The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr

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СКАЧАТЬ can’t resist tossing down my fake cane and whipping my lace shawl around me in a saucy Spanish swirl though no one can see me in the darkness. I start tapping my black flats with the white-button straps on the wooden floor, saying the dialogue on the title cards between the frames I’ve memorized in a loud whisper (no one can hear me) while pushing away cigar smoke creeping into my face. I look over my shoulder and see the man in the Panama hat huddling with Monsieur Durand and pointing to me. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but playing the part of the wild flapper.

      I dance around the small stage in a tight circle, my derring-do shielded by the coveted black shadows hugging the screen in a cool embrace. Sweaty bodies, wild silent laughter… it’s all there on the big screen… and I’m in it… yes, I’m in the scene. Losing control… loving it… lifting the skirt on my ugly, grey convent frock, not caring if my left garter wiggles down my leg and my tan cotton stocking with it. No one can see me in the dark… Monsieur Durand and the man in the Panama hat wouldn’t be able make out more than my shadowy figure… and the first row of seats is far enough away I disappear in a blur… I’m dancing, acting out the lead role… filled with the exhilarating awe of being in the moment… reaching that pinnacle of complete loss of self where nothing can touch you, when you throw yourself down into the abyss and you become that character—

      Till the reel of film breaks, thrusting the theater into a mesmerizing darkness.

      The lights come on in a snap. Bright, insistent electric eyes beaming on everyone in the theater.

      But none more insistent than on finding me. Spotlights. Hitting me in the eyes. Me, standing there like a puppet on stage with her strings cut. My cover of darkness blown. Holding up my skirt, revealing my bare thigh, my cotton stocking puddling around my ankle. And that ridiculous makeup I put on. I imagine my blue-red checks and the charcoal rings around my eyes glowing like the girl I saw in an old vampire film when Monsieur Durand ran a special showing before Lent last year. Scared me out of my drawers.

      Now I’m scared out of my drawers again.

      Because my secret’s out. My acting secret.

      Sure, I’ve seen kids snicker at me when I’m acting out scenes in the back of the theater, tossing their leftover rotten vegetables at me instead of the screen (Monsieur Durand forbids tossing smelly food at the stage, but everybody does it). It’s one thing for me to let myself go and act in the dark when no one can see me, when no one can judge me, to fly high in my dreams. I always land back on my feet when the lights come on. But to expose myself in front of everyone like a tawdry fan dancer has set me on a new compass. That if I want to become an actress – and I do with all my heart – I can’t hide anymore.

      I have to face the audience. Show them what I’m made of. Do something to entertain them while ignoring my state of undress until Monsieur Durand changes the reel. So I do it. What I was born to do. I’ll either make a complete fool of myself or find my footing as an actress.

      I clear my throat, then go into a speech like I’m reading from a placard on the screen.

      ‘The film will resume in a few minutes, mesdames et messieurs…’ I begin with a booming voice and a grand gesture. ‘Ladies, please remove your hats. Gents, no smoking please—’

      ‘Ah, go home, Sylvie.’

      ‘Yeah, go back to the convent where you belong.’

      ‘You ain’t no actress… get out of here!’

      I bristle inside, wanting to cry at their insults, shut down and pretend none of this ever happened. I can’t. It means too much to me. My soul has been crying out to act in front of an audience and though this is the most god-awful way to do it, I can’t stop. I love the spotlight wrapping me up in a warm embrace, a hug that feels so good, giving me what I never get – attention just for me. As if I am somebody.

      I don’t back down even when I hear someone yell, ‘Let’er have it!’

      I duck, but not fast enough. A big, juicy, rotten tomato hits me square on the shoulder, then another. I don’t stop. I march up and down the stage dodging tomatoes, then a soggy cabbage lands at my feet. I keep going, acting out the scene in the film as I memorized it, reciting every line on the title cards without taking a breath… giving it my all… the organist getting into the spirit and piping out a lively tune, keeping up with me, beat by beat.

      Then the lights go out and the screen behind me lights up. And the film resumes.

      But do I get off the stage? No, the rush of doing what I’ve yearned to do is too strong an addiction. A sugar high that won’t quit. I blink, glancing down at my hands, my grey uniform, the flickering lights from the movie projector dancing over me, tomato juice running down my cheeks and mixing with my tears.

      I don’t wipe them away.

      I look out at the audience, hands on my hips. In a saucy voice, I say, ‘You run out of tomatoes?’ I smell a mix of human sweat and moldy cabbage as I cross downstage and leer at the audience. I hear mumbling and snickering. ‘Good. Now we can get back to the film Monsieur Durand so kindly allowed you to attend for a nominal fee.’

      Moving in a slow waltz across the stage in front of the film, I become the human shadow of the actors on the screen – the flapper and the playboy – performing their jazz baby antics in a nightclub scene bigger than life behind me, toying with the act of love and seduction with their body movements, their eyes, their lips…

      I mirror every gesture, every movement… I’ve watched the film five times and memorized the title cards so it’s easy for me to recite the dialogue loud and clear like the film does have sound. Flapper with headband plays hard to get. Playboy offers her champagne.

      Monsieur, you are too kind.

       And you are so beautiful.

       How do I know you won’t take advantage of me if I drink the champagne?

       You don’t…

       Now you intrigue me…

      Mon Dieu.

      ‘Go home, Sylvie!’

      ‘No,’ someone yells in a loud voice with such authority, a hush comes over the audience. ‘Let her go on. She’s good.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I say to my unknown benefactor, giving him a wave. I can’t see who it is since the theater seats are again sheathed in darkness. ‘I’m staying right here. You’re all watching me, aren’t you? No one’s left the theater…’ I pace up and down the wooden stage, keeping their eyes moving on me so they can’t look away. ‘You’re glued to your seats because you can’t not watch me. I make you feel something inside you… hate, pity, even envy because I’ve got the guts to stand here and pour out my heart doing what makes me fly to the moon. I admit I have a lot to learn about acting, but the raw truth is, I set off your emotions. To be a great actress you need to show your feelings, not let anyone stand in your way. Sure, I memorized the lines, but to be a great actress, to make you, the audience, feel the depth of the character’s emotions, you have to suffer. To know the heartache when you cry yourself to sleep at night because it’s lonely and you don’t have anyone to snuggle up СКАЧАТЬ