The theatre is half full now but it's still loud, and I wonder how much time is left before the film starts again. I adjust the long wool coat bunched up under my lap and wonder why I didn't spring for the coat check; it's not like I'm destitute. I also wore the wrong shoes for the unexpected snowstorm, magical until it soaked through my red kitten heels, my favourites. I'm not complaining, I love the cold. I love the sight of big coats, rosy cheeks, and heads bowed together in gossipy conversation. And I love things like red velvet curtains and gold proscenium arches, and it being almost Christmas and being out with Margaret.
I debate facing the concession line to order whatever passable red wine the theatre is serving: I have to admit that despite the festiveness of the occasion, I'm a little on edge. But Margaret isn't the kind of person to indulge just because there's an opportunity, and so, for tonight, neither would I. The intermission is feeling long, not that I'm exactly excited for the film to resume. I've seen Barry Lyndon before, and I remember loving it. But that was a long time ago, and nothing in the film is familiar to me. I'm finding it dry, a little lightweight. I'm not as charmed by the gorgeous, candle-lit interiors or painterly landscapes as I should be. Margaret is the real fan, and tonight, we're celebrating her.
I watch two ushers in black suits and red ascots, early twenties, talking to one another in the alcove under one of the theatre's boxes, the one emblazoned with the word COMEDY. Something is indeed amusing to them; they're both grinning as they watch the crowd. One of them meets my eye. I look down at my phone and see an email notification from a newsletter that I never read: "VISIONS WORKSHOP: RELEASE YOUR…" It cuts off. The lights dim briefly: I've missed the window for wine, and I still feel oddly uneasy. My thoughts have been a bit frayed this week. I found it hard to get to the page, something always pulled me away. It was fine, there was still time.
The room is filling up, the din getting louder. I look over my shoulder and scan the entrances, but I can't see Margaret. She'll show up right before it starts, with her knack for timing. She is always, almost uncanilly, at the right place at the right time. She once got a really important fellowship because she met the director of the institute in the steam room of that Russian spa uptown. Earlier that week, Margaret learned she'd received funding for a new project, a book on the history of body doubles in film, how their imperfect forms absorb the physical and psychic blows from filmmaking so the star can remain an icon, unscathed. It's a good topic, brilliant actually. It's one of those ideas that you would have never thought of but seems so obvious, almost fated, when you hear it. And although Margaret didn't seem to care what other people were interested in, she always seemed to land on something that people cared about. Seemed to care about a lot, actually.
The lights flicker again. I turn again to scan the room. Margaret's pushing it. The intermission music, a portentous and dry piano trio written right before the composer's death, or so said Margaret, is starting to wear on me. It seems the room has gotten even louder. My head hurts; the week has been so stressful. I was looking forward to this night out, after days of near panic over my manuscript, progress on which had stalled once more (it's fine, there's still time.) But now that I'm here, I can't seem to relax. My mind is elsewhere.
Finally, I see her. Margaret makes her way down the already full aisle, awkwardly squeezing past people's knees. I notice that she's not apologizing. I smile as she approaches, ready to chide her for cutting it so close. But Margaret looks disturbed; the muscles on her face tensed into a slight grimace. She sits down but doesn't make eye contact with me.
"I guess you decided to get the wine after all," Margaret says.
There's an awful evenness to her tone. She's always composed; you rarely get the feeling that she is reacting to something, but rather that she already knows what is going to happen, what you're going to say. But the coolness in her voice now isn't from self-possession, but self-restraint.
I must have misheard her. Or that maybe this is a joke. I laugh, but Margaret's face doesn't change.
"No, I didn't," I reply and glance down at my hands, as if there might, somehow, be a glass of wine in them. But, of course, there isn't. When I look up, Margaret is watching me.
When I speak, my voice comes out a little more urgent than I mean it to. "I've been here the whole time."
I gesture around her at the bunched-up coat and purse on the ground as if in explanation. Margaret continues to stare, and I start to panic, my arms frozen in mid-gesture in what I realize is a pantomime of a shrug.
"What? Margaret, what is it?"
