The public disgrace was all too much for a sensitive young dandy draftsman. Imagine! McCloudie, now completely broken and undone by the relentless ridicule of what should have been his greatest accomplishment, brought with him a coil of stout rope to the top of the North—originally South—Tower three days after the grand opening of the Vallhambra.

  Knotting his twine securely over one of the crossbeams, then in a loop around his bulging, shuttling Adam’s apple, Murdo McCloudie took a few moments to recite a self-penned sonnet titled “Why Me, Jesus?” before walking calmly into thin air ninety-four feet above the stage, “as if setting out on a gay May Sunday promenade,” according to witnesses.

  One small step for a man, followed by a thirty-yard plummet brought to its abrupt conclusion with a sound very much like God cracking a bullwhip made of human vertebrae.

  If I’m reading the room, we’re seriously considering a Phantom of The Phantom of the Pantomime!—I drawled. What had seemed almost funny suggested a nauseating infinite regress that did nothing to quell the bilious insurrections of my gut microbiome.

  Get me out of here—I said as I scrambled to my feet, reaching for my jacket. We were taking the rest of the afternoon off to think about our near-death experience, so I’d decided to have an early night and put the commotion of the day behind me.

  When Luda got up to follow me, Float caught her arm.

  You sure you won’t stay for a few more drinks, Lu?—he said emphatically. What’s the “Lu” about, I thought. That’s his name for me. And I know! It’s twice now I’ve had to mention it.

  Luci’s been looking after me for a few nights. Until I get my own place back from the cockroaches…

  Arched eyebrows all round like a sighting of the Loch Ness monster, that line of humps.

  I’ll stay, though—she agreed. I’ve barely gotten started.

  Luda kissed my cheek. See you later, babes—she said adding a zesty relish of implication to each syllable.

  “Babes”!

  She swung back a couple of hours later, more sober than when we’d started, to find me rolling a jay.

  I made friends with them—was all she had to say before curling on my sofa, beneath the Miller poster, with the dog-eared, stapled pages of The Phantom in her hand. As she methodically, silently, mouthed her lines, Luda seemed determined to prove the doubters wrong.

  I dragged on my penny whistle of smoldering weed. They’re miserable old showbiz cunts—I said, popping smoke rings. You’re new and fresh. That’s always a threat.

  She looked over the top of her script—I felt like him standing there. Him who I was before. They saw who I really was—they taught me a lesson.

  I sat beside her and took her hand.

  They saw what you could be. That’s why they were scared. That’s why they reacted. I was sincere. I really was. I knew exactly how she felt, and I knew the only way to get over it was to shimmer.

  I placed the blunt between her incredible lips and she sucked.

  How about we rehearse your duet?—I offered and received a shy little smile by return of post.

  Dom said they’re paying your wages into an account in the name of Luda Lee—I ventured, hoping she’d take the bait and tell me more about her mysterious background. How much of it was real? How much was a game she played? He said you don’t have representation—

  I’m self-taught—said Luda, scanning the pages, flipping them like a robot learning lines at high speed. Self-motivated. If I do a good job as Aladdin, I suppose I’ll have to think about getting an agent. You can help me.

  I’ll help you right now; steer well clear of my agent, whatever you do!—I warned her with a histrionic shudder. Unless you’ve set sights on a life of reality TV and summer seasons in decomposing seaside resorts.

  From now on, I’ll do whatever you tell me—Luda, clear-eyed, lied.

  Well then—I said, retrieving my personal copy of the Phantom script before adjusting glasses I’ve only had to wear since I was forty-four and leafing to page 5, scene 3. You be Aladdin—I said archly. I’ll do Princess Jasmine.

  Aladdin wanders lonely as a clown—I said to set the scene. Yearning, besotted, weighed down by a hard-on the size of the Burj El Arab.

  We both had a laugh at that, a spoonful of sugar to sweeten the sting of instruction.

