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'Cause I was just a boy...
For a boy of ten, sometimes the only place to get any privacy is the bathroom. Yitzhak scurries in there as soon as he gets home from school, knowing it's the only few moments he might have to himself all day. His sisters will be home soon, and like most girls he knows, Cyrel and Chaya will need the mirror for inordinate periods of time. Maybe if he asks nicely, they'll dress him up, before their father gets home. Mama always thought it was cute when she was alive, always told Tata it was harmless fun, but he doesn't like it, not one bit. His son is not a doll, he insists, and “babying the boy will only make him soft.” (Yitzhak isn't sure what this even means. When he presses a finger into his arm, it is soft and squishy. Isn't everyone?)
It's not easy being the only Jewish boy in a Catholic neighborhood. The whole country is predominately Catholic – that's just fact – but Yitzhak likes to pretend other neighborhoods are, well, more tolerant. That's another thing he doesn't understand, really. What does it matter if his family doesn't believe the same thing as them? He's not threatened by their beliefs. In a class full of Ivans, Lukas, and Nikos, he stands out. His sisters, they can get away with it; their Hebrew names are “exotic” and “unique.” His is just deemed “weird.” (It's another reason he wishes he were a girl sometimes.) One year, he told the teacher to call him Marko when roll was called on the first day of class. That went over about as well as he probably should have expected. None of the children in this town let anything go that easily. Just as well. He didn't really want to be called Marko anyway.
In the bathroom, though, the boys from school don't exist. His father's disapproval doesn't exist. His sisters banging on the door and telling him to hurry up – well, that will always exist, but at the moment it doesn't. For a few moments, he can be himself, without a care in the world. He takes off his shirt, settling it on his head so it falls down his back, like a nun's habit of sorts. When he closes his eyes, he can pretend he has long, flowing hair – beautiful waves like Cyrel and Chaya were blessed with, the kind that apparently require hours of maintenance. He sings, because music is what he loves, not scrapping with the other boys, not impromptu football games in the street. He saw an American movie a few months ago, Wizard of Oz, on some channel late at night, and he's been obsessed with the music ever since. The song, from the beginning, in words he doesn't understand but a melody that lifts his heart. The music teacher at school has a soft spot for him and got him a tape. He plays it over and over, until he can mimic the sounds perfectly, sort out where one word in English begins and another ends. His music teacher writes down the English words for him when he asks. He studies them, beginning to compare them to the language he knows. Now he knows a “rainbow” is duga, “bluebird” is plava ptica.
As he learns more words, the song begins to paint an entirely new picture in his head, and now it's not Dorothy in some unimaginably far-off place called “Kansas.” It's him, searching the sky wildly for rainbows after a storm. Trying to find his place in the world and hoping it's eventually bigger than a bathroom so tiny his back is inches from the door when he stands in front of the sink. But, for now, the bathroom is his, and he closes his eyes and begins to sing.
“Somewhere, over the rainbow, way up high...”
On nights like this, when the world's a bit amiss...
He's seventeen, and the broken glass crunches under his feet as he storms toward the door, tears burning hot in his eyes. He blinks them back. He won't cry, not now, not in front of his father. Won't give the man the satisfaction. Not that it matters, really, not anymore. The damage is already done, and he can't stay here anymore, not even if he wanted to.
Bjelovar is a decent size, as cities go; it would be easy for Yitzhak to disappear here, once he's out of his neighborhood. But he's young and he just wants to be away from this place, somewhere no one knows him, so he heads for the train station. It's not as if he has anything to lose. All of his possessions are stuffed into a single ratty backpack. He buys a ticket for the next train out – it leaves at midnight. Literally, the midnight train going anywhere, and the reference would amuse him if he weren't so distraught, wiping away the tears that continue their threat to escape.
Music was still his everything, all that spoke to him. He sang, whenever he could. Cyrel loved to hear it, even if most of it was in English. Yitzhak was drawn to certain styles. He still treasured the music of his homeland, but – Broadway, the West End, American and British pop and rock. That excited him like nothing else. Chaya always listened, but eventually laughed and told him to sing something they'd all recognize. Their father just snorted and told him to give it up. His voice was too high for a boy. No one wanted to hear that. (Yitzhak tried to pretend like it didn't sting. He'd sulk away and retreat to his room and tell himself no one was exactly making fun of Frankie Valli, not in America.)
He still liked to dress up, too, though his sisters indulged him less as he grew older. It was all in fun when he was little, they said, but it was time for him to grow up. (If growing up meant having to act like the boys he went to school with, he wanted no part of it.) He learned to hide. Save up money, buy himself little treats here and there. Borrow things he knew his sisters wouldn't miss. His English was still faltering and uncertain when he wasn't singing, when he was trying to construct sentences and convey thoughts a master hadn't already outlined. But it helped him charm tourists when he could escape for the weekend to Zagreb. He'd sing a song for them; they'd give him money. The shops in Zagreb had the best stuff, and he didn't have to worry about anyone from school seeing him buy it. He'd also discovered the night life there – though small for his age, Yitzhak had learned charisma could take him far.
