Idea in Stone

by Hamish Macdonald

  “Charlene!” said Helen. Charlene leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “So good to see you.”

  “Nice to see you, too,” she said.

  Stefan stood. “Hi, I’m Stefan.” She shook his hand. Her strong grip didn’t come as a surprise.

  She sat. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “Oh,” he said, “do you know my mother?”

  “No. Who’s your mother?”

  Stefan had longed all his life to hear those words. Already he liked Charlene. “It doesn’t matter. What did you mean, ‘finally’?”

  “Helen gave me your play a few months ago.” Stefan looked to Helen, whose magnified eyes looked up innocently. “I loved it, and was looking forward to meeting you.”

  “Well thanks. I only adapted it, though. My dad wrote it.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, I figured I should show you some of my work, to see if we might work together on it.” She unzipped the case and pulled out a large stack of sketches, paintings, and photographs, which she handed to Stefan. He took them carefully, not accustomed to handling artwork. He pored over them, drinking them in. One set held an entire city neighbourhood, while another suggested a fantastic forest with curling purple trees and vines under a moonlit sky—all achieved with simple lines and swaths of colour. From her dense, large-scale productions to simple, sketchy intimations of time and place, Stefan found himself moved by each to a different time, place, and mood.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but I did a few sketches after reading your play.” She gave these to him. He knew these places—the department store, the apartment, the hospital, the trench. Somehow she’d plucked them from his mind and put them on paper.

  “You’d really be willing to work with us?” he asked. Charlene smiled. “How can we be this lucky?” He turned to Helen. “How can we be this lucky?”

  Charlene answered. “I’m just getting back to work now—I’ve been out of commission for a while. I had a pretty serious operation.”

  Mmm, the one where you went home with your penis in a jar, thought Stefan. He felt guilty for the thought. “Well, whatever,” he said, “we’d be honoured to have you come on board, if you want to. Here’s the budget.” He figured he might as well push his luck before he got too accustomed to the idea of her working on the play.

  She looked over the figures. “Yeah, I can work with this.”

  “Holy crap!” said Stefan, elated.

  “We’ve got to work on your poker face before the auditions,” said Helen.

  ~

  Norman Wallace bought a pint at the bar, then made his way over to the booth where Stefan sat and Helen parked. He looked bigger on television, thought Stefan. But then, most people did. Except my mother, he considered. Perhaps there was an outside limit on how much television could change your stature, and Delonia was at it.

  “Hello,” said the actor, slipping into the leather-padded booth.

  “Hi,” said Stefan, struggling to keep from giggling. He often met famous people through his mother, yet there was still something exciting about meeting television and movie actors for the first time, as if the camera rendered them holy when it spared them its attention, and Stefan, chosen company of such a one, was granted some of that importance. Here Stefan was meeting another of those luminous people, one whom he’d watched on television since he was little. Stefan never particularly liked Norman Wallace on Broom Mates, that never-ending Canadian show about the neighbourhood curling team. The show had enjoyed an undeserved immortality thanks to Canadian content laws. Maybe it was not Wallace himself but Wallace’s character ‘Horchek’ he didn’t like, always causing problems for the others with his arrogant superiority.

  Stefan had no illusions anymore that meeting the famous would be of any particular benefit to him. You had to be ambitious about something for that to work, and until now Stefan didn’t have anything they could help him with. Besides, he knew the entertainers themselves would never be the ones to go after, being more subject than anyone to the vagaries of their industry.

  But his son, thought Stefan, oh, his son. Maybe he can introduce me. Imagine if we got along, and... Immediately his mind played out a sequence of events that spared him leaving and putting on the play, wrapped up instead in their affair, moving in together, relieved forever of any responsibility but being in love. He checked himself. It wasn’t going to happen. The actor who played Wallace’s son probably liked women. He’d also be in his late forties now, not the fresh-faced twentysomething Stefan used to pine for. The two actors probably weren’t in touch anyway. The show ended suddenly, when the network came up with a last-minute replacement for its time-slot, something even worse that didn’t last long. But it did the job of eliminating Broom Mates. Sitcomikaze, thought Stefan, smiling into his beer.

