The Smell of Success

2022 Write Now Winner - Adult

Gaslights dotting the edges of the street were starting to illuminate the white buildings of central Vienna. A cab jolted down the bumpy cobbles of the Ringstrasse. Even as the car cavorted over the historic street, an expert hand applied dark red lipstick without a smudge.

"Where can I take you, fraulein?"

"The Staatsoper, please."

The driver smiled at the pretty, dark woman in the back.

"Ah, the opera. I've heard the soprano Justina Giametta has been wonderful in Aida. And tonight, Cartier himself is debuting a necklace on her during the show! Are you seeing her tonight?"

"Yes, in a way," said the woman she lifted the corner of her lips. "I'm her makeup artist while she is in Vienna."

"Lucky girl! Although if Justina is the diva that the papers would have us believe, perhaps not so lucky!"

The driver laughed at his own joke. He pulled the car around to the side of the grand opera house. The makeup artist disembarked and with quick, neat steps, approached the side door. She sniffled and pulled from her purse a yellow onion. Taking a deep breath, she bit into the onion, revealing the acrid, white inside.

Tears threatened to overflow, but she artfully whipped out a paper fan to keep them at bay and tossed the offensive onion in a bin near the entrance.

"Guten abend," said the guard at the back door.

"Hello Hans," said the woman, fluttering the fan in front of her mouth all the while. "I won't get close to you; I've come down with a cold and the best remedy for inflammation is to eat raw onion."

The guard pulled back with poorly disguised disgust.

"Miss Frieda, I don't know how you expect to get close enough to Justina to do her makeup tonight. But go in."

Makeup case in hand, Frieda pushed into the dressing room where the cast was preparing for the opera's closing night.

The glamourous soprano Justina Giametta was sitting in front of her vanity mirror, placing pearl-inlaid pins in her ruddy coils of hair. Frieda watched her take an unearthly Cartier diamond necklace from a velvet box and drape it around her thick neck. The tenor who played Justina's lover, in both the opera and reality, snapped the clasp shut. The gems caught the light of the candelabra on the vanity, and Frieda was transfixed as they reflected in the mirror.

"The Toussaint necklace; Tell me, Pierre, have you ever seen anything like it?" purred the opera diva.

"Never," whispered Pierre. "Come along, dear, you must get ready for the closing night, though. Ah, look—your makeup artist is here."

Justina turned, but her indulgent smile immediately turned to a grimace as Frieda stepped closer.

"What is that awful smell?" Justina cried.

"Raw onion," said Frieda mournfully.

"Frieda, whatever would possess you to eat such a terrible thing on tonight of all nights? You know how sensitive my nose is!"

"I've come down with a head cold," Frieda said while rubbing her nose with a cloth handkerchief. "I've heard that raw onion has a compound that can help clear congested sinuses."

Frieda placed her makeup case on the table near the vanity and apologetically waved the fan in front of her face.

"Oh, you stupid girl; no wonder you sound like a hyponasal Pekinese. I can't have you anywhere near me tonight," said Justina. "I will do my own makeup tonight."

"I'm very sorry Justina. I had no idea it would be so very bad."

Justina tutted and feverishly began putting on the final touches to transform her into the Ethiopian princess for one last performance.

***

The final strains of applause could be heard back in the dressing room. The chorus and main singers fluttered in and out as bouquets of flowers made their ways into delighted hands backstage. The beautiful costumes and jewelry worn during the night were replaced on racks and in boxes.

"Darling, I think it was the best performance yet," said Justina to Pierre. "Having those diamonds near my throat was inspirational. I wish I didn't have to return them."

Justina touched the velvet box that the diamonds were in, waiting for the guards from Cartier to retrieve them. She just had to take one more look. She slowly opened the box, waiting for the dazzle of the strings of diamonds to arrest her with their beauty—they were gone.

"Pierre! The diamonds! Help!" screamed Justina.

The empty velvet box mocked her. A small bubble of people started to form around the panting opera star.

"Justina, where was the last place you saw them?" asked Pierre.

"On me, of course!"

"No, who took them from you?"

"I—I can't remember. Maybe Frieda? Maybe Madeleine? I don't know."

The door to the dressing room banged open and a sopping wet girl with dark brown hair and a makeup case sloshed into the room.

"Justina, I am so sorry I missed the performance tonight! I was kidnapped by my cab driver and dumped at the edge of the city," cried the girl.

"Frieda, what are you talking about? I saw you before the show."

"What? It's impossible!"

"Wait," said Pierre. "Did anyone get a look at the makeup artist tonight?"

"I couldn't get close to her!" yelled Justina. "She smelled so terribly of onions!"

No amount of handwringing or threats could help anyone identify the false Frieda. She was certainly not coming back to the Wiener Staatsoper.

***

The Orient Express clicked along steadily to Budapest with a small, dark-haired woman sitting in one of the compartments. She applied dark red lipstick steadily and smiled encouragingly at the waiter as he approached her berth.

"Mademoiselle Corvina, can I bring you anything to drink?" asked the waiter.

"Yes, a martini. Dry."

"Olive? How about an onion?"

The crimson lips twisted into a smile. She lightly touched the outline of gems that rested under the neckline of her dress.

"No, certainly not."