"I saw you out there. When I was in the bathroom line."
I laugh, this time from relief. "Oh, is my doppelganger here?"
Margaret fixes me. "A dopelganger wearing the same outfit as you."
Now there is something in her face, a bolt of anger. I've never seen Margaret angry before, and I considered for a moment crawling under my seat. "That's so odd."
"It was," she replies, "I was just in the bathroom line reading an email, and when I looked up, you were there at the end of the hall."
I try to smile. "What was I doing?"
"You were just standing there, completely still, just glaring at me. I thought to call out to you, but... your expression, it was so intense, like you despised me. There was something…" she labours over the next word, "wrong with your eyes. I can't explain it. It reminded me of… you know the last scene in Black Narcissus. "
I want to laugh again: of course, I know the scene. It's my favourite film, essentially the topic of my dreaded book. I want to point this out to Margaret. I also want to say: "I didn't leave my seat, I swear to you, Margaret, not for a second!" But when I open my mouth:
"Then what happened?"
Margaret pauses a moment. "You were saying something to me, your mouth moved, but I couldn't make it out. And then I had to look away; I was… honestly, I was frightened."
At this, something lights up in the middle of my back, a chill.
"The line moved, and when I turned back, the lights flickered, and it seemed like you got—I know how this sounds—but absorbed into the darkness. Your face went black, and all I could see were your eyes."
She turns away and fixes her gaze on the screen, maybe afraid to see that stare again. I try to think of something reassuring to say. I try to mount the evidence in my favour.
The lights dip, and a muted tone fills the room. Someone is shushing.
"It wasn't me!" My voice sounds strangled, like a child.
Margaret whispers, "How could it not be you?"
The tingle in the centre of my back quickly switches to pain, and I feel the desperate need to get up. I actually do stand up, but Margaret pulls down hard on my sleeve, and I fall back down into my seat.
"The movie's starting."
The lights are dimming. And suddenly, I feel myself receding, sucked slowly into a pinpoint at the back of the theatre. The music fades out, and Margaret's face, turned from me, swims away, bright then dark.
The theatre is half full now but it's still loud, and I wonder how much time is left before the film starts again. I adjust the long wool coat bunched up under my lap and wonder why I didn't spring for the coat check; it's not like I'm destitute. I also wore the wrong shoes for the unexpected snowstorm, magical until it soaked through my red kitten heels, my favourites. I'm not complaining, I love the cold. I love the sight of big coats, rosy cheeks, and heads bowed together in gossipy conversation. And I love things like red velvet curtains and gold proscenium arches, and it being almost Christmas and being out with Margaret.
I debate facing the concession line to order whatever passable red wine the theatre is serving: I have to admit that despite the festiveness of the occasion, I'm a little on edge. But Margaret isn't the kind of person to indulge just because there's an opportunity, and so, for tonight, neither would I. The intermission is feeling long, not that I'm exactly excited for the film to resume. I've seen Barry Lyndon before, and I remember loving it. But that was a long time ago, and nothing in the film is familiar to me. I'm finding it dry, a little lightweight. I'm not as charmed by the gorgeous, candle-lit interiors or painterly landscapes as I should be. Margaret is the real fan, and tonight, we're celebrating her.
I watch two ushers in black suits and red ascots, early twenties, talking to one another in the alcove under one of the theatre's boxes, the one emblazoned with the word COMEDY. Something is indeed amusing to them; they're both grinning as they watch the crowd. One of them meets my eye. I look down at my phone and see an email notification from a newsletter that I never read: "VISIONS WORKSHOP: RELEASE YOUR…" It cuts off. The lights dim briefly: I've missed the window for wine, and I still feel oddly uneasy. My thoughts have been a bit frayed this week. I found it hard to get to the page, something always pulled me away. It was fine, there was still time.
