by Casey Alexander

It was the bugle that turned my head. Its manly, imposing tones, and the majestic figure that held it. His traditional silk caftan; the silver birds in his hair. The documentary detailed his training, followed him through making up and his exquisite work at the party. Lady executives sat captivated, exhaling the stress of the day. Their pockmarked cheeks flushed crimson with whiskey and good cheer; they devoured oysters and the luscious beauty before them. He sang, danced, played harmonica and kazoo, sat and soothed them with compliments and colorful teacakes. That was going to be me. Elegant, controlled. Made to entertain.

I wrote to the guysha school the next day. Introduced myself: eager to be molded, not excessively smart or profound. Obedient, sixteen, intrigued by the arts and possessed of a modest collection of wigs. I included two recommendations from teachers who confirmed that I smiled frequently and rarely spoke. That I had the potential to fill out a caftan; that they’d droned on for hours and I’d never ceased to look rapt. In short, that I was a good boy.

Six whole weeks I sat waiting, contemplating my dreary prospects. I could follow my sister to college, attempt to scratch out a living in some profession or other. Everyone knew this was the province of the dull and the ugly, plan B for those who failed to amuse. Painful the thought of this hasty surrender; there was still a chance that someone might want me. It was one thing for a girl to dress plainly, make eye contact, learn to speak in a crowd without blushing; in a boy, my father explained, this pushiness was unseemly.

A lilac envelope arrived on the seventh of June: they were pleased, they would have me. Exhilaration, relief. A month later I boarded a train.

***

The Chanton guysha school was a low wooden building in the historical center of town. There were no windows in the front wall; no visitors were received. The boys were revealed when there was something to see; until then, they lived and trained out of sight. (Who cares to see the roots of a rose bush?)

On the first day they gathered us in the main classroom for an introductory lecture. The Master strode into the room. Strong brow, black eyes, dark ponytail with the odd silver thread. He was twenty-six, four years into retirement following a fabled career. “Welcome, gentlemen,” he began. “I’m sure you’re eager to begin your training. For the next two years, you will follow instructions. You will serve and obey. If you are successful, you will be wanted and kept; if not, you’ll be sent home to your mothers. Not every young man is fit to be a guysha,” he went on. “Much depends on your desire to be desired, along with your natural gifts. We will train those who are worthy of training; the rest of you will be forgotten.”

He signaled to the man we were told to call Second Instructor and made his way to the door. S.I. handed out heavy, hardcover books bearing the words “A Gentleman’s Guide to Refinement”. We had a week, he explained, to internalize the manual’s contents and begin living them out. Classes would begin right away.

“Guysha knowledge is a crown bearing seven jewels,” he went on. “Makeup, Dress, Dance, Music, Physique, Singularity and Conversation. You will also learn to pour tea and distribute snacks.”

He surveyed the crowd of two dozen dreamers: teenage boys with enchantment potential. “Last year only four students were chosen,” he declared by way of conclusion. “As of now, everything you do is on record.” Trembling, we left the hall and made for our rooms, straining to move in a virile but delicate manner.

***

The Master himself taught Physique (the most prominent jewel in the crown). Monday through Saturday, 7:30 a.m. On the first morning, his tape measure evaluated my shoulders, my thighs, my biceps and the distance between my nostrils. “Much work to be done,” he said, writing the numbers in a red notebook. At my roommate David he simply glared. His lack of height could not be made up; he’d need to become the finest dancer in Chanton to compensate for this curse.

Push-ups, pliés, stretches in every position. Dead weights, high knees, lunges and crunches and dashes up and down stairs. The last half hour was dedicated to facial correction: blows to the lips with the back of a spoon, a marble taped to each cheek in the hope of provoking a dimple, sand blasting to whiten the teeth. We sat gasping and broken on floor mats as the Master read out from the Guide. “A guysha’s body is his primary asset. All other arts serve as a pretext for it to be seen. No effort shall be spared when it comes to its beautification; if its lines and curves fail to please, a lady’s eyes will go elsewhere.”

After lunch (sprouts and grilled proteins; indulgences spoiled the line) the others and I limped to Conversation. The instructor did not introduce himself; he nodded serenely and gestured for us to sit down. He was known to all as Mirror; in his placid face, a lady saw her own glory reflected.

We were to be ready if talk were required (often it would not be required). A guysha’s input should be about five percent of a chat. “Let the lady rest in her favorite oratorical places,” he read aloud from the Guide. “However inhospitable they seem. Receive stories of ruptured spleens, departed canaries and cabinet sales with equal interest and grace.”

