She shrugs. “I got bored during the third-act reveal. Did he really talk that much? I don’t remember.”
“Who remembers? It was ages ago,” I say, to avoid admitting that yes, of course I do.
I remember everything.
We all might have avoided the reminder, were it not for the highly publicized premiere of a brand-new play, one entitledMy Home the Playhouse—an anonymously penned script that supposedly washed up in the mail of a producer. A “brilliant new show based on the beloved myth of the Playhouse and its Players,” according to the marquee outside.
“The script sang with a sort of enchantment,” the director writes in the opening note of the playbill. I narrow my eyes and turn the page to the next line, where he jokingly adds, “Some magic perhaps akin to what we imagine the Players themselves might have had.”
Admittedly, none of our egos could resist when word of the premiere circulated. Though I’m shocked none of us got kicked out after a certainsomeonethrew a tantrum over nothing but balcony seats being available.
“Fucking nosebleeds, I tell you,” Titus says at my right. “They need a bigger theatre. How many do you think this place seats? Two thousand?” He drinks deeply from the flimsy plastic mug of wine he picked up during intermission—he keeps complaining about the cheap plastic and cheaper alcohol, but he went back for seconds and thirds anyway. “Tiny crowd, I say.”
I let my eyes sweep the theatre. The house is packed—I squint, searching for an empty seat—but I suppose he’s right. It doesn’t hold a fraction of the Playhouse’s capacity.
The group of lanky crew members clothed in black who manually controlled Nyxene—a unique invention of wires and lights I can’t seem to work out the magical mechanics of—shyly make their way across stage next.
In spite of myself, I shudder.
The actress in the role of the Prop Master bows next, receiving shockingly enthusiastic applause. The actor in the role of Galen Hesper follows. I’m sure he did a fine job. I excused myself to the restroom during most of his scenes.
The Players, one by one, bow next, and something about the sight makes my chest tighten.
The music changes, churning with long, dark chords that I personally think feel like overkill, but who am I to say.
Then he enters—a man,just a regular man, I remind myself. A man with white hair and a pristine suit. They forgot the rectangular glasses. The audience roars its approval of a villain well played as he takes his bow and joins the rest of the cast.
The music shifts again, swells into the familiar overture from the beginning. A hush falls over the crowd as anticipation thickens the air.
At last, the stars of the show emerge from behind the curtain, and the audience springs to their feet as they stride downstage.
The leading man bows first, his face obscured by far too much gold paint. They really went overboard with that. Beneath it, though, the actor doesn’t look much likehimat all. None of them ever do. I’ve seen hundreds of his favorite roles portrayed over the years, stories we must have performed thousands of times onstage together. But I’ve never seen his face since that day.
I’ve searched, though, wandering the halls of theatres, sifting through old stories, peering into the shadows behind spotlights, wondering if I’ll catch a glimpse. Sometimes I think I do—I hear a familiar laugh flitting between the notes of a favorite song, or a shared joke nestled in the lines of a forgotten play. I notice the slightest scent of hyacinth in an abandoned dressing room.
Which I’d still argue is a better use of my time than starting wild rumors that saying the name of a cursed tragedy onstage hails ill fortune. And then hurling aforementioned ill fortune at the performance if someone does.
Unlike a certain castmate to my right.
The leading actor smiles brightly and takes a dramatic step back, one arm out to—
I don’t know if she looks like me. I can’t remember my face all that well; I’m not even confident I put it back on right for tonight. I had so little time to get used to it, to memorize its lines, its details.
Some part of me misses it still. Maybe some part of me even misses the set pieces painted to look like marble, already rising back into the fly loft. Misses the comforts of my old bed, the fireplace in my dressing room—alight with artificial bulbs for fire safety in this rendition. It’s a miracle none of us burned down the Playhouse by accident before we did it on purpose.
The actress bows and gestures generously back to her costar, who offers a nod of gratitude.
As a unit, the cast waves to the orchestra who accompanied the performance with heavy drumbeats during the bloody finale. Next, they gesture to the crew who executed marvelous feats of sugar glass for the shattering mirrors in the Greenroom and set changes so smooth, I’m shocked humans do them without magic.
All too soon, it’s over, and we’re filing out of our little red seats, spilling into an overly crowded lobby. Though it takes a half hour of convincing Parrish to go return the dagger she thieved back to the prop room so we can leave, and the lobby is all but empty by the time she acquiesces—and subsequently returns with several stolen anklets instead.
“The show made me miss mine,” she pouts on the way out.
“Coming?” Arius asks as I linger at the will-call window.
“Right behind you,” I answer, but I hesitate as the last of our group vanishes through the exit, vehemently arguing over portrayals of themselves and who was better-looking.
Alone, I take in the lobby—a modern space built more for practicality than opulent beauty. Its plain block staircases don’t look anything like the spiral steps I used to climb to my dressing room. The wired iridescent lights on the ceiling don’t carry the same warmth of the Playhouse’s glowing lanterns and golden candelabras. There are no painted portraits of us lining its corridors—those have been replaced by printed posters lined in plastic, advertisements of this show and others thought fictional.
