by Linda Stift
*
My kedvesem would never have allowed me to marry. I was to belong to her alone. She was so terrified of being abandoned and would never have forgiven me. Not that I never had the opportunity: a marvellous, rich Russian count from St Petersburg courted me for months. I almost broke down and gave in. I loved the idea of living in my own castle as a Russian countess. There were also gentlemen from the royal household who wished to marry me, meaning I would not have had to leave the Hofburg palace. But I always bore in mind that a marriage would have banished me from her immediate proximity. She did not tolerate any married women as her friends. The only one who had been allowed to wed was the former theatrical hairdresser, Frau Feifalik. She could take all the liberties she liked; nothing was too much; even the emperor moaned about her. But of course she was the only one who was utterly indispensable! I had no desire to hurt my szeretett. Moreover, what could a man have offered me – even a terribly rich one – in comparison to her, my divine treasure who gave me everything?
*
An improvised stage made of wooden boards had been set up in the ballroom. Frau Hohenembs and Ida sat at a small table that the baron had reserved for them, and I went with my cardboard number through a side door into a neighbouring room, where more than 200 Sissis between the ages of fifteen and fifty were already waiting, all eager to step onto a catwalk at least once in their lives. We were called by number, our full names read out, and we had to walk one by one across the stage briskly, like models, with the cardboard number held above our heads, as a middle-aged woman with a blonde bun told us. With a few strides she showed us how she imagined models walk down the catwalk – an extremely aggressive and jaggedly nervous thrusting of the hips from side to side – and a few Sissis immediately started practising. The original Sissi was well known for her natural yet delicate gait, as if she were floating – precisely the opposite of what models do on the catwalk. Around half of the Sissis were, like me, wearing white dresses peppered with stars, although most of them were cheaply done; some even had large empty patches where the stars had already fallen off. There were stars in their hairdos too, and I also saw a few arrows of rhinestones or artificial flowers. The Sissi who stood out most was the blonde with the monstrance-like diadem; I thought she had the best chance, even though with her Empire-style dress she looked more like a woman from ancient Rome. But she had an easy-going air and beneath the pleated material there was an interesting figure. She was the only blonde, which I thought was original. I mingled with the 100 Sissis who were dressed like me. I imagined that from the auditorium it would be impossible to tell that my dress was more expensive and authentic than their cheap copies, more voluminous in the skirt part and more carefully worked. The only ace I had up my sleeve was the baron, but who could guarantee that, after espying some buxom wannabe Sissi, he wouldn’t forget me altogether or be looking somewhere else as I came past? I was so far back in the queue that the jury must be asleep by my turn, dreaming of erotic adventures with hundreds of naked Sissis. The baron, at any rate, was only dreaming of Ida. Watch out, girls, here we go! the woman with the bun called out. Line up by number. The first ones at the front, the rest at the back! Those with low numbers thronged towards the door. No one would yield an inch. Number 3 was particularly pushy; she kept knocking into the women around her with her elbows and stood on lots of toes. There was a jumble of chatting, whispering and giggling. It reeked of pungent hairsprays, sweet lipsticks and sweat. In the ballroom a man was speaking – we couldn’t make out what he was saying – then came a round of muted applause, and he said something else that made the audience laugh and applaud more loudly. Now the numbers were called at relatively quick speed, and the girls stumbled towards the stage, where a young man dragged them to the steps leading up to the catwalk, which they staggered across before being met by another man on the other side, who helped them down the steps and directed them into another room. You’ve got to hold up the numbers, the woman with the bun hissed. Otherwise the jury won’t know who you are. This meant the first twenty had already ruined their chances. The next twenty held their numbers up high, which badly affected the way they walked; they tripped, went too slowly or quickly, some ran, others stopped and were barged into by the ones behind, who shoved them along. Nobody had yet tried the classic model walk. It was quiet offstage now. The Sissi hens had shut up, each one concentrating hard to make sure they didn’t miss their name and number being called out. Fifty had already gone. When I heard the number 169 I froze. The woman with the bun pushed me out, the young man helped me onto the steps, whispering, Number up! and all of a sudden I was on the wooden planks in the blinding spotlights. The hall was a black abyss; I felt giddy as I peered into this darkness, from which I could hear an uncanny murmur. The abyss was just waiting for something to happen so it could scream and revel in a misfortune. Behind me, 170 and 171 were pushing forward; 168 had already stepped off, but still I went slowly along the catwalk, carefully putting one foot in front of the other, as if walking across gravel, so as not to trip, and dutifully holding my number aloft, hoping that no one would recognize me. The boards were fairly uneven; I had to take care, especially in Frau Hohenembs’s shoes, which I wasn’t used to and which, or so it seemed to me at least, were getting tighter with every step. I was pleased to make it to the other side without mishap and to be able to disappear among all those Sissis I didn’t know. Here were chaos and tears. The first twenty Sissis knew they had muffed their chance – no number, no rating – their faces were red and swollen from crying, and smeared with make-up. The floor was littered with stars that had fallen off, ribbons and scraps of material hung over the cheap imitation Biedermeier chairs, and the girls were stuffing their faces with the greasy egg mayonnaise and salmon rolls that were being handed around. Others who fancied their chances were eating and drinking as much as they could so that they’d weigh a few hundred grams or even a kilo more on the scales and thus win more pralines. I was so starving that I grabbed at the rolls with both hands and tucked in as if I were alone in my bedroom. No one was watching me, fortunately; all the Sissis were too preoccupied with themselves. I’d just polished off my tenth roll, the dress was feeling uncomfortably tighter at the waist, when a fanfare came from the hall and the man who’d spoken at the beginning – this time he had a microphone – announced that the jury would now consult to choose fifteen Sissis for the final, from which one would be elected jointly by the jury and the audience as Miss Sissi 2007. This was new; we’d thought that the jury would elect the eventual Sissi winner. It meant that the trembling was not yet over; the fifteen finalists would have to get up on the catwalk again, the woman with the bun explained. The mouths smeared with lipstick and mayonnaise gaped in horror. Half of the Sissis were deranged and a hectic wiping with tissues and napkins began, an adjusting of hairdos, some even gathered up stars from the floor to tack them onto their dresses and heads. The rolls were repeating on me; thank goodness there was a loo here. The Sissis were shoving themselves in front of the mirrors. I locked myself in a cubicle, gathered up the skirt part of the dress as best I could, pushing it up so it didn’t touch the floor and holding it with one hand, clasping my plaits to the back of my head with the other, and carefully began retching up the salmon and mayonnaise mush. A repulsive fishy smell spread around me. I let go of the plaits and flushed while I was still puking. The plaits sprang forward and the brush-like ends were splashed with water. From the next-door cubicle I heard spitting, retching and a hysterical coughing. It didn’t sound like deliberate vomiting, but who could tell? I checked the dress for marks; I appeared to have been lucky. I felt better; it was loose around my waist again and my head was clearer. I rinsed out my mouth. It was quiet in the hall, a fanfare sounded again and the host read out fifteen names and numbers. I was the last. I gave a start, although I also found it perfectly understandable. The blonde with the monstrance was also among the finalists. We were to come out slowly in single file and turn from one side to the other on the stage.
