Duet di Mezzo Carattere

The Impresario handed Celes her dress before she was ushered backstage, sheepishly, as if he were handing her bad news.

This one act changed everything.

He had started carrying it around with him when a panicked stagehand, whose job it was to dress Maria, found herself without a Maria to dress and shoved it at him while wailing and carrying on. Since that time, he had been absentmindedly carrying it as he ran to and fro, trying to figure out where Maria had gone, what the truth was about Setzer Gabbiani’s threat, and if the conductor knew to delay the second act. When the lovely Celes Chere, after some wheedling, looked like she might be wavering towards willingness to masquerade as Maria, he cinched the deal by presenting the dress to her, pushing it forward until she took it.

And when Celes held it, she knew instantly that the confection of a gown, spun of only enough tulle and silk to cover the necessities, it seemed, with various clasps and ties holding it up, would never be able to be tied on by one woman.

Closing her eyes for a second, she let out a hissing breath. The Impresario wrung his hands. Locke was still trying to give her a reproachful look. “Terra,” she said, “Come back with me, there is no earthly way I could put this dress on by myself.”

With that, she stomped towards the backstage entrance which had been indicated by her. Someone tried to grab onto her elbow before she could leave—Locke, maybe—but in her annoyance, she brushed them off. She took the stairs two at a time, and heard Terra clattering up behind her. When she wrenched opened the door at the top of the stairs, she considered slamming it—but then Terra’s red dress appeared in the periphery of her vision, and she held the door open instead, so that Terra could follow her in peace.

“Dreadful,” Celes swore, pulling off her jacket and tossing it onto the back of a chair with a wrenching of her arm that could have incapacitated a grunt soldier and come back smooth. A woman, who had been in the other corner of the room, jumped and exclaimed when she saw Celes.

“Maria!” she shouted, rushing towards her. “They said— oh.” She stopped abruptly in front of Celes once she got close enough to see her clearly.“Oh, indeed,” Celes grumbled. “I am not your opera floozy, I am Celes Chere, and I have been designated her understudy. Tell me what I need to know for the performance.”

“Ah—I have your script—“ the stagehand indicated it on the table. “Setzer Gabbiani—“

“Will kidnap me at the end of Act Two. so I only have to memorize so far, thank you. Anything else?” Celes asked sourly.

“Ah… your props… You have some roses, a knife… but they will be handed to you by the prop hands back stage…”

“And is that all?”

“Well…”

“Good. Leave me. I’d like to prepare in peace.” With a final, almost forlorn sigh, Celes thumped herself down into a chair by the table that held the script and the roses. The stagehand, looking as if her heart had been broken, stared gapingly at Celes, and then, getting no response, stared at Terra for a while. Terra stared blankly back.

They were left alone.

Terra remained standing until Celes indicated the chair across from her at the table. “Dreadful,” she sighed again. “I was a highly respected general not that long ago, you know.”

“You deserted,” said Terra, as if confused.

Celes put her forehead in her hand. “Gods bless me, I did. What on earth did I do that for?” She then buried her face completely in her hands as she heard Terra take a breath. “Don’t answer that. I already know why.”

She didn’t hear Terra say anything after that. She willed herself to look up and take the opera in her hands.

She could sing decently—she wasn’t afraid, not sorely, of embarrassing herself. She was not trained like Maria surely was, and she knew the audience was in for the disappointment of their lives, even if she could hit every note she saw detailed in the score and figured she would sound fine for a mead hall. She didn’t care about how well she could or could not impersonate an actress. What she cared about what how very below her class this was.

For some reason, all she could hear was the sound of was her erstwhile co-worker Kafka laughing after finding out that she had put on stage paints as well and gone prancing out under the lights.

She shuddered. “May as well get it over with. Terra, do you see Maria’s makeup anywhere?”

Terra started, and then glanced around the room. She eventually lighted on a chest of drawers, which, as expected, contained white powder, black and red paints, many brushes, and, to Celes’s extreme distaste, false stones and bits of shiny paper to be added to the make-up.“Oh, disgusting,” Celes said. “You don’t, be any chance, know how to do stage make-up, do you, Terra?”

Terra blinked. “Is it anything like normal make-up?”

“Can you even apply normal make-up?”

“No.”

“Fantastic. Well, do you see a hand mirror anywhere?” Terra rifled round in the drawers a little longer, and finally procured one. “Excellent. Bring that to me, and I will do my own make-up. While I do that, you’ll read me my aria from act two, so I know what to sing. If I recall this opera correctly, act two is almost entirely men with swords singing about other men with swords, and Maria only has one scene. My first stroke of luck of the day.”

