When Pascale Auber is forced out of the airship of the evil Dr. Simpelstur, she finds herself rescued by a handsome Ruritanian diplomat, Theo von Hentzau. Pascale soon realizes that Theo is hiding something - something to do with the evil doctor, th...
Although I am no stranger to the Aosta, crossing its substantial threshold always delights me.
The building itself is primarily a hotel; the theatre is above the hotel lobby, on what they call the 'mezzanine'. It is not a particularly ancient hotel, but it does have a spectacularly opulent lobby, with dark wood, crimson upholstery, and gilt accents. The room itself is enormous, but the hotel is larger still; the lobby is flanked by a gentlemen's smoking room, a ladies' withdrawing room, and a plethora of offices. Towards the back of the room is the bank of wickets where clerks wait eagerly to assist guests. The bank of wickets is split into two by a grand staircase, which goes straight back towards an enormous stained-glass window. Rich amber, brown, and gold rectangles catch the sun and cast warm fingers of light down the staircase and onto the floor below. On the right are a pair of steam-powered lifts, delicate brass bird-cages which rise and fall within filigreed cylinders. Each lift contains a red-upholstered bench, and an operator dressed in the same dark blue uniform as the bell boys, but without the hat.
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When I come to the Aosta with my brother, we generally enter through one of the staff doors – the wooden door, painted a violent shade of green, that opens into the alley on the west side of the building. This door leads directly to the area where the theatre's creative staff – actors and actresses, dancers and divas, besides the orchestra – can rest and prepare before a show. I rarely, if ever, enter the building through the main lobby. Except, of course, today I was not my brother's hanger-on. I was accompanying Theo, and we were not simply patrons, but honoured guests.
As Theo and I pushed our way through the stylish revolving doors at the entrance to the hotel, I remembered my first visit to the substantial building's equally substantial lobby. For our twelfth birthday, father had taken Blaise and me into The City, for lunch and a matinee at the Aosta. We had been stuffed with cakes and were wearing our best, most uncomfortable clothes. Blaise's outfit was somewhat less of an annoyance than mine, in that his sailor suit included only a small, flat cap. My feminine equivalent – a sea of blue cotton skirts barely contained by a white pinafore – was accompanied by a white leghorn hat of enormous proportions. I could not, of course, wear the hat in the theatre, but it was too big to sit on my lap alone – it was shared between my lap and my father's.
All the nuisance was forgotten, however, the moment the lights were ignited. In my childhood, the Aosta had been lit by lime lights that flooded stage with brilliant white light. The conductor, the only denizen of the orchestra pit I could see from my seat, lifted his baton. He gave the slightest of gestures, and suddenly there was music in the air, floating above me as if played by angels. I was in alt, a feeling which was only redoubled when the actors and actresses, their voices raised in song, peopled the stage in their merry costumes and comically made-up features. I had, in all my twelve years, never seen anything so fantastic.
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