The second act was solid. All the technical elements were in place, and the performances were going well. The lights cross-faded, revealing the factory set. Oh God, thought Stefan, that scene.
Norman-as-Arto entered, looking for his daughter. Stefan had been amazed at the change in Norman during the evening’s performance. His bellowing gave way to subtle nuances of inflection and tone. He’d transformed from a stand-in to a living, breathing person from the story. He wasn’t trying in rehearsals, thought Stefan. But this was “the scene”, and the line approached. Serena-Truna found Norman-Arto, collapsed against a piece of machinery. Stefan saw the tension in Serena’s movement.
“Father,” she said, “it’s over. They’re tearing... the... city... down,” she enunciated, setting up his response for him.
Norman paused. Or was it the character, Arto? A full two seconds passed as he looked at her, with contempt in his eyes. He spoke slowly, seething with calm gravity. “Then let them tear the city down.”
Serena looked at him. She said nothing. She blinked. She looked around, frantically. She smoothed down the creases in her dress, and touched her hair. Her mouth opened, cocked like the hammer of a gun, but her voice fired a blank: “Uh.”
Her hand flew to her face. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before. I can’t remem—” She looked into the theatre. “Line!” she called. But Charlene wasn’t in the house, as she had been in rehearsals. She was in a glass booth at the back of the theatre. Norman stood, resolute, as Serena floundered.
Stefan sat up in his seat, then scurried, hunched over, toward the stage. “Tomorrow!” he whispered, as he huddled by the front row. “Tomorrow!” But Serena was paralysed.
Charlene finally lowered the stage lights, a professional act of compassion. She brought the house lights up, and the audience sat, confused, for a moment, then turned their heads, looking for an explanation. Stefan stood. “Uh, sorry, we’ve had a bit of a problem, he said. We’ll, um, we’ll start the show again in ten minutes. Thanks for your patience.”
He gestured to the booth, waving for Charlene to go backstage. He jumped up on the stage, joining Norman. But Serena was gone. “Where did she go?” asked Stefan.
“She ran off,” he said, calmly. “I imagine she’ll be running home.”
“You set her up,” said Stefan, roughly guiding Norman offstage.
“She set herself up,” replied Norman. “No one is ever important enough to act like that. I acted at Stratford. I had a television program. Who was she to question my professionalism or my ability?”
“I’ll deal with you later,” said Stefan. The cast gathered backstage, and Charlene ran in from the booth. Stefan addressed them all: “Okay, everyone, gather ‘round. Here’s what we’re going to do. There are ten minutes left in the show. I’m going to stand in as Truna. Maria, do me up.”
“You’re kidding, right?” asked Thom.
“No, I’m not. We have to finish the show. There are reviewers out there.”
“Oh crap,” said Chris. “Okay, come to my dressing room. I’ll get you ready.”
“But I need to be made up as a woman.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, Herr Director, I think I know a little bit more about drag than Maria does.”
They ran to Chris’s dressing room, where Chris smeared and dabbed at Stefan’s face. Maria and Charlene brought in some of Serena’s costumes. “Charlene, go back to the booth,” said Stefan, “and—what?” Charlene was laughing. Stefan looked at himself in the mirror. The heat of the lightbulbs made the makeup feel greasy and heavy. But Chris had succeeded in making him look as female as possible. He was an ugly woman. He squished himself into the loosest of Serena’s costumes, his slight belly bisected by the waistline. He looked at himself in the mirror again. “Oh no. Okay, okay, Charlene, go back to the booth and cue up scene forty-seven again. Everyone, places!”
But when they went back to their places, they saw that half the audience was gone. They resumed the show, with Stefan speaking Serena’s lines from memory. He duplicated her voice perfectly, and tried to mimic her gestures slightly, trying hard not to be camp, but the remaining audience members snickered anyway. Several ducked down and scuttled out of the theatre. Those who stayed laughed harder and harder, and clapped when Chris and Stefan shared a kiss.
