Chapter Text
Mr Dannie was the fourth person to ask. And unlike the boys in sound crew, he didn't bother using vague words.
"You have a crush on Therese, don't you?"
"No sir," I said with no hesitation, laughing a little at his question as if it was so far fetched I found it funny. By how far his eyebrows climbed, Mr Dannie didn't buy it.
It was not at all far-fetched, just not a crush. Because to my knowledge "crush" was defined as the desire for a romantic relationship. I'd rather do an unsuccessful jump, off somewhere much too low to kill me and much too high to land in one piece, than have a romantic relationship with Miss Belivet.
Miss Therese Belivet was a miraculous combination of intelligence, compassion and joy that I had not imagined could be all glow from a single human. A manifestation of human good that I would be discreetly overjoyed to listen to, admire at and be in the presence of, preferably from a distance where she wouldn't notice my existence.
I loved her, just not in the way Mr Dannie and the boys thought of it. I loved her in the way that we loved the moon. We never think of having it just for ourselves, we're just grateful to be graced with the presence of the moonlight.
The nights that I was graced with Miss Belivet's presence, however, had to do more with spotlights, washlights and floodlights.
There were three groups of people you'd see working in the theater. First, those who mostly worked before the shows. The sweet old ladies and flamboyantly dressed fashion designers in the wardrobe department. The relentlessly busy makeup and hair staff, always bustling from one dressing room to the other. The catering staff, also known as the happiest humans in the theater. On the flip side, the house and security staff who were almost always stressed trying to herd crowds outside the hall.
There were the people who were either on, behind and below the stage. Their jobs mainly happened during the show. The actors and actresses, dancers and ocassionally acrobats. Choreographers, directors, stage managers and stage crew. Musicians in the pit. The camera crew, when there were cameras.
And then there were us.
Firstly there was Mr Daniel McElroy and the boys. He cannot stand hearing "Mr McElroy", but he was also the head of the props department, which made it really awkward for anyone to say only his first name. Therefore he became Mr Dannie. Louie was his apprentice and assistant. There were often more people in the their department, but some were here only some months of the year, some came only for a specific production, and I couldn't keep track.
Mr Dannie and his team worked on the stage, behind it, around it, in the pit, sometimes up on walls. Quite the contrast from how George, Otto, Miss Belivet and I did all our work from a small room above the balcony.
George's job was to make sure what needs to be heard, is heard. He was in charge of having backing tracks ready for numbers that required them, as well as play the instrumentals if requested during rehearsals. He controlled the sounds of thunder, ocean, wind, also all the howling, screeching, and crashing.
Otto's job was to make sure whoever shouldn't be heard, wasn't heard. He listened to and meticulously controlled the microphone channels of everyone on stage and in the pit, changing the volumes according to whose voice was supposed to be obvious, who needed to be softer, who was no longer on stage. He had said many times it scared him how people swore like drunk pirates backstage with mics taped to their faces, knowing full well that had he missed one button, the whole audience and the neighboring hall would hear it loud and clear. He used it as an excuse for the two cardboard boxes of energy drinks he stored under the sound board. Miss Belivet still shook her head in disapproval whenever he reached for one.
I had the same jobs, except instead of sound, I dealt with light. I made sure people saw what they were supposed to see, that their eyes were led where they should be looking on stage, and what they weren't supposed to see was in the dark. According to Miss Belivet, my timing had to synchronize with the movements of the curtains and motorized props on stage more than George and Otto's had to be, which was why I got to sit next to her.
And the person who kept everything running, Miss Therese Belivet. Before the start of the production, way before we start coming in for briefings, she had designed the stage and props, how big, where they were, how fast they moved and what kind of light would fall on them. I often found myself in awe during those early briefings when we were given an initial outline, realizing that Miss Belivet had sat down with a pen at some point recently and came up with all of these.
During the productions itself, she kept us from ever getting lost. Most of our work happened after the performers had finished their review about the day's show, got high on euphoria of being done for the day and yelled thank you to each other. Some would waved at our room and Miss Belivet would wave back at them, smiling like she was watching a child do something cute. Then I'd turn off all the lights above the audience seats and we would start.
Miss Belivet would read through all the notes she had made during the show or rehearsal. She would speak through the mic to Mr Dannie and his team, making note of certain props which they had not realized prior were tripping hazards, which structures had to exit or enter, faster or later. Making decisions to move things if they were in the dancers' way or blocked the lights.
Then she would turn to me, still speaking into the mic so that everyone downstairs knew the changes happening. She would slide her notes closer, point out a number and identify a specific moment either through an action or a change in the music.