  Now Stefan had a chance to hire Norman Wallace to be in his show.

  “Thanks for meeting with us, Mister Wallace,” said Stefan.

  “Please,” answered the man with affected effort, “Norman.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Norman,” said Stefan. “Helen says she gave you the script and you might be interested in the part.”

  “Absolutely, young man. I thought the play was thoroughly enjoyable, and made some very good points.”

  “Well, thank you. I’ll pass that on,” Stefan replied, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain. Wallace didn’t seem to know the play’s history, or was too self-absorbed to think about it. Stefan found it odd to hear him talking without the Ukrainian accent he had in the show. He wondered how much of ‘Horchek’ was fiction.

  “Norman,” said Helen, “I understand that you’re interested in doing some theatre this summer. “

  A deft handling, thought Stefan, of “So, you’re unemployed”.

  “How would you like to travel to Scotland to act in the world’s largest theatre festival?”

  “Ah, theatre,” said Wallace fondly, dreamily. “You know, before that horrible television show I enjoyed several seasons at Stratford.”

  “Yes, I rememb—” Helen began.

  “Oh, yes, those were grand years. Olivier told me he was jealous when he saw my Coriolanus.”

  Ugh, thought Stefan. The only thing that annoyed him more than real fame was trumped-up fame.

  “Could you get me another drink, son? A single-malt, neat. Thank you.”

  “Uh, no problem,” said Stefan. I’m the director, he thought, heading to the bar. What kind of an audition is this? He took a breath of the pub’s visible atmosphere. Chill. Wallace will be good for the show.

  Two hours later, Stefan could see that Helen was struggling to stay upright in her chair. Her magnified eyes fluttered beyond her control. Wallace was still talking. Stefan had stopped trying to follow what he said. Something about being drunk onstage with O’Toole. Stefan’s head snapped up. “Of course, those reckless days are over,” Wallace quickly corrected, aware for the first time, it seemed, of being under evaluation. “My wife wouldn’t stand for any of that, on-stage or off.”

  Wallace looked out the pub’s window for a minute, then excused himself to go to the bathroom.

  “His wife is dead,” said Helen, leaning forward. She spoke in a hurried frog sotto voce even though Wallace was out of earshot: “She died last year, and he’s been a wreck since. Hasn’t done any work at all. That’s why we can get him. Everyone’s worried he can’t do it anymore, but I know he can. He’s a pro. He won’t let you down. And you can get him for scale.”

  “Helen! You’re heartless!”

  “I’ve got a heart. It’s just very small.” She downed her drink. “Shut him up and make him an offer.”

  ~

  Stefan felt self-conscious about his legs. They were skinny and pale, sticking out of his long skateboarder shorts. Before leaving the house, he looked at himself in the mirror. With his drooping hair, his thin frame, and his short stature, he looked like a teenager. Far from it, he thought. But it was too late to change. He had to g
et over to the rehearsal hall Helen booked for the auditions. He put his headphones on and headed out, avoiding Delonia and Cerise, who were in the back garden.

  The day was hot, and the sun made the sidewalk shine blinding and white. Stefan’s spirits were buoyed up by the energetic music in his ears. The song ended, and another began. He didn’t like this song, because it started with a spoken bit. Stefan didn’t understand why, but recorded music didn’t conjure up the second voice. As soon as the spoken passage began, though, that other voice poked through. Didnae. Gunnae.

  How can you miss someone you don’t know? he wondered. Before he could answer himself, he fast-forwarded to the musical part of the song.

  ~

  Stefan felt even more self-conscious of his legs. What a picture they made, Helen and he sitting on the side of the cheap wooden table opposite the actor—Stefan looking like a camp counsellor and Helen just being herself. Fluorescent lights buzzed above their heads. The varnish on the floorboards was worn through, and the white walls were peeling, exposing a layer of sky blue. Long mirrors hung on one wall with a wooden bar in front of them.

