bagged at the opera
It was my first professional engagement as a lead soloist. I was playing The Wicked Squire in a new opera set in mid Nineteenth Century Cornwall. Actually the opera was not very good and had too many similarities with Gilbert and Sullivan's Ruddigore to be taken seriously. It was the first opera by a composer who had established himself by writing film music. The composer had intended his opera to be melodramatic but it was very difficult for the performers to keep from laughing at some of the dialogue.
I was very nervous. This was my big break. If this opera were to be a flop then my career would have a bad start. I was so tense and wound up that I didn't notice just how impossible I was to work with. I criticised everybody else when my tenseness was the main problem. My only excuse was that I was young and heedless.
At the climax of the opera I have to descend to "Hell" in crimson smoke. As a stage trick it is fairly simple. I stand at the exact middle of the stage on a mark. I swirl my large black cloak around me. I stamp on the floor. A cloud of smoke rises, lit by crimson spotlights. I vanish, leaving my cloak strewn on the floor.
How does it work? I'm standing on a trapdoor. When I swirl my cloak around I hook it on two small hooks attached to black threads from above the stage. I let go of the cloak and drop my head inside it, stamping my foot. The stamp is a signal for the trapdoor to open. I drop through it into a canvas trunk like an runway windsock. I slide through the trunk which slows my fall and emerge on to a metre high foam mattress like those used for landings by high jumpers or pole vaulters. I then roll off the mattress and go to my dressing room to wait for the curtain call at the end of the opera. The smoke? That is jets of carbon dioxide (dry ice). The crimson spots make them look like flames.
My costume looks like a Victorian gentleman's evening dress but is skin tight Lycra zipped at the back. It appears as black trousers and jacket with a frilled shirt. It didn't get in the way as I slide down the canvas chute. I wear the voluminous cloak on stage so the limitations of my costume don't show.
I had practised the descent into "Hell" many times. It was important that it went right. If I messed it up, the whole point of the opera would be lost and with it the audience's belief that the drama is meaningful. I could wreck my career, the composer's opera and the work of all my colleagues in that one moment. It was a heavy responsibility for a first solo performance and I felt the load.
OK. I admit it. I was a pain to my co-stars, the chorus, the stagehands, everybody. I was scared stiff and couldn't relax. I had upset everybody.
Irene, the soprano, tried to calm me down.
"Drake, you must lighten up. You are too tense and it shows. You are ruining your performance and mine."
Irene kissed me lightly on the cheek.
"You are a dear boy, and you will be a good performer, but not as you have been the last few days. Go and get drunk with the boys, or find a nice chorus girl to give you a cuddle. Please?"
"Thank you for your concern, Irene," I said stiffly. "but I am sure I can manage."
I swept off just as if I was in character as the wicked squire. At that point I didn't realise that I had made up Irene's mind. She decided that I needed to be taught a lesson about tact, courtesy and team work. She went to see the stage manager and the seamstress.
I should have listened to Irene. I adored her, as did most of the cast and crew. She had realised early in her career that her voice would never allow her to be in the top few sopranos, so she concentrated on her stagecraft and her professional approach. She was an impeccable performer, never ill, never late, never demanding, and always willing to help others to learn. She was working constantly because producers could rely on her even if other soloists were being difficult. She was nearly old enough to be my mother but she treated me as an equal.
Next day was a run through of the final act including my descent. We would do the whole act non-stop. After a break for lunch the performance would be assessed with the producer, director and whole cast watching the video of how it would appear to the audience. The first assessment would be with the chorus and crew, then a separate one with the soloists, then a final joint review with all of us. Then we would repeat the act, trying to pick up where improvements had been suggested.
The run through was tense. My nervousness and irritability had affected everyone. As always, Irene was off-stage for my descent. She returns to the stage for the finale about ten minutes after my disappearance.
My descent was perfect. The cloak hooked up properly, the smoke rose, I dropped through the trapdoor. Then things changed. As I emerged from the canvas chute I passed straight into some silky black material until my feet hit the end and the material detached from the end of the chute.
As I hit the mattress I saw Irene's face above me. She pulled on a cord and the black material tightened closely around my neck. I wanted to protest but she slapped a piece of black duct tape over my mouth, stifling my words. I looked down. From feet to neck I was inside a black satin bag, now tightly tied around my neck.
Irene pulled on several other cords sewn at intervals down the sack. As she pulled on each one the bag tightened around me, lashing my arms and legs against my body. Within a few seconds of leaving the chute I was helplessly bound and gagged inside a black satin bag.
I heard a rumble of wheels. I turned my head towards the noise. Irene had brought a large wheeled wicker laundry basket alongside the metre high mattress. She opened the lid and pulled out rustling mountains of white taffeta petticoats. She pushed my bound body off the mattress into the laundry basket. I landed face down on more taffeta petticoats that cushioned my fall.