"In the finale, the first chorus when everyone starts singing together."
She stopped, eyebrows raised like she expecting an answer.
"Yes."
"Keep the spotlights but turn them down a little."
"Right."
"Then when it repeats and they walk forward, turn it up, and floodlights on. Everyone on stage needs to be visible."
"Yes ma'am."
When there was nothing on stage or in the music obvious enough to use as pointers, she would simply sing the tune.
"At the end, during the oboe solo?"
I bit my lip. I knew a little about orchestral instruments from the ocassional small talk with the musicians in the hallway, and I knew oboe was something they blew into but there were at least five or six things people blew into.
"I'm not sure which the oboe is, ma'am. "
Miss Belivet chuckled, then hummed the tune. I strained to recognize the tune, because it sounded more beautiful than anything I've heard in the entire two and a half hours. "Know what I'm talking about?"
"Yes."
"During this, use the strobe like the lightning scene, oh by the way George, at the start of act two the thunder needs to come just a little later, because light is faster than sound." George gave her a thumbs up. "Back to you, turn the strobe on but very low. Think of a glitch on those old school TVs - please tell me you're old enough to have seen one."
"I saw one, probably, ma'am, in kindergarten." I realized how pathetically structured that sentence was. Miss Belivet laughed defeatedly and I thought I was about to get a cardiac arrest.
"Oh god, child. Right uh," she grunted to push herself up from her chair, stepping behind me. I froze as her hand passed centimeters from my face, calibrating the intensity and speed by feel like a painter deciding where to brush. "This," she said. I watched the faint flicker of the light on the curtain. "Okay?"
"Yes."
I listened, taking notes of everything she said, when she spoke to Mr Dannie, to Louie, to me, to George and Otto, and then announced any changes she planned to make on her own part with the curtains and motorized structures.
She had asked me about it once, on another day. It was a particularly late rehearsal, something to be expected near the opening day of any production. There were last minute changes to the choreography of a number, and the practice stretched out longer than expected. It was half past midnight but we had no choice but to wait for them, because going through our list would involve Louie pushing things very quickly onto the stage before sprinting away behind it, George testing all the creepy howling sounds, me flashing LEDs all over the place and Miss Belivet opening a giant hole on the floor.
So we waited. George simply replayed the song whenever requested, Otto went to sleep, while Miss Belivet and I quietly watched the frantic efforts going on three stories below. Ocassionally she gave an ok gesture in return to the increasingly apologetic faces that looked our way.
The second paper cup on her table had long been emptied, her hair was slightly tousled and she had a blanket from the props room around her back as she hunched over her table. It was one of the rare times Miss Belivet looked human, like she got tired and cold and bored too.
"Why do you take notes so much, kid?"
I knew she was talking to me, because she called George and Otto by either their names, or "sound" when things were really fast paced. But I was either "lights" or "kid".
That summarized what it felt to be here entirely. She didn't know my name like a teacher would a student, and won't. She wasn't here to teach me. We were, technically speaking, equals. But the difference in knowledge and experience and her sheer skill on both the job and being human is so glaring that it can't be ignored. Therefore, "kid". It was as if she knew I was far from being developed and competent yet, and "kid" was a symbolic forgiveness for it.
I loved the sound of it coming from Miss Belivet, though I would never tell her.
"Uhm, I like it," I replied, knowing full well how blatantly lame of an answer that was, without the rest. Who the hell just likes taking notes? But I couldn't tell Miss Belivet it was because I liked the way she phrased her words, the way she spoke with a slight inflection, and just her voice itself.
"I see," she said, glancing at her empty coffee cup. "You like it here? I heard your home is far away."
I nodded, though I didn't think she saw me. Mr Dannie had asked me the previous year Christmas, if I was going home. I told him no, and had said that it took two days by ferry to get home. It wasn't false, except it was not the reason I wouldn't be home for Christmas. The reason was that I had sworn to every deity I knew that I would never walk back in that door the moment I left at fourteen.
"I do ma'am," I said, impulsively turning towards her. It wasn't thought of, was simply a silent part of me screaming that she was the reason I loved every second of this job, hoping she'd see a glimpse of that.
I saw her smile instead, eyes still glued to the stage. Something in the way she gazed through the glass was as if a thought crossed her mind, some old, painful thought she had buried way inside. Or maybe not. Maybe I was desperately trying to find something common between people and myself. Miss Belivet could very much have a loving family who she could go to whenever she needed, had siblings she played with and spoiled, people she lived for. Maybe she has loved ones. I hoped, prayed she does.
Why does it sound unlikely?