In Zagreb, there was an entire industry for men who liked to dress like women and sing. Okay, most of them weren't really singing; that was obvious. But they sang. They danced. It was the closest he'd seen to the kind of thing he dreamed of doing. And people wanted them to dress up? Sure, he heard the unkind words from strangers in the streets as they passed those clubs. But it was nothing worse than he heard at home. Applied to people like him. (Granted, he'd been fool enough to bring up the subject in the first place, as a testing of the waters. It hadn't gone well.)
He still sang in the bathroom, but now he didn't have to put his shirt on his head and pretend – there were wigs, makeup. He probably looked like a child trying to dress in his mother's clothes, but for a few minutes a day, he was free to be himself. He even had another name, Krystal. It was an English word that felt beautiful and glittering on his tongue, and even though he'd spelled the word "wrong" when he first heard it phonetically, he found out it was an actual name and he could spell it how he pleased.
Krystal was his secret identity, until she wasn't.
Until Yitzhak's father had come home early one day and found Krystal primping in the bathroom mirror.
First had been the yelling, then the threats, then more yelling – both of them this time, then Cyrel joining in when she came home. At least she'd tried to defend him. Things were thrown and broken, the glass coffee table shattering. And this was how it ended, with Yitzhak on a train, alone. A bag full of what he'd been able to grab in his lap. The vivid memory of glass crunching under his feet. He wonders why he remembers that most of all, more than Cyrel's tears or his father's hateful words.
And then he's in Zagreb, in the early hours of the morning, and his adventures here haven't been all for naught. He knows where to find a warm place to sleep, if only for the night. In the morning, he will start over, with the wig and dress he was able to save and a tube of lipstick. And his voice. But he needs a name to use.
Krystal is a given. He wears her identity like a shield, only able to be himself under her guise. But she needs a last name. Kovačević doesn't feel right at all. He wants nothing to do with his father at this moment. He could pick another, but he looks at the list of performers at the nearest club. There are a lot of puns in their names, and it amuses him. Who says Krystal has to play by the rules? He tries several combinations, but none of them click. As he's settling to sleep, he thinks of an old history lesson, the second world war and the events leading up to it. Especially important, given his heritage. His brain makes strange associations at odd hours, and he remembers the Kristallnacht . The night of broken glass. A horrible time, really, and he supposes he's had one of his own. Never on that scale, of course. He couldn't compare his experience to such atrocities. Except that memory, the glass beneath his feet, is too fresh in his mind and he laughs bitterly. Krystal Nacht , he thinks to himself, an identity, a woman born from a night when everything shattered. And it's terrible, really it is, but appropriate in a sick sort of way. And, most importantly, if his father ever found out, he'd be apoplectic. It's perfect.
Suddenly, being the only Jewish kid in town isn't the curse Yitzhak once thought it was. It's his future.
I'll be more woman than a man like you can stand...
He spends more time as Krystal than he doesn't. Not just because of gigs, though those are coming in steadily. (When you're billed as “The Last Jewess of the Balkans,” people want to see what all the fuss is about.) Krystal doesn't get to sing as often as she'd like – lip-syncing is the norm in this business, and not enough establishments are set up to let her show off her voice. But when she does...when she can hit the money notes and leave people arguing over whether it's live or not, that's the life. The audiences lift her up on nights she's down. She isn't one to live for the approval of others – but, boy, it doesn't hurt. When there's thunderous applause and it's all for her, it's hard not to feel warm inside.
Yentl is her standby. Barbra is a goddess in her world and the story speaks to her. And sometimes, on really good nights, she can almost sound exactly like that. Close enough to wow the crowd. And even when she's just acting with the soundtrack, they see her passion.
That's not to say that life is perfect. Far from it, actually. Her living space is a cot in a walk-in closet in the back of an old theatre. She makes money, but this is a hard game and you have to spend a lot to make anything. New clothes, new wigs, fees for performance space, a manager to pay, and she has to eat sometime. She makes enough to survive, and she knows people in the business who don't even do that. Krystal is very popular for what she does, but she's realistic enough to know that the drag circuit in Zagreb, Croatia, is not exactly high-ranking in the international economy. She dreams of more. She dreams of America, of the Kansas Dorothy introduced her to years ago. A charming land where neighbors are close and dreams are achievable. If she can get onto an international circuit, she has a chance. But no one's exactly scouting Croatia these days.
It's this exact dilemma she's pondering as she sips at a glass of vodka, humming along as the piano player in the corner of the latest shitty bar she's playing starts a familiar tune. He looks up, a bit surprised, but smiles at her. There are several hours before the show and the place is empty, save them and the bartender. The pianist looks as out of place as she feels, better suited to accompany a rock headliner in a stadium concert than playing cheesy pop tunes in a forgotten corner of the world. She likes him instantly. “Hello.”
He waves. “I suppose we'll be working together tonight?”
“So it would seem.” Krystal smiles, picking up her drink and joining him at the piano. “Let's run away together,” she teases. If she blows it, what's one more night of awkwardness in a string of hundreds? “Not even romantically. Just someplace we can drop all this bullshit and be ourselves.”
He laughs. “A fond dream, that. Unfortunately, I suspect we both have bills to pay.” He scoots to one side of the piano bench, though, and she takes the invitation to sit beside him. “I'm Skszp.”