I wriggled as best I could to get my face clear. I had just turned my head towards the top of the basket when Irene appeared clutching the other petticoats. She dumped them on top of me, smothering me under them. From the varied perfumes coming from the petticoats I realised that these were dirty ones waiting to be washed. I felt the pressure as Irene pushed the petticoats down on me and closed the lid before bolting it in place.
Apart from the cords securing the satin bag, the petticoats were so tightly packed that I couldn't move at all. I felt and heard the basket being rumbled along the corridor towards the dressing rooms. A door opened and I was wheeled into a room. The door was shut.
"Drake," Irene said "I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm leaving you in my dressing room until I'm ready to let you out. While you are waiting, you can think about what an absolute nuisance you have been to everyone today."
I couldn't reply. Even without the duct tape over my mouth, the petticoats were stuffed so tightly around me that my mouth would have been filled as soon as I opened it. I heard the door shut behind her.
I concentrated on breathing while I waited. Every few minutes I had to shake my head to clear away the layers of taffeta that pressed against my nose. Each time I moved the sound of the rustling taffeta was deafening. "Moved?" I could barely move at all. All I could manage was a tiny wriggle. Irene had imprisoned me, bagged me, gagged me, tied me, smothered me in petticoats and locked me in a laundry basket.
It seemed that I had been left for a long time but it can only have been a few minutes later that Irene returned. She unbolted the basket lid, raised it, pulled some of the petticoats off me, exposing my head.
“Drake,” she said with a curious smile, “I have told the producer that you have sprained your ankle and a stagehand has driven you to hospital for a check-up. It is a lie, of course. You can tell the producer what really happened to you. You can’t tell him now, can you? You can’t do anything unless I let you. If and when I let you out you can admit that you were imprisoned by a woman if you want to. Whether you will be believed …? A stagehand is missing. He’s gone to visit his girlfriend. When he comes back the stage manager will tell me. Then I might release you. Will you want to tell the truth?”
I shook my head as strongly as the piled petticoats allowed.
“I thought not. So now consider this. You won’t be missed for hours. You have been a perfect pest to everyone. No one is likely to be concerned about your absence. No, Audrey might be, but you have been unpleasant to her as well.”
That made me think. Audrey was a leading member of the chorus. I liked her and had taken her out once or twice. Recently I had been so engrossed in my work that I had neglected her. She had given me a few reproachful looks but I had ignored them.
Irene continued.
“The stagehand will back the story that you have been to hospital but only if you make a public apology to the cast and crew for the way you have been behaving towards them. Will you do that?”
I thought. That would be a public humiliation for me. I should do it. Was I ready to? I shook my head slowly.
“Right. You have asked for it. Next time this is opened it won’t be by me. I have had enough of your juvenile petulance!”
Irene jammed the petticoats back over me, crashed the basket lid down and bolted it in place. The door slammed behind her.
I was in a worse situation than before. Irene had piled all the petticoats on my head. They were pressed down so hard that it was impossible for me to breathe. I exerted all my strength to try to release some of my bonds but she had tied me too tight. My frantic struggles barely quivered the petticoats that were suffocating me.
I heard a rapid patter of stiletto heels. The bolts were drawn and the lid thrown back. The petticoats were whisked away. Audrey’s face looked down at my red-faced struggle for breath. Her fingernails scrabbled to get a grip on the duct tape. She ripped it off in a swift movement. My mouth opened wide as I drew an unimpeded breath.
As I panted, Audrey slipped her arm around my shoulders and lifted me to a sitting position. Her auburn hair brushed my face.
“Are you OK now?”,she asked.
I nodded feebly.
“You have been a swine, you know,” she added in a neutral voice.
I nodded again. I swallowed and worked my lips.
“I’m sorry, Audrey. I’m sorry that I have been a swine, not just to you, but to Irene and everybody.”
“So why wouldn’t you agree to apologise as Irene asked? I heard her ask you and saw you shake your head.”
“I was still upset at being imprisoned by her, and angry with myself more than anything. She had tried her best to help me, and even stuffing me in a bag inside a basket of the chorus girls’ dirty laundry was to get me to change, not just for me, but for the success of the opera. I shouldn’t have made it necessary for her to go to such lengths.”
“So will you apologise now?”
“Yes, Audrey. Not because Irene asked me, nor because you ask me, but because I need to. I have been an absolute pest to everyone, and a swine to her and you.”
“Why did you put her first?”
“I put Irene first because she has done so much to try to help me when she didn’t need to. She is always the perfect professional and an example to all of us. I worship her and would love to be as good at my craft as she is. You came second only because for you and for me our profession is the most important thing. If there is to be an “us” it can only be with the understanding that the performance comes before our personal lives.”
