Rusalka

Lazily risen,

you in your voluptousness tempt me.

Pale and gleaming,

fullness emerging from the hem of night

Tempting, drawing, coaxing,

Seducing.

I would leave this abode and gladly die for the both of you,

You in the night,

he in the day.

But he does not hear my entreaties;

only you, mistress,

only you are audience to my pleas.

And yet languidly you do recline,

naked moonlight misting forth over my lake.

Leaving me aching for a lover’s touch;

for one to set my senses aflame once more,

in this dark pool of night,

trailing lingering fingers

to places left hidden.

And so, now,

tears fall,

Unbidden.

Octavian

Strauss did not merely compose music; he crafted every note with love and care, winding and unwinding ribbons of melodies; some disparate, yet others soaring in harmony, in triumph.

I could only count myself fortunate; a mere mortal allowed to deliver the glorious work of old; a simple vessel blessed by the heavens. I live for this; the expressions that flowed so readily throughStrauss’s music; the emotions i dared not live off the stage.And so i relish everything now; every minute detail that entails perfection each night.

I stand, bare, in my dressing room; i gaze at myself in the mirror, studying the planes and curves of my body in mild interest. Strange how they were supposed to appeal to men, those creatures who lived for nothing more than lust. Pausing, i smile in bemusement as i revel in the irony of that thought; how could i think of them in such a manner, when i was to live and die as one onstage every night?

As quickly as a summer breeze i hear quick, determined footsteps clatter past my dressing room. Accompanied by her voice, i press myself flush against the cold wall, tensing at her passage. Her mere presence a few feet away from me, separated by unfeeling concrete, made me acutely aware of how naked i was; how vulnerable.

She was my Marshillin, the one who held sway over my heart both onstage and off. Alas, she knows not of my true ardour for her; blissfully lost in her own world. Bubbling laughter recedes, and i slowly feel my body relaxing into what it once was, before her brief passage.

My fingers curl around the thick roll of crepe, creamily yellow against my pale skin. Slowly, methodically, i wrap layers about my chest, suppressing what made me a woman. With much care i wind the bandages, for they were a great danger to me; too tight, and i would run short of breath; yet too loose, and the magic of deceiving the audience into thinking i was Octavian was gone. It was a ritual, almost, for me, to relish in this task each evening, as though it was the first and most essential step in creating Octavian out of me. I supposed it was, for it blurred the lines of gender, transposing my much adored fictional life onto reality, no matter how briefly.

Sighing in satisfaction as i feel the welcome nip of constriction, i proceed to pull on the tights that characterised my character. Brash, ardent, filled with ardour; all the things a young man could get away with that i could not. The white silk slides silently over my thighs, slithering their way to press into my groin. It was astonishing, how two simple garments were all it took to transform a lady into her stage persona, how the lines were so easily redrawn and redefined.

Having donned the most intimate components of my costume, i proceed with my descent into dressing for the night’s masquerade. Stiff green trousers are cinched about my waist, and a white dress shirt moulds itself neatly into place. A vest follows, silver threads glimmering in the light of my dressing room. I leave the heavy emerald overcoat hanging for now, intent on being Octavian from the neck up. Gathering my honey-brown hair into a ponytail, i tie it and proceed to twist it into a tight bun. Pins flew deftly within my fingers to hold it in place, leaving my neck exposed to the cool of the dressing room.  Now all i had to do was to wait for my make-up artist to arrive, to put the finishing touches on my mask.

Vocal runs were in order, and i silently threw thanks to my parents who had endowed me with the gift of playing the piano. Settling myself down at the mahogany instrument sitting, lonesome, in a corner, i begin with my scales, warming up my voice for its imminent display.

Then,  in the midst of my G major scale, a crash of my door signalled her arrival. She, just like me, was dressed halfway, her petticoats trailing after her. Heaving, her bosom flared under the undone corset; obviously she needed help lacing up her predicament.

“I assume you’ll be needing help?”

Needlessly i gesticulated at the loosely clinging corset. She nodded, gripping the back panels so they kept from springing open. Wordlessly she turned, offering me a view of that pale, creamy back. I stepped closer to her, fingers reaching nimbly to grip the laces. Slowly, methodically, i pulled the corset tighter, cinching her waist smaller gradually. Still, just as i had bound my chest, i knew i had to take much care in lacing her in, for it affected her breath intake greatly.

 ”Too tight?”

I thought that was what the sharp intake of air, that gasp that escaped her crimson lips meant. True enough, i had pulled a fraction too tightly and she was feeling the strain. Duly i loosened the restrictive garment, checking one final time before lacing it firmly in the small of her back.

“Oh…. That feels kind of good, actually.”

Somehow, she was still breathless, her cheeks flushed with breathless flight. Grey green eyes twinkled in merriment, arresting me with some untold emotion. I averted my gaze, shifting it to watch her lips. Crimson; parted; sumptous, like a poppy in bloom. Her carriage was upright, and i knew that it would have been even without the corset.

A heartbeat, a moment, countless passed between us yet none felt as though they did.

With a promise to see me onstage later fading into reveberance, she bounded away once more, scents of lemongrassed lavender trailing behind her. I smiled for her, to conceal the longing i held inside.

Time passed soon after, quickly sprinting pass as the time for the curtain to rise drew ever closer. I stood once again in front of my mirror, this time dressed as my stage persona. I almost looked like Octavian; the only thing i was missing was my Marshillin, whom i was to join in the wings.

Almost breathless with anticipation, as i had been for the past few nights, i strode down the darkened stage corridors, paying no heed to the creatures darting past me, for they were the ones who were to be frantic now, seeing to last minute details. The welcome sight of that slim figure dressed in her corset and underskirt greeted my eyes as i drew to the stage. She was standing, alone, silhouetted against a soft spotlight. Every inch the Marshillin she looked, and i ached to embrace her. For once she seemed to be truly alone, and in her lonesomeness she looked ever more stunning, ever more one that i longed to hold.

Even though i knew she, like the character she played, hated the ravages of time, i have come to love her for all she is; for her nuances of maturity underlying her youthful exuberance, her true age, in those fine lines about her glorious eyes. Yet all i can do is hold her a fraction more on stage, kiss her a little more tenderly in my guise as Octavian. She’d understand in that circumstance, for she was a creature of the stage too, and understood the need for realism onstage.

I could hear the hum of the orchestra getting ready behind the curtains, the buzz of the crowd. Silently i approach her from behind, noting the tension in her shoulders. She had no reason to be tense; so glorious was she onstage that she surely had nothing to fear.

“Ready?”

I softly broke into her train of thoughts, reaching out to touch her bare shoulder. Gooseflesh rose where my fingertips landed; the hair on my own neck started to rise in anticipation of what was to be. She half-turned, a small smile gracing her features.

“As ready as i would ever be, my dear.”

I nodded and proffered my arm. She laid her delicate hand upon it, and together we stepped onto stage, to sprawl onto the garanguatan bed for the opening act. We reclined together, savouring the silence, the magic that hung between the rise of the curtain and the explosion of music that was Der Rosenkavalier. I could hear her even, steady breathing, and as i shifted to align myself to gaze into her face, i caught her muttering a soft prayer. Outside, the orchestra struck up and i watited in breathless anticipation for the curtain to rise. We caught each others’ gazes, and as always, i saw the trust she had in me shining through. For a brief moment, she smiled, and i returned it. The curtain rose, signalling the start to the night. Now was the moment i craved. Now was the moment i could be close to her legitimately, under the pretenses of my character. Now was the moment i became truly happy. Now was the moment i truly unmasked my feelings for her.

Octavian.

I live to be him.