Faint light trickled through a gap between rotting wooden boards, painting its sickly gray glow onto the hazy eyes flicking back and forth between the weak gleam of golden cuff links and their reflections in the dirty silver mirror. Hands trembling with nervosity fixed the fit of the black tailcoat, ran through gelled hair and dabbed last touches of kol beneath the restless eyes. His audience was waiting. He could hear them, chatting in the rows of red velvet seats above him, expecting him on the stage. They were waiting for him.
With a deep breath of the stuffy, dusty air, he returned the stump that was left of his black kolstift to its place in an old tin cigarette etui, not exactly satisfied with the way the make up had turned out but aware that he had run out of time to do it all again. Just like every other night, he tightened the same old bowtie, lowered the same old moth-eaten, once midnight blue velvet over the mirror, closed the same old small wooden box and turned to the same old small table next to him. It was like every other night, and yet it was as new as it had been the first time, as nerve-wrecking and exciting as it was every time he stepped into this room.
His gloved fingers gently pet the small head of the horned marten, caressed its soft fur and made eye contact with the expectant, curious black eyes. "Not tonight, Gwin," he whispered softly, like he always did, "Make sure no one touches my stuff." The marten nudged the leather protecting his fingertips as he retracted his hand, and he almost smiled. But like all the other times, his face remained silent and his swift steps carried him to the unhinged, splintered door.
The voices grew louder as he slipped past the wrecked wood, the thick, dirty green carpet swallowed the sound of his calm stride and his hands folded in front of his body. He could see it now, the silver light bathing the orchestra in its ethereal glow, drowning the weightless musicians in a wisp of long-lost wealth and the surreal glow of lives not lived as they had been supposed to. The singers just finished lining up in the wonderfully pretty order they always stood in, fiery red suits and soothingly green dresses, blue glittering teardrops on white masks and hands gloved in black lace. As always, they bowed and the audience cheered, as always, their faces remained emotionless and as always, only one of them could not help the smile stealing itself into her pale expression.
Another deep breath heaved his chest, then he stepped into the flooding light. The cheers rang through his ears, filled his mind with anticipation, drew him closer to the lone podium at the edge of the stage. Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed him, he felt them resting on his back and neatly arranged hair, pleasantly burning the skin beneath the tailcoat, the vest, the white shirt. It was him beneath the never-consistent sea of looks, him at the mercy of their judging expectancy, him as the subject of their anticipatory excitement. The weight of the gigantic opera hall laid its heavy hands on his shoulders, around his chest, graced his throat, and yet like every other night, he relished in the anxious flutter in his stomach.
Only when he stood atop the wooden platform in the middle of the stage's edge, he painted a wide, kind smile onto his face and turned around. The bright, silver light falling through the open roof took his sight, but he knew of the masses in their finest garments, of the expectations written into every pair of eyes that laid their attention on him. There had to be hundreds of them, hundreds of people waiting to be robbed of their breath, to be overwhelmed by the magic that would grow into the clear, nightly air, to be enchanted by the merciless waves of music and their ungraspable beauty.
Like every other night, he bowed in a graceful arc, one arm before his chest, the other stretched to the side to introduce the singers and musicians. And like every other night the cheers only quietened when he had straightened himself, smiled at the audience once more and turned around again. He let his gaze wander over the familiar faces behind the masks as a flick of his wrist revealed the sleek baton, his gloved right hand gently held the light wood and he studied the same old expressions. His eyes flicked to the yellowed sheets in front of him, then back up at the same old choir and the same old musicians.
YOU ARE READING
the red circus || kanej
FantasyKaz Brekker always knew two things: that he wanted to stand on the stage, to have the attention of the audience solely on him, and that that he loved music. But after his brother's tragic death, he had to realize that his career as a conductor has n...
