Father grunted. Once they had slotted Eugen’s pedestal on top of mine, Father retrieved a heavy-looking pole with a glass capsule on top. ‘Keep the light coming in,’ he told me sharply and I pulled the curtain back further.
Father laid the pole down in the centre of the room, lifted a small hatch from the floor and began to connect wires that protruded from the bottom of the pole to something inside the hatch. With Eugen’s help, they carefully hoisted the pole upright.
‘I’ll have to test it,’ Father said, apparently to himself. Beside me were three switches on the wall that had been obscured by the curtain. He flicked the farthest one on for an instant and the bulb at the top of the pole lit up the room. I noticed in that brief burst of light that the floor had been painted in stripes of grey and brown.
Father ushered us back into the first room and locked the door behind him. ‘Get some rest,’ he said. ‘The curtain will not come up until eight o’clock tomorrow night. There is plenty of time to prepare. I will visit later in the morning.’
‘Food?’ Eugen asked.
‘There’s some bread and biscuits in the top drawer. I’ll bring something for your other meals.’ He looked at me. ‘Relax. Don’t let nerves or emotions ruin this opportunity.’
‘Yes Father,’ I said.
‘You mustn’t make any noise. I am the only one with a key to either door. Don’t, whatever you do, try to leave this room.’
‘Oh Father,’ I said and hugged him, forgetting myself.
Once he had left we lay the stretchers out and arranged the bedclothes.
When we were ready Eugen took pleasure in switching off the light bulb (Father never let us touch the switch in his workshop) and climbed into bed.
‘What time is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. It was still dark outside.’
‘There are no windows,’ I said.
‘There’s one,’ he said. ‘The only one that matters. Concentrate on that.’
I am not sure how long we slept but we were woken by the electric light coming on. I realise now that this was the first time I had ever woken anywhere other than our bedroom, excepting the handful of times Eugen and I had been allowed to camp out under the stars, which helps to explain the terrible confusion I experienced.
When my eyes had adjusted and I had my bearings I entered the window room, where Father had parted the back curtain to reveal a painted scene of stone buildings and large glass windows.
‘Get your nightgown off and wash down,’ he said.
‘Morning routine?’ I asked.
‘It is morning,’ he said. ‘Don’t think of today as any different.’
‘Can we please have a clock? It is hard to keep track of time without—’
‘Yes, yes. I’ll bring you a clock this afternoon.’
Back in the first room Eugen was already rinsing himself with a brand-new sponge. He handed it to me when I had undressed and I ran it over his back.
A pile of new clothes rested on top of the dresser. A cardboard box on the floor contained our dumb-bells and developers from home and a single pack of playing cards.
‘The worm is back,’ I told him.
‘In your stomach?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t be nervous. Nerves will only hinder your performance.’
Oh dear. Eugen has just asked me when I will be finished writing as he wishes to turn the light off and sleep, so I must hasten things along.
Father managed to answer all of my questions and allay my fears during this visit and his next and in the minutes before the curtain rose at eight o’clock I could not have felt more comfortable. Once we were in our costumes, Father asked me to lower my head and he slipped a necklace over my head. I looked down and saw the seashell disc he uses to check my complexion, hanging down as a pendant on a single strand of fine silk.
‘You are perfect, Avis,’ he said, with a trace of tenderness in his voice that made my entire being pulsate. ‘No one will notice this,’ he said, fingering the necklace, ‘but we know it is there. It will be our secret.’ Over the top of this he placed a large silver necklace with green and red gems, which seemed gaudy in comparison with Father’s gift.
‘I’ve waited a long time for this,’ he said, returning to his usual solemn, almost threatening, self.
I nodded and walked through to the next room where Eugen was already waiting.
Our tableau was one we had practised many times and seemed the obvious choice: we were two young lovers out promenading on New Year’s Eve. I wore a flowing dress of vibrant emerald silk voile, which Father says was very much the rage in Paris during their summer. Eugen wore a flecked tweed suit with the golden chain of a pocket watch emerging from his waistcoat. We both stood on the painted pavement (no pedestals) with our feet placed to give the impression of a moment captured mid-stroll. My hand rested in the crook of Eugen’s arm and we both faced forward, looking at the yellow lining of the curtain and the imaginary street that extended from our tableau.
Oh, what a sight it was once the curtain rose. Faces were pressed to the glass, with rows and rows of people behind, stretching back to the other side of the road. Beyond: the pointed spire of what must have been a church, my first church. The sky was an orange flare fading quickly. Iron poles topped by flickering electric lights, resembling the one in our tableau, sprang up from the middle of the crowd. Oh, the clothes they wore. The variety of heights and faces, all of them agog in that first moment but each expression unique. I longed to shift my eyes and see how far the crowd stretched to my right, to turn my head completely and take in every detail of the street. I wished to close my eyes tightly and reopen them to test if that would wash away this hallucination or prove it real. But I had practised too long to falter so soon. Too much was riding on a perfect performance. A perfect season in the window.
After some minutes those further back began to push through the crowd to get a closer look. Those nearest the glass seemed unwilling to give up their positions, no doubt wishing to catch us out, but they were pushed aside by the general swell. The crowd continued to move and rearrange itself, but its overall number did not alter greatly as the hours passed, even when midnight came and the fireworks were let off from the churchyard. Eugen and I had observed these fireworks from our house on birthdays past. It was strange that being so close to the marvel reduced the spectacle rather than enhanced it. The street filled with smoke that slowly pushed up against the window, reducing everything to blurs and smudges.
The townspeople were singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’, a song Mother taught us, when the curtain was slowly lowered on our first performance. We continued to hold our poses until we heard the door open and Father announced, ‘Bravo!’
I have not had any time to consider it more fully, but I suspect this is only the second piece of praise I have ever heard from Father’s lips, the first occurring earlier in the evening. It finished off what has been a night that lived up to and exceeded all expectations.
Seeing Father so happy is heartening, but Eugen seems unmoved. I suppose, if you expect success to the degree he does, it is hard to be delighted when it arrives.
Speaking of poor Eugen, I must let him get his beauty sleep.
We gave a matinee performance today, posing in the same New Year’s Eve tableau as the night before from eleven in the morning until three in the afternoon. The worm still made his