Last New Year’s Eve
My mother was center stage, right there in the spotlight, dressed as Queen Clytemnestra. It was her first role and her favorite, wife of King Agamemnon from the play by Aeschylus, the first play I ever saw, in a dark, smoke-filled shanty theatre in Paris. She wore that same dress, screaming red. A prop sword in one hand, the other pulling back the cotton head of our mascot Tragos, tragedy my friend, that janitor in drag.
“Troy has fallen!”
The crowd cheered on like Spartan whores, like clapping seals and Sirens, whistling shame.
Mother held the sword aloft to the sound of more applause, then she let it fall; and silent it fell soft along the seams of that poor mascot’s head. And off it came, the crowd roared on, applauding as it ran bloodless down, down, down, down, off the stage into the crowd. A thespian in a black mask scooped it up, hoisted it into the air, and shouted:
“Happy new year!”
“Happy new year!”
The bloodless sacrifice complete, the Gods appeased, the janitor in the buffoonish goat-suit was hurried off the stage. He stumbled into the crowd to retrieve his head. After a brief scuffle with some drunk asshole in the front row, it was returned to him. Mother raised her hand to bring the crowd to silence again, ever the conductor, a virtuoso playing their preferred instrument: a crowd of two hundred at capacity, and more if you didn’t mind standing or sitting in an aisle, or on the floor.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming, first of all,” mother said. “It’s a pleasure and a privilege, truly, to see you all tonight, to have such support from the community and our friends, and our family. So, on behalf of everyone here at the La petite illusion, the Players and the Faces, thank you making this year’s Christmas play such a success. And remember, when you see the stage light come on…” a large, bright light flickered into life above the stage. “When you see that light, it’ll ten minutes until midnight. So, if you’re interested in joining us for the bonfire, make sure to meet us at stage door left when you see the light. Now, until then, enjoy the music! Enjoy the wine! I’ll see you all at midnight!”
More applause. She smiled, and smiling walked away, waving with a rigid, cupped hand like an aged beauty Queen, forever a rose, a rose forever to fade but never wilt; mother would have to be buried alive. The house band, just four college kids on holiday, had gathered in front of the drawn curtains and began to set up. Two young men and two guitars with nylon strings, la-la-la-la-la. A digital grand that clanged for a young lady, about my age or thereabouts, a lovely piano, upright on rolling wheels, one violinist, Chinese and demure, very thin and sexy.
Behind the curtain was a softer symphony, unheard, drowned by the cheerful holiday music mixed with a mumbling crowd of Faces and masked patrons, the soft symphony in silence behind the scenes, , drowned out by this cheerful and familiar holiday music, a chorus of shuffling feet.
And Jack Cade said it best:
I have thought upon it, it shall be so.
Away, burn
all the records of the realm:
my mouth shall be the parliament of England.
“Spare none,” he said.
And none were spared.
Not one chair, nor table cloth, everything had to burn, just painted kindling, a great buffet by poor Camille, a discount muse but worth each Franc.
With our audience and patrons, and anyone who’d wandered in for a drink or a show, everyone who gathered for this show, playing the voyeur, all costumed and masked, to burn those props—that was the show, that was the point. Camille was one of the few staff members I knew personally; a young girl and very pretty, kind of dim and shy, she sat on the flyloft above the stage, suspended from the rafters with her feet dangling off. The rest were kept in costume while at work, as per mother’s instruction.
The workers without masks were Faces in theatre lingo, always behind the stage or in front, never on it, forever locked in one poor role, confined by their own skin. The rest, the actors and performers and staff, save for me and Lain and Camille, they were Abstracts, they were character, like that poor goat Tragedy; they were Players, and as such were never given, nor did they give, real names, and were never to be referred to as such. Referring to them by their character names, mother told me, helped their performances. It probably gave them acute impostor syndrome too, but that didn’t matter, not as long as the reviews were good. Tragedy joined us at the bar.
“Good evening, Tragos,” said Lain.
“Nice to see you, Charles,” said Tragos. They shook hands warmly.
“You know, Robert,” said Lain, “I think you’re the only person I know who dies for a living.”
He smiled.
“I had no idea why Madame Nanty wanted me to dress like this, much less pretend to cut my damn head off. You know how I found out? My mom was born in Athens, not far from where that shit started, an offering to the Gods. What an offering!”
We all laughed.
“Yeah,” I said, looking over to Lain. “You know, when theatre began, it was basically a cult, a boy’s only club, all based around a ritual celebration. It was a cult, a cult of Dionysus, God of fertility and wine.”
“To Dionysus!” said Robert.