Through simulations, he explained, we’d develop the proper manner.

“They made the first incision right below the kneecap,” a lady’s voice began. “It really left quite a scar.” At this point there was a pause on the recording—time for the scar in question to be presented and marveled at.

The speaker continued for forty-five minutes, describing the history of the affliction (“That damn bathmat! I fell over it every morning”), the braces she’d tried and discarded, the decision to go under the knife, and the thread that they’d used for the stitches (“It was blue. Not as dark as this napkin here, though. More of a periwinkle.”)

“Now,” Mirror said gently, putting the recording on pause. “What is the right response here?”

“I’d say it’s navy,” someone said.

“No,” the teacher said sharply. “Do not challenge, and definitely never get angry. Remember that you are dessert. Crème brûlée should be warm and sweet, not boiling.”

“How about ‘What happened next?’”

“Hmmm. Acceptable, but not ideal.”

A dashing brunette named Jason raised his hand. “You’re so brave,” he said. The teacher nodded and beamed. He was a natural from the first day.

Mirror played the recording again from the start. As the speech rolled on, he analyzed our facial expressions. “Adoration!” he cried, pointing a pen in my direction. “More delight in the eyes.”

That night in our room, David and I went over and over the script, taking turns playing the lady. He nodded off three times during the knee brace segment. There was much work to be done, and progress would have to come quickly. By the first weekend, two students had been expelled—one for attempting to wear shoulder pads under his caftan, and the other for public ugliness (he’d been spotted walking to the restroom un-made up in the night).

***

As the weeks and months passed, my shoulders expanded and I learned how to move. (“A guysha’s body is not touched, but he must learn to sell the suggestion.”) The notes that fell from my bugle grew sweeter; my eyebrows (properly brushed) were striking but not aggressive. By the end of the first year, I’d worked my way up to competent; perseverance, I hoped, would turn me into a treasure.

Half of the boys had been discarded by then (too uncharismatic, too clumsy, too inclined to express their opinions. One of them kept dropping the snack tray). Those of us that remained began Singularity classes, which were taught by Second Instructor. He stood before us each morning, a pale embodiment of the dangers of failing to distinguish oneself. For two years, he’d been an adequate guysha—a passable chorus boy, but never a soloist. One evening he turned an ankle during the tap dance and couldn’t finish the show; the other boys moved over to fill in the space in the line, and nobody noticed the difference. He retired shortly thereafter. Those who can’t, teach.

“Ladies will always have trouble telling one gentleman from another,” he read to us on the first day. “Consequently, it is in a gentleman’s interest to develop a singular and memorable feature, that his company might be requested again.”

S.I. had invited a prominent client to assist us in this regard. Ms. Howard was sixtyish, expansive, the owner of a birdhouse concern. Our fortune was such, the teacher explained at some length, that she had the day off.

Each boy kept her company for ninety seconds. Following her departure, S.I. read out the notes she had taken.

“Candidate one: No recollection. Candidate two: The one with the mole. Candidate three: Shorty, talks too much.”

“All I said was ‘How are you?’” David whispered to me.

“Candidates four through nine: No recollection. Candidate ten: Cooperative, nice smile.” Jason blushed in the corner.

“Candidate eleven: Mouse-like features reminiscent of British royal family. Candidate twelve: No recollection. Well,” he sighed, folding the paper in half. “Not exactly off to a flying start, are we?”

Definitely not. I was candidate six.

The Master gave the third lecture. “It’s one thing to emphasize your own charms,” he said, giving S.I. a cold look. “But a true guysha produces the charms that are wanted. You must learn to dance to her choice of music. Be the dream that you read in her eyes. Adjust your posture and speech; make her enemies and passions your own. You are water and she is stone; wash over her gracefully.”

Night after night I lay with my head out the window (night breezes brought out the luster in a gentleman’s hair), wondering what I might do to be seen.

***

The final test was upon us. The party started at seven; David and I started dressing at noon. We tweezed out our beards hair by hair in the guysha tradition and applied hot bricks to our cheeks (the healthful glow could be seen from a hundred meters away). Pore shrinker, toner, youth cream; bronzer along the jawline and charcoal brushed into the eyebrows.

I knelt as we had been taught and put both hands on my head. David lifted my emerald silk caftan with effort and heaped it onto my shoulders. Two years of calisthenics had rendered me able to stand and move in the garment, to bear its weight without grimace. (The caftans had been lead-lined for centuries; they celebrated the inner strength and outer delicacy that guysha practice required).

