girl. We have to save the show tonight or not at all.’
My arms and legs were trembling so much that I could barely stand up when Madame Tarasova needed to take in my skirt. I still didn’t believe what Monsieur Dargent wanted me to do.
The stage bell rang. ‘Ten minutes until show time,’ Vera called out.
Madame Tarasova fitted my wig and Vera pinned it in place. I stared at myself in the mirror. My face was alive with colour: my eyes had green arches over them and my lips were painted ruby red. My eyelashes were so stiff with mascara they looked like twin centipedes.
‘Now,’ said Monsieur Dargent, leaning towards me, ‘when I give you the signal, I want you to appear out of the left wing and dance and sing on the mountain plateau exactly as you did in the wardrobe area the other night. I want you to mimic the chorus girls. You are going to be our comedian.’
I swallowed but the lump in my throat didn’t disappear.
The chorus girls lined up on the stairs, waiting for their cue to go on stage. The pre-show music was a tinny carnival tune with accordions and guitars that put my nerves on tenterhooks. Madame Tarasova and Vera led me to the left wing. The place where I had viewed the show for the first time had been cleared out and there were some wooden steps leading up to the stage and out onto the plateau where I was supposed to dance.
‘Wait at the top of the stairs,’ said Madame Tarasova, giving my wig a last brush. ‘Good luck!’ The tone of her voice and the way she patted my shoulder made me feel as if I were about to be fed to lions. Of course I was doing what every performer dreads, although I had no idea what to call it then. I was going on cold.
I climbed the stairs and waited on the top step for the next signal. I cast my eye over the backdrop of smoking volcanoes and low-slung clouds. Below me, where the chorus girls were to dance, rubber palm trees and a water tank suggested a blue lagoon. Monsieur Dargent appeared in the wing opposite. The way he was chewing his bottom lip and fingering the hair at the back of his head did not inspire my confidence.
The curtains opened. The spotlights flicked on. A drum roll thundered through the hall and the orchestra burst into the first act’s theme song. The girls rushed onto the stage.
‘Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!’
My throat tightened. Beads of sweat sprang up on my lip, but I was too scared to wipe them away in case I smeared my make-up. Any desire I’d had to work in the theatre drained away from me. The girls danced around the lagoon, swinging their hips. Claudine and Marie strummed ukuleles. The situation was surreal. Monsieur Dargent didn’t even know my name, but the success of the evening now depended on me. Only a short while ago I had been worrying about my rent, now I was about to appear on stage for the first time in my life, with coconuts for breasts and a wig that was in danger of slipping from my head. Many of the seats in the audience were empty, but enough were occupied to make me shiver. The faces loomed at me out of the dark. I realised that the girls were on the last line before the chorus and Monsieur Dargent was signalling to me. ‘Now!’ he mouthed.
I lifted my trembling leg to step onto the platform and ended up stumbling onto the stage. The brightness of the lights was a shock. I stood there, dazed, unsure of what I should do.
A man with a coarse voice roared with laughter. A woman cackled. My skin smouldered. I was sure my face was glowing. Another man joined in the laughter, but his voice held something besides mockery. Anticipation? Somehow that laugh loosened me and woke me from my stupor. ‘Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!’ I sang in a warbling voice that mimicked the chorus girls. At first I wasn’t sure the voice was mine; it carried itself past the orchestra pit and echoed back to me, much fuller than the thin voices of the other girls. More people laughed and some started to clap. ‘Aloha, Mademoiselle!’ someone
My arms and legs were trembling so much that I could barely stand up when Madame Tarasova needed to take in my skirt. I still didn’t believe what Monsieur Dargent wanted me to do.
The stage bell rang. ‘Ten minutes until show time,’ Vera called out.
Madame Tarasova fitted my wig and Vera pinned it in place. I stared at myself in the mirror. My face was alive with colour: my eyes had green arches over them and my lips were painted ruby red. My eyelashes were so stiff with mascara they looked like twin centipedes.
‘Now,’ said Monsieur Dargent, leaning towards me, ‘when I give you the signal, I want you to appear out of the left wing and dance and sing on the mountain plateau exactly as you did in the wardrobe area the other night. I want you to mimic the chorus girls. You are going to be our comedian.’
I swallowed but the lump in my throat didn’t disappear.
The chorus girls lined up on the stairs, waiting for their cue to go on stage. The pre-show music was a tinny carnival tune with accordions and guitars that put my nerves on tenterhooks. Madame Tarasova and Vera led me to the left wing. The place where I had viewed the show for the first time had been cleared out and there were some wooden steps leading up to the stage and out onto the plateau where I was supposed to dance.
‘Wait at the top of the stairs,’ said Madame Tarasova, giving my wig a last brush. ‘Good luck!’ The tone of her voice and the way she patted my shoulder made me feel as if I were about to be fed to lions. Of course I was doing what every performer dreads, although I had no idea what to call it then. I was going on cold.
I climbed the stairs and waited on the top step for the next signal. I cast my eye over the backdrop of smoking volcanoes and low-slung clouds. Below me, where the chorus girls were to dance, rubber palm trees and a water tank suggested a blue lagoon. Monsieur Dargent appeared in the wing opposite. The way he was chewing his bottom lip and fingering the hair at the back of his head did not inspire my confidence.
The curtains opened. The spotlights flicked on. A drum roll thundered through the hall and the orchestra burst into the first act’s theme song. The girls rushed onto the stage.
‘Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!’
My throat tightened. Beads of sweat sprang up on my lip, but I was too scared to wipe them away in case I smeared my make-up. Any desire I’d had to work in the theatre drained away from me. The girls danced around the lagoon, swinging their hips. Claudine and Marie strummed ukuleles. The situation was surreal. Monsieur Dargent didn’t even know my name, but the success of the evening now depended on me. Only a short while ago I had been worrying about my rent, now I was about to appear on stage for the first time in my life, with coconuts for breasts and a wig that was in danger of slipping from my head. Many of the seats in the audience were empty, but enough were occupied to make me shiver. The faces loomed at me out of the dark. I realised that the girls were on the last line before the chorus and Monsieur Dargent was signalling to me. ‘Now!’ he mouthed.
I lifted my trembling leg to step onto the platform and ended up stumbling onto the stage. The brightness of the lights was a shock. I stood there, dazed, unsure of what I should do.
A man with a coarse voice roared with laughter. A woman cackled. My skin smouldered. I was sure my face was glowing. Another man joined in the laughter, but his voice held something besides mockery. Anticipation? Somehow that laugh loosened me and woke me from my stupor. ‘Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!’ I sang in a warbling voice that mimicked the chorus girls. At first I wasn’t sure the voice was mine; it carried itself past the orchestra pit and echoed back to me, much fuller than the thin voices of the other girls. More people laughed and some started to clap. ‘Aloha, Mademoiselle!’ someone
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