"Right. Your eye."
"Yeah. Well, you know, I _told_ German I
don't know the first thing about the Bible, but he
just asked me wasn't I an actor."
I nod. The same thing happened with a lot of
the Group members, when faced with their parts for
'Superstar'. You could feel the need in the room,
the tight breaths and hopefulness, but also an
immense hesitation. There weren't many who really
went into this with a lot of confidence.
Alexander had to remind everyone that Webber and
Rice weren't Christian, either. And some of us
Christians have been talking up the non-Christian
stars throughout production, reminding them that
these are _people_ they're playing, same as with
any other show. But they know better-- they know
that there are those in the public watching them
for the slightest slip-up. Of course, for some,
it's bad enough that we are doing it. Theatre and
SCABS is one thing, a volatile combination in
itself, for some. Then there's the perpetually
controversial state of _Jesus Christ Superstar_,
which manages somehow to evoke outrage decades
after its first showing. It's amazing what people
will pick out to complain about. Put SCABS and
Theatre and _Jesus Christ Superstar_ together and
you have an interesting challenge indeed, whether
anyone even says a word about its possibly
objectionable qualities. You can just think of
too many of the outraged comments, yourself. You
don't even need any help. It does test your
desire, I must admit.
Daniel, it seems, had help driving those
doubts home. It would have to be him, too, of the
whole cast. We've each been accosted verbally or
in writing at one time or another, and Gabe Carter
has taken it upon himself to look up computer
sites on this opera and read off what people have
called blasphemous about it. German told him to
knock it off. It had done its work, though. Made
everyone that much more uptight. At the same
time, this show makes us work closely with each
other, physically and emotionally, I really think
more so than most other pieces.
I'm not sure it was altogether bad, either.
There are some genuinely interested and expectant
theatre-goers entering through that front door.
The tension and drive we've had to put into this
is going to give the people who _like_ it the show
of their lives. Then the cast will see. They'll
see what they can do with something they thought
was so mysterious to them.
People. Just people. "So you think German
was wrong?"
Dan grips my hand, maybe as a substitute for
shooting me a frustrated glance. "He cast me as
_Jesus_, for crying out loud."
"Yup, I know."
He lets my hand go. "So I'm nervous enough,
you know, going along on the street to come here
and _be_ for these people someone they've known
forever, and I've never even known him."
"Maybe you have and maybe you haven't."
"I don't know. I haven't known him like
Lindy or the other Christians in the Group, not
like anyone else seems to. So I'm--"
"But you haven't known other people you've
portrayed."
"But the whole _audience_-- I mean-- I mean,
there they _are_, you know, and if it was anybody
else I could be them and make the part. I kind of
can't do that with Christ."
"Yes you can. I've seen you do it. What
happened next?"
He shuffles his feet on the step. "There
were two guys coming out from one of the
sidestreets where there are three or four bars on
that one block-- you know?"
"Yes."
"I don't think they were really drunk. Just
a little tipsy; still early in the evening."
I can't help reminding him a little. "Why
yes, the theatre-goers are still dressing and
getting in their cars. A few are milling around
in the lobby but--"
"I _know_ there's no time."
I brush a bit of windblown dust from my
eyelash. "I know."
"It was early."
"It still is. It's just that..."
"Yes. So they weren't _real_ drunk. Just
tipsy. Two guys, one bigger than I am, the other
not so much."
I nod. Daniel continues, talking with his
hands, too, I'm almost certain, but I can't tell
for sure whether he's rubbing one fist in the
opposite palm or rubbing them both against his
knees.
"They wouldn't know I was a SCAB-- but
they've seen me go that way before, I'm almost
certain. They must know I'm with this theatre,
and seen me with Lindy-- I don't know. They know
me, but of the guys I've seen in those sidestreets
I wouldn't have been able to pick them out. They
were looking for trouble. Someone must have said
something about this show, and with the posters
and stuff. You know."
"If they know you, are you-- in danger? I
mean, really, if--"
"No. They wanted a fight and they got one.
I'm such a damned fool, but maybe it'll keep them
off my back in the future-- I mean, they provoked
me and then pretty much won, so unless they're
looking for the same game over again I'm all
right. They've probably got their own worries
concerning the law and such, anyway. If I'd been
thinking, I wouldn't have done it. But you
know..."
"Well, as long as you're sure. And you
should let someone drive you home tonight."
"I will."
