The Wax Girl's Violin

This is a fragment of a prolific dream I had one night that lead to many mad-scrambled pages, and hopefully a Novel.

The theater is always the same, from the fourth row, third seat from the left isle. The spring in the cushion, so persistent, always digs into his hip over the long hours. He Brings a jacket he never wears. He always arrives early.

The red fabric, slightly waxy smell. The leather armrests, hard and no-color brown from the many who pass through this exhibit.
Only those of the third seat, in the fourth row, are imperceptively brighter. He noticed at some point, maybe one night at closing, when the curtain shut for the last time, and he finally taught his hands to release the armrests; at least, for the day.
The group is filing in now, pushing and packing.

Of all the exhibits, this is certainly amongst the legends; the bag-packers, and the lunch-funders.

This is the one you tell all about to grandma on the outer crescent, once you get groundside again.
Even weeks later, he can see why.
"Excuse me, sir, can you move over one seat?"
He has been here before, as well. He's played it out as many times and as many ways as he'd bothered to try. The answer is always the same.
"Sir? Young sir? Excuse me?"
He would look up, see some variant of pudgy and defeated, camera-strapped and sun-blocked, with petulant child in tow, and fat sour wife frowning furiously behind. He would make eye contact, and say a thousand different ways that no, no he can't. Fourth row, third seat from the left isle. And nothing this decrepit fool could do or say would change that.
"Listen, son, I don't know why you're being so unreasonable about this…."
the little girl this time, as the lights begin to dim:
"Daaaaady… It's Staaarting!"
  A grunt and a head toss from the shrew, and a pious strut to the further rows.
"Well! Now I see there are All Kinds in the Capital!"
The man, balls in tow, launches a final biting retort as he is dragged away by the current.
"Yea, like the F*****g Junkies you don't see too often anymore…"
He can't even feel angry at them. Not anymore. This man has just come as close to fighting for something he loves, as he may ever come. As his life may ever let him be.

As the small theater falls into darkness, he recalls the last one he bothered speaking to. It might have been a month ago, real built, must have worked a crew somewhere; the man had said 'Would you prefer I moved you, wise guy?' and the only response he could give had been 'No, I would prefer to split your tongue. But there's always time for that after the show.' The crew man had found his place elsewhere as the razor shot out of it's hilt with a snap. Got seats in the mesanine, if he recalled properly.
One sympathizes.

Then the curtains draw, and nothing matters anymore. Not the punters, or the spring digging into his a*s, or the weeks and months of repetition. Not the strange looks, and the security personnel harrying him, or even the perpetual stink of wax.
The lights come on, and it's her.
She's wearing a blue pleated dress, mid calf. They show her to be simple, modest. The crescent crowd can't get enough. She is always smiling, and though it is breathtaking, it cuts him deep to see it. He never thought that smile could be anything but joy in the world, but after so many moments without variation, he's come to wish for any sacred frown she might have to offer.

She always begins sitting, hands folded in lap, cheeks rouged with an airbrush once. If he could find the b*****d responsible for such a cheesy artifice of beauty, good health, that's the man he would teach to fly. Might have found him, too, but then, that man wouldn't be responsible.
Then she turns, merrily surprised, and the smile flashes. He has seen it thousands of times, and he still catches his breath.
She speaks, and he is lost amidst the sound.
"Oh, Hello! Welcome to the Capital Museum, of the Aerial City of Myrrh! I am Clara Desmond, second daughter of the Imperial family, and I am Very Happy to see you all!"
The script is utter garbage. Another employee who deserves their chance to grow wings. The audience has their punctuated orgasm, and she continues.
"For those of you who may not know, I was the heiress to the Order Temple Libris, and also the Desmond Imperial lineage of the Capitol."
Was. And that is how that cheese-spewing script-monger chose to address the hard truths for all the simple children. One word, and the only one the fine fairgoers would dare to suffer on their lovely day in the mortuary of the museum.
Was.

She stands up, and walks to the center stage. His skin prickles, because some things were not left to the cupie-dollers' or the word-pumpers; things like her voice, and her gait. Things the people would recognize and reject if they were even slightly off. Things that kept this on the pages of the brochure, and off the rant pages as a 'ghastly side-show'.
Again, and painfully, the thought arose. He couldn't help it, and his fight had left him. It washed over him, like the clammy cold of a phantom's fog;

How much, had those wizard's kept? How much, made the magic?