Without further notice, she twisted the cap off the powder-jar, selected the largest brush in the lot, and began to powder her face with deliberate sloppiness and a grimace. She heard Terra picking up the wrinkled paper, and nervously beginning to flip through the leaves.

“Act Two…” she heard Terra muttered under her breath. Celes almost snapped at her for being redundant, and then remembered that, for heaven’s sake, this was Terra. She was only being absentminded. In the little time Celes had known this new Terra- the one who spoke, and sometimes looked people in the eyes—she had never seen her being anything but considerate and well-meaning, if she was sometimes awkwardly so. She played life as if she had never been told the rules, and was hoping to pass with imitation.

Like herself, she thought wryly, at least for tonight. She had already decided that enough powder was enough and began prying apart the paints before asking Terra what was delaying her.

“I think I know it too,” said Terra, very quietly. Her voice often had a breathy quality—timidity, perhaps, as if she were making an effort to be soft-spoken. But timidity didn’t seem to be an applicable word, thought Celes, even if Terra had all the outward signs of being timid.

Something about her focus on the pages held up in front of her eyes spoke otherwise.

“You know the opera?” asked Celes.

“I’ve heard it,” said Terra. “I recognize some of the lines.”

“It’s a popular one,” Celes admitted. “I would hear this and others by the composer playing the women’s barracks on off-duty days all the time. You become familiar with them eventually. What is the first line of the aria?”

Terra squinted at the page. “Oh my hero, my beloved,/ Shall we still be made to part.”

Celes looked up from her mirror to catch Terra’s eyes, startled. Terra looked down. “It’s this one? I must have heard it a dozen times. Well, I suppose I shan’t be a complete embarrassment tonight.” Celes began to gently, carefully, draw the thick, dark lines necessary for stage makeup around her eyes. “Can you read me my lines, Terra, so I can sing them back to you?”

Terra waited a few second before replying, eyes still downcast. “I can sing them too.”

“What was that?”

“I can sing them too.” Celes heard pages crinkling as Terra nervously pressed on them. “I’ve heard this aria many times. I used to play it for myself on my record-player. It was one of the few things I kept in my room. I liked… well, I listened to it many times, I’m sure I can sing it. I remember how it sounds.”

“I wouldn’t have ever guessed you were a singer,” Celes said, softening her own voice. Terra sounded so very reminiscent, as if she were speaking of something with such gravity. Though Celes couldn’t totally discern what it was—the possession of the player, the days she spend alone listening to operas, the song itself, some other, unknown memory, which was being linked in Terra’s mind to the quiet room they sat in now, just outside of the hum of the orchestra tuning—but she knew Terra was speaking about something very important to her. And Celes, though a sour person by nature, respected this.

“I have never sung before,” Terra whispered.

“What?”

“I would listen to the operas, and the concerts, and the compositions, so I can hear them inside me, but I have never sung.”

Celes was stilled. Growing up in Vector, and even during her tightly-packed days in the army, singing was a part of her life, her culture, the ins and outs of ordinary days. People sang in the streets, sang in bars, sang to steady themselves working and marching—her mother had joined her in song before she slept at night, and as a girl, she had sung with her friends, aspiring, like any young girls, to be great and graceful beauties one day. She sang at dinner, she sang for friends, she had sung to herself on dusty roads, alone in her exile, trying to keep her spirits from sinking into despair. She figured that everyone, if only when they were alone, for the particularly shy, sang. At least to themselves.

Though there wasn’t anything wrong with never singing… it seemed there was something that wasn’t right with it.

“But you know the aria,” said Celes quietly.

“I do.”

“Then,” Celes said, nodding, “sing each line to me, as you recall it, and I’ll sing it back to you.”

Terra nodded. Celes looked back down to her mirror, wary of making her too nervous. She turned her attention to her paints, with determined care, and resolved not to stare at Terra until they were finished.

“Oh my hero, my beloved,” Terra sang, “shall we still be made to part?”

Terra had a terrible singing voice.

It was even more untried than her speaking voice. She sang with a voice full of air, and shaking—not with vibrato, not cleanly, but with nervousness. She sang flat as well, and slid her notes, having no clue as to how singing worked. She had only ever heard it before.But Celes heard something that no one who did not know Terra like she knew Terra would ever have heard —and she DID know Terra, she had learned about her through shared years in the army, though silent, by being the one to cup her little hands and pull her into the line, or by being the one who remember to tell her to walk with them when everyone else silently left, and now through cautious glances and words across a fireplace on their journey, through little conversations, through little deeds of helping each other, though the bonding that warriors went through on the perils of adventure together. Celes heard something that was Terra in her voice, and something that was beautiful. When Terra spoke, her words were usually monotonous, devoid of whatever feeling she surely felt. Did not say much, not even when she spoke.