  I know you can carry a tune—I said. But this is different. It’s not a pop song where you can just sing—I love you—over and over until fade. You’re living out a story people will believe. I know you’ve worked hard to be a girl, but—and believe me I hated to admit I agreed to any degree with Dez Blue’s evaluation—Aladdin’s a boy. You’re playing a boy who’s in love with a princess. Find a way to hold yourself that makes you feel the way a boy in love with a princess might feel.

  I demonstrated with a stiffening action-ready posture, a broadening of chest and shoulders that signaled a sanctioned annexation of the surrounding personal space.

  What if she’s out of the boy’s league? Luda objected. What if the boy can’t have what he wants? What if it’s all bullshit?

  Do I have to explain the difference between real life and made-up stories?—I said. Now let’s have the line—

  Shaking Aladdin into place, Luda breathed deeply and spread out the first-line melody as smoothly as peanut butter on toast.

  If only I could find her—the special one I’ve waited for—I’d tell her now I’m sure that dreams come true—delivered with an anguished tug at the fabric of her T-shirt, her arms spreading wide as if to give the whole horizon a manly embrace. A fist dashed against her downcast brow.

  You don’t have to act out the entire Kübler-Ross scale in the first line—I said. We’ll call that a good strong start. You can imagine a voice like that summoning the faithful.

  She had no idea what I was talking about, but you’ll be more experienced and more educated people, I hope.

  All Luda had to say was—I can’t wait to hear your sexy princess voice.

  Imagine the sound of a rubber sex doll with a leak—I shot back. I’m a trained professional, babes! Hand on her knee, girls confidential. You don’t do Jasmine all “Happy Birthday, Mr. President”—I said, lifting and liquefying into the breathy cartoon Marilyn impression I’d refined years ago to creep guys out when they realized it was making them horny.

  She nodded slowly, eyes like a cat’s triangulating lunch.

  You’ve seen Dee belting them out—I went on. Princess Jasmine is “feisty.”

  If only I could find him—the prince that I’ve been dreaming of—the boy who knows my heart is warm and true—

  Aladdin hears the song, this moony ballad of pubescent infatuation, wafting fragrant and irresistible on the Peking night wind and sets off in search of the singer, imagining how lovely she’d have to be to come complete with a voice like that; if not strictly the voice of an angel, at least on par with a semi-talented stage school brat.

  Separated by clever moving scenery, Aladdin and the princess trade increasingly passionate verses, but even though their voices cross-blend and harmonize, they can’t find each other in a shifting maze of streets and hallways conjured by Abanazar’s sorcery.

  I stood behind Luda, matched my body to hers exactly, and lifted her off the floor so she was standing on my feet, two dominoes back-to-front in a box.

  Feel what I do—I said. I’m the princess—now I’m going to become Aladdin and you’re going to copy what I do—

  And sometimes for a moment I feel certain that he’s near me—

  Luda matched my movements. I raised my arms and hers with them, puppeteering her. I took control of her posture, guiding her limbs into place like a life-sized articulated drawing model.

  I straightened my spine, shifting my pelvis to imitate Aladdin’s adventure-hero bearing. As I walked with a hipshot urchin swagger, I piloted Luda, an exoskeleton.

  I’m sure she’s walking somewhere close at hand!

  Overlapping synchronizing vocals drag us kicking and screaming toward the final chorus. The neighbors beat down on the ceiling, causing us to redouble our volume.

  But those are only feelings, as fleeting as a love heart drawn in sand!

  “Feisty” was Aladdin and Jasmine pumping up the drama until one last strident high note was all it might take to burst the walls of the theater like a balloon.

  Luda spun me to face her, taking charge. We linked fervent fingers and stared into each other’s eyes. For a moment she seemed almost threatening, and it struck me that her portrayal of maleness came with an edge of intimidation.

  Someone—and somewhere where we two could be two TO-GEH-THER!