She leans forward, hands on her knees, and gives a furtive look to either side. The audience is hers. She has broken the fourth wall, and they would worship her for reading the call book.
"But what you really may not have known, is that I Simply Adore playing music!"
'Simply Adore'. That one, he couldn't help himself over. He had found that blister in a pub, bragging about how lifelike they had gotten her to be. Life-like.
He had not adored his exit, through one of the lower windows of the Capitol complex.

The crowd was roaring all around him, and on cue, that perfect smile flashed, cutting off his thoughts. Again.

She straightens up, and walks to the side table where her authentic violin waited for her clever hands. You couldn't tell, but it had a faintly minty scent in its varnish. And when she played, her skin would warm the wood, and you could smell that minty scent from a couple of feet away from her. Nobody here would, though. Nobody would ever be allowed close to her again.
She brings the violin to her chin and pauses to glance off into the wings. There is nobody there, but it's an immensely animating gesture. Most likely grafted from one of her concerts, being any of the ones the line Desmond would not and had not approved of. It was another little spark that made him wonder.
She settles the violin, and as the bow raises, the hall goes silent.

The notes fill the space, slow, sweet. There is a treble, she climbs a few playful cords, and begins to sing.
"Though the light that once was bright, now settles for the sleepers,"
She closes her eyes, and it's her.
"And though you may be far away, I'll be your shadow's keeper,"
He holds his breath. It keeps him from sobbing. Sobbing never goes over well.
"And though this day, not meant to stay, may shade to night that follows,"
He can't bear it. But he never misses it.
"I'll keep your smile, and hold it near, and love it still, tomorrow."

She caries the tune higher, plays gently, and lets the soft middle register fade, into another roar of applause. When it first opened, people would stand. That very quickly fell out of fashion. See, any performer will react to the movement in the audience when they see it. Clara, though, never does. They would stand, and sit as abruptly as any child who pulled one of the strings in a puppet show out of curiosity.
It ruined the effect. It let the truth back into the shadow box just like the flat light of noon.

But they could rave for her in their seats. Rave and cheer. Clap, and weep.
This is what passed for mourning in Myrrh.

She smiles, and lowers the instrument. Beams, and drops a curtsey. Then time slows down again. She relaxes, and looks down at the stage. The smile doesn't necessarily drop, but for a split second, it flickers.
The curtain drops, as if for some reason the show needs to be over immediately. And for one breathless moment, she looks back up into the audience, and her eyes are distant.

Usually some random place, about mid-way back and off to the right.

Reviews

[SHEEMA HUQ]

Your attention to detail is simply mesmerising, I was highly taken by the theatre setting, the interactions, the dialogue, and of course your brilliant, and clever descriptive expertise. This is a superb piece of writing, all the very best for your coming novel I do hope that you have enjoyed drafting this successful chapter as much as I have enjoyed ready it.....is there not end to your incredible talent? Great, great writing :)

[David Aiello]

Oh Sheema, thank you so much for this review, which was hugely enjoyable to receive!
This was one of those sit-bolt-upright-in-bed-3:45am writes, so I seriously hope there's more of it to come as well! (it's strange and moderately humbling to admit, but when I'm awake and frosty, it hasn't happened like this again yet; {yet, at least})
loves to you, thank you so much!
^________^

[Marcus Parks]

My God. I have very little clue about what that was, but I like it! It had a captivating image about it, and an interesting feel that made the tone seem modern, but not futuristic. I liked the way this narrator describes the character who's sitting in the seats, but I'd like to know more about him. I would love to see what this has in store.

[David Aiello]

Marcus, thank you very much for this very motivating review!
I am happy to report that this story is in the process of elaboration as I type, and will be expanded upon episodically in a chapter-by-chapter basis.
I'm also happy to report that there's much more where this came from!
^___________^

[Marcus Parks]

If you need any help, please let me know!

[David Aiello]

^_______^ Thankya sir! that is very kind of you to offer!

[David Aiello]

(I will keep that in mind, and take you up on it if it goes such)