The Empire of Night: A Christopher Marlowe Cobb Thriller (2 page)

And then he turned his attention to me, casually, as if he’d known I was there all long.

We had a second extended face-off.

I was right about his eyes. They seemed dead, these eyes. As dead as a bullet casing.

He returned his gaze to my mother.

I was tempted to slip from my seat—right that moment, with Hamlet tormenting the girl he loved—and go through the stage access door into the wings and find my way up to the flies.

And then do what?

Cool off now,
I told myself. For weeks I’d been sitting in a London hotel room preparing for the next assignment. Necessarily so. But I’d been idle for too long. This guy reminded me what my body had been trained for and primed for. Which, however, certainly
hadn’t
been to cause a public ruckus over some lug because I didn’t like his looks or his sneaking around.

I lowered my face. I concentrated on Hamlet advising his girl to be off to a nunnery and then making a flourish of an exit. A few moments later, with Ophelia still boohooing about her boyfriend’s madness, I looked up once more into the flies.

He was gone.

I let it go.

At the first intermission, after Hamlet vowed to catch the conscience of the king, I went out of the theater and down to the side alley and smoked a cigarette there, watching the shadows, waiting for a tough guy in a trilby. Nothing doing.

Back in the theater, through to the next curtain, I kept a frequent but fleeting eye on the flies. No sign of him, and now Hamlet was swearing that his thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth. At the beginning of the act I’d have embraced that recommendation. As the curtain came down for the second intermission, I’d finally been able to drift in the other direction. So I went out and smoked another Fatima and kept my back to the suffragette chatter nearby on the sidewalk and thought about how my mother was indeed Hamlet, as it said rimmed in electric light above my head, and she was a good one, neatly balancing the classic introspective inaction with the strength to kill.

Inside the theater once more, she held my undivided attention through to the prince’s last words—
the rest is silence—
and in the script there is but a single word of stage direction:
Dies.
For most actors who have taken on Hamlet, the rest is
not
silence. The rattling or sighing or moaning or gasping are considered by the usual tribe of actors to be the sweet dessert to a long night of emoting. I feared for my mother now, in spite of the surprising subtlety of her performance so far, feared for her excesses. And she surprised me once more by dying with simply an exquisite lifting of the face to the spotlight and a closing of the eyes and, thereby, an ineffably rendered release of spirit.

I admired her performance, but I did not like to witness this, in much the same way as I did not like her closing a hotel room door upon me. I felt she had left me forever. And with her death upon my mind—for it was hers as well as Hamlet’s that I was thrumming to—I lifted my own face once more, to the flies.

And there he was. He was watching once again at the railing, and as my mother played at death he leaned toward her and his jacket gaped briefly and showed a holstered pistol on his left side. I wished ardently that I was carrying my own.

From the early days of my reporting career I got close to a fair number of criminals. Tough guys, all of them. Tempered-steel tough. But I’d heard a number of them talk about their mothers, think about their mothers, and inevitably these tough guys turned into simpering idiots of a variety of sorts, from weak to reckless.

So it was that even as I wished I had my own pistol with me I was grateful I didn’t. I felt trigger-itchy at that moment and it was possible my hand would have drawn my Mauser and would have pushed the safety button and would have waited for the slightest movement of this lug’s right hand toward his pistol, with the wrong kind of look on his face, and I would have shot him. Maybe not aiming to kill. Maybe just to disable that right arm.

Without this option, however, I clearly understood that shooting him would have been the wrong thing to do. At least till his pistol was out and coming to bear on her. And then I would have simply killed him.

2

As it was, he didn’t do anything but watch for the last few moments of the play. Then the curtain fell, and when it rose and the calls began, he was gone for good.

The audience clapped loudly and the rest of the cast came and bowed and lined up on the sides and they joined the applause as my mother appeared. She bounded downstage center and the women in shirtwaists and suffragette ribbons all stood up and cried, “Bravo! Bravo!” and my mother bowed deeply to them as a man and then she straightened and flounced her hair and she curtsied as a woman. The suffragettes cried, “Brava! Brava!”

All the while, the rest of the viewers were applauding loudly, some of them rising to their feet as well. As did I. My mother did not look my way.

A boy brought roses from the wings.

I’d seen bigger ovations for my mother, but the few actresses who’d done Hamlet before had been pilloried in the press and heckled from the cheap seats. I hadn’t read her reviews, but I heard not a single rude sound from this audience, and that seemed a triumph to me.

I lingered to let the crowd murmur its way out of the auditorium after Mother had finally stopped taking bows and the house lights had come on. Then I crossed before the front row. But instead of going left, up the aisle to the exit doors, I went to the right, up the steps and through the stage access door and into the wings with its smells of greasepaint and sweat and dust burning on the electric stage lights. The actors had all vanished, and squaring around before me was a lanky man in shirt sleeves and bow tie. The stage manager, I assumed.

I was ready to explain myself to him, why I felt privileged to go through an unauthorized door and head straight to the dressing rooms, but he immediately said, “Mr. Cobb.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Would you like to see your mother?”

“I would.”

“This way.” He turned on his heel to lead me toward a door at the back wall.

I stepped up quickly to walk beside him.

“There was a man with a gun up on your fly floor,” I said. “Are you surprised?”

He stopped. He turned to me.

“A gun?” he said.

