Please take your seats for Autumn Kotsiuba's "The Proscenium," a surreal and pining trip to the theater where what you're seeing onstage may not be exactly as it seems. Or it may not be there at all?
We hope you enjoy, and remember to silence your cellphones,
The Editors
Please, just listen. Let me try again.
That first day, sitting in the theater, I don’t know how I got there. I knew that it was snowing outside, and I was wearing a weighted dress that matched the velvet curtains of the stage, but I don’t remember walking in or buying a ticket, or even taking my seat. It felt like I had snapped into being from spontaneous combustion, me and the theater both, our existence only starting that moment.
Have you been to the Crieff Theater? I’m not surprised. It’s in one of those stocky brick buildings in the historic district. Bigger on the outside than the inside. The main lobby is a marble cathedral, all high ceilings with polished gray finishes. Then you find your seat and the hall itself is full of gold ornaments and rich fabrics, a different kind of grand, but the seats themselves are a soft wood that reminded me of a Puritan pew. They have two rungs on the back that pushed into my spine. I heard or read once that those kinds of churches purposely have unforgiving seats, that the experience isn’t a good enough sacrifice unless it hurts.
My seat was in the very back row, on the first of two balconies, just off stage center. I know that because I looked up what the different parts are called. I didn’t use to go to the theater, I didn’t know the lingo. The walkway on the ground floor, for instance. The one that lets people into the hall? That’s the vomitorium. The proscenium is the metaphorical space separating the stage from the audience. Ugly words.
As I said, I didn’t know what show I was about to see. I didn’t even know who I was, outside that room, but I didn’t let myself think about it too much. It didn’t seem to matter. Instead I watched the rest of the audience as an opener, and I had the distinct feeling that they themselves were actors. They looked cast. Of course that old couple in suits shared a pair of opera glasses, of course this woman was dressed in black and pearls, of course these few children present were sitting ramrod straight. They belonged a bit too perfectly.
I was expecting the curtain to part but it rose instead. The set was chaos. I imagine that the trees were made of cardboard but they looked real, like I could sink my teeth into the bark and peel it off strip by strip. The main thing was that all four seasons were present, fighting for dominance. Orange leaves, pink flowers blooming from dogwoods, frost on a third of the branches, the lights turned blindingly high as the sun.
And the people. I’ve since seen the stage empty, and I know only twenty or so actors could fit, but I swear there were hundreds and not one of them was standing still. They were the leaves themselves, I think, tussled by the wind and tumbling to the ground. I think that’s what they were meant to represent. But maybe I’ve just gone to the theater too many times now and have started seeing symbols that aren’t there.
I know that there was singing, and dancing, and talking, but I don’t remember a note or word of it. Truly. Even after seeing the play seventeen times. I couldn’t pay attention, I just couldn’t, because he was already on stage.
Upstage, stage left. (I had to look that up, too. I would have just said he was to the right of my vision, on the part farthest from the audience. From me.) I imagine that if I’d seen him on the street, my mind wouldn’t have registered his presence. Slim, on the shorter side, brown hair that blended in with his clothes. Sharp jawbones that made him look hungry and young. He had a disheveled look to him, wrapped in a jacket that had those sewed patches on the elbows that are only worn by eccentric professors. But none of this matters; these details only came to me when I began to see him again and again and I was able to look at something other than his eyes.
He was searching for something. You could just tell. His eyes were frantic, darting, like a child realizing too late that his mother had moved on to a different part of the shop. He had lost something, or was searching for something he’d never had. No one else noticed; the other actors were in their own homogeneous world. At one point I was able to tear my gaze away to my fellow audience, but everyone was looking towards the opposite end of the stage.
The singing still hadn’t stopped. It wasn’t a musical, to be clear. Yes, yes, there was music most of the time. But it didn’t feel like a musical. The notes were frantic but didn’t match up with his actions; I felt his anxiety was separate from the story it was trying to tell.
I couldn’t understand why no one was paying him any mind. I found that I was gripping the armrests, carving crescent moons into the wood. It was like watching a starving bird fallen from the nest.
