Free The Poser by Jacob Rubin Page A

tales of heartbreak and love,” she said in that same deep voice, drawing some laughs. I wondered if it was supposed to be an imitation of Max.
    â€œNow, Ms. Starlight, have you ever been impersonated before?” In the absence of microphones they were both consciously projecting. It gave their dialogue a scripted, ironic tinge. Nothing I could use.
    She shook her head and hid her cheek behind her shoulder, like a shy child.
    â€œAre you ready then, Ms. Starlight, for the amazing transformation, the incomparable experience, the thrilling adventure, the delicious delirium of being mimicked by the
World’s Greatest Impressionist
?” Max asked, swinging his left arm toward the crowd as if opening a cape.
    She nodded hard.
    â€œGiovanni, take it away!” His spotlight went out. It was just Lucy and me, floating. The light encased her like glass, the motes dancing above her like snowflakes. Given her posture, it seemed that her hands should have rested on her hips, but she instead held them limp and expectant at her sides as if, despite the jeering tilt of her head, she awaited a kiss.
    The rim of my spotlight inched toward her, ahead of me.
    Any connoisseurs in the audience would have gnashed their teeth at what followed, would’ve mistaken me for a noisy, foot-stomping poseur for at that moment, before a large audience, Giovanni the Fraud commenced a rank parody of his art. He copied as best he could her vowel-happy voice, her tilted head. He stumbled around in that rangy gait, despite not having her thread, the seam that when pulled would unravel her whole. I was no better, really, than a younger sibling who echoes what his older brother has said immediately after he’s said it, to grab on to his coattails, as it were, and leach some of his person.
I faced the audience and said, “Horrible tales of heartbreak and love.” I said, “Oh, I’m a singer, I sing, and please, I sing.” I leaned my head forward, lunged in a circle. That’s when they started booing.
    They threw boos at me like bottles. Those boos whizzed by my ears. Boos smashed against the stage, echoed through the rafters, and I, believe it or not, was thankful, for it’s what I expected all along. To be thrown on my ear, railroaded back to Sea View, for Giovanni the Monster to be tarred and feathered and cackled out of town. Those boos purified me. I closed my eyes and stood still, washed as in a cleansing rain. And just then, with my eyes closed, my arms outstretched, I realized they weren’t booing at all—they were chortling, hooting,
applauding
. What I heard was the sound of mob laughter. I was terrified.
    â€œLadies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Giovanni Bernini!” Max shouted, and the hall filled with applause. “Giovanni Bernini!” It was a misunderstanding. I was going to be caught, I was sure. They would pelt me with ashtrays and glasses when they realized I’d tricked them, that I hadn’t really done it.
“The World’s Greatest Impressionist!”
    With protesting hands and a modest smile, I accepted the applause, though my heart was pounding. I stole a glance at Lucy, who, confined to her spotlight, leered at me like an angry sibling. Her look indicated that we shared a secret, but whether that secret was my failure or success I couldn’t know.
    Max said, “A round of applause for Lucy Starlight,” and Lucy batted her eyes and curtsied with that theatrical irony, though something about the act, you could tell, had rattled or satisfied her. Before that first wave of clapping subsided, she had already disappeared down the stairs, through the maze of tables—ignoring hands offered to congratulate her—her green dress eaten up by the dark. I nearly sprinted after her, began to, actually, and then remembered I was onstage and, wind-up toy that I was, wound down.
    â€œGiovanni Bernini, the World’s Greatest Impressionist!” Max