WITH MADELEINE, though, curiosity prevails, always.
And so the curtain is lifted.
Behold: the flatulent man is nearly dressed. No longer on his hands and knees, he wears his black satin breeches, his elegant tailcoat. His fingers fumble in the stiff white folds of his butterfly tie. The others have grown tired of waiting, perhaps, and wandered off to bed. This seems an unexpected gift to Madeleine, that he should be alone, that she should be allowed to watch him as he dresses, to love his fastidiousness, to picture him as he once stood: upright, clothed, framed by a scarlet curtain. She imagines the dimming of lights, ushers disappearing, programs rustling, an old gentleman coughing, and the breathless heavenly feeling that yes, yes, it is all about to begin....
But then another player stumbles out from the wings. His face wears the dismayed expression of someone who finds himself in the wrong production. He looks back over his shoulder beseechingly, as if a stagehand might whisper his lines, or a tremendous piece of scenery might roll out and flatten him beneath its wheels. How did I end up here? his whole body asks, twitching in the candlelight, longing to do away with itself.
The flatulent man makes a small, exasperated noise. His arms drop to his sides.
Upstaged, once again, by an amateur. His triumphant return, foiled!