The actors ran offstage after the last scene, and Stefan realised he hadn’t devised a curtain-call. He waved the others onstage to take a bow with him. There was no sound cue, so they gathered in silence. By the time they assembled and the lights came back up, they looked out at an empty theatre.
~
“So you get to play the nice girl after all,” said Chris, poking Maria in the ribs.
“But what am I going to do with these?” she asked, squishing her breasts together. Chris’s jaw dropped in earnest, and he had no comeback, which everyone in the rehearsal appreciated as a first, except for the new actress, Tamara, who was assuming Maria’s old part, while Maria moved up to fill Serena’s. The process of re-casting was a hasty one, co-ordinated with the help of the festival’s office, who let them know about an English show that had collapsed before opening. Stefan was determined not to let that happen to his father’s show, and after a brief lunch with the actress, Stefan and Charlene made her an offer. The more he thought about the decision, the happier Stefan was with it. Tamara was tall, and her figure was broad. She was not a typical beauty, but she knew how to be who she was. She turned heads when she walked into a room, and had the confidence and personality to keep them interested. Maria had acted her role as the temptress well, but now, as Truna, Maria could be onstage without acting, which seemed to Stefan like a much better idea. The dynamic of the show was different now, and for the better.
Tuesday night, after their failed public dress rehearsal, the cast, including Maria, went out on the town and got drunk together. They pored over the newspapers the next day, relieved to find they weren’t mentioned, yet aware that they’d missed their chance for advance press. When they staggered back to the hotel, they discovered with no surprise that Serena and her things were gone.
Now, though, they were excited again. Though changes and last-minute rehearsals should have been disruptive, the cast laughed and joked, staying in the theatre for scenes they weren’t in, just to watch. Something was happening, and they were part of it. Tamara was a quick study, and the other actors ran lines with her every spare moment. Norman took a shine to her, even though she’d never heard of him. She respected him, and that was enough. After an hour’s coaching from Stefan, she managed to match her accent with the rest of the cast’s.
By late Thursday afternoon, they’d worked through the whole play. They were ready to open the next night. The only thing left to rehearse was the new curtain-call. The actors stood around Stefan on the stage as he paced back and forth. “Umm,” he said, tapping a pen against the palm of his hand. “Got it!” he said, unintentionally flipping the pen into the wings. He ran into the theatre and rummaged through his bag. He took out the demo disk Rick gave him his last night in Toronto and lurched up to the booth. “Put this on. Track four,” he said to Charlene, then ran back out and down to the stage. A song played through the theatre, slow and melodic. Stefan gestured to the actors, co-ordinating their movements. He held up a wait hand, then pointed at them, just as the music burst into a driving anthem. They bowed, and Stefan felt a tingle up his spine.
~
“Stefan,” said Charlene, “have you seen my call-book?”
“Very funny,” he said, smirking at her.
“No, seriously.”
“I didn’t take it. It’s got to be in the booth somewhere.”
“I checked,” she said.
“What about—? Um, the technician.”
“Brian.”
“Yeah, Brian. Maybe he has it.”
“Already asked him.”
Stefan shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“Stefan, it’s a half hour until curtains
up.” She pointed at the manacle-like watch that circled her large wrist.
“I realise that. Okay, let me check backstage.” He started out of the booth, then turned back. “The operation you had. What was it for?”
“What? I had a mastectomy.”
“Oh,” said Stefan. “Really? Wow. A mastectomy. But you’re okay now?”
“Yeah. Three years, total remission. Perfectly healthy.”
“Alright. I’m glad. Sorry for asking.”
“It’s okay. Go find my call-book.”
“Right.”
Stefan ran backstage. He knocked on the men’s dressing room door. Chris answered the door, naked. “Hi, have you—?” Stefan looked down at Chris’s body. “Oh. Um. Anyway, have you seen Charlene’s call-book?”
“No, God, none of us would dare to touch it. Why?”
“What’s up?” asked Thom, also naked.