“To fertility and wine!” Lain said.
“They sacrificed real animals before the start of every play,” I said. “To honor the Gods, naturally. Theatres were outside back them, you know, you do what you have to do.” And, at the start of each performance, they sacrificed a goat to honor the Gods. Theatres were outside then; you did what you had to do.”
“And we just sacrifice our dignity,” said Lain.
“We’d probably do the same, if we had to,” I said. “Think about what we go through already, sacrificing our dignity to critics, starving ourselves to fit in costumes to be scrutinized and judged by out of shape assholes. Gods are easy, critics are not won so easily, and if sacrificing a goat got us a better write up, a better review in nouvelles de divertissement, we’d have a farm behind the fucking theatre.”
Lain laughed, “No expense, no goat, no mercy!”
“Lance!” I called, turning away. Lain was explaining his new play to Robert.
There were three bartenders on staff, all well dressed; tuxedos and simplistic masks. Lance was the only Face at the bar. He was very prim, very proper, and neat, very neat, and too much so. At least for me. I imagined that his father beat him. He approached the end of the bar where we were sitting:
“Yes, mademoiselle?”
“You see that guy in the goat costume?” I asked.
Lance nodded, “Yes, mademoiselle.”
“I want you to take him the Cote Chalonnaise,” I gestured toward the underside of the opposing cabinet. “And, yeah, that one. And, grab the green—that one, yes! the Macon. And get him a couple of decent glasses, tall.”
“Who am I to say it is from?”
“It’s ‘whom’!” Lain shouted at him. “Fucking idiot!”
“Tell him it is from the Queen,” I said, talking over Lain.
“If the person is the subject of the sentence, you say ‘whom’…”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” Lance said, never breaking character. And he kept on. And on.
After retrieving the bottles and two tall, slender glasses, Lance handed them to Robert.
“And you shouldn’t end a sentence with ‘from.’ Because…”
The Cote Chalonnaise was especially nice, and the dusty bottle was a sure way to tweak the nipples of a connoisseur.
“Prepositions are there to show the relationship between the noun and the pronoun…”
Robert took the bottles one by one, and lovingly, then the glasses. He sat them down and read the dusty labels.
“From whom? Well, to whom shall I say? That sounds bad, whom shall I say? No…”
“Compliments of the Queen,” said Lance.
He was without costume finally, in a comfortable button up shirt. The man looking back at me was a stranger then, somehow less real without his mask.”
“It’s from mother!” I said. “She forgot to give it to you on Christmas.”
“You’re just a noun, you know. You’re a diminutive little noun, unworthy of superlative or adverb…”
“Lain, shut the fuck up!” I said. “English isn’t his first language!”
“It’s not mine either!”
“Merci,” Robert said. “My wife is going to go crazy when she sees the year on this Chalonnaise.”
“Thank you Robert!” I said. “We’re very grateful to have you here!”
“We all know who the Queen is,” he said. He smiled, bid us a very good evening, and walked away, with Tragedy dissolving into just another member of the unnamed supporting cast.
I called for Lance again. He approached after serving to middle-aged ladies dressed like slutty angels.
“Two fingers of bourbon for me,” I said, “and take Lain one of his pussy drinks.”
“Such as?” he asked.
“Something fruity,” I said. “A white Russian, perhaps? Yes, that’ll do. Thanks, Lance.”
He returned a moment later with our orders.
“Two fingers of Jim for mademoiselle,” said Lance, “and a white Russian for Monsieur Pinon.”
“That’s racist,” said Lain.
I sat my glass on a square napkin, pretending not to notice Lance’s number scribbled on it in hurried, purple penstrokes. Painfully obvious and Lain caught a glimpse when I passed him his drink. He didn’t say a word, but I saw it in his eyes, a small defeat. He took a generous sip from his glass.
“Anything else?” asked Lance.
“Not now,” I said. “Now, fuck off.”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he said. He returned to serving the other costumers. I turned to Lain.
“Cheers, Monsieur Pinon!” I said. He smilled despite himself. I raised my glass.
“Cheers, Mademoiselle Brisbois!” said Lain, raising his The glasses clinked together and we both finished our drinks in one long, profane gulp.
We chatted between shots, taking in the sights and sounds, the live band playing merry music, the smell of liquor and cheap perfume in the air, small clouds of cigarette smoke swirling under low-hanging, red-tinted spiderlamps. The audience was alive with mirth and conversation, the social butterflies buzzing, deaf to the fools with nets behind them. Lain was doing the same: silently judging everyone, trying to guess who those people were, beneath the mask, what kind of animals were they without those feathers? Or was there nothing but feathers, and nothing under the mask but another one, or a smooth face, smooth as a cue ball and just as featureless and memorable.
