Band Practice (Day 2 - Afternoon)

“It is said,” Arturo spoke in the semi-darkened backstage, “that in the early days of Earth-That-Was, working theaters would hire sailors as stagehands and riggers. Thus, we have kept an ancient tradition alive,” he grinned at Marisol. “This will save valuable time between scenes.”

His eyes swept over her project for the day, a rope and pulley system engineered to quickly raise and lower individual theatrical drops. By means of a zig-zag arrangement, Marisol had managed to lift each drop evenly with only three pulleys and one length of rope apiece. The local scrap shop hadn’t enough to provide a fourth pulley that would turn each line down toward her ad hoc tie-off rail. To remedy this, the former boat mechanic had mounted a piece of pipe directly overhead. It wasn’t perfect, but at the least, each line met sharply reduced friction by turning over the smooth, rounded surface of the pipe. “How much did all of this cost?”

“Twenty credits,” the diminutive woman answered at his side. “Don’t worry about it. I was at the scrappers, shopping for parts I could use on the broken stage lights, when I found this tackle. I batted my eyes at the guy and he cut me a deal.”

“Why, you harlot!” Arturo chuckled. “Using your feminine wiles.” He greeted Jean-Jacques, who’d come strolling onto the stage with his guitar. “Time for the band to practice,” he told Marisol as the other musicians arrived. “We customarily use this time to prepare the tables.”

She nodded. “I’m on it.” For the next half hour, Marisol listened as the band worked up their numbers for the evening’s show. They were few in number, a keyboardist who provided a multitude of simulated instrument sounds and playback loops, a drummer, an upright bassist, and Jean-Jacques’ guitar. She hummed along, sometimes singing as they played recognizable tunes. All the while, she adorned the tables with fresh white linens and put her imagination to clever napkin arrangements.

The centerpieces had all been placed. Marisol then set to refilling each with fresh candles. The band had chosen to take a break, leaving Jean-Jacquesto tune his guitar. He strummed a few familiar chords, before raising her eyebrows with a rapid paced traditional flamenco melody. She knew it instantly, and as she set the candles in their bases, began to sing along.

*” Soy como el armadillo

Como un avión, como un ratón

No quiero ser la culpable

De dañar tu corazón…*

The guitarist gave her a broad grin, encouraging her to belt out the lyrics with his guitar. Marisol was only too happy to comply.

*” Soy alma desaforada

A mi no me calma nada

Ponganmen el tatequieto

O estaré en graves aprietos…”*

Spellbound as she was by the music, it took her a moment to realize that Jean-Jacques had stopped playing. Following his gaze, Marisol turned to find both Remi and Arturo standing behind her. Remi wore a serious expression. Even the perpetually jocular Arturo appeared sobered in the moment.

“Um,” she stammered. “Did I…”

Remi lifted a hand to silence her. “Go up there,” he pointed toward the stage. “Start again.”

“Jean-Jacques!” Arturo summoned the guitarist. “From the top, if you please!”

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(Music credit: "La Culpable" by Aterciopelados:)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=\_H4awfYj1xs