“What is this?” asked Stefan.
“It’s a pre-show thing,” said Chris.
“You guys aren’t—?”
“No,” said Thom.
“He likes Maria.”
“Really?” asked Stefan. “That’s handy, because she likes you, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. So neither of you guys has seen the call-book?”
“No,” said Thom. “Is there a problem?”
“No,” said Stefan, realising he shouldn’t panic his cast. “Everything’s fine. Just get back to your—” he waved a finger at their bodies.
“We’re getting into our characters, layer by layer,” said Chris.
“Right, well, get back to it. Break a leg,” said Stefan, leaving the room. He knew the women didn’t have the book, either, but headed toward their room.
Before he got there, Tamara popped out of the door. “Stefan, have you seen my script?”
Stefan stopped in his tracks.
“What?” asked Tamara.
“Nothing. Sorry, I haven’t seen your script. But you don’t need it. You’re fine.” He started to back down the hall. “Everyone loves you, you’ll be great. Break a leg. Excuse me.” He ran toward the ‘Way Out’ sign at the end of the hall. The door hissed shut as he reached it. He shoved it open and looked out into the cobbled alleyway.
A dark figure scurried down the alley, wearing a long cloak and a wide-brimmed hat. Cold water shot through Stefan’s veins, but he ran after the figure without hesitating: No one is going to mess with my show. The creature looked over its shoulder, and Stefan got a glimpse of the armful of scripts and the call-book binder he carried. Stefan sprinted after the thing, who seemed unable to move quickly. Within a few sprinting steps, Stefan reached him, and grabbed his coat with both hands. The unseasonably thick wool was greasy to his touch, but he had enough of a grip to spin the figure around and pin him against a brick wall, directly under a swath of sunlight. The man dropped the stolen goods, and his face, mostly obscured by a large scarf, twisted back and forth in the light. His eyes squeezed shut. Stefan stared at his skin, which was as colourless as newspaper. That paper, though, bore faint marks like hasty algebra problems scratched into the margins of a maths textbook in pencil then erased. The problems shifted as Stefan looked at them, the scratchings seeming to solve themselves.
The scratchman pushed back against Stefan, hurling Stefan into the opposite wall, and ran away empty-handed.
~
Stefan gave flowers to each of the cast members along with a personalised note, thanking them for their work on the show. Then he left them to do their preparations for the opening.
Though he knew he wasn’t allowed up there, he felt compelled to climb the ladder to the catwalk over the stage. He sat beside the pin-rail, where the show’s backdrops were tied with thick ropes. He dangled his legs over the ledge and sighed. From time to time, he had moments of wondering where he was, how he’d got there. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crinkled strips of tape, between which were the tiny letters that spelled out “Edinburgh”.
Stefan looked up from his hands and saw his father sitting beside him. His body jumped reflexively with fright, but his father’s smile soon calmed him down.
“Hi, Dad,” said Stefan.
Robert nodded his hello.
“So here we are, opening night.”
Robert’s smile broadened, and he nodded again.
“It was touch-and-go there for a bit,” said Stefan, “but I have a funny feeling that this is going to work.” He turned to his father. “This show is going to do something, isn’t it? And the Matholics don’t want it to happen.”
Robert tried to speak, but couldn’t. His look implied that what Stefan said was only partly correct.
“What do they think is going to happen?”
Robert pointed at the letters in Stefan’s hand, then made a gesture with his hands like a magician causing something to disappear. Stefan was confused.
He heard the sound of someone climbing up the metal rungs to the catwalk. Brian, the technician, poked his head up. “Hey there, Stefan,” he said. “What are you doing up here.”
“I was just—” he looked to his side, not surprised that his father was gone. “I was just chilling out before the show.”
“You shouldn’t really be up here.”
“No problem,” said Stefan, getting to his feet. He and Brian awkwardly traded places on the narrow catwalk, and Stefan started down the ladder. “I’ve got to go eat and get changed before the show anyway. Hey, break a leg, man.” He climbed away, embarrassed at his attempt at macho-buddy talk with the burly stagehand.
