Covent Garden
We are the curtain footmen -
 |
| Not Julian... but very like him. |
We are the keepers of the peace – the audience assemble and the dancers prepare and we stand and guard the gap
between the curtains.
We hold the hallowed space between
audience and dancers... Not so much Art more Health and Safety.
We stand festooned in finery – wig,
breeches, white gloves…
Footmen... Flunkies...
...
Tonight, before the ballet begins, Julian and I, in our frock coats and frills, stand holding the curtains closed. Up for the fifteen, through to Beginners..
Footmen... Flunkies...
...
Tonight, before the ballet begins, Julian and I, in our frock coats and frills, stand holding the curtains closed. Up for the fifteen, through to Beginners..
The orchestra is tuning up.
Malcolm is not here tonight.
Tonight is my turn.
Malcolm shares his post with me.
Malcolm shares his coat with me – long
in need of a dry clean – too narrow for broader shoulders, hot and steamy,
someone else’s odour of a thousand and one nights rising from the arm pits.
The stage vibrates to the stomps of ballerinas warming up, grace wrought from sheer muscle, the shifting of chalk caulked ballet shoes on the floor cloth as they pirouette
and jeté, occasionally breaking to comment, whisper and giggle.
Muscles flex.
Sinews stretch.
Fingers wrap around ankles and they bounce down kissing their own knees,
folding like knives at their hinging hips,
to leave sharp buttocks, haloed by tutu, as the summit of straight legs.
Muscles flex.
Sinews stretch.
Fingers wrap around ankles and they bounce down kissing their own knees,
folding like knives at their hinging hips,
to leave sharp buttocks, haloed by tutu, as the summit of straight legs.
They don't see Julian and me.
...
...
Julian hawks and grates his soft palate.
In the street he would spit.
Here he ruminates, chewing the product of his expectoration.
He finishes, swallows and speaks:
In the street he would spit.
Here he ruminates, chewing the product of his expectoration.
He finishes, swallows and speaks:
Today, Julian says, I feel very lucky.
Me: Oh?
Me: Oh?
Today, he says, I find twelve pence on the street.
Ah, I say, yes, that is lucky... very lucky.
Twelve pence!
Twelve pence!
Julian abandons his post leaving me straining with the heavy curtains.
He moves militarily away swooping around in a left wheel, coming
to attention, then moving off again, left foot forward… and… and… and about turn.
He slopes imaginary arms.
He slopes imaginary arms.
Julian is Mauritian. An
orphan. Jaulein – his real
name – but he has lived a life among people who cannot, will not, pronounce it. Raised by the Army... Effectively.
He is grateful to them.
To the British Army.
To the British Government.
To the British Army.
To the British Government.
- When I die, says Julian, I will leave no will. Then all I have will go to Her Majesty… I
give her thanks.
- Today, says Julian, I feel very lucky.
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