6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (10)
6. The Reversal Opening Ceremony (10)
The step seats at the cabaret curved in a semicircle around the rear of the stage.
Over the past three weeks, Ella had been in and out of this theater countless times and knew its layout well.
The seats hugged the stage itself, and their position on the second floor provided an excellent overview of the whole house.
The drawback was that you couldn't watch the performance from the front — only from the rear or side. But this area wasn't intended as a viewing gallery to begin with, so it couldn't be helped.
The step-seat section sat at the exact center of the theater.
Half the house, arranged around this hub, formed Hall 1; the other half split evenly into Hall 2 and Hall 3.
In other words, from this spot you could look down into all three halls — and you could move freely between them.
Every dish from the kitchen and every bottle from the storeroom passed through here on its way to the audience.
Through the windows, neatly arranged tables and impeccably dressed guests were visible.
Inside the step-seat hub, by contrast, chaos reigned.
Waiters ferrying refreshments and drinks to patrons; a seamstress sprinting toward the storeroom to find enough costumes for the dancers; apprentice cooks dashing in with ingredients the kitchen had demanded.
Like every backstage on the eve of a major show, the place was in upheaval — though mercifully none of the frantic staff traffic was visible from the house.
The glass panes enclosing the step-seat section had a special treatment. From inside, you could see out; from outside, all you saw was a dark, featureless wall.
Paris led them toward the far end of the step seats — the spot with the widest sightlines, where even a sliver of Hall 1's front stage was visible.
A position like that wasn't meant for just anyone.
It belonged to the person who managed the entire production's rhythm.
There, the captain steering the night of Rouge awaited them.
"Ah, Miss Ella. You've arrived."
Chief Director Yug Maroine.
A wiry, slight old man in round-tinted spectacles, with a face that put you in mind of an aging falcon.
"It's been hard to catch you these past few days."
"A thousand things to do before the opening ceremony."
He welcomed her with a smile, and Ella returned his greeting with genuine warmth.
"The old man actually cracks a smile when you're around, Miss Ella."
The woman beside him was in her mid-forties: Mare, the choreographer who trained and oversaw the theater's dancers.
She studied the two of them — Maroine and Ella, beaming at each other — with a complicated look.
Usually, Chief Director Yug Maroine showed the world nothing but irritability and sarcasm.
Yet the moment Ella appeared, he laughed and smiled as warmly as the grandfather next door.
He had a soft spot for talented young people. Experience meant nothing to him.
You could see it in his casting: he'd placed Paris, the troupe's youngest actor, in the lead of the production they were preparing now.
He loved performance.
He was the kind of man who, in his younger days, had walked away from his wife and daughter to roam the world.
Maybe that was why.
An orphan like Ella — talented, too — seemed to feel almost like family to him.
Perhaps, somewhere in her, he glimpsed the daughter he'd abandoned all those years ago.
The two of them barely bothered greeting anyone else. The moment they sat, they plunged into a discussion about the cancan number they were staging that evening.
They were both, truly, the sort of people who couldn't keep their hands off a show.
Maya gave only a brief introduction of herself before settling into a corner to scan the house.
"Looking for someone?"
"Our troupe leader."
"Ah, the Wonderstein Circus Troupe... one moment. I have the program here... oh! Only two participants. Troupe Leader Wonderstein and Viscountess Bergson — ahem."
Mare had heard the gossip circulating around town, and she studied Maya's face with a carefully timed cough.
But she found nothing to read there. Maya's expression had been blank since the moment she'd stepped inside.
"The two of them are... over there. Fourth-floor balcony..."
Mare stopped mid-sentence, her mouth clamping shut.
Across the way, the balcony curtains were drawn.
Having worked at the cabaret for years, she knew exactly what it meant when those curtains were closed.
Behind the balcony seating lay a bedroom — a place for ladies who had reached an understanding with their patrons to conduct further, more intimate arrangements.
A bed, a vanity, certain implements.
Mare's face flushed faintly as the inventory ran through her mind.
Surely not.
On the day of the opening ceremony? In there?
It couldn't be.
"That's the only one with the curtains shut."
"Ah... yes, so it is."
Maya's expression soured openly as she fixed her glare on the balcony box.
Ella might have read the emotion behind that face, but she was too deep in conversation with Maroine to spare her friend a glance.
"The moment I leave anything to that Bwallet character, branded merchandise starts creeping onto my stage. First, he tries to wedge a man-sized stuffed bear into the cancan to dance with the girls, then the lyrics suddenly mention his shipping company."
Ella let the old man's grumbling coax a placid smile from her.
"That's the trend these days. In Vegas, you even find shows that design product placement into the concept from the planning stage."
"Hmph. Money, money, money. How can any proper performance come out when you let your sponsors jerk you around like that?"
"Times have changed, Director."
Ella knew the school she'd attended had been so poor she'd had to perform on street corners every day.
She loved every kind of performance, but she couldn't afford to set aside the practical problem of money.
"Still, you have to be careful about which side you favor during a competition. If it's too blatant, they'll cry bias."
"The way one might favor a certain troupe's Deputy Leader, you mean?"
Maroine's teasing tone made Ella smile uneasily.
"Now, Director, that's quite an accusation. You wouldn't be planning to report me to the organizers, would you?"
"I might consider holding off — if you'd agree to premiere as the lead in the new production I'm preparing."
"Then I'll report you for illegal scouting during an active competition!"
"Heh-heh. Looks like we'll both end up fired, then."
The two of them faced off and burst into laughter again.
