La Marionnette
Alicia Cay
Porcelina’s fingers trembled in the cold February air as they moved along the worn strings of her violin. Berlioz’s Rêverie et Caprice floated on the breeze. She sat on the edge of the fountain in the Place de l’Opéra, where she came daily to practice and perform in front of the Palais Garnier, the great opera house she dreamed of one day playing.
The whole of Paris was alive with activity. It was the week of Carnival and la promenade des masques, a time when the citizens hid their faces behind bright papier-mâché masks and the streets bustled in celebration.
A man in a boater hat and a mask painted with silver fish rode past on his bicycle, racing the carriages in the street and ringing the tinny bell.
Porcelina looked up at the sound. Her gaze drifted through the crowd. A familiar face caught her attention. His pure white mask stood out from the others, a rebellion against the sea of painted colors around him. Porcelina’s pulse thrummed. The man had come to watch her play every evening for the past four days. He was handsome, well-dressed, and carried an air of mystery about him—as though in his company anything was possible, even magic.
Two women stopped to listen, blocking the man from Porcelina’s view. Their pastel masks were decorated with lace and silk to match their high-buttoned dresses. One of them dropped a franc in the beat-up violin case at Porcelina’s feet.
Porcelina sighed. She could not afford flour to eat, much less to spread on decorated paper and wear. So, she played before them, unmasked and vulnerable, the way she’d felt since coming to Paris.
She’d been in the city a month now. Still unmarried at twenty, Porcelina had left home to follow the song in her heart and audition at the Palais Garnier. Seats were coming open in the opera house’s symphony, and they had sent word of an open call for musicians—including women, an unheard-of proposition.
In the letters she sent back home, she told her family she was thriving, that the crowds which gathered to hear her play filled her violin case with money, and she ate beignets and mille-feuille from the finest patisseries with every meal.
Her stomach grumbled. In truth, Madame Reine Marie had been threatening to put her out of her room at the pension de famille all week, and Porcelina needed to earn enough today to pay the rent. She hoped there would be enough left over for food. She’d finished off the last of her bread and broth yesterday morning.
The crowd shifted and the masked man came into view again. Porcelina blushed beneath his intense gaze. She hesitated. Her bow jumped on a string, marring Berlioz’s piece. A girl in a gold mask with pink blossoms on the cheeks booed loudly. Porcelina’s fingers tightened, making the delicate notes screech like an injured owl. The onlookers moved away; their coins tucked in their pockets.
Porcelina stopped playing. The Palais Garnier swam in her vision. How would she ever have the confidence to play there when she could not even part fools from their money? She collected the francs from the bottom of her case and placed them in her pocket. There would be no dinner tonight.
As she latched her case, the man in the white mask approached. “Bonjour.” His voice was deep and warm, like honey spread on fresh baked bread.
Porcelina turned. Up close, his mask was not so plain. Bone-white and made of soft leather, it molded to his face. Most masks surrounded only the eyes, but his covered the entire right side of his face. On the left, a sharp cheekbone and chiseled jaw stood out in stark contrast.
Soft flurries of snow drifted from the deepening sky and landed in his thick black hair, shining like tiny jewels. He regarded her with deep brown eyes. “It is a beautiful evening for playing, oui?”
When he spoke, his mask shifted and flexed on his face like a living thing. Porcelina blinked. Surely, a trick of the flickering lamplight?
“Are you hungry, mademoiselle?”
Ravenous. How could he tell? “Pardon, Monsieur?”
He straightened the lapel of his dark jacket, worn over a double-breasted maroon vest. “I have been too forward. Allow me to introduce myself.” He smiled, showing off perfect teeth. “I am Chace Auclair, master of ceremonies for the Spectacle Merveilleux, at your service.” He slung the silver handle of his walking cane over his arm and bowed. “If you would not think too terribly of me, I might ask the pleasure of your company for dinner.”
The confidence in his manner made Porcelina want to fall into his arms and beg him to take her away from the ceaseless clatter of self-doubt and her tiny room that stank of sausages and despair.
She ran a hand over the waves in her mahogany hair, then looked down at her simple black shirtwaist and ivory muslin skirt. “I fear I am not dressed for such fine company.”
