Lives of the Circus Animals

by Christopher Bram

  “Has he met yet with that Rubin fellow?”

  “Adam Rabb. No, Dolly. That’s today.”

  “Can you let me know how it goes? I assume it’s just another case of commerce kissing the arse of art, but you can never guess where these things will lead.”

  “No, Dolly. I’ll tell Henry to give you a full report.”

  “So how is our boy doing? Up to his eyebrows in the New York fleshpots? Rediscovering his hippie youth? Or is he already smitten with some pretty piece of American tail?”

  “He seems to keep pretty much to himself, Dolly.”

  “Uh-huh.” Dolly sounded dubious. “Let me just say, as one chum to another: We all want to protect Henry. He plays to the mother in us. But Henry’s worst enemy is Henry. See what you can do to get him to call me.”

  “I’ll do my best, Dolly.”

  “Thank you, Jessie. Good-bye.”

  Jessie hung up and turned to face Henry.

  “And that’s all the silly cow could find?” he said. “They want to use my voice to sell bars of soap?”

  “Laundry detergent.”

  “Stupid cow.”

  Jessie liked Dolly Hayes. She couldn’t understand Henry’s antipathy, or why he wanted to drop her for an American agent. “She sounds concerned. She just wants to talk.”

  “Me mum’s dead, thank you. I don’t need another. Her only real concern is that I might be leaving her.”

  “But you are. You haven’t told her yet?”

  He frowned. “She’s a friend as well as a business associate. I don’t want her to take it the wrong way.” He looked guilty, then covered his unease with a naughty smirk. “But thank you for fibbing for me, Jessie. You’re an excellent liar. I should feel terrible for bringing out that side in you.”

  “Not at all.” She laughed. “It’s in my job description. Lying.”

  “You are so good to me. I don’t know how to repay you.”

  And as he turned away, a new thought lit up a corner of her brain. “Actually—Friday night? After the show. Do you have plans?”

  “What? Plans? I don’t think I—”

  “Would you be my date? For a party?” Fuck Frank. If Frank wouldn’t go with her to Caleb’s, she’d take Henry.

  “A party?” He made a face like she’d just asked him to eat boiled dog.

  “My brother’s birthday. He’s giving himself a party. My brother. Remember? You said you wanted to meet him.”

  “Oh, the playwright! Yes. Of course.” Now he was interested. He remained confused, but he was definitely interested.

  “It’s a big party, so I don’t know if he’ll have a chance to explain algorithms to you. But you will get a chance to meet him.”

  “Algorithms? Of course. Algorithms. Why not?”

  “You’ll come?”

  “It’s the least I can do. I owe you, Jessie. Besides, I need to get out more. And I’ll get to meet your mysterious brother.”

  “Nothing mysterious about Caleb.”

  “But he is to me. I’ve never met Mr. Chaos Theory.”

  “Uh, he’s still raw about his play,” she said uncertainly.

  “I will be the soul of discretion there. Trust me. Friday night then. Excellent. Something else to look forward to.” Henry returned to the dining room and his weight machine.

  Jessie didn’t know what to make of his off-and-on interest in Caleb. It did not sound sincere. But why should she care? Henry Lewse was taking her to Caleb’s party, which was not just a birthday party but a real New York theater party. It should set people talking.

  The clanks and grunts resumed around the corner. Jessie continued with the mail. Only now did she think of Frank again. But this had nothing to do with Frank. Frank didn’t want to go to Caleb’s party. He had made that clear. She was doing Frank a favor.

  “Henry?” she called out. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your lunch meeting?”

  “My lunch what? Oh. I guess.” He returned to the door, his face shiny with sweat. “Who’s this fellow again?”

  “Adam Rabb. He’s a producer. Mostly theater, but an occasional movie. Good theater, bad movies. He’s famous for being an asshole.”

  “Aren’t they all? And what does he want from me?”

  “Dolly says it’s just a meet and eat.”

  “Hmm. He just wants to bask in my stardom. Oh well. At least I’ll get a good meal out of it. I suppose I could wash.”

  He disappeared into his bedroom. Jessie shook her head and chuckled. He could be a very witty man.

