#magic realism

The Seven Stars A collective of discarded performers who lounge in a dazed, underwater-like state within the "artist recreation room" set, appearing more like static-filled memories than living people.

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Zlata approached the vanity in the "dressing room" set, and sat down in the seat in front of it. Her reflection in the mirror blinked back. She reached out and tapped the center of the mirror. The surface of the glass rippled, inexplicably, like water.

Zlata frowned, whispering, “Aleks?”—half expecting to see the man she once loved appear behind her reflection, to tell her what she was supposed to do next. But only her own face stared back, flickering with light from somewhere far away. Then, from somewhere far beyond the “dressing room”—past the painted birches, past the dacha on the “main set”—came a ripple of laughter. It was faint at first, distant and distorted, like the echo of a forgotten recording. Yet as it carried through the theatre’s stage, it struck her as unbearably real.

She froze, her reflection flickering with the sound. The laughter rose again, fuller this time—an audience amused by something she could not see. She glanced around the “dressing room”. The mirror, the walls, even the air seemed to hold its breath, as though the theatre itself were listening too.

Zlata continued staring into the mirror, her breath shallow, her pulse quickening. She waited for Aleksandr to appear behind her reflection—his familiar silhouette, the way he stood behind her in the green room when they did their interview on Volya. But the mirror remained empty except for her own trembling image.

Then—behind her—a faint bloom of white light flickered in the glass. It wasn’t from the candle; it pulsed once, soft and spectral, as if a doorway had briefly opened in the reflection. Her eyes widened, catching a glimpse of movement in that brightness—a figure, or perhaps only a suggestion of one—but it vanished as suddenly as it came. The surface of the mirror rippled faintly from where she touched it, and then it was just her again: pale, wide-eyed, utterly alone.

The air in the "dressing room" grew cold. She pressed her palms to the edge of the table, the wood biting into her skin, trying to steady herself. Aleks… please… The thought wasn’t quite a word, more a plea threaded through her heartbeat. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just beyond reach, hidden behind the mirror’s thin veil.

A wave of panic welled inside her—an ache that was part love, part longing, part humiliation. She had been waiting so long for someone to tell her she still mattered, that her talent still shimmered in their eyes. And now, in this lonely echo of a dressing room that felt too real to be just a set, she felt the weight of invisibility pressing down upon her chest.

Driven by that ache, Zlata pushed herself up from the chair, the legs scraping sharply against the wooden floor. The sound echoed through the theatre’s hushed air. She turned and stumbled toward the door, needing to move, to find light, to prove she was still seen.

Outside, the "backstage hallway" of the set was alive with faint music and the soft hum of electricity. The Seven Stars were gathered in the “artist recreation room” again—but it wasn’t the same as before. The lights were now glaringly bright, the disco ball still spinning above them. Tiny orbs of silver light scattered along the walls and ceiling, giving everything a trembling, underwater sheen.

They weren’t dancing anymore. Instead, they lounged in loose clusters—some on the floor, others reclining in chairs—smoking, whispering, their movements unnervingly slow. The radio hissed and warbled, playing something that sounded half like music, half like haunting radio audio recordings of "lost cosmonauts", as if a distant broadcast were bleeding through from another world.

Zlata paused in the doorway, watching the Seven Stars. None of the girls looked up at her. They seemed suspended in their own strange rhythm, laughing softly at nothing, as though they were remembering a joke no one else had heard.

Then, just as Zlata turned to leave, the white light appeared again—flashing before her eyes this time, near the ceiling. It was quick and soundless, but it left a faint afterimage that lingered like a ghost behind her eyelids.

She gasped, reaching out instinctively, but her fingers met only empty air. The light was gone, and the Seven Stars kept lounging, oblivious, their reflections still glimmering across the mirrored walls.