But she sang with so much feeling. Feeling caught in a cage of ignorance, in a shaky and broken voice, as poor as crystal shot with rocks and dirt, unsalvageable for jewelry or decoration—but with such a heart. Celes heard years in her voice.

“Oh my hero, my beloved,” Celes sang to her, “shall we still be made to part?”

“The promises of perennial love yet sing here in my heart.”

Terra, Celes realized, sounded as if she were mourning the loss of a lover. Of course, she didn’t sound like an opera star. Not at all. But Celes wondered why it was that the thing in Terra’s voice wasn’t appreciated. It was something an opera singer could not reproduce. And, oddly enough, she found herself feeling a bit… unsteady, when she sang back, in a clear and practiced voice: “The promises of perennial love yet sing here in my heart.”

“I’m the darkness,” sang Terra, sounding like she meant it, “you’re the starlight, shining brightly from afar.”

Her voice cracked on ‘brightly.’ Celes sang back that word, as softly as she could, as if in tribute, cushioning it delicately with air, though normally, it would be belted.

Terra took a loud breath. “Through hours of despair, I offer this prayer, to you, my evening star.”

Despite what she told herself, Celes glanced up at Terra. Terra’s eyes were closed. She did know the aria, she really did, every word by heart.

“Through hours of despair,” she sang, feeling almost like a liar, “I offer this prayer, to you, my evening star.”

“Must my final vows exchanged be with him and not with you? Were you only here to quiet my fear—Oh, speak! Guide me anew.”

It occurred to Celes that it wasn’t just singing, as she watched Terra’s eyes dart under her tightly closed lids. Terra had surely never danced with anyone. Never gone walking in the evening. Never taken her dinner in a crowded hall with her friend. With a sigh, she continued her makeup. “Must my final vows exchanged be with him and not with you? Were you only here to quiet my fear. Oh, speak; Guide me anew.”

“I am thankful, my beloved, for your tenderness and grace.”

The room went silent.

Terra opened her eyes. “Did I remember it wrong?” she asked, in the quietest voice she had ever uttered.

“Not at all,” said Celes. “I was only thinking that you sounded very good on that line. Could you sing it again?”

Terra turned pink. She quickly started avoiding Celes’s eyes. But she took another breath. “I am thankful, my beloved, for your tenderness and grace.”

“I am thankful,” sang Celes, trying to imitate Terra’s feeling, “my beloved, for your tenderness and grace.”

“I see in your eyes, so gentle and wise, all doubts and fears erased!”

Somehow, in an unplanned moment—prompted, perhaps, by the words of the text—there was an unintentional juxtaposition. Celes looked up at Terra, and Terra opened her eyes, and they found themselves looking at each other.

“I see in your eyes,” sang Celes, more quietly than was her fashion, “so gentle and wise, all doubts and fears erased.”

“Though the hours take no notice of what fate might have in store…”

“Though the hours take no notice of what fate might have in store…”

“Our love, come what may, will ne’er age a day. I’ll wait forevermore!”

“Our love, come what may, will ne’er age a day. I’ll wait, forevermore…”

They exhaled at once.

Celes looked down at her mirror. “I’ll have these paints finished in just another minute. Could you run out and see how far they’ve gotten in the act?”

The door slammed behind Terra. Celes slowly lifted one hand to her powdered cheek. No one could see it, but she felt the warmth of the blood which had risen to her face.

In the sudden silence, she heard herself breathing. She heard herself being alone in a room, with a full string orchestra, a restless crowd, and the noisy work of the set and the stagehands outside. And she thought she heard something in that room very beautiful, and very meaningful, and rich enough to deserve an opera, though it didn’t actually make a sound.

She put down her mirror. She was done.

Terra reappeared after a minute—longer than she should have had to take, since she knew the opera. “They’re about three songs before yours,” she said, eyes on the ground. “You have perhaps fifteen minutes.”

“Excellent,” said Celes, standing from her chair. “That is hopefully enough time to wrestle myself into that dress.”

With her customary frankness, she had her shirt halfway over her head before she realized she was bearing herself in her brassiere to Terra, who hadn’t expected it at all. She knew, because Terra leapt backwards as if shocked.

Celes found herself flushing again. “Ah, I’m sorry…” she fumbled, taking her shirt off the rest of the way. No point in going back now. “I’m used to being in the barracks with the rest of the female soldiers, I don’t give a thought to modesty around other women anymore.”

“I was never in the barracks,” Terra whispered. “I had my own room. Or sometimes they’d send someone to change my clothes.”

Celes frowned at the ground. “Yes. Well. How about you get my dress?” she asked, so that Terra would have something else to do as she took off her boots and her pants. She sorely hoped that the dress would cover the undergarments she already had on, because she was no longer willing to remove them.