“You are in luck.” He cocked a dark eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk that dimpled his cheek. “I know a place, away from the stares des imbéciles who would scorn such a beautiful violinist.”
Porcelina smiled despite herself. What could one meal with a handsome man hurt? She gathered her violin case and took Chace’s offered arm.
They walked a few blocks to a small café. Tucked away on a private garden patio, they dined on pot-au-feu with carrots and cabbage, chased by a Bordeaux that left Porcelina lightheaded.
Chace did not remove his mask to eat. It moved on his face as he chewed and smiled, as real as skin. Porcelina wondered at the cost of such a creation of art.
When he asked about her, she told him of her family in Saint-Véran and her dreams of playing violin on stage.
He told her about his work as the leader of a small but exclusive traveling show. “The performers I employ are the most talented in all of Europe. Yet, they are cast aside from society for being different.”
“Different?” Porcelina asked. “How so?”
Chace paused. “How can I explain it?” He tapped a finger on his chin. “They possess talents beyond understanding. Pure magic. You must see for yourself.”
“A magic traveling show.” Porcelina’s eyes lit up. “I would love to.”
“It’s settled, then. You will be my guest this evening.”
“This evening,” Porcelina started. “No, I must be back at the boarding house before—”
“Nonsense. It is the time of Carnival. Surely, your Matrone would understand a late return.” Chace laughed, deepening his dimple. “You are a beautiful woman, Porcelina. What wonders I could show you.” He traced a line along the bottom of her jaw. “You mustn’t say no.”
Heat rose in Porcelina’s cheeks. Swept away by his aplomb and too much red wine, not even the threat of Madame Reine Marie putting her suitcase out on the stoop would have kept her from saying yes to Chace Auclair.
Porcelina stepped inside the striped tent and gasped. It was as if she’d entered a secret world of wonder made just for her. Hanging silk drapes of green and purple surrounded the ring, blurring the sharp edges of reality. Tropical birds with colorful tails soared through the air, snatching roasted peanuts from the hands of surprised guests, then perched in the rafters to drop shells on their heads.
Porcelina sat on a wooden bench in the first row next to a woman in a Rococo face-veil and a gentleman in a Baroque mask and black top hat.
The lamps dimmed. A circle of light blinked on in the center of the ring. Chace faced the crowd, his white mask shining like a beacon. “Bienvenu, mesdames et messieurs, to the Spectacle Merveilleux. Preparez-vous a la magie.” He worked the audience until their anticipation sizzled.
His spotlight faded and flashed on at the far side of the ring. A dainty woman, tall and thin, stood with arms outstretched. Porcelina blinked twice to clear her sight. This was no trick of the light, the woman had an extra set of arms extending from her sides. She wore a mask of silver filigree, green and white feathers arched along one side like a single butterfly wing, and a bodysuit stitched with tiny crystals that dazzled in the light.
Using all four arms, the woman climbed up the wooden tent pole in the center of the ring. On a small platform at the top, she bent over, and a pair of ivory angel wings unfolded from her back. The crowd gasped in unison.
The woman leapt from the platform. Her feathers ruffled like velvet curtains as she soared across the ring in aerial dance, yet no visible wires appeared to hold her aloft. She pulled the tips of her wings down, cupping them to catch the air, and floated to the ground. Applause exploded in the tent.
Clowns took the ring, their faces covered in rainbow masks that changed expressions as they tumbled and danced. The crowd pointed and laughed until a black leopard appeared and chased off the jolly clowns.
Porcelina had intended to sneak out of the show early. She should be in her room practicing for her audition, or taking in some sewing for extra money, but she could not tear herself away.
A tall woman with olive skin ran into the ring. She wore a gold and black matador suit and a velvet feline mask across her eyes. From the lower half of her face, grew a long black beard. She had waxed and twirled it into stiff strands that stuck out like cat’s whiskers. Her midnight hair fell loose, flowing like a cape around her shoulders as she wrangled the leopard through hoops and tricks. The jungle cat hissed and spat, making the crowd wriggle in fear.
Porcelina dreamed of performing with the grace and confidence these women exuded. Perhaps this was the reason Chace, after watching her play today, had insisted she see his show—to inspire her.
