Wild Lavender by Belinda Alexandra

lose my breath the second before the transition and my heart lurched in my throat. Suddenly the women were spinning, somersaulting through the air like silver dolphins. A sensation in my stomach made it seem as if they were falling, swooning towards the deadly edges of the stage. But with a slap! their hands clutched those of their catchers with such split-second timing that for a moment the audience remained dazed. Then the sound of applause roared through the hall. Those whose legs weren’t still trembling stood up to shout their admiration. Somehow, from that point on, I knew that the Zo-Zo Family would be safe even though their pirouetting and passages became increasingly complicated as the act progressed.
    Although I saw the act several times, each time it ended and the band played the victory tune tears blurred my vision. The performance stirred my sense of beauty and loathing. Beauty because the act was more about trust than tricks; loathing because of the snatches of conversation Iheard backstage. ‘Not this time, I guess,’ muttered as a sigh. When all the Zo-Zos had scaled back down to the stage and taken their bows, the collective exhalation of relief that went through the other performers contained a tinge of dissatisfaction: the same disappointment as among onlookers when a suicide decides not to jump.
    But my greatest fear was that Aunt Augustine would find out where I was going each evening and forbid me to walk Bonbon any more. I was not a natural liar and the double life of deception took its toll. I was fearful of getting home late, and as evening approached I never knew until the last minute if Aunt Augustine was going to give me an errand to do and a whole day’s anticipation of going to the music hall would come to nothing. If I ever wanted to work in show business, it was clear that I would have to leave Aunt Augustine’s first.
    It was in this matter that Albert came to the rescue.
    ‘Madame Tarasova needs help with the costumes,’ he said. ‘Go see her.’
    I pinched my wrist to make sure it wasn’t a dream and found my way to the backstage area where the wardrobe mistress was stacking headdresses on a shelf.
    ‘ Bonsoir , Madame,’ I called out. ‘Albert said you need help. And I need a job.’
    Madame Tarasova was a Russian émigrée who always wore a loose corduroy dress and a scarf fastened at her throat with a brooch. She smiled at me and cooed to Bonbon. ‘What a beautiful doggie,’ she said, stroking Bonbon’s chin. ‘We must make sure we don’t put her on someone’s head instead of a wig.’
    We both laughed.
    A blonde girl, a few years older than me, appeared with some dresses on hangers. She nodded to me and hung the dresses up behind a curtain.
    ‘That is my daughter, Vera,’ said Madame Tarasova, pulling some needles from a cushion and pinning them to my blouse. She slipped a spool of cotton and a pair of scissors into my pocket. ‘Can you sew?’
    I told her that I sewed well because on my family’s farm that was one thing that I could do.
    Madame Tarasova nodded. ‘I need you to do repairs quickly,’ she said, gesturing for me to follow her up the staircase. ‘And to help set out the costumes. The headdresses are too awkward for the girls to run up the stairs with, so we collect them as each performer comes off the stage, clean them, then pack them away downstairs. If you come earlier tomorrow, you can help Vera set them out for the first act.’
    We stopped outside a door with the number six painted on it. The chirping of female voices came from the other side. Madame Tarasova pushed the door open and a tableau of chaos unfolded before us. The chorus girls were perched on stools side by side in the cramped room. They were staring into mirrors and rubbing their faces with greasepaint sticks and rouge. The air reeked of eau de cologne , brilliantine and sweat. Madame Tarasova took Bonbon from me and placed her in a hatbox on a chair, where someone discarded a kimono