“Krystal.” She shrugs – wasn't she just talking about being herself? The lines are so blurred, she doesn't know where one identity starts and another begins. “Well, Yitzhak, really, if we're being honest.”
Skszp studies her for a long moment. “But Krystal is very much a part of you.”
He's right; she can't deny it. “That's true.”
“Whichever you prefer, then.” He shrugs. “Or both. I prefer not to think of life in strictly black and white.”
Krystal smiles. “I knew there was something I liked about you.”
He studies her once more, though more contemplative this time, as if making a decision. “Can you sight read?” She nods and he grins, shuffling his sheet music around. The sheet on top now isn't professional, it's hand-marked, with scribbled lyrics beneath the notes. “Now, more importantly, can you read my writing?”
Krystal laughs. “I can try.” It's no worse than her own. Her eyes widen as she reads it over, briefly. “You wrote this?”
“Well, it's not finished,” Skszp explains, but he nods. “I'd like to hear another voice with it, though.”
She nods, enthusiastic to give it a try. To help create something new. He begins to play and she follows along. “Running head on, to things that knock me down...”
They spend the next few hours working on his song, just enjoying each others' company. When she's singing that night, she catches his eye during one number and he blows her a playful kiss.
You're turning tricks 'til you're turned out...
There is only so much a girl can take. Living hand to mouth sucks. Krystal is still popular within her own world, but it is a very small world and it's getting smaller. More bars are changing their entertainment programming to accommodate the masses. It's business and Krystal can't begrudge them that, but when the theatre she was renting her “room” from closed down, she's been getting by with a hotel room here, accommodations there, a friend's place occasionally. But true friends are hard to come by, especially in this business, and Skszp is the only one she has. And he's in the same situation as her, barely getting by. To boot, she's getting more pressure from her manager to define herself and her identity publicly, which she has steadfastly refused to do. Everyone knows she wasn't born a woman, but now people want her to apply specific labels to her experience and she's never been good with that. Skszp understands. He, too, refuses to be defined. She thinks that's part of why they get along so well.
America is more alluring than ever. Sure, it's not a perfect utopia; Krystal's not naive enough to believe that. She can read the news. But there's a lot more opportunity for her, that's for sure. And who wouldn't want to experience it, to be in the land that gave her the very music that has kept her going for so long? Except getting there is easier said than done. Travel requires money and money is something she simply does not have.
And then there's a plan so crazy it might work. She's opening for some German rocker. A woman named Hedwig Robinson. Krystal knows nothing about her, but she does research. It's good music. Really good. She's delighted to find Hedwig is not only an American citizen, but also from Kansas. It's the sign Krystal's waited for, that an idea that popped into her head at three am just might work .
The performance doesn't go as planned. Hedwig is upset at something – Krystal doesn't hear what – and refuses to go on. She's heading for the door when Krystal catches her, holding out a flower. And in a rush of words, in halting English, she's proposing marriage.
Hedwig is silent for a long moment, and Krystal – Yitzhak once more; he has to be if he's going to marry this woman – thinks this was a terrible idea. But then Hedwig kisses him, almost experimentally, taking his wig off and looking at him. “To walk away,” she says, her accent making the words sound even more calculating, “you've got to leave something behind.”
“Anything,” Yitzhak promises, looking down at the floor. At his dress. It's his favorite, actually, a brilliant shade of pink. “Just get me out of this living hell.”
Hedwig nods, apparently satisfied with the answer. “I'll marry you, on one condition.” She attempts to comb her fingers through his hair, though they catch on the bobby pins, which she summarily pulls out and tosses aside. “A wig's never going to touch your head again. I'm the woman in this relationship.”
That hurts, but he's desperate enough to agree. “Of course. Fine. Whatever you wish.”
She perks up instantly. “Good. Then let's get out of here and find someone to marry us.” She pivots on one heel and is once more heading for the door. She has the air of a queen about her, and he follows readily, eager to begin a new life.
That night, over drinks, the ink barely dry on their marriage certificate, she confesses she's itching to form a band again, “this time” with actual musicians. (She shares an amusing story of Korean Army wives in Kansas that leaves them both giggling.) Yitzhak smiles, because he suddenly has a solution to his only reservation about leaving the country. She'll need a musical director, he tells her, and he knows someone who has both the talent and nothing tying him down – a perfect combination. She agrees, and the next night, he takes her to meet Skszp.
Two days later, the three of them plus Hedwig's manager are on a train to the next stop on the tour. Yitzhak looks at the hastily-purchased ring on his finger and it begins to sink in that this is really happening.
I try to get up, but I can't get no slack...
It's six am, and Yitzhak doesn't believe six o'clock should happen twice a day. At the very least, he'd like to finish his bagel before Hedwig's latest rant hits full steam. That's not going to happen, but he can at least fantasize.
The honeymoon period is definitely over. They had one, several wonderful, amazing months together. Yitzhak had discovered that his fantasy of Kansas most definitely did not live up to the reality, and she'd smiled sympathetically and shoved some french fries at him. (Comfort wasn't Hedwig's strong suit, but she had at least been trying.) At some point, things had gone from being a marriage of convenience to a true relationship and it was incredible. They'd been newlyweds, in love. They'd gotten matching tattoos and done everything couple-related and cute. Then the tour had heated up – if “tour” was what one could call “stalking Tommy Gnosis.”