“Here’s to The Little Illusion,” Lain. He held up his empty shot glass. I raised mine. They clinked together with a hollow clink! as we tossed back the drink that wasn’t there.
“Best of the night!” said Lain.
“Here’s to it,” I said.
The hollow sound the glasses made when they clinked together somehow got through: when you’re 5’4”, don’t match drinks with a guy over 6 feet tall. Especially not a Russian.
“I hope you’re being careful,” a far-off, snobbish voice said. It was her superpower, judgment, arising for the perfect moment from the darkness. I straightened my back and turned my bloodshot eyes back to white. A strange talent, I’d discovered it in drama school.
“Tell her, Lain,” she said, “If she’s going to do Anna again this year at the Medea, she needs to watch her weight.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to kill myself and be fat,” I said.
Lain laughed, and mother turned to him and smiled, a broad and bright smile. It was her way of saying, you’re funny, but not quite funny enough to earn my laughter. A smile, and that’s it, you fucking peasant.
“Bonne soirée, Charles,” she said. “Comment çava?”
“Il est une merveilleuse nuit putain,” he said. “Pardon my French.”
She smiled.
“Such a clever boy,” she said. “You need to talk Renette into growing her hair back out so she can keep getting leading roles.”
“You see,” Lain said. “That’s the problem. You can’t negotiate with fire.”
“But she had such lovely hair.”
“Renette could get any role in Paris if she were bald.”
“I know you love her.”
“Everybody loves Renette,” said Lain. “Except Renette, of course.”
Mother smiled again.
“Take care of her, Lain,” she said. “I’ll see you later. Renette, behave yourself! I don’t want to find you under the bar!”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I’m going to meet with a new director,” she said. “A potential director, that is. I saw a really good production of his last week and got his contact information from the Exchange. So, I’m going to show him around, show him how we do things here. Hopefully we can get him on board and do something really, truly new. I’ll see you in a bit.”
She leaned in and kissed Lain and both sides of his cheek, and then me.
“I love you two,” she said.
“See you then,” I said. “Remember: don’t leave your drinks attended around Lianne. Just saying.”
“We love you too, Madame.”
She smiled again. Fucking peasant.
“Make her behave, Lain,” she said. “Don’t let her drink too much.”
“Remember King Lear,” said Lain. “‘Get not between a dragon and its wrath’? It’s like that with her.”
“Good lad,” she said and turned to walk away. “Good evening, Charles.”
He fucking hated being called Charles.
“Good evening, Mme. Nanty!” Lain called.
She thrust a hand into the air and waved without turning round. In mere moments she had disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. Lain followed her through the crowd; excellent vision, somehow keeping track of her. The red, of course. The Russian blood.
“That’s racist.”
He nudged my shoulder.
“Who is that?” he asked. “Look, right over there.”
He nudged my shoulder.
“What?”
“Who’s that?” he asked. “Look, right there. The guy with the mask.” He gestured across the gallery, lit only by sparse dining table candles. I followed his pointed finger, bouncing from one masked face to another.
“Are you fucking with me?” I asked. “Everywhere is over there!”
It didn’t take me long to catch a glimpse of the man. He stood out somehow, my mother very animated, holding his hands in hers and smiling broadly. It was the mask, a damn grotesque but lovely in that twisted way, lovely in the way a flower growing from a boot might be. It was a faded white, an ivory color, the color of Time and dust, snowflakes and cigarette ash. The nose was very prominent, about nine inches give or take, hanging from his face but not too sharp. Grotesque, sure, but not horrific. The rest of his clothes were black, save for his cuffs, both white with a black button in.
“I hope we can get a good director here,” said Lain.
I nodded.
“As fun as it is to do all those Shakespeare plays,” he said. “I didn’t come to France to do the same shit they do off-Broadway in New York.”
“Why the fuck did you come to France, again?”
“For you,” he said. “You know that.”
I smiled, turning to look toward the upper crosswalk again where mother had stood with the strange little man and his Pinocchio mask. They were gone. I scanned the crowd to no avail, the liquor making itself known to us both.
I sat my glass down and Lain followed. Lance hurried over to collect, thanking me profusely for a €50 tip. We walked from the bar, humming together, our heart beats keeping tempo; I was stumbling drunk, my arm around Alain. He smelled like old books, like a fine mahogany desk. He kept me up-right somehow. We weaved in between one patron after another and finally found mother and my little sister Lianne at the exit, precious Lee, and more were gathering as the green light above the stage had come on. Lianne said hello to Lain and he knelt and took her little hand into his and kissed it, saying,
“Madame shook her hand, “Madame.” She smiled a toothy smile, her two front teeth missing.
