“All right now,” she heard Alice say as she took back the handful of pins. “We’re almost done here. We just have to get this head full of hair pinned as flat as we can for your headpiece.”
Constance remembered the challenge of donning that man’s wig in such a way that when she wrenched it off in the confines of a dirty railcar restroom, her hair would somehow resume its fashionable fullness. She had been grateful for a hat pliable enough to fit in that leather satchel and wide enough to cover her tangled hair. Why was her mind spinning in all directions today? She had only to focus on the moment and the exquisite disguise Alice had created for her. This ball, this gown constituted a new endeavor for women, and she was one of them, wearing these symbols that marked a new life: these pearlized lines of strength, this dove of peace, this poppy in all its complexity, this flame, this bridge. The impossible bridge across impossible obstacles. She would be wearing that bridge. No, she thought, I am my own bridge.
As the swirled headpiece, with its fantastical veil now fully attached, descended over her head, Constance had the distinct sensation of disappearing, even from herself. Not even she knew how she really looked, who she really was. Alice’s guiding hands on her arms, Analee holding the train aside so as not to trip her, Constance turned to gaze at herself in the oval cheval glass. As Analee dropped the hem of the gown and tilted the mirror slightly, the girls looked up in hushed silence from the intensity of beautifying their dolls.
In the glass, Constance saw not herself but a resonant symbol of who she might be. Indeed, of who she authentically was, if only she allowed herself. I am the dove, she thought, holding all the converging lines of my strength and possibility. I am the light for my children, as they are the light for me. I am the one beckoning to the one in myself yearning to be free. Constance took a step toward the glass and looked into her own eyes, seeing into herself through and with her own eyes. This was what Benton had seen, she realized. It was not solely his recognition of her that had thrown him off balance and off that train, but also a deep and startling recognition of her absolute reality. It was at that moment, she had reached out. And Benton had fallen. She closed her eyes, hearing the terrible blow of his body hitting the water.
CHAPTER 40
The carriage Dorothea had sent to fetch her was festooned in garlands of colorful flowers, the peaks punctuated with red poppies. Plumes waving high in the slight breeze bobbed as the horse tossed its head against the reins. This was only one of the eight carriages, one for each of the ladies-in-waiting, that would form a small procession on Toulouse and would arrive simultaneously at the entrance to the French Opera House at precisely eight o’clock. The uniformed driver assisted her into the fairy-tale carriage as Analee and Alice made last touches and blew kisses, and the girls called out their good nights and “Love you, beautiful Mama. Come home before midnight!” The ride was luxurious, a respite of quiet in which to absorb the weight of her feelings, the thoughts that had overwhelmed her as she prepared for this ball, for being one of Les Mysterieuses. In truth, she had recognized and faced the mystery she was to herself, to the emerging complexity of her own internal contradictions.
As the procession of garlanded carriages drew to a halt before the grand edifice of the French Opera House, spectators gathered at a slight distance, greeting them with catcalls and whistles and then an outbreak of applause. A man’s voice yelled out a snide insult as the women alighted from the carriages. Some of the masked women turned, but Constance walked straight ahead and into the foyer of the opera house, where she caught sight of Dorothea waiting. She might well be the queen herself, thought Constance. But the captain Dorothea was, and she very much in charge, pointing and directing, lining up the ladies with specific attention to the exact distance between them. Her elaborate bodice was a deep shade of teal and had long side trains dangling near to the floor over an aqua tulle skirt and train, its wide golden lace trim swishing to and fro as she issued commands in an audible stage whisper. Around her neck hung a bejeweled whistle, which she blew loudly three times. A hush ensued from the crowded ballroom, and Dorothea led them in pairs to the four sets of waiting seats, two ladies for each of the queens. They stood together, facing the curtained stage, and when Dorothea gave her signal, they sat as she turned away and moved to the stage.
I’m here? Is this real? thought Constance. But there she was, in her seat, her two eyes uncovered, watching in wonder as Dorothea blew her whistle again. The blue velvet curtains began their ascent, revealing a tableau like nothing seen in any Mardi Gras previous: four massive arches, held aloft by wreathed Corinthian columns, framed the four queens, each in a setting perfected for her representation of four types of fair women. There was Brunhilde, a star shining high above the hillside behind her, dark, rippling hair hanging below her waist, standing in full command, spear in hand. Constance could not help thinking the star so large and bright might have shone over Bethlehem. She was momentarily grateful for her veil, not only for the concealment of her identity but also of her amused response to the scene before her.
She struggled to contain herself as her eyes moved to the second vignette: here was fair Juliet, standing beneath rather than on her balcony, garbed in simple lines, her head wreathed in flowers, a cross of stars high above her. Ah, those star-crossed lovers, thought Constance. Again, she was glad that she could hide her amusement. How clever these women, she thought. The third was Semiramis, a quarter moon low above the exotic turrets behind her crowned head, a long-handled fan in her hand, like the fan of a servant. How should Constance interpret this? At once she noticed the replication of the shape of Brunhilde’s spear, but it was enlarged. Semiramis, the queen who had served for her son yet had conquered her foes and enlarged her kingdom. And was this moon waxing or waning? Rising or setting? Or perhaps the enigma of a waxing moon rising. Ah, somehow that was comfort. Last, before a rising sun, framed by trees that reached out to touch one another, stood Pocahontas, her costume appearing authentic, a feather in her headdress, the emblematizing dawn of a new age, a new woman in a new world. May it be so, thought Constance.