A Bright Ray of Darkness

by Ethan Hawke

  “The wind doesn’t blow,” J.C. said. “You get it? It’s wind, what else is it going to do? Rain doesn’t fall. It’s rain. And you don’t act. You are. You get it?”

  Lady Percy had on sweatpants and a T-shirt and was now stretching in the aisle, doing yoga poses as she listened to J.C. Her long red hair fell to the small of her back. I was starting to want to fuck her badly. I couldn’t help it. It’s hard to kiss someone every night, have them touch you tenderly on the stomach, hold their hand, and then just let it go at curtain call. Memorizing lines is easy. Navigating and spending your own emotional currency is difficult. She felt me staring at her ass and glanced over. Her smile revealed just how nervous she was; her mouth didn’t move right.

  I looked across the house to old man Edward, our King. He smiled straight.

  “Let your characters be as interesting and rich as each of you. You are talented and you are prepared. Have confidence. Everything will go up all by itself. I will watch tonight’s show, but I will not watch again till we close. So, take care of each other. Take care of your health. Wash your hands. Don’t drink too much. Remember, self-pity is the only emotion that doesn’t play.” He seemed to stare right at me. “Don’t give in to it. Not onstage, not in life. Self-pity belongs in the garbage out back. Have I been clear?”

  He still held my eyes and paused, and I saw a glint of doubt in his eyes. J.C. was worried. What was he worried about? Was it me? My self-pity?

  “That’s the truth,” whispered a voice behind me. It was Scotty, my understudy. He scared me. His eyes were so blue they were almost white. All during rehearsal, I would catch him writing down my moves. Sometimes I’d hear him running my lines in the hallway. I tried to ignore him, but he was too goddamn gracious. Sometimes Scotty would say, “You have a cold? You sounded a little hoarse out there,” and I’d want to wring his neck.

  “Now, for my last job as your director.” J.C. clapped his hands together. “Rehearsals are over and it’s time to stage the curtain call.”

  “Oh, God no.” We all heard Edward groan and look up from his crossword. “Will the tortures never cease?”

  “I will have no insubordination, not even from you, Edward. It’s time for us to get the damn standing ovation we all deserve.”

  “Well then, bring out the flags.” Edward sighed.

  Most directors stage a curtain call before the first preview, but J.C. was old school.

  During previews, we did a full company bow in work lights, no fanfare. This was to let the audience, critics, and us know we were still working. We were not allowed to enjoy the fruits of our labor, until our labor was complete. The staging of the curtain call was the final touch for any J.C. Callahan production. He took this shit seriously.

  J.C. tore a piece of paper from his assistant’s notebook and started calling out names. Stage management walked through the stage left doors with a dozen flags, each carrying one of the various family crests represented in the play. The Percy flag, Hotspur’s, had the word “Esperance” embroidered across it. Immediately, it was my favorite.

  The final bows began with Prince Hal, the King, Falstaff, and Hotspur walking through the crowd. We were to stride out through the flags, trumpets, and spears, walking side by side. It was strange to do with no one clapping. I was to take my solo bow first, then get offstage through the downstage exit while the Prince took his bow. As we practiced, I bowed and leapt off confidently. Suddenly, J.C. stopped everything.

  “William, what the fuck? Do not leap offstage! If you do that everyone will watch you, when they should be watching Prince Hal. But if you walk out with Hal and bow humbly, we, the audience, will feel some offstage healing has happened between you two—the story will be fresh in our imagination and we will cry again at the uncertainty of the universe and leap to our feet clapping with a newfound rigor people usually save for their children! So, stay in the fucking pocket and don’t draw attention by leaping offstage as if you’re worried nobody realized how awesome you were.”

  I did as I was told.