  At the heart-wrenching full-throated crescendo of this earsplitting mating call, the young lovers come within moments of meeting face-to-face at last. The final barrier slides away. Nothing can prevent this meeting of souls until…

  A terrible grandfather clock strikes in the attic. The cast of Aladdin freezes in place as, once again, a lurid spotlight picks out the Phantom of the Pantomime himself descending on the Versace spider of his favorite chandelier to a tidal chorus of hisses and boos.

  With the dire unnervingly deliberate rhythm of the bells of mortal doom as his soundtrack, the masked Phantom sets to work rearranging the scenery to separate the couple before they can meet.

  The song plays out, the outro breaking into lonely fading sighs—

  A place of our own—

  Where we could be alone—

  Their pining set to haunting strings, Aladdin and Jasmine drift apart once more, lost in the ever-changing maze of walls and doors unopened.

  Alone the way we always are—TO-GEH-THER!

  As the thumping on the ceiling ceased, as the harmonies rang into oblivion, I hugged Luda close.

  More of THAT!—I said. And hit your marks—that’s all Dom cares about!

  * * *

  —

  You don’t believe in ghosts, do you? Luda said out of the blue. You believe in gods and angels but not ghosts.

  I said it was complicated, which it was.

  Will you show me some magic?

  Who am I? David Copperfield?—I said, and he said—Who? which was fair.

  I mean real magic—the Glamour—she said.

  It’s all the Glamour—I said, putting on my best guru. Finding the fabulous in the ordinary and bringing it out, making it real, is the Glamour.

  I’m talking about magic spells—said Luda, and I said—So am I.

  She said—I want to learn to disappear.

  The track skipped on my player—a garbled backward masking warning I ignored.

  How do you know I’m not teaching you right now?—I asked. If I can make you vanish into Aladdin, who knows what’s possible?

  We’ve been invited to a party—Luda said, changing tack. One of the pair from the pantomime cow. Or maybe it was both of them.

  She passed me a flyer depicting a juicy Edenic apple dripping black liquid latex onto a red-gloved hand with the words GARDEN OF SIN in petrol-blue Gothic lettering.

  A sex party!—I squealed. A swingers party in the suburbs like you read about! We’ve been invited to a sex party by a pantomime cow! Think about it!

  The key role of Buttercup, the pantomime cow in Aladdin, was shared by a young couple of indeterminate and ambiguous sexuality. There was a rumor they were brother and sister, or brothers, or sisters. However they contrived to work their magic, as soon as this remarkable duo were zipped into their cow suit, they ceased to be two independent entities and merged instead into one cartoonish creature driven by its simple desire for grass and laughs.

  We dress like this at home—they’d told me one time over a drunken card game of Happy Families on the tour bus. The cow’s the least of what we can do.

  Tell me more—I said, eyeing the exit sign.

  You should see us doing a giraffe or a camel—said the one on the left. We specialize in land animals, ungulates, mostly. Plant-eaters.

  We’re vegans—the other one had said, not looking up from their phone on the M3 to Bristol.

  They never asked me—I observed with a sulk that Luda ignored. It’s you they want now, not me. A Star Is Born!

  I turned over the flyer. DOORS OPEN SATURDAY. NINE O’CLOCK. LOSE YOUR INNOCENCE!

  It’s been eons since I’ve had any—I said—and eons since I was invited to one of these—I babbled on, excited despite my affected pose. Geologic eras have been and gone! My last invite was back in the Cretaceous. Do come! it said. We’re all getting together at Chixclub to watch the asteroid flying overhead!

  I rambled away like that a lot now I’d installed someone around the house to put up with my endless non-sequitur monologues. I loved the sound of my own voice, the daft rippling texture of my stream of consciousness flowing down the rapids. You’ll have some idea what I’m like by now. When I’m happy, it’s like they turned up the volume and the brightness. I’m so busy entertaining myself I forget it’s an acquired taste.

  But Luda laughed at everything I said, as if I were dishing out bright comedy gold ingots from the inexhaustible vaults of Widow Twankey’s personal Fort Knox.

  In truth, and like everyone else, Luda had learned to switch off when it got too much. Most of the time, she had no idea what I was talking about and just laughed because it was easier that way, and because she found me funny, not necessarily my banter.