I coaxed my hair into a topknot, pulling as hard as I dared (“Stop just short of the point at which screaming occurs,” the Guide said. “This will leave the face taut and astonished”). I half-dragged David into his caftan and helped him pin a silver horse in his hair. He had been a good friend. He helped me become more attractive and listened to my complaints. A friend, or travel companion as the school called them, was ideal for this purpose (as long as we didn’t mistake a travel companion for a destination). Though vicious rivals by nature, we would have a role in each other’s lives going forward, when the women in our lives were away on business, or dead.

We took turns at the full-length mirror. “Would I choose me?” I asked my reflection, and I wasn’t sure. Without doubt I had done my best, but there were no guarantees. As the Master said, even the loveliest rose will be invisible to a lady who’s partial to tulips.

We met up with the other boys in front of the building. The twelve of us made the two-block walk to the restaurant in silence. Small steps like S.I. had shown us, gladiator sandals digging into the backs of our legs. The party playing out in our minds.

S.I. and the Master greeted us solemnly at the door. They had divided us into two groups, matching our strengths with the tastes of the ladies. Two ladies per room, with three guyshas to entertain each; this ratio was standard. (“In guysha practice as in life,” the Guide said, “a lady is most effectively loved by coalition.”)

I smiled shyly in each lady’s direction as we entered the room, letting them see the tops of my lashes. They were installed on pink satin loveseats, ready for the games to begin: one gaunt and grey in a tracksuit, the other wrapped in a musty shawl. Eager to rest and recover, to put world beating aside for the evening. Ms. Gordon bought houses, changed the locks and resold them; Ms. Bernal sold bowling accessories wholesale.

We assembled opposite them and launched into a spirited cancan. Swirling silk in six colors, robust calves in full flight. Trainee guyshas often led off with this dance; it was a rousing way to present the physique and popular with the clients.

My heart raced along with the music. I attempted to radiate whimsy, good humor, humility and sass. In a still moment, I felt Ms. Gordon’s gaze land on my thigh and trace my leg to the floor. In my form she had found an intriguing, picturesque country; greedily she explored every corner and planned an extended stay.

Final kicks, tepid applause. A fresh diversion was wanted. The Master lifted his chin in my direction and in that of another boy. The ladies had requested that we join them at their table. Three of the others played Danny Boy on the recorder; David circulated with a silver tray of petit fours and tea (possessed of good balance and limited charm, he was designated to serve ahead of the party).

“I was just telling this fellow about the big war in the forties that my grandmother fought in,” the rotund lady turned to me and said. “Germany and Japan were on one side, and we were on the other.”

I had learned this in school, aged ten. No matter: “All knowledge is new knowledge when it comes from a lady,” the Guide said. I bit my lip and rounded my eyes.

Her grandmother, it seemed, had been a shipping clerk on the front lines. “You know, they made the uniforms out of cotton in those days,” she said. I assumed the stamina posture as she detailed the contents of her mess kit, the onset of ham rationing, who gave nylons to whom. I punctuated the story with gasps and the occasional shriek of delight.

“She was so brave,” I said. “And so are you,” I added quickly, sensing that a ball had been dropped.

I rose frequently that I might be enjoyed by the other, by the gaunt admirer of my dancing: fetching more sugar, going for napkins, adjusting the flowers on a neighboring table. I rotated my body that her tour might be comprehensive. Critically, throughout these movements I never lost sight of the speaker: I spotted like a ballerina, my focus on the bridge of her nose.

The narrative reached a crescendo: the lady announced that the Allies had triumphed.

“Oh, my!” I said, exhaling, my face aglow with relief.

From his post in the corner, the Master observed this and nodded.

***

The verdict came down in the morning. The Master spoke to us one by one, handed us our fate on a post-it. Guysha, first class; guysha, service class; or a blank slip of paper (the latter meaning that a boy had not been noticed and therefore was no longer welcome). David was admitted into the service class; he would be responsible for the sausages, martinis and so forth. It was expected, accepted. Better than the alternative. He shrugged. Waiting for my name to be called, I thought I might vomit, or scream, or start sobbing.

Summoned at last, I stumbled into the office, every inch of my toned body trembling. I held out my hand to receive the news, and the Master shook it. “There were doubts,” he said, “but you’ve done the school proud. You’ll make a fine guysha, my son. First class.” Both ladies had enjoyed me; the words “docile” and “shapely” were used. He handed me a red post-it bearing the three magnificent words.

