Their job was to cast light on the performers, to give their bodies and faces an ethereal glow. Fernanda, a junior at Reed College, had been a lighting designer for over thirty undergraduate productions, while Bhavesh, a first year, was newer to the craft; he relied on her for access to the gossip of the student theater world. Tonight, Fernanda stayed with Bhavesh after rehearsal to teach him about the ellipsoidal, fresnel, and moving head. After she’d answered all his questions, they got to talking about suspended acting dreams.
“I auditioned for twelve productions my first year,” Fernanda said. “None of them called me back. Not even the student-written one about time travel to a future with floating computers and flying saucepans.”
Bhavesh laughed. “Ridiculous.” He moved the spotlight to the center of the stage; it shone without a body to fall on.
“My mom acted in devotional Kannada plays in Bangalore,” he said. “She never said much about herself when she was alive, but when she talked about the roles she played she seemed lighter.” Fernanda noticed the faint circles under Bhavesh’s eyes. “One night she was standing in the kitchen and only one lamp was on but I could see that her eyes were all red. She started talking about this play she was in once, Hayavadana, where she had the lead role of Padmini, the woman who two friends fight over. Your father didn’t know me then, she said to me, but she was kind of looking past me. I was beautiful, she said.”
Fernanda looked at Bhavesh, then at the stage, the swirling pool of light, and for a moment she thought she could see his mother in it, staring out ahead, unblinking, then swaying wildly, a bright dancing fool.
