Carrie Hope Fletcher - When the Curtain Falls

A certain kind of magic is born when the curtain rises. Intoxicated by the smell of the greasepaint and powered by the glow of the footlights, lovers successfully elope, villains get their just deserts and people die in epic stunts and yet live to tell the tale. Thousands pay to sit and be fooled by illusions and still jump to their feet to applaud despite their gullibility. Its an inexplicable, delicious, addictive power that keeps people entranced and coming back for more, again and again. However, for one theatre on one special night of the year, its when the curtain falls that a whole different kind of magic takes to the stage. Mice scurry through the gaps in the walls, mirror lights flicker in the small hours of the morning and ghosts roam the wings in search of props from productions long past. When the curtain falls in the Southern Cross Theatre, the lonely stage door man wanders the halls checking each door is firmly bolted. All, that is, except one. He turns the key of dressing room four and swings the door open to find the lights still on and a faint scent of jasmine in the air. A high-backed green velvet armchair faces the mirrors, hiding the woman in the reflection from view. The man doffs his cap to the red-headed lady and her green eyes sparkle at him.

Youre here, she says.

Not disturbing you, am I? he says with a wry smile.

Never, says her reflection. Im always glad of the company. Its rare one finds it these days. Come and sit with me a while, wont you?

Always. He walks to the green armchair and swivels it around, only to find it empty, just as it is every year, on this day, when he comes to dressing room four. He sits down and faces the mirror where he watches the woman pull her pink silk dressing gown tighter around her shoulders.

You look beautiful. He smiles, stroking his chin, trying to hide the wrinkles beneath his palm.

Stop hiding, she says, reaching out a hand. I know what you look like and you know that I like it. Seeing you is such a rarity. I cant bear it when you hide yourself away. Its almost unfair. Her eyes glisten in the yellow light, and he is afraid her tears will spill over.

Sorry. He pulls his hands away and places them on the dressing table, his fingers splayed apart. I know, I know. Every day of his life builds up to seeing her on this night each year and every year he feels like he lets her down. Hes grown older, his skin has wrinkled further, his hair has greyed and yet shes stayed vibrant and sparkling, full of life and full of love for him.

Please dont hide, she begs, her fingers pressing up against the glass.

I wont ever hide from you. Never, he promises, pressing the tips of his fingers against hers, tricking himself into believing that he can feel the warmth of her skin.

Its almost time. Her voice catches in her throat.

Already? He checks his watch. 11:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes.

She nods sadly and stands, her limbs carrying her to the reflection of the door. Her body moves slowly, as if through treacle, every muscle fighting against a force she cant control, a force that is carrying her away from him.

Im sorry, he sobs, a tear trickling down his weathered cheek.

Dont be. All I ask is that you come earlier next year. Just a few more minutes, thats all I need.

I hate letting you go, he whispers.

Our time gets so much shorter and shorter and

And what?

I feel like Im losing you. She clutches the door frame, fighting the invisible tide thats crashing against her and forcing her back.

You will never lose me. Not ever.

His gaze follows her reflection as she is pulled from the doorway. He gets to his feet and stumbles forward on his aching knees. Mirrors of all different shapes and sizes have been hung in an uneven line along the corridor walls. He catches a glimpse of her hair in one, the hem of her dressing gown in another and then her pleading eyes in the last one. Where he hasnt been able to hang mirrors, hes lined them up on the floor and propped them up against the walls so he can follow her stumbling legs. Some years she takes different routes through the corridors, past different dressing rooms and through different wings, desperately trying to cling to the theatre and the man she loved but ultimately, she is always pulled back to the same fateful place: centre stage. He chases her reflection, sometimes losing her and racing backwards, retracing his steps; it has become harder and harder every year as he struggles to keep up with her body elegantly bending and bowing away from him. It is a dance he had never learnt the right steps to and certainly one he never enjoys.

She calls his name and her voice echoes through the corridor as he turns the corner to see her silver shoe stepping through the golden frame of a mirror and delicately touching the floor. Despite the solid click of her heel against the stone as she pushes her way out of the frame, he can see the end of the corridor through her body. She is transparent and hazy but her green eyes still dazzle him to his very soul and his lips tremble at the sight of her, now in costume, ready for the stage. The train of her burgundy evening gown sweeps along the floor behind her as she is pulled from him once more, her beautifully coiffed blonde-wigged head twisting reluctantly away. People often speak of the magic of the theatre but they usually mean what happens on stage during a show. They dont know about the real magic that lingers within the theatre walls, left behind by every actor who treads the boards. And they dont know about the magic that takes hold of her every year, whipping her old pink dressing gown into burgundy silk and spinning her red hair into gold. The old man hobbles after her but with less desperation than before. Now that she is in costume, nothing can stop her and all he can do is watch from the wings just as he has done every year before. She pulls open the double stage doors and a silence falls over the theatre. Mice stop their scurrying and lights cease their humming. His breath catches as he watches her delicately sidestep props and set pieces, even though were she to come into contact with anything, she would float right through. She turns to face the stage and slowly the warm glow of the lights fades up and he can see the outline of her lovely face. Its all so achingly familiar the way her cheeks flush at the thought of stepping out in front of an audience, the way she still touches the bridge of her nose even though she isnt wearing her glasses and the way her eyes swim when she turns to him and whispers, Im so sorry.

Its me who couldnt save you. He stumbles forwards, steadying himself against the black painted walls, but her smile stills him.