More people exit a car, clunking the door
shut, and clack in their dress shoes to the front
door. This group isn't saying anything, but that
may be because it's chilly. Or maybe they're the
kind that don't say anything until they've
experienced the show. I shrug to myself. Who
knows. Daniel is still and quiet. I find myself
wondering if I should go and get Angelo. But
he'll be better ready to handle Dan when he's got
anyone else he's helping out of the way, and Dan
will need special treatment for that eye. I'd
better just stay and let him get his worries out,
then hope Angelo is ready for him.
"So these guys came up to me."
"Did you move to avoid them?"
"Of course. Heck, I ran, but I tried to do
it-- you know-- casual-like. Walk-ran for aways.
They kept up, just wanted me I guess, or there
weren't any other targets around. I suppose since
they knew I was the snake-man from here, or
something. Thought they might hit a nerve."
"Seems they did."
"Yes..." He pauses. "Damn, Feech, this eye
hurts. Is it worse?"
"Messing with it _will_ make it worse. You
could be in and getting it iced, you know."
"Not yet. Don't make me go in yet."
"I won't. Just mentioning."
"Please, how bad is it?"
I give him my hand, to place himself. It'd
be just like me to give him another black eye
in the process, out of sheer clumsiness.
"There. How bad is it?"
"Well, it's what you feel, yourself. I don't
know why you think my hands are any better at
judging this than yours are."
"I want a second opinion, other than my own.
What, precisely, am I showing Angelo? Is he going
to throw a fit?"
"Oh, Daniel, he won't throw a fit. You sound
like someone _here_ beat you up."
"I just can't--"
He cuts off quickly, but there's a long
pause, so I murmur, "Well, it's swollen. Mostly
below the eye. I really think he can make it pale
enough that it won't show. Your eyelid feels
about normal."
"Thank you."
"Tell me what happened, then we'll get inside
and get some ice on this."
"Well, they stopped me. I kind of had to
turn to face them. Then... I don't know. There
may have been a time I could have run, but they
weren't that drunk that they didn't see how to
block me off, with two of them. So then they
asked me if I thought I was Christ.
"I said heck no, leave me alone." His voice
takes on a mocking tone, imitating the other man:
"'I suppose you think Christ was a _gay_ man.'
You know, that stuff. And the one who wasn't
talking laughed because he was too stupid to come
up with anything else to say."
I press my lips together and listen. Dan
seems to pull a sleeve along his mouth, then
there's silence except for scuttering sounds and
vague motor vibrations from this street and
beyond. Three or four cars go by at once, then,
and Dan has the same thoughts I do of preparation
time slipping away, because he abruptly continues:
"I told you not to tell anyone. I mean don't tell
Gabe. I came _that close_ to denying being gay again
tonight. Because I'm _not_, you know, but I
_know_ it shouldn't matter. But I was biting my
tongue to keep from saying it. I almost hit the
guys then, for implying that. I really think
that's why I hit the one in the long run, anyway.
And I feel so stupid about it."
He doesn't really pause, but his breath keens
just slightly and I fear he is crying. Well, no
reason to stop him. If he has to, he has to, and
the make-up is going to have to cover the effects
of that too, if it's necessary. At least, I think
to myself, this is Jesus of Nazareth we're talking
about here, in the last week of His life. Maybe
Dan's face and voice will be better than before,
this way. But that doesn't mean I like to hear
anyone cry because they think they're stupid.
I shake my head. "Come on, Dan, you're fine.
You're under stress anyway and they hit a sore
spot. Don't let Gabe fool you. There've been
times he's been as upset as you over just this
sort of thing. I think maybe he actually gets
angry because he doesn't want to see you doing to
yourself what he did to himself, even though you
and Lindy are in a different situation than he has
been. It's not a matter of anyone being 'better' at
this."
Dan coughs a little around his words. "Last
year, when I had the other fight, it was the same
thing. I said it was because I was defending
Lindy's honor, you know, standing up for her
because they were making accusations about us and
she wasn't there to say anything, and that just
proves that it's all in me. If I thought about
it, I don't think I could honestly say she'd be
too upset about being called gay. I don't know
why the heck it bothers me so much. My best
friends are gay. I'm so-- something."
"You're okay. Honestly."
"No-- I'm not. It's like saying I don't want
to be with her, if you think about it. So I
almost hit him, and then I was mad because I
_almost_ did, but I said: 'How do you know Jesus
_wasn't_ gay? He was a human being.'
"The guy said, 'Better than they can say for
_you_, SCAB boy.' So I hit him."
"Well, you were doing pretty well, up until
then," I say. "Maybe you should tell Gabe what
you said. He'd be pleased."