Suddenly he stepped forward and his fellows parted, leaving a border of empty space around him. His hands were gripping his hair and he said:
Please. I can’t find her. Where is she? Where is she?
I jumped up. It wasn’t a conscious thought, I just did. Yes, I had to say: yes, darling, I’m here, I am here–but everyone else was standing, too, and clapping, because the curtain had fallen and it was time for a break.
* * *
The ushers on my floor were pouring complimentary wine. It looked watered down. I took a glass but when I brought it to my lips it was already empty, a smudge of purple lipstick on the rim.
I caught snippets of conversation. A relatively unknown playwright, isn’t he? Do you think the babysitter's managing alright, should we call? The star is quite good, no?
I rounded on the speaker of this last question. Do you know his name, I asked, but the woman frowned at me.
I was referring to Mrs. Ellis, she said carefully, like I was a wild animal.
It clicked, and I think I handed her my wine glass. Of course no one was paying attention to him; he was not the protagonist. He was mine alone.
I found myself on the ground floor; I don’t remember taking the stairs. The lights hadn’t flickered their warning yet. The theater was at least a third empty so I planned on shuffling into an empty seat once the curtain rose, but an usher was waiting at the doors checking tickets.
Do you have a playbill? I asked instead, but they’d run out.
Are you enjoying the show?
I turned to find an older woman looking up at me with a familiar expression. She was wearing one of those hats, with netting halfway down the face, that I thought people only wore to funerals. But her expression was happy. Yes, it’s very intriguing. I asked if she was involved in the production but she didn’t seem to hear.
The actors will be in the main lobby after the show. If you’d like to meet them.
I thanked her, and it wasn’t until I’d returned to my seat that I realized how desperate my thanks had been, and how much she hadn’t been surprised.
* * *
He wasn’t on stage when the curtain rose for the second act. I felt a pit in my stomach at the thought of not seeing him again, of not being able to tell him that I was right here, that he no longer had to keep looking.
More singing, dancing, talking, weddings, deaths, wars. I don’t know. None of it stuck, it never did. But just before the end, there he was. Again parting the crowd. His finger shook as he lifted it; even from the back row I could see the light in his eyes–for it was me he was pointing at. Somehow no one in the audience was turning towards me.
It’s you, he said. It’s you. You’re finally here.
He was breaking character, I thought, he was reaching for something more dramatic than the minor role he played. We’d found each other. I couldn’t breathe.
The curtain fell again before I could move. It always does.
* * *
The cast was congregated in that marble entrance, drowning on champagne and compliments, dipping in and out of shallow pools of admiration. I saw him in a small huddle of admirers, deep in conversation.
An eternity later they broke away and, finally, he was one person instead of one of a group. Everyone wandered off to form new circles of conversation and I stepped out and met his eyes and there was a hardness there that I hadn’t seen before. Adam, I said, because of course that’s who he was, and concern flickered on his face.
Hullo. Did you enjoy the show?
I couldn’t answer. This was not Adam, this was not the man who had been searching for me. He bristled at my stare and looked away, pretended to notice someone else that needed his attention but I stepped in his way.
What is your name? I asked, and he answered, but I immediately forgot because it does not matter. He turned awkwardly away and I realized he was waiting for me to say well done, what a performance, Broadway is a short step away. I couldn’t say any of this, couldn’t even look at him, because he is not my person.
Do you understand yet?
* * *
Bethany didn’t understand either. We were on a patio waiting for our second round of mimosas; it was summer, I realized, though just yesterday it had been snowing. I mentioned it but she didn’t respond, instead going back to the basics.
So you liked him on stage but not in person. The waiter came but Bethany sent him back when the glasses were too full of orange juice.
No, I said, no, that’s not it at all. They are two separate people. I know him, or knew him, or will know him. And when she didn’t answer: He was looking at me. Searching for me.
She asked if I’m okay, if I’ve brought his old clothes to Goodwill yet, if she can help. I left without paying the bill.
* * *
I went again the next night. I bought a ticket that time. Presumably I had the first time, too.
