4. Ghost of the Cabaret (3)
4. Ghost of the Cabaret (3)
The next day, we finished an early lunch and left the hotel.
As befitted a first-class establishment, a coachman in a sober suit was always waiting in the lobby.
"Where shall I take you today, sir?"
It was the same coachman who had driven Anais and me the day before.
"The Rose Windmill, please."
He gave a polite nod and opened the carriage door.
"Are you going to see a performance, by any chance?"
"Yes."
"Shall I head straight there, or would you prefer to time our arrival for the start of the show? Depending on the hour, I could take you by some of Rouge's other landmarks."
Now this was what you expected from a top hotel.
Every little consideration was excellent.
It saved you from the idiocy of arriving at the theater early and wasting time standing around.
I threw a questioning glance at Ella.
She shook her head.
"It's fine. We're not just here to see the show, are we? This is where the preliminary round will be held. Getting there early and getting a feel for the seats, the hall, the atmosphere — that's a good idea."
The coachman said it would take about twenty minutes to arrive.
"This is incredibly comfortable."
The hotel carriage was a thing of luxury compared to the traveling wagon we normally used — the ride quality wasn't even in the same league.
She settled into her seat, shifting her weight this way and that.
Each time she did, the beige fabric of her dress stirred with her.
I was used to seeing her in that long red tailcoat with the golden epaulettes, worn like a duster everywhere she went.
This was the first time I had ever seen her in ordinary clothes.
"What are you staring at?"
"I didn't know you owned a dress like that, Miss Ella."
At my words she stammered out an excuse, the words tumbling over themselves.
"This is... well, I mean, I couldn't exactly show up at someone else's theater wearing my ringmaster's uniform. It draws too much attention. I thought it would be disrespectful, as a member of the audience. I'd be walking around advertising 'Hey, we're competing in the Circus Grand Prix.' And... I-I actually don't like wearing this kind of thing either! Even if it looks weird, just... just deal with it."
I burst out laughing.
Weird?
"It suits you perfectly."
"Hmph. As if something like this..."
Ella turned her gaze out the window.
Her face had flushed redder than before.
I felt a little awkward.
That compliment hadn't been a scheme to raise her Affection level.
It had been genuine.
Seeing her in a simple dress, I finally — unmistakably — realized she was a girl of sixteen.
"It looks like Miss Yvonne is the lead today."
When the Rose Windmill came into distant view, the coachman pointed at the signboard and spoke.
In the game, the cabaret's sign had been packed with lurid illustrations and suggestive phrases.
Now, perhaps because it was still daytime, the billboard displayed an image of today's performance.
The central figure, drawn largest, was a woman with red hair in a gown like a princess.
"Is she a famous actress?"
"Of course. I doubt there's a soul in this city who doesn't know Miss Yvonne. She's famous enough to be called 'the Flower of Rouge.'"
Yvonne?
A name I'd never heard before. She hadn't appeared in the game.
But that nickname — I had heard of that.
The Flower of Rouge.
Only, the person I knew by that title was someone else.
"Is there a singer or actress here named Shayla? She'd be in her mid-teens about now, I think."
"Shayla? Hmm, the Rose Windmill does have a few actresses around that age, but I'm not sure."
So she wasn't famous yet.
Shayla, 'the Flower of Rouge.'
Four and a half years from now, she would be going by that name.
The carriage dropped us off in front of the Rose Windmill and departed.
We had two hours until the performance.
Before going inside, we circled around the theater.
"It certainly is big. Even in Vegas, there were only one or two theaters this size."
I nodded at her words.
The cabaret building was larger than most multiplex malls I had seen back in the real world.
"Since they focus on nighttime shows, the lighting design is all about projecting the interior light outward rather than bringing outside light in. That's clever. At night, this building practically glows like a lighthouse. You couldn't miss it. They're drawing customers just with the look of the building."
Ella practically skipped along, now ahead of me, now falling back, meticulously examining the theater's exterior.
She was humming to herself — clearly in a good mood.
[Ella's Affection level has increased by 1. Current Affection level: 17 (Next Reward: Affection level 30)]
Maybe I should bring her to places like this more often.
Performances were her absolute weakness.
Raising her Affection level might actually be easier than I thought.
By the time we'd made a full circuit and returned to the entrance, the atmosphere had notably changed.
The scattered crowd had converged into one dense cluster.
- My sister, who has lost her smile.
- Look upon me and call back that spring day once more.
A man stood on a low platform, singing.
That face, that voice.
I recognized him instantly.
It was Paris, the actor you could call the Rose Windmill's marquee star.
