The Roaring Bus (Al Bostah)

Disclaimer: This story is purely fictional. Toy theatre does exist as a discipline (and it seems to be a very nice world) but I had to create this atmosphere for the story to progress. This is not based on any scientific research or experience with the discipline - and isn't meant to be a satire of it. Probably more of a metaphor for various life situations...

***

Ornella shook her bag upside down, kneeling on the floor, while visitors' trampled in the queue to her side. How on earth could she lose her badge?

“May I help you?” a convention hostess in purple uniform asked, as she approached her with her tablet. In less than ten minutes, Ornella had managed to attract the staff's attention - new record.

“I don’t understand… I had it at the airport.” Ornella removed her hair from her face as she stood back up and adjusted her skirt to look more professional. 

“That's no problem. What’s your company’s name?” 

“I don’t work for a Toy Theater company, I’m a researcher." The hostess looked up from her list with a frown. "I can show you articles, if you want.” 

“I’m afraid we only have two spots left for researchers and we have to prioritise researchers with badges. Also, for security reasons...”

Dammit. Ornella had flown all the way from London to Copenhagen to attend the Toy Theater convention. How would she document her thesis if she missed her only chance to meet Toy Theater artists? The hostess’ icy smile hinted at her to leave the Exhibition Centre without a scene.

The wind swept her off as she opened the door of the hall. She stepped back to shield her face from the rain and hit a pile of boxes behind her. The boxes broke open on the floor and little figurines shattered around. Ornella rushed to collect them but the man who was carrying them blocked her with his arm. Before she could even apologise, he collected his boxes and walked out into the driving rain. 

“Miss.” A security guard approached. “You should leave the Exhibition Center now. Please.” 

Ornella pressed the collar of her coat as she pushed through the fog that tamed the park surrounding the Exhibition Center. What would she tell her supervisor? That the hostess had kicked her out because she had lost her badge and ruined the work of a Toy Theatre artist? From a metallic staircase that spiralled out of the building aisle, the same artist reappeared, trotting down the stairs. Her heart froze as their eyes locked. The brashness of his gaze electrified her arms down to her fingers. And yet, his traits were gentle. Ornella's hand covered her stomach as if to protect her from invisible radiations. He walked past her, stopped, and turned around.

“You look like the girl on that badge over there.” He pointed at the gates at the end of the park, sniffed and faded in the fog. His radiations slowly dissipated and Ornella somewhat revived. She stared the invisible remains of his silhouette, a silhouette the rain washed away mercilessly. And she remembered her badge. Ornella rushed to the entrance of the park and found it by a puddle - Ornella H., PhD Candidate, History of Theatre. She ran back to the hall, where the hostess was placing a "Complete - No more visitors allowed" sign on the counter. Obviously. Ornella waited until the hostess left the hall to crawl under the security turnstile. She rearranged her coat and skirt as she stood back up, looked right and left, and entered the exhibition area.

The Toy Theater convention gathered every four years to honour its thirty most eminent artists. A jury shortlisted fifty official attendees among promising artists, and reserved ten spots for Toy Theater theorists to cover the event. Ninety attendees, no less, no more. That year’s edition was her fist convention and it celebrated Hans Andersen under the theme of Classics. As she walked past a vitrine with replicas of Andersen’s collages, her heart jumped. She could see the sparkle in her reflection’s eyes onto the glass – she loved that world. No matter how picky it was. 

The Exhibition Center stretched over two wooden floors and sinuous glass passageways. Through its canopy, the semi-dormant sun projected a pink ray across Copenhagen's morning sky. But Ornella couldn't afford to marvel for long - her plane back to London would take off in six hours and she had to be efficient. She had reached out to dozens of artists, and only two had replied. If neither of them accepted to contribute to her research on the benefits of Toy Theater on chronic diseases, she would have to find someone else. But they were enough of artists here, she only needed the right bets. Her closest prospect was Bjorn - Pavilion A. No time to waste.

“Hej,” Ornella said as she entered a tent that looked like a cooled lava ball. It was sober with only a couple round chairs, suspended triangular shelves and shiny headsets hanging from bamboo sticks. “You must be Bjorn?”, she asked the blond man sitting behind a Plexiglas desk. She stretched her hand. “We exchanged emails a couple of months ago. I am the research working on the benefits of Toy Theater on chronic diseases.” Bjorn crossed his arms, instead of shaking her hand, and swung his chair backwards.

Alright.

“As we discussed, my research focuses on children and artists. And I was wondering if I could assist you in your workshop and – “

“You’re a designer?”

“No. As I said… I’m a researcher. But I can learn design, if you want.”

“Do you know modern technics? 3D?”

“I do… but I have never tried it -”

“We can’t afford to train an amateur. I mean, why would we?”, he laughed.

“Sorry but… I thought you said my help would be welcome.” 

“Doubt so...”

Ornella’s felt her cheeks burn. 