  She opened his phone bill. She enjoyed looking down the list of long-distance numbers and cities, wondering what famous colleagues were represented here. Henry was clearly a phone-call friend, not a letter-writing friend. The new bill included a category labeled Premium Calls. She had her suspicions about what they were but didn’t dare ask Henry. She called Verizon.

  “Those are what we refer to as adult services,” the operator explained. “Did you want to put a block on them? So members of your household cannot call those numbers?”

  “That’s okay. We want to keep them. I just didn’t understand the terminology. Thank you.”

  Jessie wasn’t shocked, only surprised. She thought phone sex would be too techno for Henry. But she gave the matter a shrug, made out a check, and moved on to the next item.

  23

  Sunlight, brightness, day. Henry had forgotten how bright daylight could get in America, even in New York. He shielded his eyes as he walked up Broadway toward Central Park, feeling like an anonymous vampire strolling through the lunch-hour mob, a stylish phantom in a linen jacket and collarless shirt. He really should invest in sunglasses.

  He suddenly began to hum “Sentimental Journey,” the tune he had struggled to remember all morning. The other 1940s tunes had blocked it out. Only now when he was outside and walking did the melody return. It was for the boy from last night, of course. Toby. As in Toby Tyler. Who ran off and joined the circus. Henry wanted him for his own little circus. Sex. Just sex. Oh, there may be a dash of sentimental feeling, but that was only nostalgia for his own frisky, heartless, get-laid-every-night years—when he was Toby’s age.

  Columbus Circle appeared, a weird mix of Piccadilly and Marble Arch. Jessie said that the restaurant, Jean Georges, was in the ugly black building towering over the park. He spotted the building—it was very ugly—then followed the crowd into the crosswalk to circle the circle.

  Henry regretted he wasn’t seeing Toby until tomorrow. If he were seeing him tonight, his dark night, he could make an early start of it. Who knew how long it would take to get the boy out of his panties? He seemed awfully innocent for a stripper, although not so innocent for an actor.

  On the far side of the circle, at the entrance to the park, stood an elaborate white monument. A monument to what, Henry couldn’t guess. It was a marble cake with gold doodads on top and chalky nudes on the sides. A half dozen living boys, black, brown, and pink, floated and spun around the base. They rode on skateboards and Rollerblades, swerving and pitching and leaping. Henry paused to watch. They were beautiful. They betrayed no awareness of the people around them, no trace of self-consciousness. They were lost in their skill, absorbed by their action. Their baggy jeans hung halfway down their hips, so low that their slender torsos suggested tulip stalks emerging from the bulbs. Very sexual, of course. The whole world was sexual. A naked boy stood on the prow of the monument—he was a statue—with his hands lifted skyward and two pigeons perched on his palms—the pigeons were real. Henry smiled and resumed walking. There is nothing like lechery for putting one in touch with the beauty of things.

  He crossed the street to the ugly black building, a black glass monolith with an ugly silver globe out front. Another bloody business lunch. Well, not real business, only pretend. He had done a dozen such lunches or dinners since arriving in New York, the self-important ruses of people with money to meet people with fame. They called themselves producers, but none ever seemed to have produced a
nything. Henry had learned to expect nothing from these meetings except an opportunity to taste some very expensive wine.

  Just inside the plate glass stood a tall, dark, Mediterranean youth in a tux. “Mr. Lewse?”

  “Yes?” It was always nice to be recognized, nicer still when it was someone with such pretty bee-stung lips.

  “Welcome to Jean Georges, Mr. Lewse. Mr. Rabb is already here. This way, please.”

  Henry followed the fellow through frosted glass doors into a large, gray room full of blue suits. Watching the bit of seat just below the maître d’s jacket, Henry found himself humming one last bar of “Sentimental Journey.”

  They approached a corner table occupied by a big, sad, badly rumpled man. He slowly stood up—he was very big. He hadn’t shaved. Or maybe that was his full beard, a sickly shadow. He held out his hand. “Henry Lewse,” he said in a low grumble. “This is an honor.”

  “So nice to meet you,” sang Henry, wishing the man had introduced himself. He had already forgotten his name.