They began to gather in ever larger groups in front of us, what was left of my family. And Lain, of course. Alain. It was a large crowd. Many were as drunk as we were but all were polite, well poised and surprisingly proper for a French mob in Friday voyeur masks.
“Alright,” mother said. “Hey, hey!”
She whistled, a whistle so loud it hurt. “Listen!”
Get not between a dragon and its wrath.
Everyone went quiet quickly.
“Now, we’re all here to have fun, but be careful and don’t get too close to the fire. And once it gets started, please stay behind the crossguards. One simple rule: if it’s taller than you are, don’t get near it! That goes for you too Lain!”
Everybody laughed.
HAHAHA.
“Okay? Great! Now, follow me.”
She flung the swinging doors open, outward into a cold night, the crowd spilling out in single file behind us. And there we were, scene of the crime. I imagined my grandfather’s ghost still walking through those ruins, never to rest, looking for his satin curtains with the dancing plague and grandma on piano. After everyone had gathered in front of the pile of painted sets and props, the kind we couldn’t use anyway since the matte painting was by then damaged by the stage light’s heat and fading, mother opened the easily negotiable barrier between the scenic kindling, carrying a single candle. She struck a match and lit it. She spoke:
“50 years ago, during the German occupation of France, German soldiers burned this theatre down,” she said.
Print the myth.
“When the war ended, my grandmother raised enough money from the public to rebuild this theatre, with the help of patrons and friends just like you. And over the next half century it has become our home and a part of our culture. As it passed to me when mother died, it will pass to my daughter Renette when I’m gone, and to her children then…”
Everybody looked at me and Lain. Lain put his arms around me and smiled, pulling me closer to him with one hand and holding the other, interlocking our fingers. I hugged him back and smiled. I smiled despite myself, turning a very self conscious shade of red. A chameleon cannot always control its transformations.
“And so, to celebrate our family’s tradition and our friends and patrons, it is our tradition here at La petite illusion, to burn these sets ourselves. We do this to wash away the success and pain of yesterday and start anew. We do this to symbolize our determination and rebirth. We do this because it takes more than fire to kill the French spirit…”
Mother passed the crossguard and knelt, the fire passed into the stream and flared up with a whoosh that made the gathered crowd gasp and then clap enthusiastically. And we followed her, me first, then Lain with Lee, hold her hand. The rest tip-toed near the edge of the mountain of rubbish, snickering as they razed the castle to the ground, Castle of the King, poor Lear, you poor bastard.
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp.
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel.
Thy will be done.
And so went pomp, and physic too, and then the throne and every stone, each and every brick, every single inch unto its ruin. That was our Thanksgiving, uniting us in a heathen’s Sabbath, each patron with a little colored candle, blue or white or red, just for us and not far off, just up there, just up above, was an old Watchtower deserted nowm, once a lighthouse—there were no ships no more, no more below at Le corniche, there were no ships. The fire grew ever larger as the candles fell, one after another, the line moving single file, with great caution, and with greater caution still until no longer approaching; it could feed itself.
The countdown began as “Dix!” rang out in a woman’s voice and the great trois coleur, a descending ball along a track and brightly lit, electroc-neon blue-white-red and falling with each descending number;
“Dix,” echoed back, the ball was falling and all were counting:
Neuf!
Huit!
Sept!
Six!
Sinq!
The fireworks went off in the sky, bursting into those patriotic colors, I pulled Lain close to me and put my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes, the fire calming and warming me.
Quatre!
Trois!
Deux!
The flashing lights of the trois coleur solidified as it came to a rest at the base, a base from which it would not rise for another year, next year’s New Year’s Eve, and all were clapping, hugging one another as the fireworks increased in brightness, so bright I could see the whiter whites with my eyes closed, the New Year ringing out through the French countryside.
And all together:
Un!
“Happy new year!”
And those happy people, young and old, all in great cheer and happy, thrilled by the coming year and its promise. I’d never see them again, most of them, and not without a mask. If anyone who stood there then showed up the year to follow, a year from where we stood that night, Lain and I, watching the fire grow and warm inside. One year from a curtain call for most, and finally they’d get the spotlight, center stage, never to see roses, and a shame it is for all to only get your roses when you fall, nor read the many rave reviews, a two-star epitaph on a five-star grave.
<– Return to Prologue | Go to Chapter 2 –>
brandon the writer | author & staff writer for sir swag 