Death Of A Hollow Man (10 page)

Now, having unpacked the tea and sugar and set out the cups, Deidre made her way to the auditorium to chalk up the stage for Act I. As Nicholas was already there going over his “opera” speech, she slipped silently into the back row to listen. It was a complicated piece, and Nicholas was making a mess of it. It started on a high point of anger, broke in the middle into giggling almost frenzied effusiveness, and ended on a note so elated as to be practically manic.

He had been going over it at home every night the previous week, and was agonizingly conscious that it wasn’t working. Now, he pumped amazement into his voice: “Astonishing device. A Vocal Quartet!” Following up with forced excitement: “On and on, wider and wider-all sounds multiplying and rising together …’’He plowed on, ending with an empty rhetorical shout: “… and turn the audience into God!”

Despair filled him. Nothing but ranting. But what was he to do? If emotion wasn’t there, it couldn’t be turned on like a faucet. A dreadful thought lurking always in the back of his mind leaped to the fore. What if he felt dry and stale like this on the first night? Without technique, he would be left clinging desperately to the text like an ill-equipped mountaineer on a rock face. He almost envied Esslyn his years of experience; his grasp of acting mechanics. It was all very well for Avery to describe their leading man’s performance as “just like an Easter egg, darling. All ribbons and bows and little candied bits and pieces with a bloody great hollow at the center.” Nicholas was not comforted, being only too aware that when his emotions let him down, he could offer neither ribbon nor bow, never mind anything as fancy as a candied trimming. Deidre came down the aisle.

“Hi,” said Nicholas morosely. “Did you hear all that?”

“I just can’t seem to get it right.”

“No. Well—you haven’t got the feeling, have you? And you’re just not experienced enough to put it over without.”

Nicholas, who had expected some anodyne reassurance, stared at Deidre, who crossed to the prompt corner and started to unpack her things. “If I could make a suggestion … ?”

“Of course.” He followed her around the stage as she crouched to re-mark the entrances and exits smudged or quite erased at the previous rehearsal.

“Well … first you mustn’t take the others into account so much when you’re speaking. Salieri … Van Swieten … they matter in Mozart’s life only so far as they affect income. They mean nothing to him as people. Mozart’s a genius—a law unto himself. You seem to be trying to relate to them in this speech, which is fatal. They are there to listen, to absorb. Perhaps to be a little afraid… .”

“Yes … yes, I see … I think you’re right. And God-how do you think he sees God?”

“Mozart? He doesn’t ‘see’ God as something separate, like Salieri does. Music and God are all the same to him. As for the delivery, you’re working the wrong way round. That’s why it sounds stale before you’ve even half got it right—”

“I know!” Nicholas smote his forehead.
“I know. ”

“If you stop thinking about the words and start listening to the music—”

‘‘There isn’t any music.”

“—in your head, silly. If you’re making a passionate speech about music, you have to
hear
music. Most of the other set pieces either have music underneath them or just before. This is very … dry. So you must listen to all the tapes and see what evokes the emotion you need, then marry it in your mind to the lines. I don’t mean ‘must,’ of course”—Deidre blushed suddenly—“only if you like.”

“Oh, but I do! I’m sure that would … it’s a terrific idea.”

“You’re in the way.”

“Sorry.”

Nicholas looked down at Deidre’s bent head and chalky jeans. He had not, unlike most of the rest of the company, underestimated her proficiency behind the scenes. But he had never talked to her about play production, and although he was aware of her ambitions in that direction, had thought (also like the rest of the company) that she would be no better at it than Harold was. Now, he gazed at her rather as men gazed at girls in Hollywood films after they had taken off their glasses and let their hair down. He said, “It’s a wonderful play, don’t you think?”

“Very exciting. I saw it in London. I’ll be glad when it’s over, though. I don’t like the way things are going.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing specific. But there’s not a nice feeling. And I’m dying to get on to
Vanya.
I do love Chekhov, don’t you, Nicholas?” She regarded him with shining eyes. “Even
The Cherry Orchard,
after all Harold managed to do to it … there was still so much left.”