I asked for a seat on the ground floor but they were sold out, and when I found my seat I realized it was the exact same one as the previous night.
Please. I still can’t find her. Where is she? Where is she?
I didn’t stand this time, or say anything, or move. I knew there was still a curtain between us, that proscenium, invisible but just as heavy as the velvet.
It’s you. It’s you. You’re finally here.
There is no meet-and-greet this time; I think it was just part of opening night. I roamed the hallways, the vomitorium, the entrance, hoping to catch him as he left, until a security guard asked me politely to leave so he could lock up for the night.
* * *
I went again. Again. Again. The play never ends and still I caught none of it. I showed up early, late, right on time. I was able to get other seats, closer, and it made no difference. Twice I ran into him but it is not-him, and there is a wariness in his eyes that I needed to be mindful of.
* * *
Bethany kept calling. In-laws knocked and I wouldn’t answer the door. Mail piled up on the countertop. I knew one of the envelopes held a check that was supposed to cover for more happily ever after years I’ll never get.
* * *
The play doesn’t run on Saturdays but I went to the theater anyway and found the doors unlocked. Practice had just ended, I think, and not-him noticed me right away. He looked less scared this time, and invited me to see the orchestra pit.
I followed, careful to see if I could sense any part of the man who shared this body. He undressed and I could tell, still, it wasn’t really him. He touched my breast and I said Okay, okay, but don’t look at me oddly when I call out a name other than your own.
* * *
Again, again, again. He was so desperate to find me and I am trying, I wanted to tell him, I am trying but I don’t know how to get closer to you. He looked so lost and fragile and close to breaking and I would do anything to see his face relax.
The woman next to me shuffled down a seat when she noticed me crying.
* * *
I was let go. I think that’s what they were trying to tell me. Words like Take all the time you need and This isn’t healthy and We can’t imagine are just other ways of saying We don’t know what to do with you anymore.
It’s fine. I don’t really remember what I did there anyway.
* * *
I snuck backstage and not-he saw me. It was just a bit of fun, he said, we should see other people.
That’s what I’m trying to do.
* * *
This is what finally did it: I went backstage during the show.
Act two. Just a few minutes left, just before he’s meant to go back on, to say It’s you, it’s you, you’re finally here.
And it was actually him. I knew immediately, and it broke both of us, because not only had he found me but he could access me. I knew you’d come, I knew it, he said, and I dragged him away but knew, suddenly, that I couldn’t, that we had to stay as close as possible, that it would be far too easy to lose him. So instead he lifted me on a chest in a dark corner of the space, and he was so, so quiet, so gentle, so how I remember him, and I fell asleep and when I woke he wasn’t there.
* * *
The theater doors were locked the next day. I tried them again and again, sure that I just needed to push, to pull, to push, but nothing worked and I tried to shatter the glass but I didn’t have the power it takes to break that barrier.
The widow was suddenly by my side. I think she’d always been there.
The curtain’s fallen, she said, but I was trying not to listen. Her voice was harsh and gentle and mean and kind. When the protagonist doesn’t show up for the finale, the show gets canceled. It’s only natural.
He was just a supporting character to everyone else, I argued, but she shook her head.
* * *
The flowers had all rotted. I couldn’t stop smelling them. I sat on the floor, reading card after card. We’re sorry for your loss. Here if you need anything. Adam was such a joy to know.
* * *
I still go. The play pops up all over the country, not in any discernible pattern of time or location, but it does. I don’t know how I find the details, the tickets, how I have enough money for more petrol, how I am constantly tugged to this thing that has no name.
But I watch, and watch, and there he is. Different bodies but it is always him, and he is always searching. Sometimes I wonder what would happen in the story if I were not there for him to cry out You’re finally here, if it would end a different way, if that would actually give him some peace. But I can’t afford to know. I have to be here.
So, please: I understand it’s sold out. I do. But please let me in.
-30-
Autumn Kotsiuba is originally from the US but has lived in Ukraine, Bulgaria, Poland, and the UK over the past decade. Her work has previously appeared in Paddock Review, Book of Matches, and Carcinogenic Journal.