Summary
In a dust-blown hamlet where rusted milk-cans outnumber dreams, a lanky farm-girl—her freckles constellations of unpaid chores—overhears the gentry’s gramophone bragging of a moonlit soirée. No fairy godmother materializes; only the barn’s moth-eaten curtains billow like pennants of possibility. She cannibalizes a paraffin-scented lamp-shade, lacquers it with sump-oil iridescence, and sculptures a corset from baling wire; suddenly the Orient is reassembled in a hen-house. Thus armored, she strides past leering scarecrows and gossiping ewes toward the plantation house whose columns glow like incisors. Inside, violins saw away at her future; debutantes titter into champagne flutes that later shatter against her audacity. A bandleader—equal parts satyr and stockbroker—twirls her until the makeshift silk unravels, revealing not rags but radiance. Midnight never strikes; instead dawn’s first cockcrow disperses the masquerade, yet the girl departs owning nothing but the memory of having been seen, and that, for once, suffices.
Synopsis
The modern Cinderella gets the idea that she would like to go to the ball and accordingly she makes herself an Oriental costume from a lamp-shade and a curtain.
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