It wasn't as if Yitzhak didn't understand Hedwig's frustration, her anger. Tommy had cheated her. Tommy had run from a dying relationship like a coward, taking “the good stuff” with him. If that was all, Yitzhak could live with it. But the obsession. It wears on him, to see his wife utterly consumed with someone else. While she constantly reminded him of his place. He's her backup. A replacement lover. He knew he was more, or he'd have tried to leave, but sometimes that was hard to see. As Hedwig poured her heart out to strangers, telling her tales, to a captive audience, he wondered if only he could see the cruel irony. She was replaying her pain daily, with him. Luther, the bastard, had been the one to teach her how marriage worked, and now she assumed his role. She forced Yitzhak to give up a piece of himself to be with her. And in the event that he did give up and try to run, she kept his passport – just in case. It was clear she needed him, but he was never sure for exactly what.
Yitzhak misses Krystal, misses her fiercely. It's easier to think her as someone else, a girl he knew, instead of a piece of himself. Every now and then, he reaches for a wig to touch it, just briefly, when it's not on Hedwig. Every now and then, he locks himself in the bathroom with a tube of lipstick. But at least he still has his voice, even if it's in her shadow. She sees him as a threat, the same way she'd been a threat to Luther. Hedwig wasn't fighting her sexuality, but she formed her identity around the larger-than-life diva, and anyone who gets in her way must be dealt with. Yitzhak, she deals with by putting him in his place. Cutting him down. She took Krystal from him because Krystal's popularity was the biggest threat of all. He supposes compared to what she went through to flee her situation, he still comes out ahead. But, some nights, he wishes they could trade places. She isn't happy in her body. And he's never been comfortable in his own skin. Krystal made it easier. But would a switch, impossible as it was, make Hedwig happy? Probably not. There were far larger issues at play.
“We're all in this together, you fucks,” Hedwig snaps at Yitzhak - and the band, but they are ignoring her as usual. In a strange way, it's as inspiring as it is insulting. They're stuck with her, but she's also stuck with them. Somehow, they'll keep functioning together in this absolute dysfunction, at least until something finally gives.
It's the sweetest taste I've known...
Hedwig loves her baths. Loves them. And if she's gotten hold of a new bath product lately, eventually Yitzhak has to gather his courage and barge into the bathroom before she's done if he ever wants to pee. (Spousal privileges, he supposes. The band, they just find the nearest McDonald's.) Hedwig has christened every bathtub in every hotel they've stayed in, coast to coast. And if there's no bathtub, she bitches. She's always bitching about something. Yitzhak doesn't really care anymore what the subject happens to be.
This time, the bathroom is filled with a heavenly floral aroma when Yitzhak walks in and the bath water is a beautiful shade of pink. Yitzhak's eyes are drawn to it instantly, even before his wife – her, he sees every day. (This used to be wondrous and new, but it's been a long time since he's had that feeling, and he almost misses it.) The pink water, swirling about as Hedwig moves. It's the same shade of pink as his favorite dress. The one he was wearing the night he proposed. He wonders if the color stirs the same memories in Hedwig. If she even cares. More immediately, he wonders if this bath, with its divine smells and enticing color is another of those things she's deemed far too feminine for him or if he might join. He likes baths, too – he just rarely gets to enjoy them.
“Oh, you like it?” Hedwig chirps, smiling at him. “One of those bath bomb things that's all the rage. I had to try it, of course.”
She's either about to invite him or shut him down cold, and he's not sure which he's more prepared for.
“Sex...Craze, Sex Beast, Sex Bomb, Sex...something.” Hedwig's eyes meet his, and she smiles. She does love teasing him, and she's trying so very hard now, putting just the slightest emphasis on the word “sex” each time. Yitzhak doesn't get excited, not yet. He's learned to play this game.
Hedwig gazes at him for a long moment, perhaps making her decision in that moment, how this round will play out. She sits up, arching forward, pushing her chest out so that her cleavage would be tantalizing him, if she had any. She's used to doing that while fully dressed, teasing horny men to get her way. She blinks at him, too innocently. “Do you want to shave my back?”
Yitzhak smiles back at her, because he knows he's won this time; that's always been one of her favorite euphemisms for something else entirely. His clothes hit the floor in seconds.
You learn too late you've used two wishes like a fool...
The bathroom has, once again, become his place of refuge, only now he isn't alone. He's sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Hedwig III sleeping in his lap. That's her name, at least on paper; she has as many nicknames as the band has moods. Schlatko found her in Kovel during the final leg of their last Eastern European tour. Having grown up in Ukrainian orphanages himself, he was determined not to turn her over to the state, and though informally adopting the child was fairly high on the list of the worst ideas they'd ever had, that was exactly what ended up happening. Yitzhak was both charmed by and terrified of her. Charmed because of the obvious – she was a sweet baby, oblivious to the chaos that surrounded her. Terrified because if anything happened, he was going to be responsible for her. On paper, she was also his and Hedwig's daughter; that was how they'd gotten her into the States. The band is content to care for her now, as they have from the start, and Yitzhak is happy to help. Happy to sing her a lullaby his mother once sang to him when she's fussy. But he isn't cut out for full-time parenthood. His marriage – no, his life – is already enough of a disaster without a child depending on him.
