I remember the first time, walking home from work. I saw the poster. They called themselves Birds of Paradise. For me there was just one bird. He was stretched languidly on the stage floor. His body melting into a pool, a pool of molten flesh, the face of a boy. Eyes widened, almost afraid. Dark hair and brows, his mouth opened slightly. I still heard the sound of broken glass but I bought a ticket for that nights show at the Midas Theatre.
At home I ran a bath in preparation. Put on a slow, seductive blues CD and slipped beneath the bubbles. I wanted to look good but not too obvious. He must tire of painted ladies falling in his path. I practiced what I might say.
“Hi. Olivia. Call me Livi.” Then a laugh at something he said. My head would tip back and a dainty laugh would escape my lips. And how we would meet. I would lose my way looking for the exit; we would stumble across each other. Our eyes locking, we would both know, instinctively. Like animals.
I walked to the threatre, wearing my dark cloak over a white dress. The evening cooling as I strolled beside the river, avoiding the dangerous streets. The first green on spring trees, blossoms in bud. Big boats and small boats, people milling around, dressed up and expectant. What would their evenings bring? I knew what mine would bring. I’d watch him closely all through his set, never taking my grey eyes from him. And then I would disappear into the night. A woman of mystery.
“Good evening, ma’am. Could I see you ticket?”
A stocky man with salt and pepper hair, wearing a suit, leant towards me. I passed him what he asked for.
“Thank you. If you would just follow the lights down the steps. You are in the sixth row from the front.”
“No. There must be some mistake. I bought a ticket in the first row.”
“The numbering can be a little confusing if you haven’t been here before. Independent theatres, you know.”
No, I did not know. Rage flooded me. I made my way to my inadequate seat. And waited. Things would have to proceed more slowly. A rumba rather than a cha cha cha. There were three sets before his. Mostly female dancers dressed in tight fitting flesh coloured gowns. Others in white leotards. Bright lip-sticked mouths but no smiles. Then from centre stage, he was there. Where one minute there had been a gaping chasm, Samsara, the door between life and death, and there he was. The boy.
He led with his upper body, curling and weaving, dressed in white. He slid wantonly to the floor, turning himself seemingly in knots, knots that bind and then unravel.
Later I couldn’t sleep. As I tossed and turned a flickering image, flame like, danced through my conscious mind. The boy in tight white danced and turned until he rolled like a cocooned moth spinning inside my head. Finally before night turned to day, I fell heavily into slumber and dreamt of dark streets lit by moonlight.
When I awoke it was almost lunchtime and I was bathed in sweat. For a moment I couldn’t recall what had happened, although I knew something had. There was a space where something had moved in. Scratching around my thoughts and memories I retrieved him, my dancer, not the other boy. I thanked God I had bought another ticket for tonight’s show. But I had missed work. I heaved my bedding aside, untangled it from my legs, and wrapped a single sheet around me.
“Hello? Is that Simone? Yes, it’s me. Olivia. Yes, I know. I was sleeping. I have the most horrible migrane. Yes. Yes. I should be fine for tomorrow. See you then.”
The office would run along nicely without me, I doubt they would even miss me. I had become so efficient I was invisible. Selling on the phones, role-playing, it came easy to me. Selling advertising space to corporate executives. Perhaps it was me who should be on the stage.
I would go back to work tomorrow but I had to see him again today. His beautiful face, pale with those dark brows. Half moon crescents on pools of ink, his black eyes. Expressionless. Sinewy limbs that seemed liquid.
I opened my wardrobe in search of something to wear. I may be older than the boy but I dress well. Mummy left me her tea dresses from her youth. My sister Rebecca didn’t want them. They were too flimsy for her, she said they lacked substance. I loved them. Dusty pink and cream. Ribbons and silk. Roses and lilies. I chose cream roses on the palest green silk, my ivory court shoes and a cream shawl to wrap around my delicate shoulders.
I would not eat. I wanted to look pale and thin. Besides I had no appetite for food. I ran my bath and picked out golden ear-rings, the sort that dangled. Pretty, glittery, jittery. If my pale grey eyes didn’t hypnotise him maybe my ear-rings would.
Sitting in the front row, old velvet chairs in cherry red, watching those girls sashay across the stage. I had to admit they were rather good. Turning circles in on themselves, throwing pale arms to the sides, east and west. But I was just biding time.
The boy walked onto an empty stage. I stared hard but his eyes didn’t see me, they looked right through me. It was haunting. As if I were a memory, not really here in this room. How dare he ignore me, his biggest fan? Let him dance, let him perform, I’ll throw him pennies and he will move to my tune.
Before I walk home, alone in the darkness, I buy a ticket for my front row seat for the rest of the tour. I didn’t look for the boy’s name on the billing. I didn’t want to know. He belonged to me and I would call him ‘the boy’ forever.