“3D skills are mandatory. If you’re unfamiliar, just swing by Pavilion E, at lunchtime. I’ll be giving a talk about the opening scene in Disney’s Wizard of Oz. It’s a good example of what I want to achieve this year.” He handed her a flyer with his white smile on it.

What a waste of time. But. She had another prospect and twenty-eight more companies to discover. As she progressed through the first pavilion, a nursery rhyme caught her attention. Under one of the other exhibition tents, she spotted a miniature theatre stage where a calligraphic sun was drawing semi-circles across a cardboard sky. The artist was fixing a red bus on another miniature stage with a screwdriver. The bus swayed from side to side and the artist stretched strings to suspend two large cardboard eyes above the bus.

“Hi…Welcome.” The artist's voice drawled like honey on a spoon. “Turquoise - Fairuz, in Arabic,” she said as Ornella stared at her dress and naked olive shoulders. “What better than the songs of the “Soul of Lebanon” to celebrate Classics?” The artist pointed at the dozen miniature stages around the tent. “All of them tell the story of a famous Fairuz song. This one is from a song called Al Bostah – the Roaring Bus. Ever heard of Fairuz?"

"I don't know him, sorry."

"Fairuz is a female singer, not a man!" She laughed. "This song is about a woman on a packed, terrible, uncomfortable bus and she can’t stop thinking about Elia’s eyes. Ah, Elia - dark, obsessive eyes. Her fate. Or benediction.” She winked and Ornella wondered if she knew anything about the box man from the staircase. “The roaring bus is the bus of life - that’s what I always say. When life roars at you, find those dark eyes. Hunt them down, get them. Always works for me!”

The artist pressed a button and a tiny female figurine appeared on the bus while a dozen colorful, yet dull faces, popped around - annoying the character. Ornella laughed. Cardboard cedar mountains ran away at the back of the stage and the suspended eyes swung like a pendulum to a metronome. Ornella watched, hypnotised. She asked if the woman would accept to partner up for her thesis.

“Oh sorry, habibti. Only me and my husband work on this project - we never take assistants. But come visit us in Beirut. Anytime.” 

Ornella left the pavilion with the song in her mind and the rose perfume of the artist on her wrist. Elia from the bus. Elia from the staircase. Elia and his Eliactricity – she wanted to see him again. But she had no idea where to find him. "Make them you", yes, but the clock was ticking. She wrapped her coat around her waist and headed to pavilion D to meet James Harrods, her next prospect.

“Miss.” Ornella turned around. The security guard from the morning was looking at her with a suspicious eye – damn. He knew she had sneaked in. Ornella fetched her badge and showed it to him, with an innocent smile. His eyes grew narrower and he spotted her coat around her waist. “The cloakroom is upstairs,” he said. To avoid escalation, Ornella executed.

The top floor was a thin platform, with a tiny cloakroom desk and a green tent that was closed. Most likely a food stand that would open at noon. As Ornella handed her coat over to the person behind the counter, her phone vibrated – email.

Ornella – Great news. 

Saint Dennis’ Hospital has agreed to work with us. We will be meeting the team next Monday to schedule the first experiments. You were right, Toy Theater is something worth exploring. I have no doubt you will find a theater company at the convention to complete our team. Keep me posted.

Jon.

Great news. And pressure. Jon was a renowned psychology professor and had accepted to supervise her thesis although she was not a psychologist. She owed him. Ornella headed straight to James Harrods' tent - she needed to make it work. James had founded the most renowned company in London and liked the idea of therapeutical Toy Theater, he had responded to all her emails and said he looked forward to meeting her in person. Ornella crossed her fingers.

James’ tent was a red yurt with see-through stripes and high sunflowers that stood like sphinxes at its entrance. His signature blue wig puppets danced on wooden shelves while a mist of earl grey sprayed across cardboard castles and board games. A female with braids and dotted glasses showed their Classics collection to visitors. Ornella stood by and listened to her explanations.

“Hi! How can I help?”, the dotted woman said popping over like a rabbit.

“Hi, I’m Ornella, I’m-” 

“The researcher? I’ve heard so much about you! What a great project!”

Ornella pinched her lips to control her smile. “Thank you. Very nice to meet you. Is James around?”

“I’m afraid he is not. The season is turning busier than we expected, fortunately and unfortunately. We won’t be able to take on new projects, I’m afraid.” The woman sighed. “James told me about how Toy Theater saved your life in childhood. That is such a shame - he really wanted to work with you. But you can contact us back in six months…”

Ornella ended the conversation as politely as she could. Maybe she wasn’t meant to write that thesis. She dropped on the empty stairs in front of the ugliest fountain she had ever seen. Maybe she wasn't meant to give back - she sighed. But. She still had one prospect in mind. He had never responded to her emails and she therefore hadn’t considered him a real prospect. But he was the master of Italian Toy Theater. And maybe she could try with him. His name was Mario. His tent was in pavilion J, on the other side of the building, and she only had one hour left. If she went, she wouldn’t have the time to visit other companies. She threw a coin in the water and decided to bet on him.