Hedwig's moods are both capricious and intense. Yitzhak knows she lashes out at him the most because he's a safe target. Oh, he fights back sometimes; their screaming matches are legendary. But she knows he won't leave her. Not only because she has his passport – and without her, his legal status in this country is on shaky ground. But he's as dependent on her emotionally as she is on him, and she knows it. He tries to distance himself from her, at least in his head. Sometimes physically, if only for an evening. But he always comes back. One day, Yitzhak knows he'll break, if things keep going the way they have been. One day, he'll gather his courage and go. But, if he's being honest, that won't be any time in the near future. She's dismissive with him, occasionally downright cruel. But there are moments of tenderness, moments that remind him of their early days together. And he knows she acts the way she does because of her inner turmoil. But that doesn't make it hurt any less.
For now, he has a few minutes of quiet, at four am. Yitzhak was awake, staring at the ceiling, when the baby started fussing, and he'd taken her into the bathroom to keep her from waking everyone. Money's tight again, and they're all crammed in the same room. He sang to her, that lullaby she loves so well, and he thought of his mother, singing it to him. Soon, the little girl was sleeping in his arms. Eventually he'll get up and put her back in her tiny crib, crawl into bed with his wife. But for now, he's content to take in the peace of the moment.
Skszp knocks gently and steps into the bathroom, smiling as he perches on the sink and shuts the bathroom door. Yitzhak returns the smile. They've had more than a few early-morning chats like this. Through all the chaos, their friendship is a constant. Yitzhak's close with the rest of the band too, as is Skszp, but their bond is particularly special. Their shared memories are precious. Hell, sometimes, just the shared language is a relief, to be able to vent without having to mentally translate at the same time. “What's on your mind?”
Yitzhak shrugs. “Nothing. Everything.”
“As per usual.” Skszp glances toward the door for a moment. “I don't know how you put up with her sometimes.”
It's pretty obvious who Skszp means. “Neither do I, to tell you the truth.” That's a lie and he knows it. “She has her moments. We did have some good times. Sometimes we still do.”
“You love her.” Skszp doesn't even make it a question; he knows.
Yitzhak nods. “I do. That's the problem.” He thinks the feeling is mutual – at least, it was once. For all she reminds him of their open relationship, established when they first married because they never planned on falling in love, he knows she loved him once. Does she still? He sees signs of it, here and there, but a part of him wonders if it's not wishful thinking. He knows she needs him, but that's hardly the same. They're on a collision course with something awful, someday, but he keeps looking for the detour instead of turning around. Because he loves her.
Skszp smiles sympathetically. “Love is an island of emotion surrounded by a sea of complications.” He's always had more than a bit of poet in him. His lyrics, like Hedwig's, are masterful, though he doesn't write much these days. Lack of time, he claims, though Yitzhak wouldn't be surprised if lack of opportunity has some effect on his inspiration. Most are written for a female voice, but Hedwig has more than enough of her own material. Skszp has made musical tweaks for her here and there, key changes and lyric suggestions that were surprisingly well-received, but she doesn't need anyone to write full songs for her. He could probably sell his work easily if he chose, but he says he hasn't found the right voice yet. Which makes sense. Skszp knows how his music should sound.
Yitzhak sighs, running a hand over his face. “I don't know how many more complications I can take.” With Skszp, he has the option of being brutally honest – Phyllis is very sweet and caring, but she also has to worry about keeping Hedwig happy. Her job is hard enough without having to factor in Yitzhak's problems. “I keep telling myself, it's the lesser of two evils. That even when this is hell, it's better than the one we left. But, sometimes...I'm not so sure.” The sacrifice he made feels a lot bigger now than it did at the time. It's bad enough, missing the spotlight, constantly reminded that his place is in Hedwig's shadow. But is it so wrong that sometimes, he just wants to feel pretty again? To look in the mirror and see Krystal smiling back at him? (He's not even sure Krystal could live in the shadows forever. She gave him a confidence he doesn't exude naturally, at least not as himself. But, damn, let him have a wig and some makeup and he'd be happy to give it a try.)
Skszp's expression is thoughtful, and he's quiet for a long moment, as if debating with himself how to proceed. “Well, you know how I feel about it.” He had been extremely skeptical of the terms Yitzhak had agreed to from the start, but he'd never made an issue of it. “If the contract can't be renegotiated, so to speak, then you have to decide if it's worth it. And it seems that, for now, you've decided it is.”
“But?” Yitzhak prompts, sensing there's more.
Skszp shrugs. “If you change your mind...” He raises his eyebrows, waiting.
Yitzhak laughs, finishing the lyric. “I'm the first in line.” He grins – he needed the boost to his mood and he's sure Skszp knew it. “Thank you.”
“Any time.” Skszp slides off the edge of the sink and moves to sit beside Yitzhak. “Seriously, though, if you do change your mind, know you've got support. You're never alone.”
