A Foil in Red

Chapter 1

              "The truth is," she said, pushing the words out through a wince, "you simply don't seem qualified for the position."

The fingers Alsha was drumming against the arm of her chair stopped. She righted herself, heaving from the sprawled position she'd occupied in the firm chair. She leaned forward, arcing her back, going from one stage of bad posture to another. She rested her elbows on her knees, steepled her fingers in front of her mouth, and blew aside a tangle of unruly black hair so that her amber eyes might more easily bore into the woman interviewing her.

"What?"

Sensing the tautness of her declined guest, the elderly woman let the resume' flutter into idleness atop her lacquered desk. She sat back, poised, framed by the grey London light through the tall windows behind her. Sitting straight against her high-backed chair, she laced her fingers, and sighed.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Medi. I get the sense you had a lot riding on this. It's true that these positions are rare, but that gives us all the more reason to be selective. While I see you have plenty of fencing experience, and a very prestigious theatre degree, you've never been a part of any big name productions. I understand the difficulty for people like yourself, people in this industry. But, right now, the Globe simply can't afford to take risks."

Alsha squeezed her hands, her eyes narrowing.

The artistic director went on, waving her wrinkled hand about as if the whole situation had become trite. "I mean, it's as if you walked out of school and expected to get a job with your arts education alone. Now, judging by the year you graduated I'm guessing you've had time, though I can't imagine what you've been doing with it."

Alsha thought of the dirty trainers and foxed paperback travel guides sitting on the floor of her flat and who they belonged to. "I have to start somewhere," she said.

"Not here."

"Would you have preferred I lie on my application?" Alsha's words came hot now, filtered through her gritted teeth.

The director shrugged.

Alsha was in disbelief. She looked around the office again, and found she now hated the walls of bookshelves on either side, filled mostly with stout Shakespeare collections. She hated the lunar patterns on the cushy rug beneath her feet, and the ostentatious astrolabe and globe sitting off in one corner. She hated that, somehow, this room maintained the pleasantly acrid and ample smell of wood despite most of the Globe being renovated beyond recognition. She even hated the elegant rapier that hung between two windows and behind the director. She hated that she'd been called here, chest full of hope, only to realize she had wasted her time, that she'd have to go home and mull in a now half full flat. She hated that she'd been deceived again.

"If you want to work in stage combat, start a little lower on the totem pole," said the director, uttering the sentence in her usual languorous, running honey voice.

"Why did you even call me here," Alsha said, standing, her accent thickening around her words, ready to burn a bridge. "I'll show you lower on the totem pole."

"Vernon, would you escort Ms. Medi out."

"Certainly," said the big oaf in his angular American accent, stepping forward from where he'd been standing near the door and grasping Alsha's upper arm with a thick fingered hand.

"I got it Huckleberry," Alsha said, thrusting her arm out of his grasp. She pushed air through her nose like a bull ready to charge. She managed to move forward and flick the shimmery gold nameplate that read "Hilary Kami: Artistic Director" onto the floor before Huckleberry took her by the shoulders and moved her toward the exit. She bucked, throwing his hands off and sauntering out, relishing the reverberations that ran through her chest as she slammed the door.