She looked around.
This was the famous “Waiting Hell”—the interview waiting area.
The narrow corridor was packed with girls of all kinds.
Some wore dresses slit up to the thigh, desperately stretching their legs against the wall for flexibility; some were warming up their voices, emitting shrill screeches like cats whose tails had been stepped on.
In comparison, Vivian, dressed in a gray cloth dress, looked like a sparrow that had wandered into a garden of peacocks.
“Look at that country bumpkin.” Two girls in lacy puff dresses were whispering nearby.
“She must’ve come to the wrong place, right? This isn’t where they pick nuns for Notre Dame.”
“Exactly, just look at her shabby look. Did she pick that dress out of a trash heap? Goodness, she even smells poor.”
Vivian rolled her eyes.
Just then, the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor was suddenly flung open.
“Get out!”
With a lion-like roar, a girl in a velvet stage dress ran out sobbing.
“If that’s the best you can do with your high notes, I suggest you go to the banks of the Seine and shout grievances! That’s noise! An insult to Baudelaire!”
A woman stood at the doorway.
She looked to be about forty, wore a crisp black long dress, her hair meticulously coiled at the back and pinned with several silver hairpins.
Armand Perrault, the chief costumer of the opera house and the infamous backstage tyrant.
At this moment, the tyrant’s gaze swept over the girls in the corridor. The girls who had been chirping moments before instantly went silent as chickens, even the one doing the splits froze mid-air, not daring to move.
“Next,” Armand said coldly.
No one dared to move.
Armand frowned, her left hand unconsciously rising, her thumb rubbing an old pocket watch hanging at her chest. It was a strange motion, urgent and forceful.
Vivian squinted, getting a clear look at the pocket watch.
The cover was badly worn, revealing the brass underneath. The hands stood frozen, locked at a particular time.
May 28th, four o’clock in the afternoon.
Vivian’s heart skipped a beat. That was the day “Bloody Week” ended in 1871, and the moment the last fighter of the Paris Commune fell at Père Lachaise Cemetery.
“What now? Is everyone planning to desert?” Armand sneered, her gaze suddenly locking onto Vivian in the corner.
Vivian was just too conspicuous. Amid a crowd of gaudily made-up peacocks, the drab figure stood out like a lump of coal in a pile of diamonds.
“You,” Armand pointed at Vivian.
“The one in rags. Get in here.”
Vivian pointed at herself, “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Vivian took a deep breath, straightened her waist squeezed painfully by the corset, and marched into the room with the air of facing certain death.
The room was filled with costumes and fabrics of all kinds. At the center stood a table, and Armand sat on a high-backed chair like a judge presiding over a heresy trial.
“Name.”
“Vivian.”
“Full name.”
“Uh…Vivian de…La Rochelle?” Vivian blurted out a surname that sounded a bit aristocratic.
Armand snorted, “La Rochelle? That oyster-farming town? No wonder you smell like seafood.”
“What are you applying for?” Armand picked up a quill from the table, spinning it between her fingers.
“General staff,” Vivian answered honestly, “Carrying props, cleaning, handing out water to all the pretty ladies.”
“General staff?”
Armand stopped twirling the pen. She looked up and sized up Vivian.
From her flawless face, to her swan-like long neck, down to the legs that, even hidden under the dress, showed elegant lines.
“Pa.”
Armand slapped the pen down on the table.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not!” Vivian raised three fingers, “I swear to God! I really need this job! I have an eighty-year-old mother and…uh…kittens waiting to be fed!”
“Drop the act.” Armand stood up, circled around the table, and walked up to Vivian.
She reached out, pinched Vivian’s chin, forcing her to lift her head.
“Look at this face.” Armand’s voice was dripping with mockery.
She grabbed Vivian’s hand. The hand was fair and slender, the nails rounded and full.
“These hands don’t even have a single callus. And you say you’re here to move props?” Armand sneered, “You look like you’re here to carry gold bars.”
“I…”
“I’ve seen plenty of girls like you.” Armand let go.
“You think you can sneak into the opera house on the strength of your looks. Pretend you’re here to work, but actually looking for a chance to get on stage, or to fake a faint into some count’s arms when he walks down the hall.”
“Listen, little girl.” Armand leaned in close to Vivian’s ear.
“This is a temple of art, not a place for vases like you. If you want to snag a rich man, you should go stand on the Champs-Élysées, it’d be much more efficient.”
Vivian’s fists clenched.
If not for that five hundred francs, her frying pan would’ve already blossomed on this old woman’s head.
Calm down, Vivian, calm down.
“Madame Perrault,” Vivian took a deep breath.
“I think you’re mistaken. I might look good, but that’s not my fault, and I really am very capable.”
“Capable?” Armand raised an eyebrow, “All right.”
“Since you’re applying for stagehand, let’s see your…body control.”
Armand sat back in her chair, arms crossed, expression full of amusement.