Two women with flaming red hair, joined at the back as though they shared a single spine, and wearing a single red tulle dress, bounded into the ring, their four legs moving in perfect harmony. One of them lit a match and placed it in her mouth, then her twin spit out flame in great spouts that sent the matador and her feline fleeing. They went on this way, setting wooden spikes on fire and juggling them around their heads to one another.
After them came a woman with blue skin and tattooed from neck to toe. Her mask was covered in a pattern of green and silver diamonds with ebony horns protruding from each side. She clapped castanets in her hands, pirouetting and gyrating to her own music. As she danced, the stretched images on her skin came to life—ink tigers and bears roared and lashed out with razor claws; half-dressed figurines and hummingbirds soared off her skin and around her body, moving in time to the woman’s music.
Last, a legless half-woman in a tightly cinched peach corset, bouquets of rose gold flowers growing on her mask, carried herself into the ring on her hands. The crowd made hushed noises of shock, though their eyes glittered with delight. She grabbed at hanging strips of satin and swung herself through the air in arching circles, higher and higher, her auburn hair flying, until at last she let go, flew through the air and landed in a slide through the sawdust.
When her dance was done, the entire troupe gathered for their final bows. Porcelina whistled and clapped with the rest of the audience. Hot emotion filled her eyes. In the light of day these women would be called freaks and strangers. Her own differences might not be visible on the outside, but inside she felt as lonely and set apart from the rest of the world as they must. How lovely it would be to perform like them—tucked inside the folds of this tent, safe behind their masks.
Chace assisted Porcelina up the steps into his traveling wagon. “What did you think of the show?”
Porcelina clasped her hands. “So beautiful, I haven’t words for it.”
He smiled, that smoldering grin that brought out his dimple, and Porcelina’s heart fluttered in her breast.
“As you can imagine,” he said, “these women are not welcomed by society. A shame, though, for they are far more talented than the people who mock them.” Chace pulled Porcelina next to him on the small sofa. “I found each of my artists, poor and struggling, on the street. Some of them worked the sideshows.” He scoffed. “Disgusting places where the barker encouraged their ridicule, providing the rotten fruit the crowd threw at them.”
“No!” Porcelina’s hand flew to her mouth.
A serious look settled on his face. “You understand, then? They are just like you. Women who simply needed someone to bring out the best in them.”
“In some ways I envy them.” Porcelina smiled shyly. “Their fearlessness.”
“The masks help,” Chace said. “With them, we have the confidence to show the world our true inner selves.”
Porcelina reached to touch Chace’s masked cheek. He caught her hand. “I see in you what I saw in them, and more.” He kissed her fingers. “You have a great talent, Porcelina, waiting to be seen.”
Heat seeped along her skin. She looked away. “I came to Paris to play—”
“Yet, you lack confidence.”
Porcelina opened her mouth to refute him, then snapped it shut. He wasn’t wrong.
“That is why we wear these masks. They are not just a part of the show. They are part of the performer.”
Porcelina furrowed her brow.
Chace regarded her for a long moment, then said, “Can I show you something? Something very secret?” He stood and moved to the front corner of the wagon.
Desire rolled in Porcelina like thunder across a stormy sky. She wanted him and all of his secrets.
He pulled a black cloth from the towering object in the corner to reveal a large water tank, which contained the strangest fish Porcelina had ever seen. There were no gills or fins, only a gray mass of soft flesh and writhing stems.
Chace held a hand out. Porcelina joined him. “What is it?”
“Long before this life” —Chace touched his mask— “I was an architect.” The corner of his lips turned down. “Together with Monsieur Garnier, our design won Napoleon III’s competition, and we were selected to build his opera house.”
Porcelina gasped. “You?”
Chace nodded. “I was involved all the way up to building the reservoir that exists beneath it. Soon after, that madman, Garnier, became jealous and possessive. He made my life such a torment, I was forced to leave.” Chace sighed and touched the glass.
The translucent creature within stirred. Tentacles, like long spiraling staircases, emerged from the thing’s body and pressed against the glass at Chace’s fingertips. “After the Palais Garnier’s completion, the bitterness of failure grew in my heart. I knew of a clandestine entrance to the canals beneath the opera house, and I would go down there and listen to the world’s greatest opera singers to drown my sorrows in their voices. Then one night, I found her floating in the water.”
