The backstage prop room of the Paris Opera House was filled with the smell of cheap greasepaint.
“I’m not doing it.”
Vivian crossed her arms and shook her head like a rattle drum, refusing without hesitation.
“Absolutely not, don’t even think about it.”
In front of her sat an outrageously designed, gigantic swan.
This thing was originally a prop from “Lohengrin”, but it had been altered beyond recognition.
Its neck had been stretched out, both wings replaced with thin sheets of metal, and at its rear, four paper tubes as thick as thighs were tied on, with fuses trailing on the floor like messy tails.
“Don’t be so quick to say no, Vivian.”
Cicero sat on a three-legged chair, holding a file in his hand, elegantly trimming his nails.
“The Trojans dragged the wooden horse into their city, and so the Greeks won. Now we’re sending this swan onto the stage—this is our ‘Trojan Swan’ plan.”
“But there were strong men hidden in the Trojan Horse!” Vivian pointed at the entrance, which was only big enough for a cat to squeeze through. “And this thing is full of gears!”
“Correction,” an excited voice came from behind the swan’s tail, “those aren’t ordinary gears, they’re the heart of art!”
Bastian crawled out. The tenor was currently a disaster: his face was smudged with engine oil, his once-sparkling costume was bunched around his waist, and he was holding a welding torch that still sizzled with sparks.
“This is ‘Destroyer No. 1’!” Bastian caressed the swan’s bald backside with feeling.
“I added a twin-turbo propulsion system to its tail, and hid two sets of ‘Aether Resonance Fireworks’ under the wings.”
“Aether…what?” Vivian’s eyelid twitched.
“Got them off the black market.” Bastian beamed expectantly.
“Just light them, and they’ll release a frequency that disrupts spiritual structures. They’re meant for graveyard parties, but I found they work wonders on ghosts.”
“So basically,” Cicero blew away the nail dust, “when this swan rushes onto the stage, that ghost will be blasted senseless.”
“Sounds great.” Vivian forced a smile. “But I still refuse.”
Cicero ignored Vivian, pulling a pocket watch from his chest and glancing at it.
“Twenty minutes until the premiere. That fat manager’s locked every door, and outside, it’s crawling with police and nobles waiting for a spectacle. If we can’t force that ghost out before the climax of Act Two…”
He paused, looking at Vivian with a deep gaze.
“Guess what, the ghost who wrote you into the script—think he’ll really have you ‘bleeding on stage’?”
Vivian shuddered. She touched the black musical note mark on her wrist, which still throbbed faintly with pain.
“Fine, fine, I’ll do it, I’ll go in, all right?!”
Gritting her teeth, Vivian walked over to the swan and measured the manhole-sized opening.
“But this hole is way too small! How am I supposed to get in?”
“That’s why I prepared this.”
Like performing a magic trick, Cicero pulled something black from a box behind him.
It was… a full-body, skin-tight latex suit.
It looked just like something from a certain kind of special-interest club.
Vivian’s face turned green in an instant.
“You pervert! Where’d you even get this?!”
“It’s a diving suit. Bought it for an inspection in the sewers.” Cicero’s expression didn’t change.
“To reduce friction. You know, the inside of this swan… is a little cramped.”
“I’m not wearing that! Not even if you kill me!”
Five minutes later.
“Cicero! I hate you! I’m reporting you to labor arbitration!”
Vivian’s muffled complaints came from the dark corner of the prop room.
“You done yet?” Cicero urged from outside. “If you plan to strangle yourself, make sure you write a will. Debts can’t just disappear.”
Vivian stomped out, her face dark. The black suit clung to her perfect curves, but her stance resembled a penguin’s—she had to keep her arms a bit spread.
“What are you staring at?!” She glared at Bastian, who was whistling. “Look again and I’ll throw you out!”
“Perfect!” Bastian’s eyes blazed with fervor.
“The tension of restraint! The collision of industrial material and human aesthetics! I should write a sonnet on the swan’s rear in your honor!”