But what was that gentleman doing singing out here?
"Agarape."
Ella said it in a flat voice.
"Agarape? What's that?"
"...Sometimes your ignorance actually startles me. Are you really a circus troupe leader? Agarape is a method often used in musical performances. You give the audience a taste of the songs from the show in front of the theater. A confession scene from a romance, a pledge of revenge from a vengeance drama — that kind of thing. It can draw in people who hadn't planned to see the show, and stir up anticipation in the ones who are already waiting. They usually pick songs like that."
"Ah, I see."
"Normally it's done by a lower-ranked actor inside the theater. But for an Agarape, he's singing it awfully well. Look at the crowd that's gathered."
Of course he was.
In four and a half years, this man would be the Rose Windmill's number-one star.
His talent was bound to be monstrous.
We blended into the crowd and listened to Paris's song.
He sang so brilliantly that when the sample section ended, the audience clamored for him to keep going.
"Ah, the rest — you can see that inside the theater..."
"Hey, I already bought a ticket, y'know! I'm going in, I'm gonna go in, but this feels like taking a dump and stopping halfway through! Finish what you were singing!"
"That's right! You think people who came to see the show won't go in just because you sing a bit more? Keep singing!"
"Ah, well, that's... I don't think I'm supposed to... let me check with someone above first..."
But while his skill was obvious, his handling of the situation was abysmal.
He reeked of a rookie with limited stage experience.
I'd spent time as a YouTuber, so I could spot it right away.
Unreasonable demands required either a firm shut-down or a smooth deflection.
Reasonable demands, even if they caused a slight schedule shift, deserved an appropriate, engaged response.
But Paris just floundered, doing neither.
An attitude like that was guaranteed to irritate even the most neutral spectators.
- So what's it gonna be?
- You gonna do it or not?
- Do we have to keep standing here watching, or should we leave?
- Why keep stringing us along and then pulling back!
Beside me, Ella seemed to be thinking the same thing.
She clicked her tongue loudly.
"It's only natural he can't sing the second part. It's a duet — he needs someone to answer him."
"Really? Then he should just explain that and move on..."
"Tell me about it... Hm."
Abruptly, Ella uncrossed her arms and stepped forward.
I caught her by the shoulder.
"Miss Ella, what are you doing?"
"Thought I'd help him out a little."
"How? Do you know that song?"
"Are you joking?"
She turned back to look at me and smiled.
"I'd finished all of Christian's works by the time I was ten."
Ella pushed through the crowd and strode up to the stage.
Her walk was so confident that people instinctively parted to let her through.
That was how she presented herself in front of the stage.
And in that instant, the aura around her changed completely.
A timid gait.
Hunched, hesitant shoulders.
A deeply bowed head.
Fingers that fidgeted.
It was unmistakably the image of a shy maidservant.
Her mouth opened, and song poured out.
It wasn't the voice I usually heard from her.
It was the voice of a woman giddy with love, plaintive and aching.
- I am here. Right here beside you.
- Look back, Master. I have always been circling around you.
The murmuring crowd fell silent in an instant.
Every single person's eyes were fixed on Ella's movements.
With every phrase she uttered, you could feel the heart-wrenching sorrow of a maid whose master failed to recognize her feelings.
She finished the song amid a collective held breath.
I couldn't even track how the time had passed.
Paris, who had been staring blankly at her performance, quickly snapped back to attention.
He'd shown a clumsy side, but on stage he was the real deal.
He recovered his composure in a flash and sang the answering verses.
And so, exchanging lines a few times, their duet came to an end.
The crowd erupted into fervent applause.
Paris bowed in every direction, closing out the impromptu stage.
Then he searched for the girl who had stepped up as his partner.
But she had already left the stage.
Before I knew it, she was back at my side.
"Phew, it's been ages since I stood on a stage."
"...."
"What? Did something look weird?"
I looked at her, still flushed with the heat of the performance.
The words I'd prepared to raise her Affection level.
My honest reaction.
For the first time, the two happened to be exactly the same.
"You were truly magnificent."
"...Hmph."
She let out a light scoff and turned her head away.
But she didn't seem displeased.
[Ella's Affection level has increased by 1. Current Affection level: 18 (Next Reward: Affection level 30)]
"Now that I think about it, you've been teaching all the troupe members their skills, haven't you, Miss Ella? There's nothing you can't do."
"...Tch, shut up."
[Ella's Affection level has increased by 1. Current Affection level: 19 (Next Reward: Affection level 30)]
This was my chance.
Riding the momentum, I brought out the line I thought she'd like best.
