A literary journal with a speculative accent. We feature writing from around the world, with an emphasis on imagination and superb language.

Stephanie Yorke

Let the women keep silent in the churches.

Has the saint issued a retraction?

Did he sit up and say, on second thought?

Paris used to be fun. Not anymore. These days we go to Paris first to get it out of the way.

I guess it is still fun to ride around Paris in a closed carriage, peeking unseen through the window to study the fashions. What will people in my city be wearing in five years, seven years? Let’s see. But if I try to take a stroll in Paris in the afternoon, I’m confronted on the sidewalk. Emboldened strangers lock eyes with me to offer the insults they used to cough over their shoulders.

We do still cut a profit on performances in Paris, as there are still many who want to hear a real soprano. However, we increasingly have to deal with patrons who jeer chapon, chapon as soon as I take the stage.

The apostle sat up, dusted himself off, and said, memorandum.

Sacred productions, even operas: attendance declines. It isn’t just the junior singers anymore who are having trouble finding work. Respected, established altos and sopranos have begun to get nervous; many have left France.

Where to migrate, though. When in doubt, there’s always Italy. Or there always was. Italy has begun to cough certain insults over its shoulder. Though most of the audience in Italy remains appreciative: on Italian stages, during the curtain call, my director stands beside me to translate their praise. Glory to the little knife, long live the little knife, well done, well done. During my most recent tour, they still applauded with one accord. But between shows, when I was out walking, the one heckle. Capone, capone, softly intimated by a passerby.

Does it bear mentioning that this hurt my feelings. I guess I should have expected it. Whatever is in Paris will be everywhere in five years.

Everywhere, the newspaper-reading set convinced that women should sing our roles. These Gentle Readers muse to themselves. How could we have ever thought otherwise?

How could we have ever thought otherwise. Can a woman achieve purity of sound? Does she have the wind, the volume?

Recently a certain up-and-coming director invited me to sing lead. During our rehearsals, he was admonished by name in a weekly editorial.

I was subsequently dismissed from that production. The dress, which had been made to fit me, was altered. I was replaced by a woman soprano.

Her name is June.

My niece knows she mustn’t get those shoes dirty. She likes to make every landing a close call as she jumps over the mudpuddles that formed in last night’s rain. Preposterous little creature, creating this difficulty for herself: working right at the edge of her ability when there’s no need. Where the distance between puddles is too short to challenge her, she switches the position of her feet mid-leap to make the landing more difficult. Those shoes—no, those slippers, I think that footwear is mutable enough to be classified as an evening slipper—she knows she mustn’t get her slippers dirty because she has been told, careful with your new shoes, special for the big dinner. Careful, special, mustn’t. Imagine the consequences. Someone might raise their voice at you, preposterous little girl.

Grandmother (my mum) really outdid herself in selecting my niece’s outfit. The costly evening slippers are coordinated with a voluminous hair-ribbon, with both pieces set in relief by a simple dress and pinafore. I like the game of a pinafore very much: shaped like an apron, but made of fabric too valuable to perform the function of an apron, because the wearer can afford not to protect her dress with an inexpensive outer layer. If you’re feeling especially cheeky, you can call the pinafore a garment of modesty.

Floof goes my niece’s white pinafore over the mudpuddles. Up goes her lordly hair ribbon, a firmly-knotted double bow. Looks like mum tied that bow herself.

My mother’s dress is a blanched shade of lilac, almost grey. It wouldn’t be a good colour in daylight, but in this early twilight or under a burning chandelier or beside the dinner candles. Impeccable.

My niece is so focused on her leaps that she hasn’t noticed us both watching her, until just now as Uncle’s polished dinner boots come into her field of view. She looks up to where we two adults are standing, and we put our hands on our hips.

“She’s growing like a weed.”

“Yes. I think it’s time to cancel dessert.”

She is familiar with this bluff and does not react.