"No. He'll know why I hit them, and he'll
know when he sees me that I started another fight.
So will they all. I have to go in, but I wish I
hadn't done it."
"So do the other guys, I would imagine."
There's a pause where he probably shakes his
head. "No, they landed a few on me, the result of
the worst one you've already seen, but I hardly
damaged 'em, really. They'll be saying they beat
up a SCAB, and so what."
"If you're sure they won't go after you
again."
"Not soon, I don't think. Probably not
anytime. But I can tell you I'll be careful. So
don't worry."
"I can't promise I won't worry, but okay."
"Feech, press on my shoulders a bit, massage
my temples, anything. Make it pretty firm
pressure."
"You got it." I take a tight hold on his
closest wrist, and he offers me the other to
massage as well-- then I find my way to his
shoulders by his arms and work my fingers in as
hard as I can in the pits before and in back of
his shoulders. "Tell me how long."
"Not long. We-- I-- can't stay out here.
Damn, someone would have come screaming for me and
I don't know what I would have done."
"Well," I say, increasing the pressure,
working out his nerves, "you would have gone in
and put on a good show. Now, break a leg or two,
why don't you. You are going in, so what-ifs are
as of now irrelevant, until you want to tell
horror stories afterwards."
"I could make-- that's good, tighter please--
a pun of some sort concerning the irony of snakes
and legs and such, but I won't. But I could."
"You have legs, break them."
"Yes."
"Is that good?"
"Thanks. Yeah." He shakes a little and
stands up. I follow him. "Okay, here we go."
"Just do what you did at Dress last night--
it was phenomenal. Listen, I'll take some of the
cast aside and ask them to be aware of your
mindset. How's that?"
"Would you?"
"Sure. Let it be, I'll take care of it.
Just get your make-up on, for crying out loud."
"Okay. Thanks."
"Just get in there and no thanks are needed!"
I give him a little shove towards the door. He
opens it and ushers me in, and I feel him shudder.
"It's okay," I say quietly. "Hundreds of times
you've felt this way. We all know you. You'll be
wonderful."
"Feech..."
We wait in the hall. The Lobby chatter
reaches us along the smooth walls, some of it
soaked up by carpeting. "Yes? What?"
"I don't... You don't think I'm anti-gay, do
you?"
Not _now_, Daniel. But never mind, there's
still time, if only a minimal amount at best.
"No, of course not. You're just confused and late
for your call."
"I don't think I'd be any happier if Lindy
were a woman instead of the frog she is now. It
shouldn't make any difference."
I don't know quite what to say to that. "Of
course it makes a difference, to you. Something
about it bothers you. But that _that_ bothers you
makes me think you're just working it out on your
own, you're not anti-gay. You just don't want to
be called gay when you're not."
"No, I think I'm a bigot."
"Daniel, _please_ go inside."
"If she weren't male, people wouldn't say
this, they'd just attack me for being a SCAB. I
wonder if I'd even get mad then."
"Dan?"
"Yeah?" His voice is a bit shaky.
"Shut up."
He does.
"Listen to me. I admire you for being
concerned about this. I _hate_ to tell you to
stop talking about it. But isn't Lindy coming to
the show tonight? What are you going to tell her
if you're not on the _stage_? Please bring this
up with me later. Please. I know you have many
gay friends and you're upset with yourself. Many
of those friends are _dressed_ and _made up_ right
now and might have more than one nitpick with your
behavior if you don't get in there _now_."
"Yes."
"Okay?"
He takes a deep breath. "Okay."
"I'll tell Lindy, when I see her, that you're
the bravest man in the cast. Now get in there and
throw yourself on the mercy of Angelo. You okay
with him?"
"Angelo's fine. Yes, thank you. Great.
Okay. I'm going."
"_Good_. Good." I would pat him on the
shoulder, but I fear undoing what I already did
with the massage.
"Good. See you later."
"Yes. Move."
He does, finally. I slide my cane along the
wall and slip into the still unopened audience
space. Eager patrons are socializing happily in
the Lobby, but the empty house is cool and
electric-calm, almost seeming to draw the audience
and cast towards it, some empty well of a
production. I can't hear anything at first, just
the vigorous silence, but then above the sound of
my own shoes moving down the carpeted ramp I can
make out crew members sliding some set piece on
stage. I keep to the side they seem to be
furthest from, and step to the backstage area.
The orchestra members are having a quick pre-show
break to drink something and stand and loosen up.
Behind them are the regular cast members, by now
ideally in their full dress. I can smell the
dusky tang of make-up and now I can again hear
voices.