“Deidre.” Nicholas followed her around in the wings, where, clipboard in hand, she started to check the props for Act I. “Why on earth … I mean … you should be with another company. Where you can really do things.”

“There isn’t one. The nearest is Slough.”

“That’s not far.”

“You need your own transport. At night, anyway. And I can’t afford to run a car. My father’s— He can’t be left alone. I have to pay someone to sit with him on theater evenings. …”

“Oh, I see.” What he did see—a sudden yawning abyss of loneliness, creative imagination starved of expression, and stifled, unrealized dreams—made him deeply, ashamedly embarrassed. He felt as if he were with one of those awful people who, uninvited, hitch up their clothes and show you their operation scar. Aware of the unfairness of this comparison and the banality of his next remark, Nicholas mumbled, “Bad luck, Deidre,” and retreated to the stage. Here, more for the sake of bridging an awkward moment than anything else, he picked up the parcel. “Someone sending Harold a bomb?”

“Heavily disguised as a book.” Nicholas eased the brown paper lightly Scotch-taped folds and attempted to peer inside.

“Don’t do that,” called Deidre. “He’ll say someone’s been trying to open it. And he’s bound to blame me.”

But Harold seemed to notice nothing untoward about his parcel. He arrived rather later than usual and was changing into his monogrammed directing slippers when Deidre gave him the book. There had been a time when Harold had always removed his footwear during rehearsals, explaining that only by doing so could he arrive at the true spirit of the play. Then he had seen a television interview with a famous American director during which the great man had stated that people who took off their shoes to direct were pretentious pseuds. Harold, naturally, did not agree, but just in case other members of the same company had also been viewing, he covered up his feet forthwith. As he took the parcel, Rosa, noticing, called
out, “Oohh, look … Harold’s got a prezzie.” And everyone gathered around.

The “prezzie” proved to be a bit of a letdown. Nothing unusual or exciting. Nothing to do with Harold’s only real passion in life. It was a cookbook.
Floyd on Fish.
Harold gazed at it blankly. Someone asked who it was from. He spun the pages, turned the book upside down, and shook it. No card.

“Isn’t there something written inside?” nudged an Everard. Harold turned the first few pages and shook his head. “How extraordinary. ”

“Why on earth should anyone send you a recipe book?” asked Rosa. “You’re not interested in cooking, are you?” Harold shook his head.

“Well, if you’re going to start,” said Avery, “I shouldn’t start with that. The man’s basically unsound.”

“Gosh, you are a snob,” said Nicholas.

“Right, young Bradley. That’s the last time you sit down at my table.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean it, Avery—honestly.” Half-frantic, half-laughing, Nicholas continued, “
Please
. I’m sorry …”

“I shall think of it,” said Harold, “as a gift from an unknown admirer. And now we must get on. Chop-chop, everyone …”

He put the parcel inside his hat. The momentary warmth that its appearance had engendered (it had been years since anyone had given him a present) had vanished. In its place was a faint unease. What a peculiar thing for anyone to do. Spend all that money on a book, then send it anonymously to someone for whom it could be of no interest whatever. Ah, well, thought Harold, he certainly didn’t have time to ponder on the mystery at the moment. The mystery of the theater—that was his business. That was what he had to kindle. And plays did not produce themselves.

“Right, my darlings,” he cried, “from the top. And please … lots and lots of verismo. Nicholas, you remember— Where
is
Nicholas?”

Mozart stepped out from the wings, “Here I am, Harold. ”

“Don’t forget the note I gave you on Monday.
Resonances.
Okay? That’s what I want—plenty of resonances. You’re looking blank.”

“Sorry, Harold?”

“You know the meaning of the word ‘resonances,’ I assume?”

“Um… Don Quixote’s horse, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, God!” cried Harold. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

A week passed. None of the rehearsals went well, and the first couple of run-throughs were absolutely dreadful. But it was at the dress rehearsal (so everyone later told Barnaby) that things really came to a head.

As Esslyn strode around the stage with his spring-heeled tango dancer’s walk in his blue-and-silver coat, so his performance grew in glossy fraudulence. He had stopped acting with—indeed, he hardly even looked at—his fellow players and strutted and posed in splendid isolation. Backed up by his myrmidons, he continued to snipe at David and Nicholas.