“Ah non, I’m not Mario, non.” The man shook his head with a teasing smile. “Here it’s La Compagnie des Abeilles – made in France, not Italia.”

Ornella closed her eyes. That could not be. 

“I haven’t seen Mario today – maybe his company was not selected?” the man shrugged his tiny shoulders. “Do you know “Guignols”? Classics of French puppets?”

That. Could. Not Be. 

“You don’t care about Guignols?” The man said making a puppet articulate the words. “Bonjour, I am Mister Guignol. Talk to me, mademoiselle. Bonjour, bonjour…”

Ornella left without even answering. In four hours, she had picked the wrong ones. Out of thirty. She should have prepared better, investigated better. What would she tell Jon and Saint Dennis’ team on Monday? Ornella pinched the skin inside her wrist with her nails until it started to bleed. 

“And goodbye, hein! I take the time to explain stuff to you and you don’t even say merci! You know what? Eh bah, merde - voilà. S*ht, voilà, that's what I say.”

She turned around, her eyes darting at him. 

“Eh, stop those eyes, hein! You come, you ask, I help. No merci, no goodbye. What do you want? Congratulations? Flowers? Stop those eyes, I said!”

What a stupid idiot. Ornella walked back to him and wrested the Guignol puppet from him. She broke its neck and threw the puppet’s head in his face.

“Eh ! Mais ça va pas ? ! Mais vous êtes complètement folle ! Do you know how much it costs? You can't even pay for something like, I'm sure. Look at yourself."

Ornella grabbed the collar of his shirt and felt his feet left off the floor. But she also felt a large hand on her shoulder. She turned around – the security guy. 

“Don’t touch me,” she whistled through her teeth.

“Come with me." His dove his nails into her elbow as he dragged her towards the entrance of the tent.

“Don’t touch me! Let me go! What’s wrong with you!”

“Emmenez-la, elle est crazy !" The French guy sprang around, pointing his finger, while the guard’s nails dove deeper into her flesh. "Crazy cow, completely folle! N'importe quoi!"

“You are the crazy ones! All of you! Huge and empty egos. Let me go! Let. Me. Go.” She pushed the guard with all she had, and he fell onto the Guignols shelves. She ran away.

It was the end. Dozens of companies had witnessed her scene, and no one would ever want to work with her. She had also ruined the reputation of her supervisor who was excited to enter that world. Ornella reached the cloakroom desk, trembling with embarrassment. She wanted to hide in her coat and disappear. 

“They drove you crazy down there, didn’t they?” She turned around, under the green tent that was closed in the morning, a man with white hair watched her, amused. “I told Eric to move upstairs when they said we’d be in the same pavilion as La Compagnie des Abeilles.” He laughed and bit into a biscuit. “It’s been a peaceful day, for us.” 

Ornella slipped on her coat and headed back to the stairs, without answering.

“Why rush? Come, I’ll make you some coffee. Come over.”

Ornella looked back at him and noticed an Italian flag covered the back of his tent. 

“Are you Mario?”

“Himself.” He poured her an espresso. “How can I help?”

She wanted to say something but didn't know where to start. As she didn't move, he drank down the cup and walked back inside, still talking to her. 

“Don’t worry about those people. Go home, have a nap and call me when you're ready.” 

He wrote his number at the back of a flyer and handed it to her. Ornella froze as she saw the flyer.

“Do you make these miniature stages? In red wood with yellow curtains?”

“Ha! My grandfather invented that model eighty years ago! My dad produced them for more than sixty years. And I stopped, I wanted something new. I thought today I'd make a tribute to those Classics.” He mimicked quotation marks with his hands. “What's with those yellow curtains?”

Ornella told him everything. That she had been diagnosed with leukemia as a child and spent months alone at the hospital. That no children had come to visit her and that she stopped talking. She stopped smiling. And one day, the nurse brought a little wooden box. She drew out a miniature stage in red wood with yellow curtains. Each day, she staged a play for Ornella with tiny characters. She gave a wooden figurine to Ornella and, step by step, Ornella made her figurine speak. Play, laugh, and live. And through that figurine she felt alive again. The power of toy theater fascinated her, and she wanted to show it to the whole world. That went beyond artistry and conventions. She told him about Jon, the thesis and the hospital that had agreed to work with them. Mario scratched his chin as he listened, pacing around the tent. He stopped and turned around. 

“Would you join my company in Venezia?”

Oh.

“You'll see, we're nice guys.” 

“We?”

“Me and that loner.” Mario hinted at a silhouette she hadn’t even noticed at the back of the tent. Mario said his name was Eric. But Ornella recognised the electricity in her arms. And Elia from the roaring bus.