“Our new production needs some special extras. I detest your face, but if you can prove that your body isn’t just for pleasing men, I might consider giving you a chance.”
“A talent show?” Vivian was stunned.
“Think of it as part of the interview.” Armand took a sip of tea.
“Dance a little. Anything you like. Ballet? Modern? Or show me how elegantly you mop the floor?”
Game over.
Vivian’s mind went blank.
In her previous life, she’d been a male college student who did nothing but game and watch short videos. Her dance skills were basically zero. If she had any athletic talent, it was probably her speed at climbing walls to skip class.
Looking at Armand’s increasingly impatient face, Vivian knew if she didn’t do something, the five hundred francs would fly away.
“Hurry up! My time is precious!” Armand’s fingers began rubbing that pocket watch again.
“Screw it!”
Vivian steeled herself.
“I will perform…” Vivian took two steps back, assuming a stance.
“A sacrificial dance with profound philosophical meaning.”
“Huh?” Armand was taken aback.
Vivian closed her eyes, bent her knees, lowered her center of gravity, and assumed a standard…starting pose.
Then she raised her hands above her head.
“Whoo whoo whoo—”
Her wrists started spinning at high speed. This was pushing the limits of human joint flexibility!
If she had two glowsticks now, she could take off on the spot.
Armand’s teacup paused at her lips. Her eyes widened slowly, pupils quaking.
What…what is this?!
Vivian was completely immersed in her art. She didn’t just do flower hands, she added footwork too.
Like a devil dancing on a hot iron plate, paired with wildly spinning arms. Even her neck stretched and recoiled with an imaginary rhythm, like a pigeon courting a mate.
“Not Love I, No End, unless Flower Hand Shake Good I.”
The only sound in the room was the “squeak squeak” of Vivian’s shoes rubbing the floor.
Armand Perrault was completely dumbfounded.
She had immersed herself in classical aesthetics for decades, but never seen anything like this…this…
This wild, untamed dance!
Watching Vivian’s hands spin into two discs, a vision flashed through Armand’s mind.
It was the giant flywheels in a factory, the steam engines’ madly pumping pistons, the very image of that industrial age that devoured countless lives!
“Stop!”
Just as Vivian was about to cap it off with a backflip, Armand slapped the table.
Vivian stopped immediately, panting and wiping sweat.
It’s over, she thought. I must look like a lunatic. Should I wait for security to throw me out, or just walk myself out?
“Um…” Vivian said tentatively, “If that wasn’t enough, I can actually do a backflip…”
“Marvelous!”
Armand suddenly stood up, tears actually sparkling in her eyes.
“Huh?” Vivian was stunned.
“It’s a challenge to the limits of the body! Especially the spinning…” Armand walked up to Vivian, gripped her hands tightly.
She took a deep breath to calm herself, her tone clearly much gentler.
“The moves were a little rough, but that’s exactly where their charm lies.”
She picked up a wooden plaque with a number on it from the table and tossed it to Vivian.
“You’re hired.”
Vivian caught the plaque and saw “General Staff-007” written on it. The whole world felt unreal.
That worked?
The energetic lad’s social shuffle actually conquered the chief costumer of the Paris Opera House?
“But,” Armand changed her tone, “don’t think passing the interview means you can slack off. Take these costumes down to the storage room in Basement Level 2, Area C.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
She walked through the maze-like backstage corridors, following the signs to find the stairs leading down.
The light around her grew dimmer. She could still hear the tuning and vocal exercises from the stage earlier, but as she descended, those sounds faded away.
The gas lamps on the walls flickered, the air grew damp and chilly, and Vivian caught a faint whiff of water.
“What did Cicero’s book say again?” Vivian tried to steel her nerves.
“The opera house was built atop an underground river…If you hear water, that’s the dead gargling.”
“Ptui, what nonsense book.”
Vivian finally found the Area C storage room. She tossed the costumes on the shelves and let out a relieved sigh.
“All done…”
Just as she was about to leave, a strange feeling crawled up her spine.
Vivian stopped in her tracks.
Ahead lay the corridor’s end—no lights, just endless darkness.
But in the deepest part of that darkness, something seemed to be glowing.
Suspended in midair in the black corridor was a white mask. Only half a mask, covering the right side.
As for the exposed left side, there was nothing. Only a smooth patch of gold.
It floated silently in the air, and Vivian could feel—it was watching her.
“Hi?” Vivian called out, testing the waters.
The mask didn’t reply.
But in the next instant, Vivian heard a strange pipe organ melody.
“Dun—dun—dun dun dun—”
For a moment, Vivian saw a vast underground lake, countless candles burning on its black surface, illuminating a floating palace of steel.
A masked man stood at the palace’s highest point, holding a human leg bone, and gently waved it toward the void.
“Welcome to my theatre.”
Vivian shook her head fiercely.
When she looked again, the corridor’s end was empty—nothing there.