  “Now,’’ J.C. barked on, “next I want you, Virgil, to come out, step forward, and take your bow. This is the moment when everyone will stand. Take a breath to soak it in, but then, as quickly as possible, you will turn around and see the King right behind you. Gesture to his majesty and get offstage. Let him have the final bow. And, Teddy?” he shouted out to Edward. “Once you come up and get yourself situated firmly at the center mark, I want you to smile. And on that smile…Now listen to me, everybody!” J.C. raised his voice, making sure stage management could hear him. “Everything: lights, music, everything will go to black. Curtain. The rest is silence. When this happens, they will shake the roof off this place, begging you for a second final bow. You will, despite your exhaustion, oblige. One final full company bow.”

  “Ahhh, excuse me,” Virgil spoke up. He was still standing center stage, looking uncomfortable. “Ahhhh, Jeez—I don’t want to be some kind of giant asshole here but…Ahhh…I don’t know how to say this—”

  “Virgil.” J.C. stood up and walked down the aisle. “I know and understand fully what you are feeling and what you are considering saying. Don’t do it. In vanity productions of The Henrys, Falstaff takes the final bow. I know that is very common—and you are well within your rights to expect that. And you are not an asshole for wanting the final bow. You are great at what you do and certainly deserve a final bow. But, the reason that Falstaff often takes the final bow is because usually the whole production is conceived and imagined by some dimwit director who rendered the whole event in service of a star’s performance.”

  J.C. continued, “But in truly magnificent productions of King Henry the Fourth, Parts One and Two, it’s obvious that the title character, King Henry the Fourth, should take the final bow. And, fortunately for you, you are giving the most remarkable performance of Falstaff New York and possibly all of America has ever seen, inside the greatest production of The Henrys ever done. So, there may be moments that will be uncomfortable for you—like this one: not taking the final bow. But it is only the discomfort that John Lennon must’ve felt having to share the stage with Paul McCartney. Imagine how Mick Jagger felt the night he realized how the audience related to Keith Richards. You think he didn’t suffer? Paul Robeson and Uta Hagen? Thank God, they carried their burden. It is the discomfort experienced when giants lower their heads in deference to one another—none of them want to—and we mortals simply reap the rewards. You understand? If you trust me, and gesture to Edward, and let him have the stage—people will leave here thinking about the play, the greatness of what we achieved as a collective, and not only about you.”

  “That’s what I don’t like about it.” Virgil half-smiled. The whole company laughed.

  “Good. Thank you. Settled.” J.C. marched on. “All right, let’s run it from the end of the play to Edward’s final bow,” he shouted back at the stage manager, “and then let’s fire this rocket.”

  And then, just like that, it was done.

  Rehearsals were over.

  The show was set to run.

  It was fight call.

  * * *

  —

  Before every performance, there is “fight call,” where the actors run through all the potentially violent moments of the play, making sure the moves are all in our bodies, ensuring that no accidents happen. You don’t have to be in costume, but you have your weapons and walk through your more dangerous moves. Next it was half-hour, when we are all supposed to be in our dressing rooms. The monitor is turned on and you can hear the ushers start to file down the aisles, vacuuming the seats, taking the Playbills from their boxes, and pacing around the theater preparing the house. Sitting at our dressing room tables, the whole cast begins their pre-show rituals. Edward, our King, will sit calmly with his door open, doing the crossword. Virgil’s door will be shut as he howls his
vocal warm-ups. The younger actors are always goofing around, laughing, and running back and forth to the hairdresser’s room. The stage manager’s assistant will go to all the rooms of the cast members who forgot to sign in. Three dressers will walk down the hall with Virgil’s fat suit to help him wriggle into it.

  Even with the anticipation of opening night, it was a tranquil moment. Clearly, there was an extra vibration of apprehension in the hallways, but we were all trying to settle it. Flowers were everywhere; most members of our cast had someone—a mom, a girlfriend, a husband, at least an agent—who loved them enough to send roses, irises, lilies, wrapped in plastic. The actresses often would get two or three sets of roses. Virgil’s room was a goddamn botanical garden. Ezekiel and I had a few lame vases ourselves. He had one from his wife and one from his girlfriend. I had a bottle of bourbon from my agent and an envelope from my mom. Inside was a picture of Laurence Olivier playing Hotspur. Scribbled on the back was

  The Wisdom of the Desert Fathers:

  Abbot Pastor said, “There are only two things a man ought to hate above all, For in hating them, he shall be free.”