“Her?” Porcelina said.
“Yes,” Chace said. His fingers traced patterns on the glass, the creature’s tentacles following. “I call her Mother. She became caught inside the reservoir when it was built. When I touched her, it was the most fascinating thing. I could see the world beneath the water, through her thoughts. But more than that, Porcelina, she showed me how I could be confident again, better than I was before. She gave me a gift.” Chace’s hand tightened into a fist. “I had been driven away from my dreams by Monsieur Garnier, but that did not have to be the end of me.”
The strange fish shifted, its gelatinous body twisting and writhing in on itself. Suddenly, from beneath a fold, a smaller version of itself emerged.
“Oh,” Porcelina gasped. “It has a child?”
“We are all her children,” Chace said, his face solemn. “She creates these offspring for us, and when they have grown to this size,” he pointed at the small creature, “it is ready to emerge from the tank and find a host.” Chace turned to her, his palm on his mask. “These masks we wear . . . they are alive.”
Porcelina’s mouth gaped. Her eyes darted from Chace’s face to Mother and back again. “Alive? But . . . ” She shook her head.
“They are her gifts to us. Each mask gives of itself in order to enhance the talents of its wearer.” Chace touched his mask. “I am the man I am today because of it. And tonight, what you saw was not a performance, it was magic. In exchange, we offer our bodies as hosts.”
Porcelina’s nose wrinkled. She backed away.
Chace grabbed her hand. “I understand what you must think. It seems an odd thing until you’ve experienced it. All your fears, all your insecurities, vanish. And in their place, confidence. Your talents and abilities on stage.” He grinned his perfect grin. “You would be unstoppable.”
Porcelina pulled free. The backs of her knees knocked into the sofa and she sat down hard on the velvet cushion. “I couldn’t . . . ” She stared at him, shock and confusion at war within.
Chace sat beside her and folded his hands on hers. “Imagine it, Porcelina, to never be hungry again. We drink wine and feast on delicacies from every country we visit.” He smoothed a strand of hair from her face, sending shivers of excitement down her spine. “A home you cannot be evicted from. The finest gowns made by the finest dressmakers. All that and more, I can give you.”
An ache opened up in Porcelina’s chest. She thought of her family and the lies she filled her letters with. Her eyes searched Chace’s. In them she saw a sincerity that quelled her doubt.
Chace squeezed her hand. “And, you would have me.”
The Palais Garnier flashed in Porcelina’s mind. Its trio of granite staircases, gold-tasseled curtains, and the bronze chandelier with its thousands of crystals that hung above the auditorium. Every seat filled with guests, all there to see her—Porcelina Juin—chin resting on her violin, the smell of warmed rosin a perfume in the air.
It was her plan to play her violin in the darkened pit before a stage filled with beautiful men and women dressed in elaborate costumes of satin and pearl. Costumes. Wasn’t a mask just a costume? Didn’t every performer wear one in order to have the confidence, the bravery, to shine in the light? Would a living mask really be so different?
Porcelina stared at her hands, tears gathering on her lashes. “I want all of those things.”
Chace lifted her chin with a finger, his deep brown eyes piercing her. “Be mine, and everything I have will be yours.”
Porcelina touched his cheek, his mask. It was smooth and warm; muscles flexed beneath it as she traced her fingers down to his jaw.
“Join us, ma chérie,” he whispered. “Become one with us . . . ” Chace leaned in.
Porcelina closed her eyes and tilted her face up to meet him. His lips were full and soft, his kiss commanding. He wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her closer.
Chace Auclair was a prince, straight from the pages of her childhood storybooks. And she would be his princess in a mask.
Chace placed the creature on her face. The pain was immediate—hundreds of tiny teeth boring into her flesh. Gasping, Porcelina jerked up from the bed. The jelly-blob slid off and plopped into her lap. Chace settled her back on the pillows. Porcelina shuddered, but allowed him to place the cold slimy thing onto her face again. The sensation worsened. Tiny paint brushes swept across her skin, biting and digging. Then, a suction that grew in intensity until tears poured from her eyes.