I wanted to throw my arms around him, leap up onto his desk, release two years of tension in one window-shattering roar. But I remembered my training. “Thank you, sir,” I said, bowing slightly, and walked calmly out of the room.

There was a shock to absorb. Jason had been declared unamusing. The Master himself was saddened and stunned. “You are an excellent student,” he’d said. “But a lady’s eyes go where they go.” The boy emerged from his office, defeated. A certain greyness had settled upon him. His features, always so striking to me, suddenly seemed asymmetrical and plain.

He would have to set his sights lower now. Secretarial work or helping his father at home. He’d expressed an interest in studying medicine once. There was still a glimmer of hope. He could dress in his finest clothing and position himself around town; a less discerning lady might discover him that way and take him in as a husband. Either that or he could become an eccentric, convening with other unwanted boys to discuss how fabulous they were on their own.

Quietly he gathered his things and was gone by the afternoon.

***

For the next few months, I felt the full force of the sun. I was eighteen, freshly released, the new film that everyone wanted to see. Someone called for me practically every evening. They marveled at the shine of my hair, at the delicacy of my steps; at how I made each and every one of them feel like the queen of the realm. In my company, they could spread out: give voice to their thoughts, retell their favorite jokes, revel in their relative sophistication.

They started calling me Robe. I comforted, I exalted. I was flannel for the weary and golden brocade for those in the mood to be regal. There was also the delicious thought of me against their skin. Glorious, mountaintop days.

As the summer wore on, though, I started to feel a cold draft. The ladies still requested my presence, but some element of awe had gone out of the evenings. They had seen all my moves, heard every song that I knew, learned the patterns on all of my caftans. Once a distant, magical figure, I became an old buddy–someone you might punch on the arm.

Familiarity was the first stage of descent. Boredom would follow, and in time harden into contempt. A guysha was permitted to work until the age of twenty-two, but very few made it that far. One day they would see me and cringe, like moviegoers watching Titanic for the thirtieth time. Worsening matters, there were the new guyshas from the competing school (several months younger, less shopworn) and the laser tag establishment that had opened down the road.

Unease. As my stock dropped, I grew sick of my own interjections, lost faith in my smile and in my ability to pour tea. At least there was a consensus: we all wished I could be more exciting. Night after night, I tried to regain my mystique, but failed. There are only so many ways that a gentleman can toss his head.

***

One October evening, I was delivered. Another guysha and I were entertaining Ms. Howard, easing her through a story about a transaction gone wrong. A particularly luxurious birdhouse had been commissioned and designed; when the customer saw the blueprints, she became enraged and demanded a refund.

“Do you know what that lunatic wanted?” she exclaimed.

We didn’t. I prepared a light condemnation of the ingrate in question.

“Shingles!” she cried. “Shingles all over the roof! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Next thing you know, they’ll want a satellite dish!”

She threw her arm out theatrically, mowing down a full glass of wine.

In this moment, my destiny shifted. I seized a teacloth from the next table, wiped up the dark puddle with a few deft strokes. (We had been trained for such occasions—dropped olives, brawls, dentures stuck in the cupcakes, etc.).

The sight of my muscular forearm capably wielding a rag ignited something in her. As a rule, a guysha was Saturday night: singing and sequins and thrills. A homely or aged gentleman was Sunday: pot roasts and pies, clean towels and decorations for Christmas. In this gesture, a gentleman’s every grace—an entire agreeable weekend. She knew that she had to have me.

The next morning, the Master gave me her letter. She extended the honor of marriage (if I was willing to have her). Was I willing? I laughed out loud and held the letter over my heart. Robe Howard, a proper husband! Confetti rained down from the skies. I’d be sheltered in my decline, protected from ridicule. They would nod to me in the streets, say “That fellow was picked from the crowd!”

Formerly in service to all, I would turn my talents to the service of One. I remembered the Master’s words: “At any stage in his life, a gentleman can be replaced. Every day, he will audition; every day he must be recast.” It was a humbling prospect, but I was up to the challenge. Through the years, I would alleviate her every pain in the ass, brighten her days in every way that I could. What I lost in beauty, I’d make up in casseroles.

They say that a gentleman’s joys are fleeting. It was possible that I’d never fly higher, that this morning was the apex of my life (and indeed it was so). Perfect, midsummer moment, but a single breath; I closed my eyes and held it as long as I could.