"Isn't it a waste to let that kind of talent sit idle? What do you say, Miss Ella? Why don't you try standing on stage yourself?"
"...And whose fault is it that I'm buried in work? Member management, stage direction, budgets, prop preparation — I'm doing all of it on my own. Ugh, just thinking about it is suddenly infuriating!"
[Ella's Affection level has decreased by 1. Current Affection level: 18 (Next Reward: Affection level 30)]
Oops. A miscalculation.
While we had been talking, the Agarape stage had been cleared away.
Troupe staff came out and carried the simple platform and banners back inside.
But Paris, hurrying back toward the theater, had a look of urgency in his retreating figure.
***
Hall No. 1, the largest performance space in the Rose Windmill.
An hour before the show, the troupe members assembled there were engulfed in a grim mood.
There had been an accident.
The lead actress for this production, Yvonne.
A prop cabinet had suddenly collapsed, and she, passing in front of it at that moment, had been crushed underneath.
"What's her condition?"
A heavyset man in a suit demanded.
"Well..."
The troupe member who had accompanied her to the hospital hesitated.
The fat man erupted with an exasperated shout.
"Tell me straight! No sugarcoating!"
"Um, well... some of the chemical bottles in the cabinet broke, and her face was burned... Plus, the glass fragments completely tore into the wounds... The doctor said even if alchemical potions are used, a significant scar will likely remain..."
At those words, the stout man pounded his chest and let out a moaning wail.
This was Bwallet, the manager of the Rose Windmill Cabaret.
He was a man who prioritized the theater's profits above all else.
The cancellation of a single performance was no great disaster.
The real problem was losing Yvonne.
She had just come of age, and they could finally put her on the night stage to reap enormous revenue — and now her face was ruined?
That was the end of it.
They did open the stage for local residents during the day, but the Rose Windmill's essence was the cabaret.
The profits they could generate at night dwarfed the daytime earnings beyond all comparison.
And now they had lost their biggest prospect — the one who was supposed to deliver a windfall of money to the Rose Windmill for the next three years.
"Bwallet."
"...Ah, it's over. Over... What do I do now?"
"Bwallet."
"After all that nurturing... Just when I was about to start raking it in..."
"Hey, you pig bastard, Bwallet!"
The old man's roar made Bwallet's head snap up.
No one in this theater could call him a pig.
"...D-Director."
No one, except this rail-thin old man, the theater's general director.
The old man frowned as he looked at Bwallet, whose eyes were brimming with tears.
"Yvonne's situation is tragic. But you know the rule. The show..."
"Must go on."
It was the iron law of the performance industry.
The show must go on.
No matter what accident occurred, no matter what personal circumstances intervened.
"So first, let's worry about the performance that's happening in an hour."
"...I-I don't know what to do. Handle it as you see fit, Director. Ugh."
Bwallet, weeping and sweating in equal measure, trudged out of the hall.
It was Maroine who usually scorned his shallow behavior, but this time he said nothing.
Yvonne was a girl he himself cherished, after all.
"Director, who should take over the lead?"
"We go in the order they were eliminated during auditions. First was Yvonne. The second was... Shayla."
"Shayla? She's barely fourteen — how can she possibly..."
"Ah, shut it. The lead is Shayla."
At Maroine's sharp rebuke, no one dared argue.
Yug Maroine.
For more than a decade, he had helmed the Rose Windmill by day and by night — the captain of Rouge's nightlife, the charismatic figurehead of the cabaret.
"Then who plays the maidservant role that Shayla was originally doing? No one else rehearsed it..."
"That..."
Maroine was at a loss for words.
The maidservant's part was not a major one in this production.
Ideally, they'd grab a troupe member and rush them through an hour of crash rehearsal.
But as a perfectionist, he could not so readily condone a stage put together in such a manner.
He was even considering disguising Shayla so she could perform both roles, when—
"Director."
"Hm?"
A rookie actor who hadn't even been with the troupe a full year stepped forward.
The other members went pale as they watched him.
Even senior performers who'd been there for years didn't dare address Maroine so casually.
And now this greenhorn was striding up without a shred of fear.
"What is it?"
Yet Maroine's expression as he regarded the newcomer was solemn.
He was not a man swayed by superficial prejudices like seniority.
This rookie was someone Maroine had been keeping an eye on all along.
He possessed talent that promised a bright future.
"It seems... there's someone who could take on the maidservant role."
Paris.
The audacious young man who had the nerve to critique even the performances of Yvonne — the so-called Flower of Rouge.
The fact that he was speaking up meant only one thing: the person in question was genuinely skilled.
"Who?"