Confused, she brushed it off with a shaky breath and hurried down the hall. Her slippers whispered against the stage floor as the curtain began to descend. Somewhere beyond the velvet curtain, the faint murmur of an audience drifted through the theatre—distant, indifferent, and real.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

The curtains and stage lights came up on a set that looked like the interior of an apartment that seemed to be within the Great City of Aksinya—its muted golds and soft lamplight glowing against the snow falling faintly beyond the window. A phonograph spun quietly in the corner, playing a slow waltz that sounded just slightly off-key.

Zlata appeared at the edge of the stage (or was it an actual hallway?), her breath visible in the cold wash of light, and walked up to the apartment door. She hesitated a moment, gathering herself, then knocked.

The door opened to reveal a woman with dark, wavy hair, wearing a silk robe loosely tied at the waist, a flash of lingerie visible beneath. The woman looked surprised, then annoyed.

Zlata painfully recognized the woman as the one who had seduced Aleksandr at the gala, suggestively rubbing his forearm before they both had walked up the steps to the designer suites at the Rodya Grande Hotel.

“Can I help you?” she asked sharply, her voice half-curtained in false politeness.

Zlata didn’t answer. She pushed past her into the apartment, her movements quick and trembling.

“Excuse me! What do you think you’re doing?” the woman snapped, turning in indignation.

Zlata’s eyes darted around the dimly lit room until they fell upon Aleksandr. He stepped in from an adjoining space, satin shirt unbuttoned, his hair tousled, his expression a mix of irritation and disbelief. He was in the middle of fastening his trousers.

“What is all this?” he demanded, running a hand through his hair.

“She barged in here,” the woman said, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “Like madwoman.”

Zlata froze at the sight of him. Her face softened, almost radiant with misplaced hope. “Aleks…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You—you weren’t at theatre. I waited.”

Aleksandr sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Zlata,” he said wearily, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“But… don’t you love me?” The question escaped her before she could stop it—raw, childlike, and desperate. She took a tentative step toward him.

Aleksandr exhaled, his tone turning condescendingly gentle, like he was speaking to a child who’d confused fantasy for truth. “You were wonderful, truly. But life moves on. You must understand—ballet is youth, movement, change. Some stars burn bright… and then... they fade.”

He walked up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She looked down at his fingers, the same ones that had once held her hands tenderly at Restoran Pashenka, now cold and impersonal.

“There is new star now,” he said, stepping aside with a little flourish. “May I present—the incomparable Marisha!”

The woman—Marisha—smiled thinly, taking his hand and performing a small, mocking pirouette. Her silk robe caught the stage light as she twirled, then dipped into a graceful curtsy. 

Zlata’s expression hardened. “What does she have that I don’t?” she hissed, her voice trembling between rage and grief. “Tell me!”

Marisha tilted her head, smirking. “Youth, maybe,” she said with a sneering shrug.

Zlata’s voice broke. “Don’t you remember that night? Were you just pretending? You—” She stopped, the words dissolving into sobs. “No one’s ever made me feel that way before!”

Aleksandr’s face flickered with annoyance, then turned sly. “This is not becoming of you, Zlata,” he said coolly. “Tears don’t suit a prima. Go home. Find other ghosts to dance with.”

He made a dismissive gesture, waving her away.

Zlata’s vision swam as she thought of the Seven Stars—their painted smiles, their quiet bitterness. They too had been his once, and then discarded, forgotten, replaced.

Her lips trembled, then she forced herself to smile. “That’s fine,” she said softly, her voice quivering but sharp. “You’re not who I’m looking for anyway.”

The words seemed to hang in the air.

Marisha’s smirk faltered. Her eyes flickered, distant for a moment. Somewhere deep inside her, a memory stirred—the cold marble of the Aksinyan Ministry of Police floor, the hum of fluorescent lights, the Policeman’s bored expression as she’d tried to explain the unexplainable: the feeling that something had been done to her.

And then she remembered—sitting alone at the Starikov Bar, the Chanteuse with the honeyed, hypnotic voice. The song that had wrapped itself around her like a spell. The woman leaning close afterward, whispering something that Marisha could never fully recall upon waking.