Page 9 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

A few stray people ogle me for another moment, muttering words I don’t care to discern, before moving on as well.

Behind me, I hear the sounds of the car leaving. I’m left standing alone and unmoving in the middle of the pavement as the city resumes its routine.

I’ve never desired to end my own life. Not that I’ve ever been particularly happy, but I’m content enough. I have nothing much to complain about. Yet I don’t feel grateful for the stranger’s actions.

With my keys already in hand, I reach my home in less than five minutes. Paying Godfrey’s imminent approach no heed, I head straight to my room and draw myself a bath.

Even though I still have several hours before the function, I want to take my time getting ready for this evening. I’ve been looking forward to it for close to a year. Getting the tickets was near impossible, but in the end, one of my sister’s many social contacts procured one for me. A good seat and all. Some might even say the best seat in the entire theatre.

While the hot water fills the tub, I lay out my evening dress on the bed. Black tails. White waistcoat. I add my favourite special occasion hoses, of course: the lavender ones with the embroidered green carnation.

Before leaving the family estate, I made sure to ask my sister to teach me embroidery. Ever since that day, I’ve stitched a green bloom to one silken pair. Of course, I did this in secret and laundered them myself in the washbasin. I dared not risk anyone seeing them and discerning their meaning. Even so, I usually felt a thrill when I had the nerve to wear them in public. There was always the possibility of them being noticed. But tonight was special enough to call for the occasion.

I finish my bath in time to take a light supper in my room just before taking the cab Godfrey hailed for me.

I can’t help but notice how unusually calm my hands are as I hold the theatre tickets. Not too long ago, I was practically desperate for the opportunity to see him on stage again. Only a week has passed since I was exhilarated beyond measure just thinking about tonight. It’s been two years since I first saw Vaslav Nijinsky dance. Two much-too-long years.

Nijinsky’s performance back then was entirely captivating. I was utterly enthralled by his face, the intensity of his gaze. Not upon me, of course, but on the audience. On the world. The way he moved across the stage. Mesmerising. I remember it all vividly—my quickened pulse, my tightening chest.

Yet now, there are no such signs of excitement. I raise the stub to the light, reading his name underneath the ballet’s title. My mind knows. My heart remembers.

But my body does nothing at all.

I’ve been to the Palatium Theatre before, and each time I step through the doors, the beauty of its architecture takes my breath away.

Today, though…today, my breath remains distinctly unstirred.

Not that the interior has changed in any way since I last visited. The marble still glitters faintly in the light. Arches hold the ceiling impossibly high, defying physics itself. The scent of rich perfumes lingers over everything. Like the humming of a train, the chatter of lavishly dressed people fills the large foyer. It’s the embodiment of what I imagine the Palais Garnier to look like when reading its famous story—the epitome of past opulence and decadence.

I queue at the garderobe without any regard for the intricate decorations around me. When it’s my turn to hand over my coat and hat to the attendant, I receive the stub with a curt word. I don’t participate in the usual pleasantries or take in my surroundings. Because with every look and every greeting, I am reminded of the past, of a life filled with wonder and awe for the beauty of things. And even as hidden as I am forced to exist, I was at the very least still filled with sensations and feelings.

Now, my only thoughts are of Nijinsky. Will he be the thing to pull me from this strange melancholy?

The seat is as perfect as my sister promised. The centre front row is so close to the stage that I can practically see the fine fibres on the orchestra members’ coats. Even though the tuning of the instruments was always one of my favourite parts, now, its dissonant song leaves me cold. So I simply wait and stare at the folds of the heavy velvet curtain while the other patrons seat themselves.

Then, the lights dim, the music swells, and we are left sitting in utter darkness.

The curtain parts, lights flicker on, and the stage opens to a muted geometric backdrop. Dancers in avant-garde costumes dart and flitter from side to side across the waxed wood. Anticipation builds. Nijinsky’s entrance is near.

Silence grips the audience. Even they know how remarkable he is. Perhaps not as I always felt, but even a simple philistine could see that he is not from this world.

Suddenly, he is there. With his arms aloft, he stands still at the centre of the stage. I’m so close, I can see him in perfect detail. Intricate makeup accentuates his features. Soft, plump lips. Tensed muscles. The costume’s colours are rich, and the fabric sways around him like falling petals.

Then, he dances.

Nijinsky’s graceful strength would stun anyone who laid eyes upon him. I remember this feeling well, and even though I’ve only seen him perform once before, the experience has stayed with me for years. Whenever I’ve felt downtrodden, I closed my eyes and replayed it in my mind countless times since.

Yet now, I am unmoved.

I merely sit, watch, exist.

The absence of my lifelong joys should be concerning. Perhaps I ought to scramble for the piece of me I seemingly lost. But what would I do with it once I found it again? Would it replace the strange foreboding permeating my being with the infatuation I once so abundantly possessed?

I see it so clearly. The ballet demands my attention, reminding me of acedia and apathy. But seeing is not enough. Knowing is not enough.

When the intermission begins, I politely excuse myself and leave my seat.

The moment I step into the corridor, I catch the attention of a flamboyantly dressed lady. She comes closer, face furrowed, seemingly bewildered. Without a word, she takes the stub from my hand and reads it. Before I can protest, she smiles at me brightly.