The room is filling up, the din getting louder. I look over my shoulder and scan the entrances, but I can't see Margaret. She'll show up right before it starts, with her knack for timing. She is always, almost uncanilly, at the right place at the right time. She once got a really important fellowship because she met the director of the institute in the steam room of that Russian spa uptown. Earlier that week, Margaret learned she'd received funding for a new project, a book on the history of body doubles in film, how their imperfect forms absorb the physical and psychic blows from filmmaking so the star can remain an icon, unscathed. It's a good topic, brilliant actually. It's one of those ideas that you would have never thought of but seems so obvious, almost fated, when you hear it. And although Margaret didn't seem to care what other people were interested in, she always seemed to land on something that people cared about. Seemed to care about a lot, actually.
The lights flicker again. I turn again to scan the room. Margaret's pushing it. The intermission music, a portentous and dry piano trio written right before the composer's death, or so said Margaret, is starting to wear on me. It seems the room has gotten even louder. My head hurts; the week has been so stressful. I was looking forward to this night out, after days of near panic over my manuscript, progress on which had stalled once more (it's fine, there's still time.) But now that I'm here, I can't seem to relax. My mind is elsewhere.
Finally, I see her. Margaret makes her way down the already full aisle, awkwardly squeezing past people's knees. I notice that she's not apologizing. I smile as she approaches, ready to chide her for cutting it so close. But Margaret looks disturbed; the muscles on her face tensed into a slight grimace. She sits down but doesn't make eye contact with me.
"I guess you decided to get the wine after all," Margaret says.
There's an awful evenness to her tone. She's always composed; you rarely get the feeling that she is reacting to something, but rather that she already knows what is going to happen, what you're going to say. But the coolness in her voice now isn't from self-possession, but self-restraint.
I must have misheard her. Or that maybe this is a joke. I laugh, but Margaret's face doesn't change.
"No, I didn't," I reply and glance down at my hands, as if there might, somehow, be a glass of wine in them. But, of course, there isn't. When I look up, Margaret is watching me.
When I speak, my voice comes out a little more urgent than I mean it to. "I've been here the whole time."
I gesture around her at the bunched-up coat and purse on the ground as if in explanation. Margaret continues to stare, and I start to panic, my arms frozen in mid-gesture in what I realize is a pantomime of a shrug.
"What? Margaret, what is it?"
"I saw you out there. When I was in the bathroom line."
I laugh, this time from relief. "Oh, is my doppelganger here?"
Margaret fixes me. "A dopelganger wearing the same outfit as you."
Now there is something in her face, a bolt of anger. I've never seen Margaret angry before, and I considered for a moment crawling under my seat. "That's so odd."
"It was," she replies, "I was just in the bathroom line reading an email, and when I looked up, you were there at the end of the hall."
I try to smile. "What was I doing?"
"You were just standing there, completely still, just glaring at me. I thought to call out to you, but... your expression, it was so intense, like you despised me. There was something…" she labours over the next word, "wrong with your eyes. I can't explain it. It reminded me of… you know the last scene in Black Narcissus. "
I want to laugh again: of course, I know the scene. It's my favourite film, essentially the topic of my dreaded book. I want to point this out to Margaret. I also want to say: "I didn't leave my seat, I swear to you, Margaret, not for a second!" But when I open my mouth:
"Then what happened?"
Margaret pauses a moment. "You were saying something to me, your mouth moved, but I couldn't make it out. And then I had to look away; I was… honestly, I was frightened."
At this, something lights up in the middle of my back, a chill.
"The line moved, and when I turned back, the lights flickered, and it seemed like you got—I know how this sounds—but absorbed into the darkness. Your face went black, and all I could see were your eyes."
She turns away and fixes her gaze on the screen, maybe afraid to see that stare again. I try to think of something reassuring to say. I try to mount the evidence in my favour.
The lights dip, and a muted tone fills the room. Someone is shushing.
"It wasn't me!" My voice sounds strangled, like a child.
Margaret whispers, "How could it not be you?"
The tingle in the centre of my back quickly switches to pain, and I feel the desperate need to get up. I actually do stand up, but Margaret pulls down hard on my sleeve, and I fall back down into my seat.
"The movie's starting."
The lights are dimming. And suddenly, I feel myself receding, sucked slowly into a pinpoint at the back of the theatre. The music fades out, and Margaret's face, turned from me, swims away, bright then dark.