She sat in the shade of a salmon gum, watching the rest of the cast with amusement. There they were, in costume at last, composed like a tableau vivant, a blur of colour among the trees. But now Felix was yelling at them all. And it was hot. And she was parched.
She pulled a plum from her pocket and bit into it – sweet, delicious, warm on her lips, juice running down her chin.
Revolution in action, Felix had called their play, quoting Napoleon, apparently. But how could a play lead to revolution? Had Napoleon been referring to the power of wit, instead? She’d been reading about that.
The sun spiralled down through the leaves, making her woozy. The white glare. The baking dust.
Something was unravelling inside her. Susanna, her character, was slipping away. Felix had been upset, declared that the scene with Sebastian had flopped. He believed in her, he’d said, but he didn’t have time to explain.
She had to outwit her oppressor, that much she knew. Wasn’t that what revolution was all about? But surely a revolution entailed an uprising. A declaration of war?
Plum juice dribbled down her neck, dropping spots onto her apron. Dark flowers, spreading. Like carnations. Yes. The peaceful revolution. Gloria had spoken about soldiers marching through the streets of Lisbon with carnations in their rifles. Not one gunshot. The end of the colonial wars, but that hadn’t been any good for East Timor, it had left them vulnerable to civil war and invasion…
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