The Amber House, Main Hall, 1920s
The light smattering of applause echoes through the music hall as I lower my arms, chest heaving in exhilaration. I relish in the attention, in the glow of the spotlight, in the ache of sore muscles. At night, nestled in heart of The Amber House, I come alive.
The Concert Manager comes ambling onstage - it’s my cue to step to the side and let him wind an arm around my waist. It’s uncomfortable - my skin is soaked with sweat and the fabric of the flapper dress sticks against my back when he does so, but after countless performances, it has become a passing blight.
He says a few short words, raise your glasses for our Antonia, bella of The Amber House!, before a firm nudge ushers me offstage. I go willingly, throwing a smile, blowing a kiss, plucking up an offered flute of champagne. After years, this has become a routine, yet one I cherish no less.
To think, when these patrons finally leave with their empty wallets, it will surely be me on their minds. My face, my voice, my body. Antonia, they will think, donna of The Amber House. Antonia, and they will wish to return, to see just one more of my dances, hear one more of my songs.
“Well done, ‘Tonia. Loud crowd tonight.” Jackson, one of our stagehands, murmurs to me as I pass him in the wings. I grin up at him, grasping his dark hand tightly as I whisper back my thanks. My brother was the one to suggest a stage name. It’ll be easier to handle, he’d say, to separate yourself from your work, whatever that meant. But he was 7 years older and when you’re 14, you trust your brother more than anything. I’d taken the name Antonia as a homage to him, even if no one knew why.
“Do you think we’ll have to stay later tonight?” I’m mindful of the musicians taking places onstage.
“Dunno. I’d encourage you to though. Lots of gang fights erupting ‘round here recently. Tensions are high.”
“Oh, no need to worry about me! See you in a bit, Jackson.” I squeeze his hands, ducking my head so he doesn’t see the close-lipped smile spread across my face.
It’s late evening, and though I’m worn, I still have another performance to put on for our midnight set. Everything gets a little more raunchy at night. Stronger alcohol is brought out, stronger makeup is applied, and people start feeling a bit more strongly. As such, I’m due for a transformation once I return back to my dressing room.
The backstage halls are a welcome relief to the fog and heat of the main hall. Even before I reach my room, I’m slipping the heels off my feet and tugging off the dainty satin gloves.
My room is one of the biggest, despite me being the only one residing there. The chorus girls dorm together, the specialty acts are rented in. But Antonia of The Amber House is a permanent fixture. However silly, it’s a source of pride, a reminder of the fruits of my labour.
I’m expecting my wardrobe manager when I enter, perhaps even the costume designer. Yet I do not recognize the girl who has seated herself nimbly at the armrest of my chaise lounge.
She’s bigger than me, but then again I eat half of what a chorus girl eats. She seems awkward despite the hardness of her exposed forearms, avoiding the jewels and dresses I have haphazardly tossed around.
I’m about to question her, or call for security when I spot the red stitched kerchief in her breast pocket. The West Keys. It’s the only reason I don’t flinch when she meets my eyes with a strained, “Carmen?”
I nod, inclining my head towards her even as I begin my costume change. Strings of pearls and dangling earrings come off first.
“What news do you bring of Tony? Is he well?” I’m unable to keep a straight face, too excited to hear about my brother’s newest success.
“Carmen.” She hesitates. She looks tired.
My brother has never failed before. He’s had setbacks, but he’s never failed before.
“Carmen.” The midnight set will be more dimly lit, they’ll bring out candles. A darker lip would look best. “There was a gang fight today, at high morning.”
“Was my brother there?” I swipe on some lipstick, smacking my lips together.
“Yes. It was supposed to be a negotiation with the Bronzes. It turned ugly.”
“I’d bet. Nothing the Bronzes do is ever clean.” The Marcel waves I’d done up for the first set are still holding shape, which will save me from having to redo them. A smokey eye would be nice. “Regardless! A win against the Bronzes! Tell me, were they angry when Tony beat them? In disbelief? Ooh, I wish I could have been there to see their faces!”
“Carmen, Tony is dead!” Her words crack out.
My eyeshadow streaks across my face.
Carmen, Tony is dead.
Carmen, Tony is dead.
Carmen, Tony is dead.
Cool hands press against my neck. My skin is on fire.
I need to talk to my brother. I need discuss this with my brother.
“I’m sorry Carmen.” The girl is standing behind me, hands firm on my shoulders. I stare at her vaguely through the mirror. “Tony had a will set in place before all this, the West Keys read through it a couple hours ago. Divided territory, divided assets, divided property…his one prerequisite was that you got first pick.”
“I need to ask Tony. I don’t know what I need to pick.”
Deft hands pry the makeup brush out of my tight grip. “Anything you want, Carmen. Your desires will override anything else he’d set in his will.”
There is a knock at the door. A 30-minute call, a warning before the midnight set starts. I still need to change dresses.
“I need to go.” My mouth moves. “I have to go do vocal call.”
The girl doesn’t say anything. Then, “I’ll be over with some other West Keys early tomorrow. We can talk then.”
“You should bring Tony. I want to talk to him.”
The girl leaves without a word, shutting the door behind her.
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