The Connoisseur

Chapter 1 - Opening Night

“How are we looking?” said Julie.  “Any last minute sales?”

Sophia peered out from behind the curtain.  Why did the seats in this little theatre have to be such a garish red?  It drew the eye, turning the gaps in the audience into yawning chasms.

“A few, maybe,” she replied, brushing aside a strand of black hair that had fallen over her eyes.  “Maybe Shakespeare isn’t the draw Roz thinks it is.”

“But Roz studies English.  She’s the arbiter of good taste.”

Sophia turned, catching the mocking glint in Julie’s eye, swiftly followed by a wicked smile.  She returned it.  “Of course she is.  Wait, you’re caught in your pearls.” 

She went forward to adjust her friend’s jewellery.  All around them, the actors and crew of the student company were hurrying around, checking lights, readying props, whispering their lines to the wall.  The actors wore smart striped suits in browns and greys with bright bow ties, and the actresses were transformed into ‘20s flappers in their shift dresses and cloche hats.  As she carefully rearranged Julie’s necklace, Sophia knew that her friend was pulling off the look the best of them all, but then she was playing Beatrice.  If any Shakespearean heroine was a flapper, it was her. 

Sophia, more demure in white, was Hero.  The play was Much Ado About Nothing, the date was December 6 2013, and the curtain was about to go up.

*

“My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.”

One line down, Act 1 Scene 1 done.  The role of Hero was a slow one, thought Sophia.  She watched from the sides as the gentlemen on stage discussed her.

“Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?”

“I noted her not; but I looked on her.” 

“Is she not a modest young lady?”

Modesty.  Leave the wit and the barbs to Beatrice.  If the Bard wished for Hero to be modest, Sophia would out-modest the best actresses in the business.

Act 2, Scene 1, and the matchmaking game commenced.  Hero laid plans with Don Pedro and Claudio.

“I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband.”

The audience laughed.  It almost threw Sophia from her stride; that wasn’t a line for a laugh, was it?  She smiled her most modest smile, and the play continued.

Now, for Hero’s first longer speech.

“Nature never framed a woman’s heart of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice; Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes...”

The audience laughed again – Sophia’s mind stumbled, even if her tongue continued with the line.  Why did they keep laughing?

The love-games came and went, Beatrice and Benedick were matched, and the deceased supposedly deceased Hero came back to life.

“Another Hero!” cried the pinstriped Claudio, as his fiancée raised her veil.

“Nothing certainer,” she replied, the stage lights bright in her eyes.  “One Hero died defiled, but I do live, and surely as I live, I am a maid.”

The audience did not laugh.  Sophia raised her head, staring up with all the modestly modest modesty she could muster – and there, on command, was the laughter.  Now she saw it for what it was: no mockery, but delight.  They loved her.  She had them in the palm of her hand.  The feeling was matchless; if she had pricked her skin then, she felt as though the blood would be golden, burning.