  A brother asked, “What are these things?”

  “An easy life and vainglory.”

  Love,

  Your vain mother

  I taped the image to my mirror next to the other, anonymous quotes I’d been receiving.

  The lines of our dressing room were clearly drawn. Ezekiel liked things clean and simple. “There’s no dirt in heaven,” he’d say. He had his script neatly placed in one corner of his desk, his makeup tidily tucked under the lights of the mirror, a steaming cup of mint tea in front of him, and nothing else. His clothes were meticulously hung in the closet and his chain-mail armor was already on his shoulders. His side of the dressing room reminded me of my grandfather’s basement. Grandpa had his hammer, pliers, wrenches, and saws all neatly hung on a pegboard. Then, like a shadow behind each instrument, he had painted the shape of the tool. That way even when you took down the level, it was obvious where to put it back. It was perfect order.

  My side was a mess. I liked it that way. Clothes and empty PowerBar wrappers were everywhere. I had the quotes taped up all over the mirror, fan mail sprawled out under my desk, a ventilator for my throat, cough drops, an extremely large poster of Clint Eastwood screamin’ his fool head off in The Outlaw Josey Wales, and another poster of Derek Jeter making a wicked cross-body throw (those two men were my models for Hotspur). Lots of other papers littered every surface: notes, half-read books, unopened scripts my agent had sent. Cigarettes, matches, my guitar. I had junk everywhere.

  Ezekiel said he didn’t care what I did with my half, and I believed him. He didn’t. I never once breached the divide with my crap. He kept a small scented candle and lit it whenever he thought I smelled. We laughed about it. We got along well and often talked seriously, but at half-hour neither of us would speak, at least not for the first ten minutes. Both of us were never late and the first ten minutes were spent in a kind of unspoken agreement of silent meditation. Then, when we intuited the other was ready, one of us would break the spell with idle chatter.

  “My wife’s coming tonight,” he said when ready. “She’s such a piece of work.

  “She asked, ‘Can I leave after your character dies or do I have to stay for the whole thing?’ I was like, ‘Listen, woman, don’t come at all—I don’t care.’ She’s gonna hate it. ‘Why are you playing such a small part? Why do you bother? You were better on Law & Order!’ She loathes J.C., calls him David Koresh.”

  I was still shirtless. My body was twisted and tight like a steel cable. I had these fake scars I’d put all over my chest. There’s a scene in the second act when Hotspur is shirtless and I liked the audience to see that this warrior had fought more than once. To that end, I’d drip hot wax across my chest and then I’d paint the wax. It looked tough as hell.

  “It’s not like she hasn’t already seen twenty thousand Shakespeare productions I’ve done. Back when we were in love she saw me play Caliban in The Tempest like eighteen times. She liked Shakespeare back then.”

  I nodded and smiled as the hot wax dripped down my rib cage.

  “She asked me this morning, ‘If we didn’t have the kids, we’d be split, right?’ And I’m like, ‘Are you nuts?’ You think I live in this house to enjoy the fruits of our dynamic? You gotta be kidding! Of course, we’d be split. ‘What’s going to happen when they’re grown?’ she asks. Oh God, I’m like…‘You’re asking me this on opening night? That’s like crying ’cause if there wasn’t gravity, my feet wouldn’t stay on the ground, you know? I mean obviously, if there weren’t the kids, I would leave—but there are the kids and I’m gonna stay. Simple. And only the Lord knows what we’ll do when they take off. Things will be different then.’ ”

  Ezekiel took a sip of tea. He occasionally looked at me, but most of the time he was talking to himself in the mirror. I was now taking red and blue powder and brushing it over the wax on my chest to give the scars a bruised and ravaged look.

  “Charleze is coming, too.” He winked at me and pointed to the cards that came from both sets of flowers that he had tucked into the bottom of his mirror.