  The young man was formally dressed, wearing an ironed white shirt with a tie, dress slacks, and a tweed jacket.

  Stefan looked over the head-shot and résumé he’d been handed. He nodded and hmm-ed as he examined it, though it might as well have been a stock analysis for all it meant to him. He passed it over to Helen, his hand trembling with nerves. Stefan looked at the actor and smiled. The actor smiled calmly back. Stefan felt like he had no right putting this man on trial, asking him to do his act. Stefan had never been through this; he got all his vocal work using a demo tape. How do these actors put up with this? he thought.

  Luckily, the actor expected the audition to be the usual drill, so he led himself through it, standing up and moving away from them, offering first to do a classical piece, which Stefan didn’t really understand. Then he did something from a modern play called Downstairs from Father, which wound up with him agonising about his father’s death. Stefan caught himself picturing what he’d have for lunch.

  The actor finished, and Stefan found himself babbling to the man, saying that they had lots of people to see and it would be very hard to decide, and they didn’t know how long it would take them to choose the cast. Helen cut him off. “Thank you,” said Helen. “We’ll let you know.” The actor nodded, thanked them, and left.

  “You don’t have to tell them anything,” said Helen. “In fact, it’s better if you don’t give any indication at all. That way you don’t lead them on.”

  “Oh.”

  “So what did you think?”

  “I dunno,” said Stefan. “Not much of anything. I was thinking about myself—I was kind of nervous—”

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  “I found it was hard to pay attention to him.”

  “Good,” said Helen. “Listen to your instincts during this process. Imagine you were an audience member watching him in a show, and you found yourself drifting like that. Who knows what the reason was? Maybe he just broke up with his girlfriend. Maybe he wasn’t sure of his lines. The point is that you, watching him, didn’t feel connected to him.”

  “True. Even when he was going on about his dad, I didn’t really care. But that seems kind of cruel, to make him go through that and then not hire him.”

  “It’s not social work,” quipped Helen. “You don’t owe anyone a job, particularly not if they’re going to make your play boring.”

  Stefan made a guilty face.

  “Go get the next person,” she told him.

  A minute later, Stefan walked back into the room, followed by a tall man with curly red hair. “Hello!” he said to Helen as Stefan sat back down beside her. He dug into his knapsack and handed a résumé and head-shot to both of them, then sat in front of them.

  “Tell us a little about yourself,” said Stefan, feeling a bit more in control. He looked at Helen, who rolled her eyes at the stock interview question.

  “Well,” said the actor, “I’m a singer, dancer, actor, model, make-up artist, clothing designer—”

  Waiter, thought Stefan.

  “So what have you prepared for us?” interrupted Helen.

  The actor held out a ‘one minute’ finger, and reached into his bag. He pulled out a stereo and put it on the table, then fished through his pocket for a cassette tape. He blew on it, then put it into the stereo and pressed down the Play button. He ran into the centre of the room and shook his head and his arms to loosen them. The music started, and the actor raised his hands dramatically to the ceiling. With each pounding note, the actor moved into another dramatic stance. Stefan knew this song. What is it? he thought. Oh God: ”Eye of the Tiger”.

  The lanky man whirled and spun, dropped to the floor, twisted there, extended legs and arms, crouched, tumbled, and jumped. He hopped around the room, and finished as the song ended, reaching with open fingers toward Helen and Stefan.

  “We’re casting a play,” said Helen.

  The tape reached its end and the Play button popped up.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  Stefan piped in. “But thank you for your, um. For doing that. For us. Thanks.”

  The actor collected his things, including his headshots, from the table, and slinked to the door.

  “Thanks,” insisted Stefan.

  The actor lifted his middle finger at him and left.

  “Ho-kay,” said Stefan, pausing a moment before fetching the next actor.

