Chapter II

They’d gathered outside of Carmine’s home, a haimish sort of building coated in ivy. Carmine rested in a wooden deck chair, Imogene and Esther leaned back against the wall, and the others- Seth, Rivka, and Jacob- sat in a circle on the newly paved sidewalk. They were only waiting on Wilson.

Jacob, for one, was relieved. Rehearsal would be here in Union Square today, in Carmine’s apartment, which as far as he knew, no howling phantasms inhabited.

Imogene, whose pupils were almost always dilated, was sharing a long and convoluted joke with Esther. Though she’d forgotten certain essential details, she improvised well, and even earned a couple of chuckles from Esther.

Seth lit up a cigarette and extracted a deck of cards from his pocket. He began to deal but stopped, seeing Wilson’s sturdy form approaching. All of the actors unconsciously breathed a sigh of relief. Imogene pulled her coppery, wind-tasseled hair up into a bun and led the way into the building. No one spoke as they filed into the elevator and floated up to the 14^th floor.

Carmine’s apartment was an intimate space, with blue walls, a small, velvet sofa, and a magnificent window overlooking the cityscape. It was Seth who finally broke the silence. “Is there some sort of rally going on today?” Rivka crossed to the window. Sure enough, there were swarms of people holding signs, chanting.  Rivka recalled just then that this was a pro-choice protest. “Maybe we can go out there and scare up a playwright,” she joked.

As ridiculous as the suggestion seemed, it was not unreasonable. After all, they did hope to produce a play about Aurelia Bacchus, a medical student who was renowned for giving covert abortions after the ratification of Senate Bill 732. “We could do that,” Esther offered, “But if we don’t find someone today, we’ll have to write this play ourselves.”

“Or withdraw from the festival,” Jacob added solemnly.  So it was unanimous. While Imogene ransacked the drawers for paint and markers, the rest of them brainstormed slogans. “Don’t Be Ludicrous; It’s My Uterus,” Seth suggested. And when Imogene returned with colored pens, they copied this slogan onto seven different poster board signs.  All aflutter, they took the elevator back down, stepped outside, and ran to catch up with the rally. The clouds that had impressed themselves on the morning like they wanted to rain now thinned, thinking better of it, and made way for an early evening sun.

It was Aurelia’s crescent moon smile that drew Rivka’s eyes an impossible distance into the throngs of heated protestors. And as though Rivka’s gaze bore weight, Aurelia at once scanned the crowd to locate the pair of pupils that were alternately appraising and inviting her. Something seemed to lock into place as Aurelia focused in on her observer. Though they stood yards apart, Aurelia swore she could see her own reflection bouncing in the black between Rivka’s jade-colored irises. Rivka, likewise, felt akin to the woman in the black cloak who reciprocated her stare. It was something like envy that came over Rivka, but no, it wasn’t envy, it was sweeter. It was a sensation familiar to Rivka; one she often felt towards the protagonists of plays or novels. It was the desire to become. Rivka watched the woman’s round, warm smile suspended on her face until it fell and the woman turned away. The last thought that clung to Rivka as she reverted to her present reality: I want to play a character just like this woman.

Aurelia, all hushed and flushed, suddenly turned about, catching herself for the second time that day. Her characteristic smile faded slowly off of her face and a wave of vertigo through her head. She was falling towards the back of the crowd, nearer every second to the woman with the creased eyebrows and the coiled coiffure. She peaked behind her, and saw that the woman was not alone, but was standing amidst several men and women whose eyes darted as though in search of something lost. They advanced as a group; Aurelia could not suppress a laugh as their signs came into view. She marched alongside the woman and her posse until the woman finally tapped her on the shoulder.  “What secret happiness is responsible for your smile? The woman inquired, “It’s enchanting.”

Aurelia took this in. Fear flickered visibly across her face. Had she been recognized?

“You seem familiar,” the woman continued, as if reading her mind, and her comrades nodded their agreement.

 “She bears an uncanny resemblance to... Isabel Lorenz,” one of the comrades put forth.

Another of the comrades, a fiery young man whose face was shrouded in dark stubble, clarified, “Isabel Lorenz is a playwright who worked with our theatre company.”

Aurelia exhaled heavily, and in a viscous voice, introduced herself as Sasha Khaitova. The woman brightened and extended a hand, which Aurelia accepted. The woman said that her name was Rivka, and that she’d read a great deal about Ms. Khaitova.  Aurelia did her best to conceal her amusement; Sasha Khaitova was a childhood friend of hers, a precocious young playwright. Khaitova’s work was evidently popular among Rivka’s comrades, who, all at once, seemed to ignite with a hope of some kind.

And something remarkable happened. Rivka and her merry band of theatre actors invited Aurelia, or rather Sasha, to write for them. Aurelia pursed her lips, wishing she’d introduced herself as one of her less illustrious friends.