Morning light crawled through the wax-paper windows of Chace’s traveling wagon when he came to check on her again. “How are you?”
“I can’t sleep. It hurts so.”
Chace kissed her hands. “Stay still, it will be done soon. After, you will not be able to tell where it ends and you begin. You shall be one.”
“What will it look like when it’s done, my mask?”
“Each one takes on a unique shape and color. A design to represent the truest beauty of its host.”
Porcelina grimaced as another wave of searing pain spread across her face.
He smoothed back her hair. “Try and rest.”
Porcelina dozed. What would her mask say about her truest beauty? And what did Chace’s pure white mask say about his?
Hours later, Porcelina was awake and vomiting into a bowl on her lap. Madeline, the matador woman, wiped Porcelina’s face with a damp cloth, then took the bowl to empty it.
Outside the window next to her bed, Porcelina overheard Madeline and Chace speaking.
“It’s not taking,” Chace said quietly. “Why isn’t it taking?”
“My best guess, she’s fighting it,” Madeline said. “All I know is it’s dying and making her very ill.”
Sweat gathered beneath Porcelina’s arms. She bit at her lower lip. All of her dreams spread at her feet and still she failed. And Chace—would he turn her out into the cold? Send her back to play on the streets, alone and starving? If this didn’t work, Porcelina would have no choice but to return home, her heart broken and her tail tucked.
“This is no good,” Chace said. “I must have her! She is the key that would open all the doors that have been closed to us. We will have aristocracy eating from the palms of our hands. She—”
“Could be your wife?” Madeline said.
“Has such talent,” Chace finished, his voice a grim whisper. There was a long pause, then he said, “Put some of this into her tea.”
Madeline made a garbled sound. “Chace, no, this could—”
“I said, give it to her.”
Madeline entered the trailer a moment later and pulled back the hanging that separated the bed from the rest of the room. “Porcelina, darling.” She sat on the edge of the bed.
“I heard.” Tears slipped from Porcelina’s eyes. “Why isn’t it working?”
“Perhaps you struggle too much, or your fear and uncertainty are too great. I cannot say.”
“It wasn’t this way with you?” Porcelina asked.
Madeline shook her head, her long black beard swinging against her chest.
Porcelina’s fingers tightened on the bed cover. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
Madeline’s shoulders drooped, then she slid a smooth glass vial from her pocket. “This is laudanum. Enough, and you should sleep through the worst of it.”
Porcelina eyed the brown liquid, her lower lip trembled. “Chace wants me to take it?”
Madeline nodded. “There are risks. You’re not a regular user. Too much and your breathing will stop.” She squeezed Porcelina’s hand. “Do you understand?”
Porcelina thought of Chace—his lips, his touch. She thought of the show the night before and the fearless women in their masks. She met Madeline’s strong gaze. “I just want to be brave like all of you.”
Madeline’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded and left the trailer. When she returned, she held out a steaming cup. “Here, drink this quickly, before it cools.”
Porcelina took the cup in trembling hands and gulped down the reddish-brown tea. It was thick and bitter on her tongue. Her eyelids drooped. She fell back against the pillows. The empty teacup rolled from her fingertips and plinked onto the floor. The warm sucking sensation on her face grew. This time, there was no pain.
Porcelina studied her reflection in the small mirror above the dressing table. Colors grew on her mask—spirals of blues and violet, like a bruise in blossom, lined in sheer pinks. It itched. She scraped a fingernail along the edges where her skin ended and the creature began.
Chace appeared behind her. “Don’t scratch, ma note de musique. You don’t want to damage it. Are you ready for tonight?”
She swept her hair from her neck with shaky hands. “I’m terribly nervous.”
“There is no reason to be. You cannot fail.” Chace smirked, his dimple sending spires of heat through Porcelina’s bosom. “But perhaps this will help.”
Chace stepped out. When he returned, he carried a violin made of golden spruce, backed in dark maple.
Porcelina peered through the f-hole. “A Stradivarius! Oh, Chace, I couldn’t.”
He laid a kiss on her forehead. “A new violin for a new woman.”
Tears in her eyes, Porcelina threw her arms around his neck. She was ready to take the stage.
The spotlight blinked on. Porcelina stood in the center of the ring, sawdust beneath her feet and the pine smell of rosin on her fingers.
