Just slightly after the tenth anniversary of Persephone (which was not celebrated in any way) Oliver and Cassandra met for lunch between shows two and three for the day.
“You abuse me,” she said. “You know what I am good for and you make me do it anyway.” Then she got into her car and was driven away.
Oliver first realized at that moment—made of those words and that action—that nothing would make sense any more. He knew that she would not be back, he could tell by the way none of the people in the restaurant reminded him of her anymore. Still, he did not feel sad. Not too sad at least and he was practical enough to know that the best thing to do in that situation was to find another actress immediately.
At first, it seemed no one would be able to take on the role. They had all of course, seen and studied Cassandra. The board had narrowed the one million applicants down to the seven hundred who most looked and sounded like Cassandra. Each applicant tried very hard to imitate her. Her unique accent, her calculated gracefulness, her award-winning make up effects. A number of them imitated her very well and there were at least three, which even Oliver could not be sure, were not actually Cassandra. But he was tired of her. He decided that she did no justice to the spirit of Persephone.
Although it was only nine in the morning, he cancelled the rest of the auditions and walked down the street and into a small Laundromat. Immediately he approached a short, round woman in mismatched flower print shirt and pants. She knew who he was; everyone did, and blushed when she saw him. When he spoke to her she scowled.
“But Persephone is the mother of all beautiful women…the first prostitute, the inventor of fashion. I am not even attractive. No. I could never play her.”
“The concept of beauty has changed over time,” Oliver replied. “Beautiful women do not decide who is or is not beautiful, that is up to the artists... and I think the time has come for beauty to have a revolution.”
The round lady stood close to the closed curtain. She had begun to sweat and in an effort to top the nervousness, she looked at her feet. He had forbidden her to change her clothes or to put on makeup. He did not even let her see the script, saying he was sure she knew every line by heart anyways. Even though that was true, she did know the play right down to the lighting cues, she was afraid that she would not know what to do when the curtains opened.
But the curtains did open and the audience saw her, alone on the empty stage in her mismatched flower print suit.
They stared but she stepped close to the edge of the stage and bent down pushing her head as close to the audience as possible. She paused to stare back at them as hard as they were staring at her. The first line rang in her head: ‘I am Persephone.’ She thought about the line for a second. ‘I am not Persephone’ she thought. ‘I am not the mother of beauty, the first of the prostitutes, the inventor of fashion. I am not Persephone.’
She stopped thinking and spoke instead.
“I may not be what you expected to see but I don’t care. If you had expectations of me then you are a fool because I am Persephone. I have always been here, but you—you have just come here tonight. You have come to learn from me. And because—and only because—I am in a generous mood, teach you, I will.”
Later that evening the curtain closed and the audience when home to bed and in the morning everyone knew that Maria Escalante was beautiful.
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