Yitzhak leans against him, smiling. “Thank you. Again.” That does help ease his fears and he thinks he can sleep now. He shifts Hedwig III to his shoulder, rubbing her back to keep her from waking, and stands. He pauses to squeeze Skszp's arm before heading out of the bathroom, settling the baby in her crib, and making sure she's still asleep before going back to bed. Hedwig stirs briefly, and snakes one arm around his waist in her sleep. He snuggles close to her with a sigh and kisses her forehead. He does love her, much as it would be easier if he didn't, and for now, that's enough to keep him here.
Look what you've done...
Yitzhak's known the end was coming. He just didn't realize it would hurt this much.
The cracks have been showing in Hedwig's performance, ever since she'd gotten onto the subject of Tommy Gnosis. Sure, she rambled about him in concerts all the time. But she'd only gotten as far as talking about painting the cross onto his forehead before. Then she glosses over the raw emotional parts in her usual breezy way, pointing out that she turned “The Long Grift” into an angsty breakup tune from Tommy's cheesy love ballad concept, and the show continues. But time she's telling the whole story. She never tells the whole story.
Yitzhak hasn't even heard the whole story before, and it breaks his heart to see her in such pain. And when she can't continue, he finds himself singing to give her time to compose herself. He knows the song; of course he does. He knows all of her songs intimately, even the ones she doesn't perform in public.
The audience goes wild when he finishes. It's been so long since he heard a crowd cheering like that, and his spirit soars for a moment when Hedwig suggests there might be room for both of them in the show. He's still riding the high – and for a moment, he really believes her. Then she shuts him down, like always. Is it habit? Her damaged ego trying to reassert itself? There's no telling. “The German and the Jew.” It isn't just a dig at his heritage – those, he's used to, even as much as they annoy him. (She knows it annoys him. That's why she does it.) It's a power play. She's reminding him she will always be in control. That she can destroy him if she chooses. And he just can't take it anymore. Things have been rough between them lately, even more so than usual, and this is his breaking point. He spits in her face and storms away, shoving past Skszp and Jacek as they move to comfort him. He almost opens the back door, both to escape for a minute and to piss Hedwig off – he's done it a time or two tonight already – but the last person Yitzhak wants to hear right now is Tommy Fucking Gnosis.
He punches the wall, bitterly thinking how appropriate the last song was. Isn't that all he's ever been to her, a walk-on role in her script? He loves her. But he can't live like this anymore. He'll keep it together to finish the show – because that's what he does. As soon as the curtain falls, Yitzhak knows he's got to go. He can slip away during the final number, probably; she's not likely to notice. He'll grab his passport out of her purse and leave. If he stays to explain himself, he'll lose his resolve.
And then it goes from bad to worse to unthinkable. Hedwig is obviously losing her already fragile grip on sanity as they work their way through “Exquisite Corpse.” She always mimics a breakdown, so it takes Yitzhak a minute to be concerned. Shortly, though, it's clear – something is very, very wrong. She's tearing off her clothes, snatching the alcohol from him and pouring it on her head. He can't watch her do this to herself; it hurts too much. He moves to wrestle the bottle away from her and she fights him for it. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second and her gaze is utterly wild. She shoves him away, hard, and the rejection shatters what's left of his heart. Somehow she gets away in the resulting confusion. Something in Yitzhak snaps, and he sees her wig, discarded. He moves to grab it, and Skszp moves toward him. In his pain and confusion, he doesn't see it as an attempt at comfort. He shoves Skszp away – he can apologize later – and moves for the wig. It's his now. Fuck Hedwig and her rules. But he can't do it, not even after a brief tussle with the band as they try to stop him. He's too crazed to realize it's not the wig they're trying to retrieve; it's his sanity. Even when the wig's in his hand, he can't do it, because it doesn't matter now. Nothing matters. He screams, a howl of rage and pain, and collapses in despair.
Nothing happens for a few minutes. The audience is silent, in utter shock. At least he thinks they are, when he remembers they're there. Yitzhak knows he is. The stage lights come up and it's brighter than he thought it would be. The band is watching him, and he holds up a hand to let them know he's okay – well, he's not, but he doesn't want them to help him up. He can't stand to be touched right now, not even by Skszp, who'd have the best chance of any of them at reaching him. He drags himself over to sit on his chair, no longer in a dark corner. The light floods the whole stage, and Hedwig stumbles back in. Yitzhak sees her in the periphery of his vision, but he can't bear to look at her initially. He stares at a spot on the stage, curled in on himself, until he hears the opening notes of the final song. He'll give her credit for trying to finish. It hurts, emotionally and physically, to pull the mic stand over, to pull himself to his feet, but if Hedwig can finish this show in her fucking underwear after having a complete mental breakdown in front of a thousand people, he can sing backup.
Yitzhak glances over as Hedwig starts to sing. She's got a smeared silver cross on her forehead, glittering makeup on her fingers and leg, where she apparently wiped it. The wildness about her is gone, replaced with a strange sort of serenity. Well, good for her. Yitzhak has no idea what to make of it, but he doesn't have to. He just has to survive this song. She holds the wig out to him, and he almost can't believe it for a moment. After all that, he's still her fucking servant? It's not as if the damned thing's going to stay on right anyway; the magnets that fix it in place are in the shorter wig she discarded. (It's still on the stage where Yitzhak threw it, smeared with the tomatoes from her bra.)