Her hands trembled as she swept her bow across the taut strings of her violin. The reverberation sang through her skin. The mask slithered on her face. Chace had said this performance would seal it to her forever. Is that what she truly wanted? Her arm jerked at the thought. Then, a feeling of warmth slid along her nerve endings, like slipping into a hot bath. Her arm moved smoothly, her fingers floated along the strings, but she was no longer in charge of them. The mask had taken over. Assured by Chace she could not fail tonight, Porcelina had chosen to play a difficult piece, one she had never mastered: Paganini’s Caprice 24.
Instead, Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz, No 1. poured from her fingertips, with its erratic, hectic strumming. Porcelina plucked at the strings with frenetic energy, her body jerking in time. She tried to stop, to freeze her hands, but they would not obey. This was not the music that sang in her soul. This was something entirely different.
The song played through her, and as the last frenzied note drifted across the silent tent, Porcelina’s heart hammered in her chest. Though the song was not of her choosing, she had played it to perfection.
The audience was silent. Dazed, Porcelina dropped a leg back to take her bow. The crowd took to its feet, the silence during her performance pierced by their storm of yells, whistles, and applause. Grinning, Porcelina hurried from the ring.
Behind the canvas curtain, Chace greeted her. “Mon Dieu, that was perfection!”
Both confused and pleased, Porcelina said, “Oh, Chace. It was so strange. I hadn’t intended to play that piece, but the mask, it took over and that came out.”
“It was brilliant.” Chace smiled. “You will be our greatest attraction yet!”
Porcelina laughed, tears of joy rolling down her cheeks. She had performed before a crowd, fearless, and they had loved her. “It has been my dream to perform in front of the stage in the Palais Garnier, hidden away. But now, the world will come to see me play on it!”
Chace laughed and squeezed her arms. “Porcelina, ma chérie, you cannot stay in Paris.”
Porcelina stopped laughing. “What do you mean?”
“You are one of us now. For the mask to work, you must stay near Mother.”
“What?” Porcelina pulled from his grasp. “You didn’t tell me this.” She searched his deep brown eyes. “You’re saying I can never leave?”
The corner of Chace’s lips turned down. “And why would you want to? We’re your family now.”
On the other side of the curtain, the crowd stomped their feet, shouting, “Encore, encore!”
“Go now, my swan, your fans are calling for you.” Chace spun Porcelina around and shoved her through the curtain.
Porcelina’s legs were heavy as she trudged to the center of the ring, a gnawing sensation in her gut. What had just happened? The spotlight slammed on, blinding her. She lifted a hand to block its glare. The crowd hushed. What song would come from her violin this time? Sweat gathered on her forehead. Porcelina pulled at the high collar of her pale green dress. The air felt thick, cloying, every breath a struggle.
Someone in the audience coughed. Porcelina could hear their whispers, feel their eagerness. It did not matter to them she had become la marionette, her strings pulled by the parasite on her face; the people wanted a show.
How had she let the seduction of easy success sway her from what she wanted most? She wanted to play her own songs and bring to life the music that lived inside of her, but with the mask in charge would that ever be possible?
It was her dream to play at the great opera house in Paris, but now . . . Chace’s words echoed in her mind. I have been driven away from my dreams . . . but that does not have to be the end of me.
She could not let this tent forever be her prison.
The Stradivarius slipped from Porcelina’s hands. She clawed at the edge of her mask. The warm tingling sensation shot down her arms, trying to force her hands away. Porcelina fought against it, dug her nails beneath the mask and ripped the writhing creature from her face.
Flesh tore. The pain: pure, ripe, agony.
Screams filled the tent.
Porcelina did not stop. She peeled the mask off the rest of the way, her own cries drowned out by the cacophony of disaster around her. Then it was gone—an enormous weight lifted from her body.
She looked down at the parasite mask in her hands. Clinging to the inside were pieces of her bloody skin and a mass of short flailing tentacles—like silk maggots—that writhed and squirmed.
The crowd were on their feet, pushing against one another. Their boots pounded, men yelled, and still the women screamed.
Porcelina sank to her knees.
Madeline came and knelt beside her. She took the mask from Porcelina’s hands and cradled the limp creature gently to her chest.