  The man sat back down and gestured at an empty chair. It was catty-corner to him, so that Henry might see the room—or, more likely, the room could see Henry.

  “Let me start off by being a total cliché: I’m your biggest fan. You’re a great actor, Henry Lewse. A true artist.”

  He maintained a flat, emotionless mumble, a bored tone at odds with his words. Henry suspected sarcasm, but one encountered that kind of irony so rarely over here.

  “I know all your work. Hamlet and Vanya at the RSC. Your Godot with Jonathan Pryce. Cloud Nine. You were a wonderful Grandcourt in the BBC Daniel Deronda. They showed it here on Masterpiece Theatre, you know.”

  He seemed sincere, despite the affectless mutter. Maybe he was depressed? His clothes were badly disheveled, expensive clothes, a designer jacket and striped silk shirt, wrinkled and rumpled, not like he’d merely slept in them, but like he was his own unmade bed. His slovenliness was such a surprise in a producer that Henry wondered if he might actually have brains.

  “I watched the Carol Reed Oliver! again last night. Back in your child actor days. When you were H. B. Lewse.”

  “Oh dear. We have done our homework, haven’t we?” Half the boy actors of his generation did time in that infernal show, but Henry had done the flick as well.

  The producer smiled: a thin, wan, lipless smile, like he’d just played a winning hand of cards. He opened his menu. “Shall we order? I already ordered wine. Excellent pinot noir,” he mumbled into his wrinkled collar. “Had it for lunch yesterday. The charcuterie is good, the lamb first-rate, and the duck is fab.”

  “You eat here often?”

  “Finest restaurant in town.”

  Henry looked around the room and wondered what Toby would think of it. “Do you know how late they serve?”

  The wine steward arrived with a bottle. He displayed the label to the rumpled host, uncorked it, and poured a splash into the man’s glass. The man tasted it and nodded. The waiter then filled Henry’s glass. Henry took a swallow. It was wonderful wine, sharp and clean. It evaporated in the mouth like flavored air.

  “I think we’re ready to order.”

  “Very good, Mr. Rabb. I’ll send Victor over.”

  That’s right. The man’s name was Rabb. And his first name was Aaron or Arnie or something biblical. Knowing his host’s name made Henry feel less defensive, less vulnerable.

  “So,” said Rabb. “How did you like Greville?”

  “Greville?” Another name he was supposed to know?

  “The novel I messengered over last week.”

  The book that bounced around his apartment all weekend. So here is where it came from.

  “Oh that. Yes. Of course.”

  “Did you get a chance to read it?”

  “Yeeees,” he said uncertainly.

  “And?”

  “Interesting. Like a trashy marriage of Lolita and Silence of the Lambs.” Someone had said that, Henry couldn’t remember who.

  “Ha ha ha,” said Rabb. He actually spoke the syllables. He held his mouth open for a moment in a cold, rectangular grin. “I bought that trashy marriage, you know. I’m making a movie of it.”

  “Are you now?” He’d certainly stuck his foot in it, hadn’t he? Henry looked for a way to undo the damage but could come up with no clever phrase, no good joke. So he smiled at Rabb, a long, bland, foolish smile.

  Rabb smiled back. “Forget the novel. We have a script now. It’s better than the novel.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Rabb tried to sustain his smile, but it was fading.

  “Gentlemen?”

  The waiter stood over them.

  Both men were relieved by the distraction. They ordered lunch: Henry asked for the duck, Rabb the charcuterie. The waiter departed.

  “It’s a part that everybody wants.”

  For a moment Henry thought Rabb was referring to the duck.

  “There’s no truth to the rumors it’s been cast. But we’re talking to Oldman and Malkovich. And Alec Baldwin. You read the trades?”

  Henry nodded, then caught himself and shook his head. He returned to the wine. He was safer with the wine.

  “We’ve gone to Susan Sarandon for the mother, and Julia Stiles for the daughter. I want to keep away from Miramax, because they’ll want Paltrow. But she’s not sympathetic anymore. Audiences will want her to get killed. Ha ha. But with Julia…”

  Henry nodded and smiled, but he stopped listening. Rabb’s monotone mumble was not only dull but also hard to follow in the noisy restaurant. He was one of those talkers who expect the listener to do all the work. Henry had no interest in “industry gossip.” That’s what this was, wasn’t it? Rabb said they were talking to other people, so there was no work here for Henry. Rabb was merely declaring his importance by dropping names. Money people think they possess people by naming them. But the wine tasted heavenly.