“Shut up, Bastian.” Cicero cut him off, then pointed at the swan.
“All right, get in.”
Cursing under her breath, Vivian wriggled like an eel, trying to squeeze herself into the damned swan’s belly.
The suit was so tight she felt like a vacuum-packed sausage; even breathing was hard.
“Tuck your legs, left foot, not right—can’t you tell left from right?”
“Shut it! It’s all burrs in here! Who welded these seams? My waist!” Vivian’s muffled wails echoed inside the swan’s belly.
Her upper body was in, but her hips were stuck.
The scene was bizarre: an abstract mechanical swan, with two black spandex-clad legs flailing madly from its rear.
“I’m… I’m stuck!” Vivian’s voice was on the verge of tears.
“Bastian, lube.” Cicero stretched out his hand.
“Coming!”
Bastian handed over a can of industrial grease meant for the stage pulleys.
“You try smearing that on me and see what happens?!” Vivian sensed danger, her legs kicking even harder. “I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life!”
“Looks like we’ll have to use physics.”
Cicero sighed, tossing the grease aside.
He straightened his coat, lifted his spotless leather shoe, and lined it up with the two struggling, rounded black shapes.
“Brace yourself, might hurt a bit.”
“What are you doing? Hey! Don’t you—”
“Here we go.”
“Bang!”
The kick landed, steady, precise, and ruthless.
“Ah—! Cicero, you bastard—!”
With a shriek, Vivian shot into the swan’s belly like a cork forced into a bottle.
The world instantly became dark and cramped.
Vivian curled up in the tiny space, knees pressed to her chin, cheek against the cold metal wall. All around were gears and levers.
“I’m not doing this anymore…” Vivian whimpered weakly.
“I want out… I’m calling the police… I’m reporting you all for animal cruelty…”
“Don’t move, you’re going on stage soon.” Cicero’s voice came through the metal, sounding muffled. “Adjust your field of view.”
Vivian struggled to raise her head. At the base of the swan’s long neck was a makeshift periscope. Through the slightly dirty lens, she could just see outside.
The angle was strange—it was as if she’d become the swan itself, lifting its head to look down proudly on the world.
As she adjusted her position, her fingers brushed something on the metal interior.
There were a few lines scratched there.
In this dead-end that no one could crawl into, someone had left writing.
Vivian managed to fish a lighter from inside the collar of her suit.
The weak flame illuminated a rusted patch of iron.
[For Éric.]
[Hope this ugly big bird can carry you out of the dungeon. The sky outside is gray, but it’s better than the blackness in here.]
[—A.P.]
Vivian froze. If Éric was the ghost’s name, then who was A.P.?
Next to the “A.P.” initials was a tiny symbol—two crossed sewing needles.
“Hey, still alive in there?” Cicero knocked on the swan’s shell.
“If you start suffocating, knock twice, so we can just bury this thing as a coffin.”
“Not dead…” Vivian put away the lighter, feeling oddly conflicted—someone in this theater was actually helping the ghost escape.
“Ready?” Bastian’s voice was full of excitement.
“Célestine’s about to wail on stage! My ‘Destroyer No. 1’ is raring to go!”
“Wait!” Vivian suddenly realized a serious problem. “Where’s the air hole? How does this thing vent?”
There was two seconds of silence outside.
“Oh.” Bastian let out a totally unconvincing gasp. “Got so caught up with the fireworks, I think I welded the vent shut.”
“Are you trying to suffocate me?!” Vivian thrashed wildly against the metal.
“Hang in there, maybe ten minutes.” Cicero analyzed calmly.
“With the rage from hypoxia, this swan’s fighting power will double.”
“You bastards—!”
“Click!”
A camera shutter snapped from outside.
“What are you doing?”
Vivian peered through the periscope.
She saw Cicero holding a brand-new camera, photographing the swan’s rear stuffed with fuses.
“I’ll have this photo developed,” Cicero said coolly. “The title will be ‘Debtor About to Take Flight’.”