tumbler, with every scarf pulled away and thrown to the ground, there was another whoop, another cry of pleasure. From the Green section of the audience came a yell of feigned ecstasy, taken up and amplified by a dozen or more of the Bluesopposite, always keen to stress that Theodora was rightfully theirs. The echoing call was a crowd-sized impersonation of Theodora’s most successful character, the one they had all come to see, a character she was about to disappoint them by not performing. Theodora had a new showpiece to offer, a further edge over which to push her already bold reputation. As Menander had always said, the girl was nothing if not daring. And, as Theodora now understood, if she was not daring, she would be nothing. The audience loved her, and would keep doing so as long as she kept feeding them what they wanted. She was about to feed them something they didn’t even know they wanted.
Semi-naked dancers, tumbling acrobats, covered the centre of the stage. The crowd could tell they were being primed for something, but were not certain what that something was. Various whispers had gone out, secrets told to the right gossips, several members of the audience alerted that there’d be something different in this show, their excitement filtering through to those who knew nothing yet, but felt the frisson immediately on arriving. A new performer perhaps, or a new piece. This crowd loved their singers and dancers, adored Theodora’s comedy sketches, her soft-porn mime shows. Like any crowd they enjoyed both the comfort of sitting back to watch old pieces they knew to be good, and also the nervous anticipation of the new – that knife edge where, no matter how well written and well rehearsed, a new piece might fall flat on its face in front of a full crowd. For the regular theatre-goers, an on-stage disaster could be almost as much fun as triumph.
The drumming intensified. Theodora was locked into a private space of her own – performing her private ritual as she always did before walking out to the crowd, lightly slapping her body all over, arms, legs, feet, torso, head, face, strikingher skin, her flesh, snapping her mind into awareness, total concentration. She took a deep breath, held and then relaxed her shoulders, lifted her chin. Then, at her signal, the dancers parted, the acrobats threw their last tumble and, focusing directly ahead, Theodora walked out between them, centre stage.
She was not wearing the costume the audience were hoping for and there were a few groans, a murmur of disappointment; one of the Greens called out ‘Shame!’ Others who knew, or thought they did, shushed them and whispered to wait, just wait. Theodora smiled and with a tiny move that shimmered through her body – hip-wiggle, shoulder-lift, breast-push – she shrugged off her outer gown to reveal a short, old-fashioned Greek dress more appropriate for the classical repertoire than for her usual material. As the cloak fell to the ground, she slowly lowered herself to follow it, speaking so quietly she forced the crowd to hush, and as they did so they realised that she was giving one of the old, famous speeches. Theodora was Leda, lying in bed on her wedding night, waiting for her Spartan king to attend her. The crowd listened, uncertain. Theodora was acting. Nicely, prettily, quite well, no one could fault her enunciation, her vocal technique, but this wasn’t what they wanted from their Theodora. They were a crowd of eager men, they wanted what they were used to. She kept on. An old speech, one most of the crowd had grown up hearing, had seen performed by several famous actresses from the old days, it was traditional acting, the real thing. Theodora continued until there was an attentive, if slightly sulky, silence. And then, having forced them to wait, made them listen, she generously gave her people what they wanted.
One by one the dancers returned. Now they were dressed as the handmaidens of Leda. Regular theatre-goers
Semi-naked dancers, tumbling acrobats, covered the centre of the stage. The crowd could tell they were being primed for something, but were not certain what that something was. Various whispers had gone out, secrets told to the right gossips, several members of the audience alerted that there’d be something different in this show, their excitement filtering through to those who knew nothing yet, but felt the frisson immediately on arriving. A new performer perhaps, or a new piece. This crowd loved their singers and dancers, adored Theodora’s comedy sketches, her soft-porn mime shows. Like any crowd they enjoyed both the comfort of sitting back to watch old pieces they knew to be good, and also the nervous anticipation of the new – that knife edge where, no matter how well written and well rehearsed, a new piece might fall flat on its face in front of a full crowd. For the regular theatre-goers, an on-stage disaster could be almost as much fun as triumph.
The drumming intensified. Theodora was locked into a private space of her own – performing her private ritual as she always did before walking out to the crowd, lightly slapping her body all over, arms, legs, feet, torso, head, face, strikingher skin, her flesh, snapping her mind into awareness, total concentration. She took a deep breath, held and then relaxed her shoulders, lifted her chin. Then, at her signal, the dancers parted, the acrobats threw their last tumble and, focusing directly ahead, Theodora walked out between them, centre stage.
She was not wearing the costume the audience were hoping for and there were a few groans, a murmur of disappointment; one of the Greens called out ‘Shame!’ Others who knew, or thought they did, shushed them and whispered to wait, just wait. Theodora smiled and with a tiny move that shimmered through her body – hip-wiggle, shoulder-lift, breast-push – she shrugged off her outer gown to reveal a short, old-fashioned Greek dress more appropriate for the classical repertoire than for her usual material. As the cloak fell to the ground, she slowly lowered herself to follow it, speaking so quietly she forced the crowd to hush, and as they did so they realised that she was giving one of the old, famous speeches. Theodora was Leda, lying in bed on her wedding night, waiting for her Spartan king to attend her. The crowd listened, uncertain. Theodora was acting. Nicely, prettily, quite well, no one could fault her enunciation, her vocal technique, but this wasn’t what they wanted from their Theodora. They were a crowd of eager men, they wanted what they were used to. She kept on. An old speech, one most of the crowd had grown up hearing, had seen performed by several famous actresses from the old days, it was traditional acting, the real thing. Theodora continued until there was an attentive, if slightly sulky, silence. And then, having forced them to wait, made them listen, she generously gave her people what they wanted.
One by one the dancers returned. Now they were dressed as the handmaidens of Leda. Regular theatre-goers
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