The tent flaps slapped open again and again like angry clapping as the people pushed out into the night, the sound of their terror trailing behind them like a mournful wake.
Around them, the other performers were bent over in pain, their hands on their faces. “I’m so sorry, Madeline.” Salty tears burned down Porcelina’s face. “I never meant to hurt any of you, or . . . ” Her eyes drifted down to the dying creature in Madeline’s hands.
Madeline looked at Porcelina, her own tears slipping down her velvet mask into her beard. “It’s all right, Porcelina. I will return it to the tank. Mother will heal it.”
“I didn’t know.” Porcelina let out a sob. “Chace, he didn’t tell me everything.”
Madeline nodded. “I know.” She looked around the tent at the other masked women. “We have all stood in your place, on the night of our premier performance. It was not true freedom he offered us, but . . . ” she paused, swallowed hard. “He gave us a home, a place to belong. Something most of us have never had. So, we each made a choice.” She held the mask up. “The same as you did tonight.”
“I wanted so much to be like all of you,” Porcelina said, “beautiful and unafraid. I never meant to disappoint you.”
“Oh, ma fille.” Madeline grabbed Porcelina’s hand and squeezed. “You have not disappointed us. You have inspired us.”
Porcelina wrapped her arms around Madeline’s neck and hugged her tight, the matador woman’s beard a soft touch against Porcelina’s face.
Madeline chuckled. “Careful.” She pulled away, shifting the mask in her hands. “Go on now.” Madeline jutted her chin at the fallen violin. “Take that and go.”
Porcelina shook her head. “No, I couldn’t—”
“Consider it a gift.” Madeline motioned to the other women. “From us.”
Porcelina grabbed the violin and got to her feet. She spun in a slow circle, meeting the gaze of every performer. The trio of clowns in their rainbow masks; Rocket, the tattooed beauty; and the fire-breathing twins, The Flame Dames. All of them stood up straight, some smiled at her, others simply nodded.
Behind her, Chace yelled, “Porcelina!”
Porcelina spun around. Chace stood frozen, his shoulders pulled back, chin held high. Streaks of red seeped from the edges of his mask and ran down his face—tears of blood staining his pure white mask. Then, he placed his hand over his heart.
Porcelina bowed her head. Hot tears searing her face. She could have loved him, but the scars on his heart had made the muscle too tough to penetrate. Still, he had given her a gift. Chace Auclair, master of ceremonies for the Spectacle Merveilleux was a creation of his own fears and insecurities, trapped by his own failures. She would not be.
Porcelina turned and strode out of the tent, out into the cold.
Today was the last day of auditions. Porcelina walked through the grand doors of the Palais Garnier, her battered violin case clutched in sweaty hands.
Porcelina waited in the wings, her face turned down. She wore an ivory lace mask across the top half of her face. It had taken two weeks for her wounds to close enough for her to leave her room at Madame Reine Marie’s. The doctors said in time the scarring would lessen, but she might never heal completely. She’d spent the time composing and practicing her own piece of music.
The director called her name, and Porcelina made her way from behind the curtain. On the stage was a single chair. Porcelina sat and pulled her well-worn violin from its case. She had sold the Stradivarius to stay in Paris so she could pursue her dream.
A spotlight flashed on, blinding her. Sweat gathered on her upper lip. Days ago, she’d received a letter from Madeline. The troupe were in Moscow now, sipping vodka and eating varenniki, all of them healthy and content; even Chace and Mother. Porcelina thought of those beautiful masked women, confident and safe behind their masks. She reached up and untied the ribbon around her head. The lace mask slid from her face onto her lap. Porcelina pressed the violin to her chin, took a deep breath, then lifted her face to the judges.
Porcelina’s fingers trembled as they moved along the worn strings of her violin. Her song floated into the air.
Alicia Cay is a writer of Speculative and Mystery stories. Her short fiction has appeared in several anthologies including Hold Your Fire from WordFire Press, and The Wild Hunt from Air and Nothingness Press. She suffers from wanderlust, crochets, collects quotes, and lives beneath the shadows of the Rocky Mountains with a corgi, a kitty, and a lot of fur.
Find her at aliciacay.com.