Where’s your number? the woman with the bun hissed. She was right; my hands were empty, that’s why I’d felt so unencumbered. I’ve left it in the loo, I told her. Go and get it, quick! I ran back and found the piece of cardboard on the floor in the cubicle. It was filthy, with dark shoe marks, because someone had trampled on it – me probably, while I was throwing up – but you could still see the number. We proceeded in single file, the band played a march, and then we stood on the catwalk, holding aloft our numbers. Unsure of how to stand, we turned now to the left, now to the right, no doubt looking like embarrassed schoolgirls at our leavers’ ball. The audience started shouting out numbers until the host intervened and explained the procedure. He would call each number again and the audience had to clap. The intensity of the applause would be measured by a machine and then the jury would pick and crown their Miss Sissi from the three with the most applause. After a fanfare he began calling out the finalists one by one; they took a step forward and curtsied. After the first had done it the rest copied. When it was my turn I gave a little curtsy too – I didn’t know what else to do – and held my soiled cardboard number above my head. Then they compared the levels of applause and the final three were: me, the blonde and a fifty-year-old Sissi in riding gear and a top hat. The rest stepped down from the stage, accompanied by a melancholy march. The host pointed to us with his outstretched arm. Ladies and gentlemen, the final three! he exclaimed, like a barker at a fair. A fanfare, then applause surged from the dark abyss. The blonde and I smiled at each other, while the equestrian Sissi remained serious. She was fairly old; you could see that she envied our youth, which made her a little older still, but her costume with the top hat looked good on her, and I expect we all appeared the same age to the audience. The host bent over the jury’s table and asked whether they had reached a decision. A spotlight was aimed at the members of the jury; I saw the baron nod and drum on the table with his fingers. We have a unanimous decision, he said. A fanfare, silence, the baron couldn’t restrain himself any longer. It’s number 169! he cried, leaping up and starting to clap. The audience joined in, as did the host, whose announcement, Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Miss Sissi 2007, was totally lost amidst the noise. At that moment a huge set of scales was pushed onto the stage, together with a wheelbarrow containing dozens of boxes of pralines. It was uplifting, unfortunately. The equestrian Sissi offered me her hand and her congratulations – she looked relieved – while the blonde Sissi went so far as to embrace me, causing her monstrance to slip. She took the diadem off her head and waved to the audience with it. The host gave both of them a box of chocolates and led them off the stage. Then he took me by the arm to the scales. Some steps were rolled on, he helped me onto one side of the scales by holding my arm, then began to fill the other side with pralines. An assistant counted. The host tossed in box after box while reeling off his jokes. I was glad to be able to sit finally – the scales were comfortable, and without thinking about it I took off my shoes and rubbed my feet. My side of the scales slowly started to rise, and when he reached the hundred and second packet, the two sides were balanced at the same height. There were fifty-one kilos of me and fifty-one kilos of pralines. I was horrified, but then it occurred to me that the dress must weigh at least three kilos, and there were the shoes, so I was under fifty kilos. Another fanfare. The assistant heaved me out of the scales and, while the host led me off, the assistant packed the boxes of pralines into two sacks and carried them behind me after I’d staggered off the stage – the young men who’d helped us get up and down earlier on were nowhere to be seen. Ida waved from a table at which Frau Hohenembs and the baron were also sitting, and I fought my way through the clapping and grinning crowd, followed by the assistant with the sacks. The baron gave him a glass of champagne. Frau Hohenembs nodded and said, Well done, I’m pleased with you. Ida gazed at the sacks; the assistant downed a second glass and left. I remembered the shoes; I hadn’t realized I’d walked off the stage in stockings. I ran after the assistant and asked him to bring me the shoes I’d left on the scales. Stop! Where are you going? I heard Frau Hohenembs call out. I explained that I’d taken off the shoes on the scales and left them there. How could you? Frau Hohenembs snapped. Whatever made you take off my shoes? Now, now, the baron said, it’s no great calamity, I’m sure those little shoes will turn up again. But they didn’t. The assistant came back without them, assuring us he’d looked everywhere. Frau Hohenembs punished me in the taxi home with her silence.