Mare the choreographer had been quietly watching the exchange; she seemed to pick her moment and then, with the air of a surprise attack, cut in.
"Speaking of sponsors, Miss Ella — what sort of person is Viscountess Bergson? Does she prioritize profits, or the artistic integrity of the work?"
The question seemed to come from nowhere.
Ella and Maya didn't catch its intent, but Maroine and Paris both shot Mare a startled look.
—Oh, she actually asked it.
—I wanted to ask too, but I was holding back.
Ella tilted her head at the shift in atmosphere around her and answered.
"The Viscountess? She's always just quietly supported us. Whatever we've asked for, she's provided right away."
"Wow — she sounds like a wonderful patron. Our owner, Marquis Mustang, is mostly concerned with making sure no trouble breaks out that might tarnish his name. Our manager Bwallet is profits-first. I suppose you're fortunate your Troupe Leader Wonderstein is so skilled at cultivating relationships?"
Ella was sharp.
When Mare finished speaking, she caught something in the way three pairs of eyes were now fixed on her.
Do I deflect and dodge, or face it head-on?
The hesitation didn't last long.
Avoiding risk was a strategy for the strong — people with something to protect.
A nameless circus troupe like theirs had to gulp down whatever was put in front of them, poison or medicine alike.
"It's all thanks to the Troupe Leader. Viscountess Bergson is completely smitten with him."
"I knew it!"
"So that's how it was..."
The theater staff nodded knowingly.
Ella put on a deliberate pout and fired back.
"What's that supposed to mean, 'so that's how it was'? Does everyone know something I don't?"
Mare leaned in, dropping her voice.
"Miss Ella, don't you read magazines?"
"Plenty of them."
"Which ones, mostly?"
"Let's see — Christian Guide, Bread and Circus, Melodinez..."
"All performing-arts magazines. Exactly like our old man here. I'm talking about the kind girls your age read..."
"I get all the circus news I need from those."
"It's circus news, but also not circus news at all."
Mare shared the rumor spreading through Rouge.
The one about the love affair between Viscountess Bergson and the leader of a wandering circus troupe.
Ella let out a baffled "Bwuh?" as she listened.
"What on earth does that mean?"
"That's what everyone says. Why else would someone of Viscountess Bergson's standing sponsor an obscure troupe like yours? They say she's smitten with the man and that's why she keeps following you around. Fortunately, the trading company dismissed it as baseless gossip a few days ago. They're supposed to make a formal announcement about the sponsorship soon. Naturally, everyone assumes they'll deny the affair — no one in their right mind would admit to it."
Ella thought of the magazines Yurakne read — those women's periodicals full of society gossip.
Yurakne had almost certainly seen every last article.
And she'd probably skimmed through the "scandal" with a smirk.
The troupe leader, after all, felt nothing of the sort toward the other party.
Of course the trading company would deny it.
Ella clicked her tongue silently.
So that's why you chose to skip the opening ceremony, Yura.
"But from what you've just said, Miss Ella, it seems part of it is true — the part about the Viscountess pursuing your troupe leader."
"Ah, well..."
Ella realized she'd just put her foot in her mouth.
There was one party in this situation that needed to avoid risk — a party with a great deal to lose: Viscountess Bergson.
Thanks to her loose tongue, a fragment of the rumor had just been confirmed as fact.
And it hardened into fact in the worst possible way.
Whether people believed it or not, having the rumor of a love affair circulate was one thing. Letting it evolve into "she's been rejected in her one-sided crush" risked gravely damaging the Viscountess's reputation.
"What I just said —"
"Of course, I'll keep it a secret."
Mare delivered the most transparent lie in the world.
Ella was now thoroughly certain that, within days, every soul in the cabaret would be exchanging the rumor "duly verified by the circus troupe's own Deputy Leader."
Surely that won't set off some butterfly effect...?
"The curtains."
Maya, who had been silently surveying the house all this time, spoke up at last.
She'd heard every word of the gossip.
And now she was more curious than ever about what lay behind those curtains.
"The curtains haven't opened."
What's going on inside there?
Secret touches, furtive and playful.
Mischievous murmurs of love.
Hot mouths and tongues —
Maya's fist tightened.
No. It's impossible.
The troupe leader — in a place this crowded — doing something like that...
She barely managed to rein in her emotions, but then Ella's next words made her head swim.
"Ah — isn't there a bedroom behind that box?"
Bedroom?
Bedroom...
Bedroom!
Maya wasn't the only one whose imagination lurched.
The old man Maroine, Paris, Mare, even Ella — all of them pictured it.
"Oh, come now."
"Surely not, in a place like this."
"Ahem. This is why we have a no-minors policy."
The words had barely left their mouths when the curtains on the fourth-floor balcony swept open.
Wonderstein and Viscountess Bergson stepped into view.
Had something happened between them?
No one could know. Whatever it was, it had occurred inside a sealed room.
A cold voice slipped from Maya's lips.
"They've redone their makeup."
"Huh? What was that?"
Maya's eyes glittered with an icy light.
She could remember the precise form of any subject she studied.
"His hair's a little damp, too. He washed."
"Ah..."
"Even after washing, there's still a trace of tear tracks."
The impulse to clap a hand over Maya's mouth seized Ella far too late.
The theater staff exchanged glances and began whispering among themselves the instant Maya finished speaking.
The two girls caught fragments of mortifying speculation; the others were clearly trying to spare them the details. Ella felt no gratitude for the courtesy.
It sounded to her exactly like the troupe's reputation crumbling.