  “And we’ll be shooting on Capri. Have you been? Lovely. I want Daldry to direct. Maybe Hytner, only he’s getting awfully mumble mumble. But the English are so much better at this. And not because they’re cheaper. We’re talking a budget of mumble. The salary for Greville will be commensurate with mumble mumble—”

  Yes, thought Henry, lifting the glass of wine and examining the color. If I can get Toby to try some, I can get him soused. Well, not soused but more in touch with himself. Then…

  Rabb had stopped talking. He was frowning. “You don’t seem terribly interested in this.”

  “What? Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that this pinot noir is so good.” And you are boring the anus off me.

  Rabb studied him a moment, then shook his head and smiled another cool, smug, lipless smile. “You’re a sly boots, Henry Lewse. What else have you got up your sleeve?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “‘A wink is as good as a nod for a blind man, eh,’” said Rabb, in a clumsy approximation of Scottish or Yorkshire or something.

  Before Henry could ask what he meant, the food arrived, pretty portions on white plates as big as hubcaps.

  “Dig in, Henry. Yum.”

  Rabb attacked his own plate of sausages and sliced meats with surprising enthusiasm. He was no mumbler when it came to eating.

  The duck was sliced in neat half-inch diagonals. Henry took a bite and bit into crispy skin. Warm juice squirted the roof of his mouth. He almost burst out laughing. It felt as good as it tasted.

  “Your agent is Dolly Hayes?” said Rabb.

  “What? Oh yes. Good old Dolly.” He could see it now. He’d bring Toby here, wine him and dine him, woo him and win him.

  “Very well…I should…She’s in London, right?”

  Henry nodded. “Where it’s harder for her to play big sister. Dolly is the last of her breed. Not just an agent but a friend. I don’t know how much longer we’ll remain—”

  Rabb leaned over and jabbed his fork into Henry’s duck. He stuffed the piece in his mouth.

  Henry blinked away his s
urprise. “The last of her breed,” he repeated. “She loves good theater even more than she loves her commission. Sometimes. Which can be admirable,” he admitted. “Although in this day and age one needs to give more thought to…”

  But Rabb appeared too involved with his own food to hear a word that Henry was saying. Who was it who said that the opposite of talking isn’t listening, the opposite of talking is waiting? It must have been an American.

  24

  Once upon a time, Monday nights were dark nights. Every theater was closed, everyone stayed home: actors, audience, and critics. But Kenneth Prager found that no nights were completely dark anymore, certainly not Off-Broadway.

  He put in a full day at the Times on Monday, writing the final drafts of two reviews that would not run until later in the week. One described CSC’s uneven revival of The Rivals, the other a vanity musical about New Yorkers and their dogs. “Imagine Rent with dog biscuits, or Hair with mange, and you get some idea of Dog Run.” He tried to be kind to the actors.

  It was going to be a slow week. He wanted to review the new Richard Foreman and explore his thoughts about that strange avant-garde dreamer whose performance pieces hadn’t changed in thirty years. Repetition became a kind of integrity. But Ted Bickle, the first reviewer, had put dibs in on the Foreman. Bickle was being very piggy with assignments since his return from the hospital.

  The copyeditor routed The Rivals back into Kenneth’s computer decorated like a Christmas cookie with red corrections and green queries, including one asking him to explain, “for our few readers who might not know,” what century Sheridan had lived in. Kenneth could have worked at home, but he needed his office in the Times Building. He felt solid here, grounded, safe in his fourth-floor cubbyhole. Other Timesmen and Timeswomen softly milled outside his open door. Kenneth was not the boogeyman here, not the Buzzard of Off-Broadway, but a good journalist, a disciplined writer who never missed a deadline. He liked most of the people he worked with, and they seemed to like him—except maybe Bickle.

  He went home by cab. He used to take the subway but couldn’t anymore. Too many theater people traveled underground.