“Inside his coat.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m surprised.”

“Do you know who he might have been?” I asked.

The stage manager hesitated at this. He was thinking in ways that I could not clearly interpret. Then he said, “Not if he was in my flies.”

“And if he hadn’t gotten that far?”

“Your mother has fans.”

This was no fan.

He turned and moved on. “Please follow me,” he said.

Something was odd here, but I didn’t push the point.

As we passed through the doorway at the back of the stage wings, I said, “How did you know me?”

“Your mother has a picture of you in her dressing room.”

This didn’t surprise me.

I followed him along a short passageway and we cut back at the next turning and entered an enclosed staircase.

Her dressing room was on the second floor. The door was ajar and emitting female laughter.

The stage manager knocked and the laughter faded.

“Prithee show thyself,” my mother called out, using the lowest Hamlet register of her voice.

More female laughter.

The stage manager leaned his head past the edge of the door to look in. “Your son,” he said.

I did not hear her reply, if she made one. Perhaps she gestured. The stage manager pulled back at once and opened the door and I stepped in.

She sat with her back to her makeup mirror, still in her costume of trunk hose and doublet, the doublet unbuttoned, however, showing a finely embroidered lace blouse beneath, straight from a Mayfair shop no doubt, her own private joke throughout the night’s portrayal of Hamlet, a secret assertion of her modern womanhood. She was flanked by four suffragettes, two on each side, their uniform dark skirts and white shirtwaists making them look like a ladies string quartet about to go off to play in a palm court at a local hotel.

I stopped a single pace into the room, my hat in my hand. My mother rose. Quite formally, even solemnly. Then she took a step forward and opened her arms. “My darling Kit,” she said.

I came to her and we hugged and she smelled of greasepaint and mothball camphor and she felt all bones and sinew inside her man’s clothes.

“Isn’t he handsome, my dears?” she said.

The women simply made little muttering sounds in response, ready for the vote but not for boldly voicing the sort of sentiments my mother was challenging them to have.

I focused on her suffragettes, as my mother resisted my incipient withdrawal from her arms, assessing them as she would have them assess me.

They were varying degrees of young—Mother had brought only the more impressionable acolytes into her closest circle—but three of them did not hold my eye even for a moment. One, though, had a strong-jawed, wide-mouthed sort of farm girl prettiness, the kind of girl you’d enjoy trying, briefly, to pry away from her horse.

Mother was letting go of me now, pushing me back to arm’s length but keeping her hands on my shoulders. “Where have you been for the past year?”

Where
she
had been was a more interesting question, but I politely did not ask it in front of the young women for whom she was still performing.

“Ah yes,” she said, as if just remembering. “I read your stories lately. What a fine writer you are. I taught him to write by making him read a thousand books in countless star dressing rooms on three continents.” The “him” was the only indication she’d suddenly started to talk directly to the other women, as her eyes kept fixed tightly on mine, shining that light of hers on me, making me a willing part of her present performance.

She said, elaborating on her perusal of my stories, “But Constantinople of all places,” she said. “All those poor people suffering under the Ottomans. A terrible business. Why would you ever go out there? I thought you were the great chronicler of bullets and cannon shells and men in battle dress, my darling.”

I did not have a chance to reply.

“And your ordeal on the high seas,” she said, the light changing in her eyes, giving off more heat and less illumination. “Did you get my telegram?”

“No.”

“Well, I didn’t know where to send it.”

Then you already knew I didn’t get it
. But I didn’t say this.

“He was on the
Lusitania
,” she said.

The suffragettes clucked softly in sympathy.

“Closer to three thousand,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “Utter non sequitur, my darling,” she said.

“The number of books you had me read. I figured it out not long ago.”

She brightened.

“In an idle moment,” I said. And then, to the others: “She and an ever changing cast of theater people she enlisted taught me everything I knew, before I knew to teach myself.” As she had done, I did not look directly at the suffragettes, letting the pronoun suggest I was addressing them.

Mother let go of my shoulders.

She introduced me to the young women, and I smiled at them and shook their hands, their grips still limply disenfranchised, but I did not endeavor to remember any of the names. Even, though it went against my natural inclinations, the name of the pretty one. Immediately after the introductions, my mother ushered them all out of the dressing room, everyone fluttering ardent good-byes and comradely good wishes every step of the way.

Mother closed the door and leaned back against it. “Was I splendid tonight?” she asked.

The question was not rhetorical, though I knew she knew the answer. “You were,” I said.

“Yes I was,” she said.

“Does all of London realize it?” I asked.

“Much of London.”

Some of the critics surely sneered at any woman playing the role. But she seemed content, so I did not ask.

“Poor Bernhardt,” she said.

Sarah Bernhardt played Hamlet in London in ’99 to vicious reviews. Mother was inviting the comparison. “You did better?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But I was referring to her leg. They cut it off only a few weeks ago and she gave it to a university.”

From Isabel Cobb’s Hamlet in London to Sarah Bernhardt’s losing a leg, service to my government had put me behind in my reading.

“Gangrene,” my mother said.

“So you’re doing better than the Divine Sarah in legs as well,” I said.

Mother lifted her face to the ceiling in a loud bark of a laugh. But when her face came back down, she grabbed a chaw of my cheek between her thumb and forefinger and gave it a squeeze and shake to match the laugh. “I feel bad for her,” she said.