Terra appeared behind her, arms full of rustling fabric, so nervous and Celes could feel her approach. “Alright,” said Celes, turning halfway to regard the contraption, “let’s first see if it can be pulled over my head.”

It could be pulled over her head, it ended out, though the waist had to be unlatched in several spots and wiggled over her hair in order to be shoved down. Terra would pull the long strands of her hair away, or tuck metal clasps away from her bare skin, or smooth a crumpled edge with the very tips of her cold fingers, all without being asked—and without a word. “Finally,” Celes sighed, when the dress was roughly in place. “Could you tie that ribbon at my neck?”

“Yes,” said Terra, and then Celes could feel her trembling fingers take the ribbons, brushing the hairs of her neck, and chilling the warm skin there—as delicately as if she were handling glass. She brushed her fingers over her neck and she carefully tied the knot, and then down her back as she smoothed out the tight silk, tucking the gathered corners evenly, just barely feeling the fit along her shoulder blades before her hands were removed.

Celes’s heart had started beating. There was something here, she knew, that she didn’t understand, something happening in Terra—something meaningful again, and mysterious, as a poem in another tongue, betrayed by her nervousness and gentleness. And she felt humbled.

“And my hair, please,” said Celes, “tie up my hair.”

Terra didn’t reply in words. She took the ties directly from Celes’s hand, and tied up Celes’s hair in her own fashion—a mussed ponytail, carefully cinched, but not particularly tidy. Celes did not demand anything neater; in fact, she gave her no instructions at all. She felt, suddenly, that she wanted something from Terra to take onto stage—something, perhaps, to use like a charm, so that she would take the power Terra had, the power of pushing and cramming life and feeling into the words, onto the stage with her. And beyond the stage, when she stepped out of the lights again. In the space of an hour, admiration for Terra, and wonder, had blossomed in her heart—as she witnessed, just from the edges, a gaping depth of misery, of years alone, of simple humanity denied to a woman—and all pushed aside at the chance to start again, and to sing, almost too quiet to be heard under the sound of paper rustling, her first song.

Terra’s hands pulled through Celes’s hair, neatening it, straightening it, sometimes brushing the skin on her skull or the very top of her neck, and once, the tip of her ear—before finally letting it fall, like water down a mountainside, as it gently hit her back.

“You’re finished?” asked Celes.

Terra didn’t say anything.

Celes turned around to face Terra. She wasn’t sure what to do until she caught—and quickly lost—her eyes. “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” said Terra, smiling faintly.

“Is everything alright?” asked Celes. She could still feel Terra’s nervousness.

Terra looked up at Celes, considering—not afraid, it seemed, but cautious, reserved. “It’s something I thought about, once I had spent enough time away from the Empire… had some time to think of things. It’s strange.” She shrugged and looked away. “I’ve never touched anyone before. I’ve been touched. But I’ve never, myself, reached out and touched someone. I couldn’t before now. When I realized that… I just felt odd. I started wondering what the first touch would feel like. I suppose I felt like it was another thing I would do… once I was a person, properly.”

Celes wasn’t sure what to do. She knew something had to be done, something to assure Terra, to make her feel like she had done right, that it wasn’t bad, that she was human—but Celes didn’t have many gestures of affection that her own reserved personality left for her. She couldn’t embrace Terra—she felt Terra deserved it, but she herself rejected the intimacy, the suddenness of it—the fact that she would have to personally pull Terra towards her. She felt like she could not do anything loud.

But she felt she had to do something. So, as if she were reassuring someone— or wiping a tear—Celes softly put her right hand on Terra’s cheek, and rubbed once the soft skin of her face, before holding her for a second. “I hope you didn’t want something more exciting, then,” she said.

“No,” said Terra. With a movement as determined and sure as pulling her sword, she ghosted the very tips of her fingers on Celes’s hand, and then removed them.

So Celes did the same. “I’ll wait for my cue in the wings now,” she said. “Thank you very much for helping me prepare.”

“You’re welcome.”

Celes turned to leave, but was stopped, suddenly, and unexpectedly, by Terra’s hand on her elbow. She paused, and waited, as Terra turned and walked back to the table. She came back with the bouquet of red roses.

“You need these.”

Celes smiled. “You’re right. It would have been a shame to forget. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

After a last lingering second, Celes left through the door from Maria’s dressing room to the backstage, letting the door close softly behind her. She was so quickly seized by a desperate stagehand that her thoughts snapped away from the half-hour just passed to the important role she was about to play—in more than just an opera, and how it had to be played well.

But even so, once on stage—when her thoughts were rightly bent to focusing on singing and dancing as well as she possibly could—a feeling stilled her from time to time, and pulled her voice to unusual depths and heights, and whisked the roses from her hands.