That night I slept well, content in the knowledge that I was in control. I dreamt of doves, blurry against a night sky. The doves cast no shadow. When I awoke the dawn was coming up and I showered and dressed for work. Office Olivia, a well-cut navy suit and a pale lemon silk blouse.
The wonderful thing about a city apartment and a city job is that I walk everywhere. No need for a fuel-guzzling car or parking tickets. Heels snapping on the concrete, the sound of birds perched in an occasional tree and small trucks dropping off deliveries. Beep, beep, beep, the reverse song assaults our ears.
I stop in front of a café. Brightly lit in the yellow glow of early morning with the smell of croissants and bagels, ground coffee. I place my hands on the glass. The smell of scorched rubber and fear. When did I last eat? My mind swims as I enter the café. I order a coffee to go. The dizziness pleases me, it is euphoria. The thought of hot food makes me nauseous.
I stopped in front of a black glass and chrome building and took the lift to the my office. I walked across the blue carpet to my desk.
“Oh, Liv, you can settle this.”
Simone was holding court, Tim and Adam on chairs rather than at her feet.
“What was the first non-native animal introduced into Australia?”
A day away and things hadn’t changed. Simone’s blonde hair was swept up and held by a bejeweled clip. She was looking glamorous and feeling competitive. Long red finger nails, her chin jutting the air precociously.
“Liv? Are you okay?”
I sit down wearing a Mona Lisa smile. Their faces all turn to mine.
“Yes. Why?” I remove the plastic lid and sip my coffee. Will I keep him secret or shall I throw snippets to the poor?
“I don’t know. You look a little odd. Maybe you should have taken another day.”
“I’m fine, good actually.”
Simone’s skillfully plucked eyebrows drew together in a frown. I smile and say nothing. I don’t want to share.
The day dragged, a day in monochrome. Printing machines whirred and buzzed and beeped. Phones trilled melodically. None of it meant anything. No flash, no sparkle, no beauty. Simone was bent over her computer, working hard, adding value. Tim and Adam on the phones, selling things you cannot see. Smiling helps the voice sound happy. I remembered all those bullet points in sales training. Wear a dark suit, don’t wash the car on Sunday and don’t be ordinary. What was this if it wasn’t ordinary?
“Hello my lovely. Nice to see you back. Can I tempt you to your usual?” Matt, the sandwich boy. Toothy and tall.
“No. I don’t think I will today. Thank you.”
“I hope you’re not on a diet, Liv. You’re perfect as you are.”
Perfect? What did he know? Those girls in flesh coloured dresses, willowy with clean lines. No lumps or bumps. Nothing to spoil their silhouettes. Like lines on a page, some straight, others with a graceful curve. They were perfect.
The hum of a busy office blurred the afternoon. Snatched conversation then heads down. The strip lighting constant, denying us the colour changes of natural light. Yellow through to white, then the pink grey of late afternoon. I left before the light faded.
I dressed all in black and twisted my hair into a chignon, standing in front of the mirror, with no make-up. My skin pale and my enormous eyes, delicate silvery lashes. In the partial obscurity I was just a white face suspended. When I sat in the front row, like a girl from another place, he couldn’t fail to notice me.
After six I slipped into the streets, a dark figure moving against a tide of office workers. I felt ghostly, like an aberration walking through the tiny streets of Venice. It is dark and the rain starts, slate coloured clouds blocking out the stars. It reminds me of another time, the reflection of light on rain on tarmac. I swear as my dress soaks up the rain, absorbing it greedily. I reach the theatre and walk through the enormous entranceway. I am dripping like a water feature. I go to the ladies to repair the damage. In the mirror I check my face, now lined with messy tracks of mascara. I look strange, otherworldly. I don’t recognise myself, only the smell of burnt rubber. It won’t let me forget. A sound behind me startles me. The toilet flushes and a girl emerges from the small cubicle.
“Hi. Are you here for the show?”
“Yes.”
“Thought I recognised you. You’re usually in the front row, right?”
I nod dumbly. The girl lights a cigarette.
“Hope you don’t mind. Dancers curse, ciggies. Sadie.” She holds out her free hand and I take it. I forget to let go. I feel awkward but Sadie just smiles warmly. Waiting.
“Olivia. Livi.”
“Who’s your favourite bird of paradise? It’s him, isn’t it? All the girls love him.”
“Do they?”
“Oh, yes. He’s oblivious of course. Mar…”
I put my hands over my ears. I don’t want to hear his name. It would spoil everything.
“Say, are you okay? You look a little odd?” Her hand reaches out to touch me. I pull back and run. Out of the bathroom, into the dark corridors, the opposite way from the auditorium. There are doors everywhere. I try a handle and it opens. I enter and close the door. The room is dark but I know it isn’t empty. It has a muffled quality, as if lined in cotton wool. Something feathery and soft brushes my bare legs. I am in a store room. I dare not turn the light on for fear a sliver of light under the door would give me away.