Nicholas was coping with all this very well. His earlier talk with Deidre had been the first of several, and he was now groping his way toward what he believed would be a truthful, intelligent, and lively rendering of the part of Mozart. He was halfway through the opening scene and playing to the back of Salieri’s neck when Esslyn suddenly stopped what he was saying and strolled down to the footlights.

“Harold?” Harold, his face marked with surprise, climbed out of his seat and walked forward. “Any particular stress on
che gioia?”

“What?”

“Sorry. To be frank, my problem is … I’m not quite sure what it means.” Silence. ‘‘Perhaps you could enlighten me?” Long pause. “I’d be most grateful.”

“Now who’s being
cattivo,
” murmured Clive.

“Don’t you know?” said Harold.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been saying those lines over and over again for the last six weeks and you don’t know what they mean?”

“So it appears.”

“And you call yourself an actor?”

“I certainly call myself as much of an actor as you are a director.”

An even longer pause. Then, softly on the air, it seemed to everyone present, came a feint reverberation, like the roll of distant drums. Harold said, very quietly, “Are you trying to wind me up?”

“Didn’t think it was necessary,” muttered Donald. “Thought he ran on hot air.”

“Of course not, Harold. But I do think—”

“I’m not going to translate it for you. Do your own homework.”

“Well, that seems a bit—”

“All right, everyone. Carry on. And no interval. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Esslyn shrugged and sauntered back to his previous position, and the reverberations rippled away into a silence shot with disappointment. The second confrontation, you could almost see everyone thinking, and it’s over before it really gets going. But their frustration was short-lived, for a few minutes later Esslyn stopped again, saying, “Do you think it’s true he’s never really laid a finger on Katherina?”

“Of course it’s true!” shouted back Harold. “Why on earth should he tell himself lies?”

Then there was a query on court etiquette, on the timing of the Adagio in the library scene, and on the position of the piano-forte. Harold once more made his way to the footlights, this time with a savage tic in one eyelid.

“If you’ve noticed all these hiccups before,” he said icily, “may I ask why you left it till this late stage to say so?”

“Because I’m not in charge. I was waiting for you to pick them up. As you’re obviously not going to, I feel, for the good of the play and the benefit of the company, I have to say something.”

“The day you have any concern for the rest of the company, Esslyn, will be the day pigs take to the skies.”

After this, as if the earlier interruptions had been just appetizers, the merest titillations, things started to go more splendidly wrong. Kitty’s padding would not stay up. The more it slid about, the more she grabbed at it. The more she grabbed at it, the more she giggled, until Harold stood up and yelled at her when she promptly burst into tears.

“It’s not so easy,” she wept, “when you’re already pregnant in the first place.”

“How many places are there, for godsake?” retorted Harold. “Wardrobe!” He stood tapping his foot and sucking his teeth until Joyce had secured Baby Mozart. Then the manuscript paper was not in its place on the props table. Or the quill pen. Or Kitty’s shawl. Deidre apologized and swore they had been there at the start of rehearsal. Salieri’s wheelchair jammed, and gold railings, not quite dry, imprinted themselves on the emperor Joseph’s white satin suit.

But the most dramatic, alarming, and ultimately hilarious
contretemps
was that the trestle table holding the bulk of the audience for the first night of
The Magic Flute
collapsed. It was piled high with sausage-chewing, pipe smoking Viennese rabble. Belching, joshing, pushing each other about, and generally overacting, all this to the loud accompaniment of rustic accents. These were mainly “Zummerset,” but one conscientious burgher who had really done his homework kept shouting,
“Gott in Himmel!”

Then, as the glorious
“Heil sei euch Geweihten”
soared above their heads, the trestle creaked, groaned, and gave way, tumbling the by now hysterical peasantry into a large heap in the center of the stage. Everyone except Harold thought this wondrously droll. Even Esslyn jeered with cold delicacy into his lace cuff. Harold rose from his seat and smoldered at them all.

“I suppose you think that’s funny?”

“Funniest thing since the Black Death,” replied Boris.