“Yeah, you, too,” replied Brian from above.
~
Stefan curled and uncurled the programme in his hands, then looked at it briefly, but was all too aware of every detail he’d approved. He stuck the programme under his leg and adjusted his tie. All afternoon, the cast had wandered up and down the Royal Mile, the cobbled main street of the Old Town, giving out complimentary tickets in their costumes amid throngs of other actors, mimes, fire-eaters, and vendors who competed for the tourists’ attention. He guessed they had a crowd of a hundred people, which made him happy.
The house lights dimmed, and the pre-show music started. He imagined the cast backstage, scrunched his eyes shut, and wished them luck. Stefan could faintly see the set once his eyes adjusted to the dark. He sat on his hands to keep them from shaking. His mouth was dry and sour.
The stage lights came up on the row-housing, then the front door, and the rest of the world disappeared.
The lemon colour of morning light suffused everything. Heck Folward left the house that morning, the same as he’d done each day since securing a job at the factory. He didn’t know this week would mark the end of the world as he knew it.
Monday was an average day. He worked to maintain the machine, and had even received a commendation from the area leader, Arto Hanstardath. He walked home at the end of his shift, stopping to read the headlines at the newsstand on the corner: everything was fine. His best friend, Seth Weevlin, called on him in the evening, and they went out to shoot pool. Seth was a company man, working high above the streets in an office. Both of their jobs were important in different ways, so they couldn’t afford to be out late.
Tuesday, Heck hurt his hand at work, and met Truna Instred, the nurse who treated him, and risked taking him to the abandoned warehouse where the underground met. There they showed him what the machine he maintained actually did, and warned him of the coming war.
Their machine-city required their endless work to maintain. He knew this, and had accepted it as a good, worthwhile occupation, since in return the machine provided everything they needed. But no one had ever told him of the unspeakable cruelties the machine did in order to bestow that providence. And no one had ever told him that there were other machines.
And now his machine was going to war with the others…
The house lights came up for the intermission. Stefan sat still for a minute, dazed, as did everyone else in the thea
tre before gradually coming to an awareness of their surroundings. He felt as if he’d been dreaming of his mother and father in a fairytale, only it seemed so real.
He went to the lobby to listen in on what people had to say. Many were quiet, a few talked excitedly, saying they’d never experienced anything like it, and the remainder compared notes, as if trying to confirm that they’d been watching the same show. When the lights in the lobby flashed to signal the end of intermission, everyone quickly headed back into the theatre, including Stefan, although he already knew the show as well as anyone.
…Truna discovered Arto there, leaning against a piece of machinery. “Father, it’s over. They’re tearing the city apart.”
The man slid to the floor and spat blood as he spoke. “Then let them tear the city apart.”
Heck found them, and looked at Arto, on the ground. “We have killed the old God,” he said, “and our attempt to build a new one has failed. We have created a Moloch, and it is devouring us.”
“What will you do now?” Arto asked them. “You, who have never made a true decision in your lives? How will you eat?”
“We will eat things now that are not poison to us,” said Truna.
“How will you fill your days?”
“We will fill our days with each other. We will no longer be insane. We will wear our names, instead of the insignia of the machine. We will tear the machine from our city!”
The lovers left the man and walked out into the street, where a new day was breaking. They kissed, as an explosion sounded deep in the city. “The world belongs to us,” said Heck.
Stefan found himself on his feet as the house lights came up, his fist in the air. He shook his head and watched as the curtain-call song played and the audience cheered. As the actors came onstage, the roar of the crowd intensified to a pitch that the theatre could not contain. The audience members whistled and hollered their gratitude. Some stamped their feet or banged on the theatre seats. A chant started in the crowd: “The world belongs to us”. It grew in intensity, as others took it up. Soon, the whole theatre boomed with the sound of their voices. The audience members burst out into the street, where they rioted until dawn.
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