Page 10 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“You must be Orlando. Charmed!” the peculiar woman exclaims.

“Excuse me, madam, are we acquainted?”

“Never mind that. I’ve heard so much about you, we’re practically kin,” she says, plucking a stray fibre from my collar.

“Pardon, but…” I try to interject before she interrupts me. “Aphra. She entrusted me to attend to you.” Taking my hand, she pulls me to the back of the theatre without further explanation.

Utterly startled, I follow her through several small doors, down crooked stairs, and into a dimly lit labyrinth behind the stage. With tightly stacked set pieces and props filling the corridors, we have to press ourselves against the walls to pass through to the other side. At an unmarked door, she knocks twice, then steps aside.

The door swings open. A brightly lit room. The smell of flowers and powder.

Nijinsky.

Chest bare, legs wrapped in silken dove coloured tights, a pot of grease paint in one hand. He tilts his head toward me, then gazes at the mysterious woman who never introduced herself.

“This is Orlando. A great admirer of your craft,” she says with a flourish.

When his gaze falls upon me again, he smiles. A brilliant smile. His teeth look resplendent against the black paint on his full lips.

“How do you do?” he says in an eastern accent. “You are Aphra’s brother?”

I stare at him in disbelief.

“Honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr. Nijinsky,” I finally manage to say. In reflex, I offer my hand to greet him.

His fingers touch mine. Warm skin. Ungloved. A slender hand envelopes my own. Rough calluses. A firm grip.

“Please, it is just Vaslav. We are friends now, no?” He’s still smiling.

I say nothing. My fingers remain in his. Vaslav—

“You must excuse me,” he says. “The second act…”

He winks, then lets go of my hand. I let it fall until it hangs oddly heavy from my shoulders.

“Come again after the last act, we shall drink to your sister.” He slips a tunic over his head. “Lady Black, join us. We celebrate our last night in this marvellous city.”

“Splendid idea, Vaslav,” she exclaims as she drags me back out of the dressing room. “Will you find your way back to your seat, Orlando?” Black Kohl rims her eyes. Smudges of it sprinkle her cheeks like freckles.

“Of course,” I reply automatically.

“Very well, I shall see you right here afterwards. Agreed?” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I notice a little fleck of red grease paint on her tooth. When I nod, she squeezes my shoulder once, then swiftly disappears behind another door.

Finding my way back is more challenging than expected, but after a few wrong turns and several blocked passages, I reach the door where Lady Black first spoke to me.

The second act’s music drifts into the corridor. I lift my hand toward the house’s door, its wooden surface gleaming even in the dim light. Yet, I pause.

Only in my most private thoughts would I admit to daydreaming of Nijinsky, of imagining countless scenarios, each and every one of them as fantastical as my mind could conjure. I would speak to him. Of course, he was riveted by my words, complimenting my eloquence. Then he would lean toward me, close enough to touch. There, I could dare voice my admiration plainly. Sometimes, he blushed, and other times, he brazenly grazed my hand with his finger.

But now that I’m here, I don’t want to watch. I don’t want to stay.

What was the point?

I am but a lifelike effigy made out of used-up air and absence. Effigies don’t want and dream and celebrate.

What becomes of a man who no longer loves, admires, or feels? Could such a creature be called a man at all?