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Felix Austria
and starts bearing fruit, how
out of mirrors, candlelight,
and water, shadows emerge
and start moving inside
transparent vessels, how they
dance hair-raising dances,
how they answer questions
from the audience.
Inside the theater itself it is
stuffy. The barely perceptible
smell of oil from the gas
lamps mixes with the greasy
scent of hair pomade, sweet
powder, and perfume. The
rustling of silk and satin
softly envelops the excited
murmurs of the audience.
The chairs upholstered in
red plush are simultaneously
coarse and tender to the
touch. Excitement titillates
the nerves: ladies’ cheeks are
flushed; gentlemen, on the
contrary, are subdued and
focused.
Someone’s
noiseless
silhouette floats along the
walls,
extinguishing
the
lights one after the other,
hiding in the darkness the
white molding covered in
golden sparkles, the chairs,
the
audience—only
the
semicircular stage remains
lit, covered by the blood-
red folds of the curtain. The
hall gradually descends into
darkness and quiet, only the
exotic butterflies of fans
rustle with their giant gloomy
wings.
“I would kindly ask the lady
to take off this caravel,” one
hears angry whispering from
somewhere.
“This is impossible,” resounds
an unshakable answer. “My
hat is attached by pins. They
would scatter around and
someone might get hurt.”
“But the lady makes it
difficult not just for me—
your hat obstructs the view
for three persons!” insists