  “Oh God, this is gonna go great,” he moaned sarcastically. “But what am I supposed to do? Charleze wants to see the show. She loves me. She believes in me. She picked out this knife for me.” He held up a blade he had tucked into a sheath on his belt. “She helped me figure out my whole character biography. We lay in bed and daydreamed about how a black man would have found his way to London and how I came to work for the King.” He put the knife away. “She doesn’t think I should be rotting away in the back of some TV show. She cares about art, you know? She gets it. We went to the MoMA together. She understands a man needs to aspire to greatness and if he gives up on his hope for excellence, his soul dies. And”—he paused for effect—“she likes it when I twirl my finger in her ass when I fuck her from behind, you know?” He burst out in a big easy grin.

  I stood in front of the mirror checking out my scars.

  “Do you flex that much when you’re onstage? You look like a retarded teenager,” he said.

  I went into our bathroom, left the door open, turned on the fan, stood on the toilet, and lit a cigarette right up close to the vent. I did this every night at the fifteen-minute mark. Ezekiel didn’t mind, but the stage manager lost his marbles if he ever smelled even a hint of smoke.

  “Oh God, you know what I said to my wife last night when she asked if Charleze was coming?” Ezekiel shouted to me. “I said, ‘Baby, let’s just imagine that every Sunday for the past two years, I snuck out of the house and went to Prospect Park collecting this very bizarre form of exquisite caterpillar.’ You know?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “This is what I said to my wife,” he told me again, “ ‘Like, let’s just say that I loved these rare caterpillars and I would put on gloves and go into the park or wherever and hunt for these little suckers. ’Cause they meant something to me. Maybe they remind of me of a blissful time when I was a kid before I had any responsibilities.’ ”

  His hands were lightly trembling. I stood on the commode listening and smoking. It felt like we were astronauts sitting on top of a rocket about to explode to the moon. Every so often, I would blow my smoke carefully into the fan and watch it disappear.

  “ ‘For some reason, when this caterpillar crawls across my hand, I’m like twelve years old again and my heart is beating like a happy bunny—but I know that if I tell everybody that I love caterpillars, people are gonna think I’m childish, right? They will judge me; they’ll think I’ve got some kind of creepy insect fetish going on. So, I keep it to myself. I enjoy these moments to myself. I’m not murdering anybody. I’m not shooting up. It’s just that there is joy in this simple pleasure. It doesn’t mean I hate my life or I wa
nt to get a divorce. It doesn’t even mean I want to spend every day with the freakin’ caterpillar. I just like to do it sometimes.’ And my wife at this point is like, ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ ”

  “I was about to say the same thing,” I said, ashing my cigarette into the sink.

  “No, come on, listen to me. You’re a sophisticated guy. You can understand this.” He took a deep breath, giving me a sharp look. “ ‘Baby,’ I say to her, ‘why can’t you look at Charleze like she’s just a caterpillar. It’s just my weird thing. Something I like, that is personal to me. Why can’t I have something that’s mine alone? Why does it have to be about you? I’m not hurting you, you are just perceiving it that way.’ And she screams, ‘ ’Cause you are my HUSBAND and I love you. I don’t want to share you with a caterpillar. WHAT HAPPENS WHEN SHE TURNS INTO A BUTTERFLY!’—and I’m like, ‘It’s an analogy.’ ’’

  “You didn’t honestly expect her to be persuaded by all this, did you?” I said, tossing my cigarette into the toilet.

  “Would you ever promise some chick that you will absolutely, under no circumstances, laugh at anyone else’s jokes?” Ezekiel asked, and then affected a goofy lawyer voice: “I vow to never find anyone else funny.” My head was buried in my inhaler. I tried to suck on this vaporizer after every cigarette.

  “It’s an absurd thing to suggest,” Ezekiel continued, “yet people think it’s OK to vow to one another that they will never be sexually attracted to any other human again.”

  “They don’t vow not to be attracted; they vow not to act on it,” I corrected from my inhaler. I felt like an expert on this commandment.