Act I of Le Papillon was beautiful and terrible.
I could see why those dancers are considered some of the best in the world. The way they moved, both in perfect synchronicity and as individuals themselves, was incredible—like separate valves keeping beat in a single heart.
And yet, on my way out of the theater, I tossed my ticket for Act II into a nearby garbage can.
The experience had been breathtaking, but in more ways than one. I haven’t seen Le Papillon done by another Ballet Company, but I’m not sure it’s supposed to be performed as... violently as it was by Madame Taglioni’s dancers.
It was going okay, until the fairies teased Hamza.
The antagonist, the fairy Hamza (the young woman all in black), has a scene at the ballet’s start in which she is teased for her lack of beauty by the other fairies. Understandably, that makes Hamza angry. Really angry.
As the fairies spin and dance around her, twirling and leaping with grace, she claws at them. Rooted in the center of the circle as they tease her, she pulled at their skin until bits of it came away. Long scratches formed on the fairies’ exposed arms and legs, yet none of them so much as winced. She got ahold of some of them by the hair, and the momentum of their continued dance tore chunks of hair and scalp out, which Hamza spitefully hurtled out of the center of the circle and into the crowd.
I guess that’s why no one sat in the front three rows.
Again, I looked for any sign of protest from the audience members around me, but found none. Instead, their eyes shone in the darkened theater with sheer delight.
Act One continued like this: if there was a fight scene, it was real. If there was an injury, it was real. And yet, the dancers kept going. Not just kept going, but didn’t let on that they were feeling any pain at all.
And then there was Emma. She had worn a small cape at the start, until Farfalla’s transformation into a butterfly allowed her to reveal her wings. When she did, the audience ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’, and she beamed back at them. The hesitance I had seen, or at least, thought that I had seen, had disappeared in the glow of the limelight. Her crème ballet slippers turned red as she spun on the blood and gore that had collected on the stage’s wooden floor, and when she leapt, small sprays of it were kicked up and onto her dress. The faint smell of sweat and iron drifted to my nostrils.
Act One ended with a sequence of atrocities that made my hands start to sweat, and made the girl sitting next to me squeal with delight. The young man in the impressive golden crown, Prince Djalma, quite literally pinned a dancer playing one of the butterflies to a prop tree. I was thankful to see that this girl’s wings, dull and plain as they were in comparison to Emma’s, were at least fake, kept on by a harness. I didn’t have to wince when he drove a stake through one, and into the surface behind it, trapping her. I did wince, however, when he did the same to each of her hands.
Though pursued by villains throughout Act One, Farfalla is finally rescued when Hamza is captured by the very fairies she had abused at the start. Bruised and bloodied, the fairies forced Hamza in to a too small net, her skin poking through the mesh, her face disfigured. Once inside, well, they tore her apart.
They were still clawing and kicking when the music faded. There were a few moments before the curtain dropped when you could hear it—the dull thump of hands and feet beating flesh. Then, thankfully, the curtain dropped.
The crowd went wild, whistling and clapping harder than ever. When it rose again, the dancers were there, standing in a line, all smiles. I only knew most of them were wearing white because I had seen them before the show began. Blood still dripped down the foreheads of those missing hair, and I could see tears shining on the cheeks of the girl who now had large, gaping, red holes in each of her hands. Even Hamza stood, the print of the net on her skin, along with bruises and knots that had already begun to bloom purple. And yet, they all looked extremely pleased.
Except Emma.
I thought I might be projecting, my own horror interfering with my ability to interpret her facial expression. But that, right then—her face amongst the others, so clearly under duress in comparison to their displays of masochistic glee. Her mouth formed an unconvincing grin, and her eyebrows constricted at the top, as though she were resisting the urge to cry out.
Not that we could hear her if she did. The crowd went on and on, and it wasn’t long before they were all standing. I stayed in my seat for a moment, but got up after the girl next to me gave me a reproachful look. The sound escalated as Madame Taglioni limped back onto the stage, back to the microphone that had been re-placed in the center.
“Thank you,” she said above the noise, then motioned for the crowd to take their seats. After they had obliged, she continued. “There is so much beauty and joy in this performance. Even after fifty years, it takes my breath away.” There were a few scattered claps and whistles.
“As always, Act Two will take place tomorrow night, here, at the Masaniello Theater, at the same time.” Then, she turned slightly, and gazed at Emma. Her smile widened, and Emma tried to match it, though it looked more worried than joyful. “Come to see Farfalla’s Flight!” she said. Then, she turned back to the audience. “But for now, have a good night.”
Then, the lights came up.
The girl next to me let out a long sigh of satisfaction. “Wow. That was incredible, right? I knew it would be, but still, this was just so—“
I got up before she could finish. I didn’t want to hear any more. I felt sick.
I pushed past the strange and rich patrons of the show, nearly tripping on more than one long gown, and one pet iguana on a leash. While the rest of the audience members lingered in the theater and partook in the refreshments, I made the long climb back up the staircase.
It was jarring, to go from that much excess and richness, to suddenly be back in the abandoned shack in that mystery corner of Augustus. I walked back out the doorway, and onto the street outside.
I started walking, straight ahead, determined to get back to something I recognized, where I could call a cab without the phantom smell of blood still haunting my nostrils.
“We’ll see you back tomorrow night, sir.”
I looked back. The kid, the one who had first taken my ticket, still stood behind his glass outside. He smiled placidly at me, and I felt a sudden surge of anger towards him. For being a part of whatever had happened downstairs—for not warning me before I took part.
I didn’t answer him, I just kept walking. Eventually, I made it back to one of the busier streets, where people were still out and about, even at this hour of night. I wondered, if any of them knew, the kind of sick and twisted thing that was happening in their own city.
As I waited for my cab, I took the other ticket out of my pocket, the one that said “Night Two”. I stared at it for a moment. Then, I threw it away, in the bin next to an ice cream parlor.
At first, it made me feel lighter. Like getting rid of the ticket had also rid me of the heinous images I had seen that night. But on the ride home, I felt a tinge of regret. It would have been an incredible story, the biggest I’ve reported on yet, if I had been able to see Madame Taglioni’s famous Le Papillon, in its entirety. And, weirdly, I felt bad about leaving Emma.
I went home, and strangely enough, I slept. It was a long, dead sleep—like the only dream I had been meant to have that night was that nightmare I had experienced in that theater.
The next morning, I went into the office early. Even if I hadn’t seen the entire thing, I was still planning on writing about Le Papillon, and I wanted to get it all down on paper before I lost some of the details. Plus, I always work best before my other coworkers get in and distract me. Heather had given me a key to the place a long while ago, and I used it fairly often.
I unlocked the door, and made my way to my desk, like usual.
There was something already on it.
An envelope, opening-side up. I slowly picked it up, and peered in at the contents, although I already had a feeling about what was inside.
A single ticket, maroon, gold foil.
Come See What’s Hot at :
Madame Taglioni’s Ballet.
Celebrating 50 years of Le Papillon
Masaniello Hall
ADMIT ONE
And on the back: Night Two.
But that wasn’t the strangest part.
The strangest part was what had been written on the other side of the envelope.
"HELP HER"
And, delicately taped to the paper, a small, dead, beautiful, blue butterfly.
---
Credits
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