Father asked me to lower my head and he slipped a necklace over my head. I looked down and saw the seashell disc he uses to check my complexion, hanging down as a pendant on a single strand of fine silk.
‘You are perfect, Avis,’ he said, with a trace of tenderness in his voice that made my entire being pulsate. ‘No one will notice this,’ he said, fingering the necklace, ‘but we know it is there. It will be our secret.’ Over the top of this he placed a large silver necklace with green and red gems, which seemed gaudy in comparison with Father’s gift.
‘I’ve waited a long time for this,’ he said, returning to his usual solemn, almost threatening, self.
I nodded and walked through to the next room where Eugen was already waiting.
Our tableau was one we had practised many times and seemed the obvious choice: we were two young lovers out promenading on New Year’s Eve. I wore a flowing dress of vibrant emerald silk voile, which Father says was very much the rage in Paris during their summer. Eugen wore a flecked tweed suit with the golden chain of a pocket watch emerging from his waistcoat. We both stood on the painted pavement (no pedestals) with our feet placed to give the impression of a moment captured mid-stroll. My hand rested in the crook of Eugen’s arm and we both faced forward, looking at the yellow lining of the curtain and the imaginary street that extended from our tableau.
Oh, what a sight it was once the curtain rose. Faces were pressed to the glass, with rows and rows of people behind, stretching back to the other side of the road. Beyond: the pointed spire of what must have been a church, my first church. The sky was an orange flare fading quickly. Iron poles topped by flickering electric lights, resembling the one in our tableau, sprang up from the middle of the crowd. Oh, the clothes they wore. The variety of heights and faces, all of them agog in that first moment but each expression unique. I longed to shift my eyes and see how far the crowd stretched to my right, to turn my head completely and take in every detail of the street. I wished to close my eyes tightly and reopen them to test if that would wash away this hallucination or prove it real. But I had practised too long to falter so soon. Too much was riding on a perfect performance. A perfect season in the window.
After some minutes those further back began to push through the crowd to get a closer look. Those nearest the glass seemed unwilling to give up their positions, no doubt wishing to catch us out, but they were pushed aside by the general swell. The crowd continued to move and rearrange itself, but its overall number did not alter greatly as the hours passed, even when midnight came and the fireworks were let off from the churchyard. Eugen and I had observed these fireworks from our house on birthdays past. It was strange that being so close to the marvel reduced the spectacle rather than enhanced it. The street filled with smoke that slowly pushed up against the window, reducing everything to blurs and smudges.
The townspeople were singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, a song Mother taught us, when the curtain was slowly lowered on our first performance. We continued to hold our poses until we heard the door open and Father announced, ‘Bravo!’
I have not had any time to consider it more fully, but I suspect this is only the second piece of praise I have ever heard from Father’s lips, the first occurring earlier in the evening. It finished off what has been a night that lived up to and exceeded all expectations.
Seeing Father so happy is heartening, but Eugen seems unmoved. I suppose, if you expect success to the degree he does, it is hard to be delighted when it arrives.
Speaking of poor Eugen, I must let him get his beauty sleep.
We gave a matinee performance today, posing in the same New Year’s Eve tableau as the night before from eleven in the morning until three in the afternoon. The worm still made his presence known this morning, but aside from this I felt less nervous before stepping into the window.
The crowd was less numerous today and dressed in a smaller variety of colours, but they were no less interested. I could see Father moving among these people. The men all shook his hand vigorously. The women preferred to dip their heads.
The disturbing thing about today’s crowd was the number of children. Some so young that they seemed to have recently learnt to walk were allowed to wander and stumble among the adults of the town. Men lifted children on their shoulders so they might get a better view of our window. I managed to keep perfectly still and maintain my promenading countenance, but it perturbed me greatly. I feared for these children’s prospects in life if they had already been spoiled for the window.
Once the curtain was lowered I asked Father about them.
‘Yes,’ he said, slowly, ‘it is a terrible shame. They are all orphans. By necessity they have had to enter the world prematurely. If they are lucky they might wed another orphan, but they will never be a true member of society.’
‘How tragic,’ I said.
‘It’s not too late for your fortunes to diminish. Best you keep vigilant out there. Less thinking about what’s beyond that pane of glass and more about what’s in here,’ he pressed his finger into my chest, ‘and here,’ he said as he touched my forehead.
Father says we will perform another matinee tomorrow and after that will move to two performances a day with an hour interval for lunch and to refresh ourselves.
We are to remain in this anteroom whenever we are not performing. I already miss Mother greatly. I have not seen her through the glass but that is not to say she has not been out there. Her hand is evident in the meals Father brings us and for now this will suffice.
My eyes are not accustomed to so much electric light. I feel it is worse due to the size of this room and its dark walls. No doubt the exertion of controlling my eyelids while in the window adds to this strained feeling. I understand that we must be confined to preserve the impact of our performances, but I long to dawdle through the garden. I miss the shy morning routine of the warblers when we are going through our own, their trilling call and swaying nests.
At least I have my diary, which is proving a useful diversion. Without any means of making music, Eugen spends his time clenching spring-grip dumb-bells and staring at the posters of Mr Sandow. In terms of physical development, Eugen is the equal of his namesake (with the exception of the moustache). I have not seen Mr Sandow in the crowd, either, or anyone who might match his development. How strange.
I love performing in the window with a passion that is equalled only by the distaste I feel for the time we spend cooped up in this anteroom. It is either too bright or too dark, it seems to trap every moist exhalation and it is cramped to a ridiculous degree, even when it is just the two of us. It is perhaps no wonder I feel ill when I wake each morning. I miss Mother. I miss walking in our garden. I miss the sun rising as we bathe outside. I miss the smell of the dew lifting from the grass and the sound of the birds. I miss my own bed (these stretchers are so rigid and Eugen makes such a racket every time he turns). I know that we must be kept from prying eyes when not in the window, but it is so trying.
Eugen doesn’t seem to mind, which only doubles my torment. He just stares at the posters of Mr Sandow while tapping complex