Reluctantly, Yitzhak takes the wig from her, flipping it over to see how he can make this work. If she doesn't move her head too much, it might stay. Hedwig blocks him as he tries to put the wig on her and he's baffled for a moment as she shakes her head gently, shoving it back at him as she sings. Shoving it into his arms. It's when she touches his cheek gently, smiling at him that it finally clicks. She was giving it to him. He's overwhelmed, staring at the wig for a second before lifting it and pulling it down onto his head. God, it feels so good.
Yitzhak is overcome. He's trembling, tearing up, and Hedwig takes his hand, holding it to her chest as she sways gently, singing. He touches his forehead to Hedwig's gently, too emotional to find the words to thank her. She kisses his knuckles before releasing him. The audience is cheering, and he races to identify the feeling that is coursing through him as he descends from the stage. Finally, it occurs to him as the joyful tears break loose and run down his face. It's hope.
He doesn't even know where he's going, and he ends up backstage, somehow. Phyllis – when did she get there? – grabs him in a hug. He holds her tightly for a moment, watching as she pulls away. The flash of rhinestones catches his eye, and he sees a dress, one he'd envied for a long time. Hedwig had insisted on bringing it with them during this latest tour, despite the fact that it was too small for her. She had tried every which way to get it to fit, even tonight, and it was discarded over a couch, where she'd thrown it in a fit of annoyance. It's a gorgeous shade of purple, highlighted in black and pink, with butterflies everywhere. Yitzhak has been lusting after that dress for a year, and he grabs it. It might just fit him, he thinks – and, oh, it does. It fits beautifully, like it was waiting for him. Perhaps it was.
He's flying around at a frantic pace now, securing the wig in place with a few bobby pins, combing it back into submission, adding a jeweled butterfly barrette that matches perfectly. The purple in the wig and dress complement each other brilliantly, and he's slipping into a glittery pair of high heels, laughing as they fit perfectly, like his fairy godmother left them there. (He thinks for a moment his fairy godmother might actually be Phyllis, as she's grinning proudly while she watches. She always did think they'd make a great double act; it was Hedwig who kept shutting the idea down.)
He brushes makeup on with lightning speed and precision, the years of practice paying off – and when he looks in the mirror, Krystal is back. Hedwig's lyrics replay in her head - “Know that you're whole.” She is whole. Yitzhak's misery is gone, cast aside in the pile of clothes on the floor. She's giggling and grinning and on the verge of weeping with happiness all over again, but that would screw up her eyeliner.
Phyllis hugs her again. “You look beautiful, darling. Oh, I'm going to go catch the end of this; our Twitter's starting to blow up already.” She races out, and Krystal makes a decision. She knows she could slip her passport out of Hedwig's purse, grab her jacket – she really does love that jacket – and go. She knows Hedwig's gesture wasn't just about the wig, or Krystal; it was Hedwig giving her free will back. But the music – the music was what drew her in the first place, and the music is still in her heart. She makes a wrong turn and ends up at the back of the house instead – but that's even better, because as she joins the chorus, Hedwig turns and her entire face lights up as she sees Krystal. Hedwig takes her hand and they dance as they sing together, their lips crashing together briefly before Hedwig spins her around. She knows they've got a long, long way to go if they're going to make this work. But they've made one hell of a start.
Krystal twirls a few times in the dress, loving how it makes her feel. She sings the way she hasn't been able to in a long time, truly from her heart, and smiles as Skszp as she catches his eye. He blows her a kiss, just like he did the night they met. Hedwig's final spotlight hits the stage, the one thing about this finale that's happening just as scheduled, though she's not in the gaudy outfit she planned. (She actually looks a lot better. Happier than she did in rehearsal.) She changes yet something else, following the light off stage instead of grandstanding, and Krystal's left on stage with the band, to finish the show with a bang and a powerful note.
And then it's over, and then Krystal's rushing backstage because the adrenaline high is quickly leaving her, and she collapses backstage on the nearest piece of furniture. Which Hedwig has already beat her to, so she lands on top of her wife and they laugh and there's glitter everywhere and it's fucking perfect. Whatever might happen between them in the days to come, this moment is perfect. They're just a pile of flesh and taffeta and glitter and they're perfect. More importantly, they're whole.
We wrapped our arms around each other, trying to shove ourselves back together...
They walk back to the hotel without bothering to change. It's Times Square – no one notices. Hedwig has thrown on her favorite pair of star-spangled Converse but she's still in her underwear. They look like shorts, really; there are still people wearing less, especially considering Tommy's concert has just let out. Krystal makes up for it, the rhinestones on her corset sparkling under the city's lights. She's grabbed the train of the dress to keep it from dragging on the street. With her heels and Hedwig in sneakers, they're about the same height, and they steal a few kisses on the way back to the hotel. The publicity from Tommy's accident – something Krystal's not going to think about and risk ruining her mood – paid for not only a Times Square hotel, but separate rooms for them and the band, and Krystal has never been so grateful for that luxury. She kicks off the heels, unsnapping the train of the dress from the corset and letting it fall to the floor so she can pounce on the bed – and Hedwig, who has settled on it. Hedwig wastes little time in getting the corset off, flinging it aside, and soon they're both a naked tangle before they move to the shower, never letting go of each other the whole time. They need this, this physical reconnection as well as the spiritual. It's not even about sex, not about recreation – it's the creation Hedwig likes to muse about, in its purest form.