  The next man followed Stefan into the room as if being led to the gallows. After a brief introduction, he pushed his chair backwards, and stood. “I’m going to do a piece from the play Downstairs from Father,” he said. He took a deep breath and looked at the chair. He shook visibly. “You!” he said to the chair, shaking. He took quick, panting breaths. Then he collapsed.

  Stefan and Helen waited a moment, but this was not part of the act. The man had fainted.

  “Alright then,” said Stefan. “Lunch.”

  ~

  Stefan threw the last crust of his “Bacon Frenzy” pizza into the box. Helen’s much smaller, unfinished “Garden Grazer” pizza and its box fit easily inside. He did his best to fold and stuff them into the garbage can as the next scheduled actor walked into the rehearsal hall.

  “Hello,” said Stefan, his mouth half full. He took his seat beside Helen. The actor looked at her, as if she were a special effect. “Hello?” repeated Stefan.

  “Sorry,” said the young man. “I, I’m here for my audition at 1:15.”

  “Right on time, then,” said Helen. The actor jolted in his chair, not expecting her to speak. He recovered, muttering details about the school he’d just graduated from, where he read about the audition, and how interested he was in the show (though the casting call listed only the roles and the play’s title).

  “So what have you prepared for us?” asked Stefan, getting into the swing of it.

  “Um, it’s from a play.” He laughed. “I guess that’s obvious. It’s, um, it’s from a play called Downstairs from Father.” Stefan and Helen nodded. “I’m reading Lenny’s monologue from the third act.” Stefan and Helen nodded again. The actor shuffled his chair back, then stood up and faced it. He turned briefly to Helen and Stefan. “I’m going to start now.”

  “Any time,” said Helen.

  The actor turned back and addressed a figure sitting in the chair. Judging from the angle of the actor’s gaze, he was speaking to someone two feet tall. “You!” the actor shouted. He turned and stomped away, then wheeled around to address the figure again, who was now eleven feet high. “You!” he screamed. His chest heaved, and he started sobbing. He dropped to the floor in a heap, convulsing with emotion.

  Helen and Stefan waited for several minutes while the young man cried. The pretext of acting evaporated, and Stefan went over to him. “Are you alright?” The actor held up a hand, as if to say he’d be okay. Stefan helped him up.

  �
��I—” said the young man through his tears. “I—” he repeated, and walked out of the room.

  Helen looked at Stefan.

  He shrugged.

  She called to the door: “Next!”

  The door opened, and Paulo entered. Stefan jumped up, relieved. “Paulo!” he said, going over to hug his friend. “What are you doing here? Helen, this is my friend Paulo.” Without a beat, Paulo went to her and gently shook her hand.

  “My agent sent me,” he said to Stefan, handing him a head-shot and résumé. “But what are you doing here? What’s this about? I haven’t seen you in ages, and now you’re doing a play?”

  “Oh yeah, that,” he said. They sat down. “I’ve been meaning to tell you and the guys about it.”

  “Does your friend here want to audition for us?” asked Helen, smiling slyly at Paulo. “He’s awfully handsome.” Stefan looked at her, stunned by her flirtation. He’d never considered her in that way before.

  “Thanks,” replied Paulo, “but I’ve decided to stay in Toronto this summer.” He grinned. “I’m moving into Adam’s place, and we’re going to use the money we save to buy a cottage.”

  Helen’s face drooped. “I should have known. Well, you two have some catching up to do, so I say we call it a day.” She gathered her things up from the table and put them into a satchel on her lap. She drove back from the table, and away toward the door.

  “Wait,” said Stefan, “that’s it? That was our first day of auditions? But everyone was terrible!”

  Helen shrugged. “This is how it works. There’s still tomorrow.” She gestured with her head toward the door. Stefan ran over to open it, and she cruised out.

  “The Edinburgh Fringe?” asked Paulo. “What’s that about?”

  “Well, it turns out that my dad wrote a play. And I decided to put it on. I’m leaving, Paulo.”