Audrey hugged me to her breasts. I was suffocating again but enjoying it this time.
“Irene?” Audrey asked, “Did you hear that?”
Irene’s face came into view over Audrey’s shoulder.
“Yes. I heard. I knew that Drake’s instincts are right and that he would come round in the end. He is stubborn. Drake, I will accept your apology. Hand him over, Audrey.”
Irene’s arms closed around me. She kissed me full on the lips. It was a long lingering kiss. If she had not been so much older than me…
“Before I get too carried away with my worshipper, Audrey, you ought to get him out of my dressing room. I’ll let you know when the stage hand returns so that Drake can make a dramatic appearance hobbling gallantly to make his apology. Until then he is all yours. I think he needs gift-wrapping first.”
Until the last sentence I had no idea what they intended. I was still leaning against Audrey. She stuffed my mouth full of petticoat and wrapped a headscarf around me, holding my gag in place. They pushed me back down into the basket and filled it with the petticoats. This time they left me a space to breathe.
Irene waved to me as they shut the lid. Then the basket was wheeled out of Irene’s dressing room. When Audrey opened the basket again I was in the women’s chorus dressing room.
She uncovered me then climbed into the basket, shutting the lid. She ungagged me, silencing me with her lips. She kissed and cuddled me. What could I do? I couldn’t resist. I was still bagged and tied. I relaxed and enjoyed her attention.
Some time later there was a knock on the door.
“He’s back.” An anonymous male voice announced.
“Oh dear,” said Audrey. “I was enjoying myself. Come on.”
She climbed out of the basket. She loosened the cords around the bag, finally the one around my neck, and helped me to crawl out. She massaged my arms and legs to get them moving again. I wouldn’t need to fake a limp because I was so stiff.
She helped me on to the stage. I reassured everyone that the injury was temporary. I then held up my hand for silence. I apologised to the producer, the director, the cast and the crew for being a pain in the arse. I explained that I had been nervous because this was my first big part but that didn’t excuse the way I had behaved. I hoped that everyone would forgive me. I particularly thanked Irene for tolerating me, and for her efforts to make me be more reasonable. When I had finished Irene came on stage and kissed me.
I can’t say that the attitude of everyone changed towards me at once. It took several days before they realised that I had meant what I said, and that I was behaving as a member of the team. Irene and Audrey encouraged me.
By the last dress rehearsal I had redeemed myself. We were all working smoothly together and enjoying ourselves. The opera might not be great but we would give the best performance we could.
I disappeared down my trap door and found myself bagged again. Even as I felt myself sliding into the bag I couldn’t do anything to prevent what happened next. Audrey pulled the cord tight round my neck. She slapped the duct tape over my mouth. She fastened the cords around the bag. She pulled me over to the laundry basket and tipped me into it. I landed on a voluminous heap of dresses. Audrey piled more dresses on top of me before she shut and bolted the lid.
I was gagged, bagged, bound and smothered in dresses. This time there was one perfume on all the dresses. It was Audrey’s.
The basket rolled along the corridor. A door opened. I was wheeled inside. Audrey lifted the lid and uncovered me.
“This time you are mine. You won’t have anyone else to let you out until I am satisfied.”
She pulled a couple of dresses off me and climbed in. She pulled the lid shut. She pulled my gagged face against her breasts.
Then we both heard the bolts shot home, trapping us inside.
“Good Luck, Audrey,” we heard Irene’s voice. “I’ll let you two out in a hour or two, perhaps.”
The door slammed.
“Oh well,” said Audrey. “I might as well enjoy myself.”
She yanked the tape off my mouth, sticking it well within reach on the side of the basket. Her lips and tongue covered mine. She kissed and hugged me. I couldn’t object. I was her helpless prisoner until she wanted to release me, even if she too was trapped with me until Irene returned.
Audrey’s hands made sure that I knew just how helpless I was. They wandered everywhere. Any protests were smothered by a fold of one of her dresses. So there we stayed …
Ever since then I have never known when I step on that trap door whether I am going to end up as a bagged, gagged, bound and smothered prisoner. It certainly adds excitement to my evenings. Each time the director, stage manager and most of the cast know that I won't be available for the final curtain call. The only one who doesn't know is me.
Audrey even lets her friends to do the bagging. I was really embarrassed when Joan, the smallest and slightest member of the ladies' chorus, bagged me. Normally I could have lifted Joan easily with one hand but I couldn't stop her bagging, gagging and tying me. It was a great effort for Joan to push me into the laundry basket but she succeeded even though getting on and off the metre high cushion was a struggle for her.
I'm told that other men have been persuaded to try the trap door between performances. Next time a woman asks you to come on to a stage, start worrying. You never know how helpless you might become.
