Viva La Vie Boheme

This was the day. After months and months of planning, auditions, readings, rehearsals, alternating scenes, fine-tuning the details, marketing and, above all, waiting, the premier of the Saeculum Theatre Company’s latest play was finally here. Hyperion had arrived at the theatre early, as was his wont, to go over the final things with his stage manager and stage hands, but the theatre had filled up a while ago. Backstage was complete and utter chaos, as it always was during a premier: actors running to and fro to retrieve parts of their costume, even though they had stage hands to do that; the stage manager weaving his way through the masses to get to the other side of the stage; the stage hands ducking in between everyone, trying to stay out of people’s way and failing miserably.

Any other person might have wondered why there was still so much stress involved with putting on this particular play. It was an old favourite of the company, after all; they put it on at least once every few years. Most of the actors had performed it more times than they’d like to remember. Hyperion had directed it more times than he could remember. But still, somehow, it always felt like the first time, and still, somehow, it always turned out ever so slightly different than the last time Hyperion put it on. Each and every time, it was exciting to get to this day, this one moment when months of work would come together to create something achingly familiar and breathtakingly new at the same time. Hyperion lived for premiers – and he lived for the premier of this play, in particular.

Finally, it was time to begin. Hyperion gave his actors and staff one last pep talk and then sent them on their way. He would watch the proceedings from backstage, as he usually did. Most actors watched from the audience, he knew, but he wanted to be there to make some last-minute adjustments or give some final pointers, if necessary. Luckily, no one seemed to need them. The story played out exactly as they had rehearsed, no one messed up their lines, and everyone remembered their cues. They had never had a better premier – not one that Hyperion could recall, anyway.

His actors joined hands and bowed for the audience amidst thunderous applause. Hyperion breathed a sigh of relief as he watched them. He gave them their moment, as they well-deserved; it was only when the applause started to fade that he walked onto the stage, beckoned by his actors. He smiled at the audience and took a bow of his own, more modest than the one his actors had taken, because while he might have worked just as hard as they had in the weeks leading up to this performance, they had delivered their best work today, and they deserved all the credit they were due.

Once the curtain closed, there was a collective ease in tension. Hyperion left his actors to change and put away their costumes and make-up while he set the stage hands to work on clean-up for the night. Once he was satisfied that everyone was doing what they were supposed to be doing and the theatre would actually look presentable again in the morning, Hyperion waited near the exit for his actors to finish. It was a longstanding tradition amongst the company that they retreated into one of the bars near the theatre after a successful premier, so that they could unwind for one evening after months of preparation. Hyperion was almost positive that his cast continued this tradition on other nights than the premier, but tonight was the only night he would attend.

The bar hadn’t been all that packed before their arrival, but his theatre company wasn’t small and they quickly filled up the available space. Hyperion flitted between various groups of actors, congratulating them on a job well done and making general small talk that he hadn’t had the time or interest for in weeks past. Once he had passed by them all, he retreated to the bar to order a drink – or two. He was parched and exhausted and elated and he needed something alcoholic in his system yesterday.

It was at the bar that he was approached by an unfamiliar woman, who most definitely didn’t belong to his company, several minutes later. She looked elegant and dressed for a night out; by the cut of her dress and the height of her heels, and the fact that she had approached him at all, he guessed she had been in the audience earlier. His suspicion was confirmed when she extended her hand, the way a lady of standing might, and congratulated him on the performance.

Immediately, Hyperion took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, the way he had been taught years ago. He smiled his most charming smile at the woman. “Thank you,” he said warmly. “We aim to please. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He picked up his drink from the bar and gestured at the bar tender. “For that lovely compliment, may I buy you a drink, Miss...?” Never let it be said that Hyperion Dhatri wasn’t a charmer. Of course, if he went and bought drinks for every fan of the company that approached him, he’d be out of cash sooner than he could blink, but the fact of the matter was that he was rarely approached by anyone – so when he was, he liked to amp up the charm when he had the chance.

On the – admittedly very few – other occasions when Hyperion had been approached by a member of the audience or even, god forbid, a fan, the person in question hadn’t been a particularly inspired intellectual. That wasn’t a great surprise as such; Hyperion had always aimed to put on plays that appealed to both higher classes and the lower. Regardless, it was a very pleasant surprise to find that the woman opposite him did actually seem to know what she was talking about. She responded with a quick-witted quip that made Hyperion chuckle.

“Can’t they be one and the same?” he responded, taking a sip of his drink. “I aim to recreate and reinvent that which greater men than I have written, and in doing so, I hope to please others with their tales.” He gestured at the woman with his glass still in hand. “But it was an astute observation. Do I detect a fellow artist?” He hadn’t seen her before, he was quite certain, but she had a certain air and know-how about her that couldn’t be simply that of a mere lover of theatre. He’d been around long enough that he knew the difference.

Ylva – as she had introduced herself – politely declined his offer of a drink, though Hyperion wasn’t offended, especially when, as if by divine providence, the drink she had ordered before was set down on the bar. ‘But who knows? I may stay for a second one,’ said Ylva, raising her glass. Hyperion couldn’t help but smile as he touched his glass to hers. “I’ll do my very best to be enthralling company until then, in that case,” he returned before taking a polite sip of his drink, as etiquette dictated he should after a toast.

“So,” he went on, feeling entirely relaxed as he leaned against the bar, one of his elbows resting on the surface so that he could survey the room and look at Ylva with one simple turn of his head, “did our play bring you to Ba Sing Se, or were you in the area and did you just so happen to decide to grace our little theatre with your presence? I’ll warn you, I don’t think my heart could handle the rejection if your answer is anything but the former.” He gave her a roguish grin. He did have a flair for the dramatic. How else would he have ended up in the theatre business?