I must have fallen asleep. I am awoken by voices and light footsteps outside.
“Come on, Penny! We’re on in a minute!”
More footsteps. And voices, indistinguishable words. I wait for the voices and footsteps to subside. I slowly turn the handle and close the door softly behind me. There is no one around. I slip silently down the corridor where there is no noise. A door springs open, a white dressed figure emerges. It’s him.
“Hello. Are you lost?”
His beautiful face, leaning askew.
“No. No. It’s okay. I know where I am.”
“Good. I have to be backstage.” He smiles and brushes past me.
Electricity. Chemistry. Isn’t that what they call it? He is gone and I am in front of his dressing room. I know he wouldn’t mind. I could wait until he finished his performance. A delicious surprise. I open the door and slide into the room.
There is a wooden bench, in front of a mirror. Pots of make-up and a copy of Series Seven chair. It’s purple. I sit. In the mirror I can see a rack of clothes behind me, chrome rails. Every item of clothing is white. I check my appearance. I look pale without makeup. My hair is frizzy from the rain. What must he have thought? I look more hag than harlot. Then I see the photo. I pick it up. It’s him with a girl. A shiny shiny girl. White blonde hair and honey coloured skin. I let the frame slip from my hands, fall to the hard floor. The glass splinters, I hear it. My hot tears run down over lines of mascara and rain drops. It’s time to go home.
Outside it is dark but there is a beautiful moon shining silver on the pathway. I wander near the river where the chatter of people having dinner or drinks after work fills my ears with noise and my insides with loneliness. It doesn’t seem fair. I look at their faces. They are interested in each other, laughing together. I feel like an extra in my own life. I don’t even have centre stage in that production. The moon as a spotlight doesn’t shine on me.
It might have been three or four days, maybe a week. Or it could have been moments later, I hear pounding on my door. Someone has slipped through the security system. Is it at the door or is it in my head? I get up from the bed and pull a robe from the back of the door. Walk, with a light head, in the direction of the noise. I pick up the entry phone.
“Livi, it’s me. For Gods sake let me in!”
Rebecca. I buzz her in, the door opens and she spills into the room. All silk blouse and sensible shoes. My sister, the only woman I know who still dresses up to come into town.
“Oh Livi! You look positively awful. You really do. Are you going to faint?”
My head speeds up, spinning and spinning. I feel I could spin into another dimension. I am frightened and then there is blackness.
I am sitting in an armchair, the red one, and the light from the windows is coming in shafts. I can’t see the room. It is bleached of colour. I can hear a sound from the kitchen. Water on glass.
“Here. Drink this.”
Ah, yes. Rebecca. “What is it?”
“Just water.”
My throat feels so dry, as does my mouth. I take small sips from the glass.
“What are you doing here?”
Rebecca looks as if she might burst into tears. Has somebody died? Again?
“Simone rang me. You haven’t been in work for days and she couldn’t get an answer here.”
“I was just sleeping.” I felt sleepy again. My eyes began to close.
“No, Livi. We need to talk.”
Rebecca takes my hand. “I know it’s been hard. But its been months now and… I think you ought to come home with me, for a while.”
“What about my job?”
“Simone suggested it actually. There’s no problem there. She said you should take as long as you need.”
“As long as I need to what?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Livi.” A hand flies to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
She kneels, in front of me, takes my hands in hers.
“Livi. It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could do.”
Ah, yes, the accident. I haven’t thought about that since… Shards of glass inside me. Splintering, sharp, that’s what pain is. The rain, it was late. I was driving back from shopping. I was late. The street lamps were shining on the wet roads. There’s no one around. But then. He was dressed in grey with his hood pulled over his head. He stumbled out into the road, he was holding something. I put the brakes on. Thud. He rolled across the bonnet. I got out of the car. There was screaming. The boy was laying face down, hot greasy chips all over the road. There was no blood, just screaming, who was screaming. Then I realised. It was me.
I look down. Rebecca is still there. She is crying. I take a deep breath, slowly the light rises, the lines aren’t as blurred, my focus regains. The walls I’d painted midnight blue, my Louis Ghost dining chairs, transparent, barely there. The Persian rug under my feet, my feet feel like ice. And Rebecca. Her face close to mine. Where have I been? What have I been doing? The boy was real?
“I want to stay here, Rebecca. I’ll be fine.”
She doesn’t look sure.
“Thank you so much for coming. There are some things I need to face. We’ll have that lunch though. I’d really like that.”
Later. After Rebecca has left and I have caught my breath, I know what I need to do. I take an old ashtray from the back of a kitchen cupboard and place the unused tickets for The Birds of Paradise tour inside. Using a lighter that someone left here, I set fire to them. Watching the flicker of orange and red like a dance itself. And out of the flames I can almost see the boy emerge as fire turns to ashes and he disappears forever.
