She opens her lips and begins to sing. I don’t understand the language, but it’s beautiful as it washes over the ears. Her voice is heavenly, and I sit forward in my seat as if to be closer to the notes, as if they might touch me somehow. Maura sang to me when I was a child, but I’ve not been able to convince her to do so for many a year – lullabies have grown as scarce as bedtime tales from Aoife. I could read for myself, sing for myself, but there’s something magical about song and story when they’re given, something unique.
I feel this woman’s melody is a gift, even though its words are incomprehensible.
I notice, after a while, that she does not shift from her spot. She does turn, left to right, hands reaching forth in gestures that are simple and repetitive. There’s a stiffness to her; at first I think she stays put because she’s in shoes too high to risk steps, but then I notice the joins in her elbows, at her neck and shoulders, wrists. I lean forward further, almost draping myself over the railing, so I can squint at her, harder and harder. It’s not elegant, and I’m ruining the effect of all Aoife’s make-up, all Brigid’s maid’s hairdressing, and the dress is growing more and more constricting, but I can’t help myself.
There! At the corners of her mouth are lines, they run down to her chin, visible as she opens her lips to let the sound out. The stilted motions, the repetition: she’s an automaton! Now I can see the silver patterns running up and down her bare arms are not tattoos, but perhaps decoration, perhaps some part of her functioning.
There’s a movement beside me, hot breath against my ear and Aidan is whispering, ‘Do you like her?’ and there’s a strange catch in his voice that I don’t understand.
I barely take my eyes from her to answer. ‘Oh, yes. I’ve never seen the like.’
He says no more, but sits back in his seat, a smug smile on his lips, and my attention returns to the mechanism on stage. She continues to sing and I cannot tell if it’s a love song, or one of grief, or a call to arms. Perhaps it is all three; perhaps that’s the only thing it can be.
When she is done, I feel bereft. The curtains close so she can be removed without anyone seeing how she must be carted away like a piece of machinery, as if she’s not a work of art. I have a music box at home that belonged to my mother, or so I’m told. I remember it used to play tunes too, once, but it’s a long while since it’s produced more than a sad weak chime. The way I felt the first time its tune began to die? That’s how I feel now. I lock eyes with Brigid and for a moment it seems we shared something wonderful; then her expression changes as she remembers she doesn’t like me at all.
The rest of the performance is quite ordinary, or maybe not but merely seems so to me. There are jugglers and dancers, girls who climb ropes into the air which appear to have no anchoring, there are four small plays, a jester who tells filthy jokes that make Aoife snort.
The automaton does not appear again.
But when the show is done and we leave our balcony box, Aidan does not lead us down the way we came, but rather along a dim passage hidden behind a curtain. We weave our way downstairs, past walls slung with ropes and heavy sacks, chains, and hooks, and other things I don’t recognise. It’s softly lit until at last we come to the back of the stage itself which is glaringly bright – so many candles! –now that magic is no longer needed to enchant the audience: people scurry to and fro, lifting one thing, dropping another, their thick make-up clownish this close; the costumes that seemed so magnificent from afar are in truth moth-eaten and falling apart. No one says anything to us, they simply glance at Aidan, who in turn acknowledges no one, but leads us to another set of stairs, this one set in a corner and a spiral, tightly wound downwards.
We’re beneath the theatre now, I don’t look at Aoife and Brigid coming along behind; I don’t acknowledge Brigid’s muttering. I follow Aidan’s broad back, a skip in my step to keep up with his stride, though we’re of a height. He’s excited, pacing like a hound on a scent. At last we come to a door, which he throws open as if he’s got a right to, reaching back to grab my hand and sweep me in with him.
The automaton is in the middle of the small, cramped room – but it’s finely outfitted, a dressing room for a leading lady, no doubt, a deep pink chaise longue for lounging about, a mirrored duchess with candles to gently light a face, racks of dresses heavy with sequins and crystals. But she’s tilted to one side as a small man in a brown suit, half under her skirts, fiddles about like a pervert. He begins to swear, fighting with the voluminous petticoats, flapping at them as if they’re an attacking bird around his head. Then he’s free and he sees Aidan, and his entire demeanour changes.
‘Mr Fitzpatrick, sir! A delight to see you.’ But his face, mostly plain, is having difficulty forming the correct expression. He’s younger than Aidan, not that much older than I, and has kind eyes. I think his smile might be nice under different circumstances.
‘Ellingham,