As they're lying in bed later, curled together, Krystal asks Hedwig if she wants a new identity. Krystal will call her Hansel, call her “him,” whatever Hedwig wants now. Hedwig shrugs and says she's used to what she goes by now, but she admits to not being sure where her gender lies on the spectrum anymore. Krystal's used to the concept, certainly. Skszp is like that. Croatian, like most Slavic languages, is very gendered, even with inanimate objects, so he uses the pronouns he's familiar with, the ones that keep their native tongue making sense in his head. But Skszp? He's neither male nor female – he's always been an indefinable something between. He's a rock star, and that's the only label he cares to define himself by.
It's not even until Hedwig gently asks Krystal a similar question – what she prefers now – that it occurs to her she's automatically resumed thinking of herself as in feminine terms. It's in that moment it hits her. Krystal doesn't make her feel complete because it's a comfortable identity. Krystal is her identity. She's Krystal. She always has been – it just took her this long to realize. Maybe she would have known sooner if she'd learned such things were possible when she was younger. (She hadn't even realized gender could exist outside the defined binary until she got to know Skszp.) Yitzhak made that identity work because he didn't know he had a choice in the matter – and later, there wasn't any choice, but that's another matter and one of the things Krystal and Hedwig are going to have to work on. Later. For now, there's just the quiet acceptance of themselves as they are. Hedwig kisses her gently, telling her she's Krystal now and forever more, as long as she wants to be. And Krystal's crying again, grateful and relieved.
Phyllis informs them at some point they're staying in New York a bit, with the success of the performance. They celebrate by going shopping. It's gleeful and exciting, the way things were when they were newlyweds. And Hedwig's having such fun helping Krystal build a new wardrobe – it reminds Krystal of one of the fonder parts of her childhood, letting herself be her sisters' dress-up doll. Today she's Hedwig's and it suits her fine.
Krystal debuts her new, official look to the band that evening when Hedwig invites them to dinner. They're very supportive of her transition and she knew they would be, but she's grateful all the same. They laugh and talk together into the night. Little Hedwig III is having the time of her life this weekend with Phyllis' son Max and there are pictures. Krystal smiles as she looks over the photos, at the unlikely pair of this college boy and preschool girl, and remembers quiet nights singing lullabies. She snuggles close to Skszp, who's sitting next to her on the couch, and he cuddles her back. She looks up at him. “Is this strange for you?” He knew Krystal from the start, true – in fact, he's the only one of the band who got to see her before last night. But back then, she still let herself believe it was an act.
“Not at all.” Skszp shakes his head, lowering his voice to a tone meant for her ears only. “I always knew.”
She isn't shocked – he's always known her so well. “You never said anything.”
“It wouldn't have been the same.” Skszp squeezes her hand. “It was something you needed to discover for yourself, my darling.”
The endearment warms her, and she kisses his cheek, laughing as she turns to her other side and sees Hedwig watching them with a smile. “Now don't you get jealous,” she teases. They're getting married again and she's made it clear she doesn't want an open marriage this time around. Hedwig's in agreement – this time, it's just them. But Skszp – well, he's Skszp. “It's not like that between us.”
“I would hope not.” Hedwig laughs, and it's genuine, not the scoffing laugh they've heard most often from her in recent years. “I mean, he's your cousin, come on.”
Krystal blinks; she's not even sure how to respond to that at first. Skszp is no help at all; he's laughing too hard. “My cousin? What?”
Hedwig nods, as if this were a normal, everyday fact. “I mean, you introduced me to him; I'm sure you told me at some point...he's not your cousin?”
“No!” Krystal's laughing now too; she can't help it. “We're not even related. At all. I met him in a bar!” It gets even funnier the longer she thinks about it, and she can't resist poking Hedwig playfully. “God, not everyone from Croatia is related.”
“I didn't think that was why!” Hedwig insists, but she's smiling, and shaking her head. “I just...I could have sworn...”
Krystal realizes Hedwig's been convinced of this “fact” for a long time, though it might explain why she's never batted a lash at how close Krystal and Skszp were. “How long have you even thought this?”
Hedwig shrugs. “I don't know; how long have we been married? A day less than that?” But she lets them laugh at her expense and too soon they're having to part ways for the night because they have an early-morning television appearance scheduled. (It's not as if they haven't lived in each other's back pockets the past few years. And they'll definitely be spending more time together in the near future. Much more, if they end up going back on tour.)
Krystal slips into her new nightgown, gazing for a long moment at the tattoo on her wrist. Hedwig beckons her close and puts her own wrist next to it – the matching half, two faces looking at each other. They had it wrong, back then, and yet so right. They were meant to be together, but they were doing it wrong. They had to find the wholeness in themselves first. Now they can enjoy their wholeness, together. It's not going to be instant and despite the euphoria of discovery, Krystal knows in her heart it's not going to be as easy as they think. But they'll figure it out, somehow. She trusts in that.