THE CHANDELIER AND THE MOON
If I stand in the corner smoking a Lucky Strike and sipping a Manhattan, I can almost believe I am one of them. Just a guest at a cocktail party in the autumn of 1937 given by one of the most esteemed and beautiful socialites of Sydney. Of course, the ballroom has been beautifully turned out. Gold bunting above our heads and bowls of marigolds on low tables, along with the canapes and hors de oeuvres. She flitted past me a moment ago and gave me a tentative smile. I’m hoping she will spare me some time later but that’s not the main reason I am here.
I scan the room but can’t locate him at first. There is a press of people standing under the chandelier’s golden light – expensively tailored suits, the bare backs of several young woman wearing satin evening gowns. The glitter of diamonds. I finally spot him in a black tuxedo looking tired and with a pained expression on his face. He is in his fifties, a banker I’m guessing, from my experience as a taxi driver. His wife is not much younger, wearing a stylish, dark grey evening dress. I can see she is concerned about her husband.
“Are you all right, darling?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Just worried about that Chancellor fellow causing a ruckus in Europe.”
“Do you mean that man called Hitler?”
“Yes.”
I hear that awful, staccato name and flinch. I’m worried about him too.
“But John, he’s in Germany. He has nothing to do with us.” She pauses. “Would you like another glass of the champagne we both like? You look hot. I can get it for you.”
“No, no, no. I’m fine, sweetheart.”
I send her a silent message: There is a full moon outside and it will be cooler on the balcony.
She turns her head towards the windows. “Why don’t we go outside? I believe there is a full moon tonight and it’s bound to be cooler.”
I smile as they step outside, through the billowing curtains, to the small balcony three stories up. I move closer and hear him say,
“Oh, what a moon. I wonder if we will ever conquer it?”
“What a thought!” She sighs. “It is a lovely moon tonight.”
He touches her arm. “Do you know, I have an awful foreboding."
He is about to say more and then there is a gasp from his wife. He has collapsed.
Behind me I sense a flurry of wings that disturbs the air in the packed ballroom. Only one young woman looks about her. It is a confrere of mine. Of the fraternity I left twenty-two years ago. An inexperienced one, I’m guessing, because he has arrived at the wrong location. The soul he is after is on the balcony. He glares at me and moves outside.
The fallen man in his black tuxedo and the grieving widow in her dark dress have become one with the night. Alone briefly, instead of in a packed ballroom with everyone stooping over. I carefully place my cocktail glass on a low table and leave, just as her piercing cry splits the air. Soon after the sirens will follow.
Debbie Robson loves to write fiction set in the first sixty years of the last century. She has had stories published in Typishly, Cabinet of Heed, Storgy and others and poetry in Mystic Blue Review, Poached Hare, Dodging the Rain, Sunspot Lit Mag and Blood Tree Literature.