The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr
at the back of the Théâtre Durand with a hickory branch I found as a cane, the long, ivory lace veil Sister Vincent made for my Confirmation day when I was fourteen, draped over my head and shoulders (it’s my favorite prop), and blueberry juice rubbed on my cheeks. Burnt chestnut leaves mixed with olive oil ring around my eyes for dramatic effect and voilà, I’m a woman of an indeterminate age, as Sister Vincent would say. I may be only sixteen, but motion pictures have taught me so much about life, I can play anyone.
Every time I say that, the sister smiles and rolls her eyes.
I love the jovial nun so much. She’s kind and the reason I haven’t run away from the convent – yet. She helps me slip away to the cinema, finding excuses to bring me with her when she goes into town to buy fresh lamb and apples and pears for the convent kitchen. I left her in the textile shop ordering silken and linen thread and pins to replenish the cupboards to make the beautiful handmade lace the sisters are known for.
Which gives me at least twenty minutes or so before she comes looking for me.
I rush into the darkness of the theater in my usual wild manner and bump into a large man standing off to the side near the stage. I can’t help but sneak a peek at the stranger when he steps into the light streaming in from the creaking iron door. I get a good look at him. Heavyset, wearing a white Panama hat with a black satin band pulled down low over his face, a dark grey, pin-striped suit like I’ve seen in the gangster flicks.
The strong smell of his lit cigar makes me hold my breath.
‘Pardon, madame,’ he tips his hat, respectful. ‘May I be of assistance?’
I giggle. He bought it. Bon. He thought I was an old lady.
Wrinkling my nose and completely in character, I say in a raspy voice, ‘No harm done, young monsieur.’
I stifle a giggle and go about my way, limping for effect, knowing how you make an exit is just as important as your entrance. It is, I’m proud to say, a success. I’m curious why a patron would stand in the wings where he can’t see the screen very well. The cozy theater holds about a hundred and fifty moviegoers and has a small stage platform in front of the screen for live acts.
I toss my braid over the other shoulder and forget about the stranger. I hover off to the side of the screen upstage where I’m nearly invisible in the dark. Once I see what’s happening on the silver screen, I can’t look away. A fancy party with beautiful people having such a lovely time flashes before my eyes. Flappers in beads and fringe and their beaux in black tuxes, smoking and flaunting champagne flutes and whooping it up at a supper club. We can’t hear their laughter, but the organist loosens his collar, foot-stepping on the pedals, hands flying over the keyboard to keep up with the raucous goings-on up on the screen. His lively tune begs to be heard over the audience filled with rowdy kids, whistling and hollering.
It’s too much for two elderly ladies. Shaking their heads, they get up and leave in a huff while I see a man sneaking a flask in the last row. I ignore them all. I love this film. I’ve seen it five times. I know all the parts.
I can’t resist tossing down my fake cane and whipping my lace shawl around me in a saucy Spanish swirl though no one can see me in the darkness. I start tapping my black flats with the white-button straps on the wooden floor, saying the dialogue on the title cards between the frames I’ve memorized in a loud whisper (no one can hear me) while pushing away cigar smoke creeping into my face. I look over my shoulder and see the man in the Panama hat huddling with Monsieur Durand and pointing to me. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but playing the part of the wild flapper.
I dance around the small stage in a tight circle, my derring-do shielded by the coveted black shadows hugging the screen in a cool embrace. Sweaty bodies, wild silent laughter… it’s all there on the big screen… and I’m in it… yes, I’m in the scene. Losing control… loving it… lifting the skirt on my ugly, grey convent frock, not caring if my left garter wiggles down my leg and my tan cotton stocking with it. No one can see me in the dark… Monsieur Durand and the man in the Panama hat wouldn’t be able make out more than my shadowy figure… and the first row of seats is far enough away I disappear in a blur… I’m dancing, acting out the lead role… filled with the exhilarating awe of being in the moment… reaching that pinnacle of complete loss of self where nothing can touch you, when you throw yourself down into the abyss and you become that character—
Till the reel of film breaks, thrusting the theater into a mesmerizing darkness.
The lights come on in a snap. Bright, insistent electric eyes beaming on everyone in the theater.
But none more insistent than on finding me. Spotlights. Hitting me in the eyes. Me, standing there like a puppet on stage with her strings cut. My cover of darkness blown. Holding up my skirt, revealing my bare thigh, my cotton stocking puddling around my ankle. And that ridiculous makeup I put on. I imagine my blue-red checks and the charcoal rings around my eyes glowing like the girl I saw in an old vampire film when Monsieur Durand ran a special showing before Lent last year. Scared me out of my drawers.
Now I’m scared out of my drawers again.
Because my secret’s out. My acting secret.
Sure, I’ve seen kids snicker at me when I’m acting out scenes in the back of the theater, tossing their leftover rotten vegetables at me instead of the screen (Monsieur Durand forbids tossing smelly food at the stage, but everybody does it). It’s one thing for me to let myself go and act in the dark when no one can see me, when no one can judge me, to fly high in my dreams. I always land back on my feet when the lights come on. But to expose myself in front of everyone like a tawdry fan dancer has set me on a new compass. That if I want to become an actress – and I do with all my heart – I can’t hide anymore.
I have to face the audience. Show them what I’m made of. Do something to entertain them while ignoring my state of undress until Monsieur Durand changes the reel. So I do it. What I was born to do. I’ll either make a complete fool of myself or find my footing as an actress.
I clear my throat, then go into a speech like I’m reading from a placard on the screen.
‘The film will resume in a few minutes, mesdames et messieurs…’ I begin with a booming voice and a grand gesture. ‘Ladies, please remove your hats. Gents, no smoking please—’
‘Ah, go home, Sylvie.’
‘Yeah, go back to the convent where you belong.’
‘You ain’t no actress… get out of here!’
I bristle inside, wanting to cry at their insults, shut down and pretend none of this ever happened. I can’t. It means too much to me. My soul has been crying out to act in front of an audience and though this is the most god-awful way to do it, I can’t stop. I love the spotlight wrapping me up in a warm embrace, a hug that feels so good, giving me what I never get – attention just for me. As if I am somebody.
I don’t back down even when I hear someone yell, ‘Let’er have it!’
I duck, but not fast enough. A big, juicy, rotten tomato hits me square on the shoulder, then another. I don’t stop. I march up and down the stage dodging tomatoes, then a soggy cabbage lands at my feet. I keep going, acting out the scene in the film as I memorized it, reciting every line on the title cards without taking a breath… giving it my all… the organist getting into the spirit and piping out a lively tune, keeping up with me, beat by beat.
Then the lights go out and the screen behind me lights up. And the film resumes.
But do I get off the stage? No, the rush of doing what I’ve yearned to do is too strong an addiction. A sugar high that won’t quit. I blink, glancing down at my hands, my grey uniform, the flickering lights from the movie projector dancing over me, tomato juice running down my cheeks and mixing with my tears.
I don’t