  Let’s do the song again—I said, riding a clear high wave of rare distilled elation. I think I heard the upstairs neighbors go to bed.

  We opened our mouths as one, inflated our lungs to capacity—

  We two could be two TO-GEH-THER!

  * * *

  —

  I should pause here; all I remember of that strange sex party Saturday are mysteriously edited clips. TikTok skits. Speculative wedges of bright, concentrated experience with no connecting tissue. Fantastical Mardi Gras stations on a line with no rails to link them. Animated Tarot cards, crackling with symbolism.

  Some of the clips, arranged in the correct chronological sequence, almost add up to a story. As for the others?

  Listen without prejudice if you think you can.

  * * *

  —

  I’ll do your makeup three times—I told her, imparting the strict rules of a fairy tale. Three looks. Each time you can think of it as an initiation. Secrets of the Glamour as applied to cosmetics. After that you’ll be able to do your own…

  Luda sat in my chair, reflected three times in my oak-paneled triptych mirror. Her back was as straight as the left-hand column of a graph showing her progress over the last few months.

  You still need to work on your voice—I said. Here—and I took her hand in mine, setting her fingertips against her Adam’s apple, which fortunately for her wasn’t one of those prominent ones that look like a snake’s swallowed a fridge. Feel where it sits?

  She nodded, and she gulped, so I felt Luda’s little throat knuckle shuttle up and down.

  Now lift it above where my fingers are and say—And she said it—the rain in Spain falls mainly on the very plain…

  And I said—Raise the pitch—can you feel your Adam’s apple? Lift your voice.

  I saw the midsummer 4 A.M. rapture of understanding light up her face as she spoke in a fluttering teenage falsetto.

  Nearly there—I said. Go any higher than that you’ll be having conversations only bats can hear. Lower it just a little bit more—

  How is this the Glamour?—inquired Luda, boosting her timbre to mimic an excitable preteen until finally settling into a register that sounded like mine.

  Shapeshifting—I said—literally—it’s why it’s so easy on molly when everything relaxes…

  I peeled the copper bob off her head, baring a pale scalp razored to stubble and purple. I kissed the bristling bruised and wounded skin.

  Now—think of yourself as a screen. A silver screen—I said. You can project any film you want onto a blank screen.

  I felt her body unwind and release muscle tension. She conceded with a sigh of surrender.

  Are you paying attention?—I said.

  And Luda said—Yes—though I barely saw her pretty lips move. The drugs were softening her edges, dissolving her defenses. She felt like clay on a wheel. Fingers stroking foundation smears along the vectors of her cheekbones, limning tight bilateral proportions that were made to be highlighted, defined, embellished.

  Moving muscles around like putty—emphasizing or minimizing them with painted shadows and impossible light sources made of powder and gloss.

  Glamour—I told Luda, much as I’m telling you now to spare you some research time that might be better used watching the latest shit on TV, is an old word.

  It began as grammar in the sense of reading and writing. Scholars were seen as possessing real magic; to a largely illiterate population, books were inexplicable—that someone could open a collection of parchment leaves disfigured by intricate ink illuminations unintelligible to you, the average peasant, and from those pages conjure the actual words of a dead king, or Jesus himself, was the very source of wonder. Think about it. The written word itself was magic. It could make you hear the voices in your head of people who weren’t there.

  Next, I blended, tapping not swiping with the sponge. That’s critical to getting the finish right and preventing a clash of Fauvist streaks.

  In Scotland, early in the eighteenth century, grammar spread its academic crow cloak to become grammarye with that why ee exhalation at the end.

  Then it slurred and melted into glamour and as the meaning itself shifted shape in some inspired attempt to pin a label on that elusive, almost supernatural quality of allure, where something ordinary could become truly extraordinary just by pretending, the wereword shed its scholar’s gown and mortar, slipping into Hollywood heels and silk stockings to sip from a cigarette holder by candlelight.