Lives of the Circus Animals

by Christopher Bram

  “No, I’m just—” It took him a moment to recognize her sarcasm. “Three million dollars?” he repeated. “You’re not joking?”

  He noticed Jessie watching him, staring at him, with a look of wonder that made him understand this truly was remarkable news.

  “So do I call him back?” said the voice in his ear. “What do I tell Mr. Rabb?”

  His mind was as blank as a shovel. “What do you think?”

  “What do you think I think? I think you should do it! I think you’d be a fool to say no to this kind of money.”

  “But you thought I was a fool to pursue this sort of thing in the first place,” he told her.

  “Only because I thought you’d be miserable, Henry. And maybe you will be. But in the course of learning that, you’ll put three million dollars in the bank. You could do worse. And it’s not a bad script. Don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes. Not bad. Considering.” Was this a trick question? How low would she let him go? What kind of villain was he playing? A Shakespeare-quoting werewolf? A geek with razor blade fingers? Or no, this was supposed to be a suave pervert à la James Mason.

  “So are you in or are you out? Rabb needs an answer by one. It’s already twelve-thirty.”

  “Today?”

  “Yes, today. He’s tired of being dicked with. His word. Maybe we could dick him a little more, but I prefer not to press our luck.”

  “I can’t have a couple of hours to think it over?”

  “Oh, Henry. You haven’t read the script yet, have you?”

  “Of course, I’ve read it! Don’t treat me like a child!” He took a breath, he regained his temper. “Silence of the Lambs meets Lolita?” He looked at Jessie as he remembered that this was her phrase. “Very well then. Yes. Why not?”

  “You agree?” she sounded surprised.

  “Yes. This Greville sounds like my kind of guy.” Without intending it, he fell into an American accent.

  “Good. I’ll call Rabb right back.”

  “Good,” he told her.

  “All I ask, Henry, is that you remain in the vicinity of your phone this afternoon. And talk to me. In case there’s further negotiating. Will you promise me that much?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until my show this evening.”

  “Good. So. Touch wood. Here goes nothing. Can you give me back to Jessica?”

  “Certainly.” He passed the phone to Jessie.

  “Yes?” Jessie told the mouthpiece. “I see. Uh-huh.” She frowned at Henry like a concerned mother. “Gotcha. I’ll keep you posted. Exciting stuff. I won’t drop the ball, Dolly. I promise. Bye.”

  She gently parked the phone in its slot. Then she slowly sat back up and stared at Henry.

  “A movie!” she cried. “A movie!” She leaped from her chair. “And you got the lead!” She threw her arms around him. “Three million dollars, Henry! Three fucking million dollars!” And she began to jump up and down, expecting him to jump with her.

  45

  Henry had never guessed his assistant was so wiry and muscular, her grip so strong. He was touched she could be so happy for him.

  She stopped jumping. She let go and stepped back. “Sorry. I got so excited and forgot myself.” She tucked her offending hands into her armpits. “But—Wow. Right?”

  “Exactly,” he told her. “Wow.”

  She stepped away, looking embarrassed, confused. “Only money. We can’t be silly about it. And it’s your money, not mine. But hey. I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Jessie. Thank you very much.” He blinked and tried to laugh, but all he could produce was a mild chuckle. “It’s so unexpected. It doesn’t feel real. It’s not like I did anything to get it.”

  “No, you didn’t. So where’s the script? I want to read it. Let’s see what kind of monster you’re going to be.”

  “Good idea,” said Henry. “I should probably read it myself.”

  They hunted around and found it in the stack on the sideboard in the dining room. A swatch of pages without a cover, it was held together with brass fasteners.

  “Here,” said Jessie, and she undid the fasteners. “So we can both read it. I’m a fast reader. I’ll start and pass the pages to you.”

  Henry sat on the sofa, Jessie in the armchair. She began to read. Ten seconds later, she handed a page to Henry. More pages followed.

  Henry could not keep up with her. She set the pages at his feet.

  Movies were a foreign country for Henry, a land he visited rarely and briefly, playing character parts that lasted only a scene or two. His one major role was in the BBC adaptation of Daniel Deronda, where he played a cold, sadistic Victorian husband. Good, clean fun. However, acting for the camera was much as Olivier or Richardson or somebody described it: you never perform, you only rehearse. And they film all your rehearsals and use the best. Henry had no practice reading screenplays. He read this one much as he read plays, skipping the stage directions and concentrating on the dialogue. But it was all stage directions and little dialogue. The title character, however, did get a juicy line or two.

  “They go to Capri,” said Jessie, setting another page on the floor. “So you get to go to Italy when they film.”

  No, this did not feel real. It felt nothing like a plausible acting job. First because it was a movie, second because of the money. Three million dollars. Three million dollars? No wonder he felt light-headed. It was as if he’d just knocked back a very large martini.

  “What a pretty fantasy,” said Jessie. “A man loves a girl so much that he wants to kill her mother.”

  It settled in deeper: This is big money. You’re going to be rich, Henry Lewse. The very idea of millions of dollars enlarged his mind. He felt giddy and new. But I’m still the same man, he told himself, the same fool but with money. What is the emotion of being rich? His months of playing Hackensacker should have given him practice.

  “You’re smiling,” said Jessie. “Are you at the scene where he’s in the closet full of the daughter’s shoes?”

  “No. I was just—” He shrugged and dove back behind the sheaf of pages.

  His happiness was ridiculous. It was only money—hypothetical money. He hadn’t even signed a contract yet. Nevertheless, he was feeling very good, with a lightness in the chest that he rarely felt except when he knew he was going to get laid soon.

  The phone chirped again. Jessie jumped up and read the caller ID. “Nope, not England,” she said and let the machine take care of it.

  “This is David Blackwell at Variety. We understand that Mr. Lewse was offered the lead in the film adaptation of Greville. We’d like to run this in tomorrow’s edition but need to confirm—”

  Jessie snatched up the receiver. “This is Jessie Doyle, Mr. Lewse’s personal assistant.”

  Henry was surprised by the imperious tone she took.

  “Yes. He has been offered the part. Yes, he is interested. What? Yes, you can quote me. Doyle. D-o-y-l-e. Thank you.” She hung up and looked over at Henry, blinking in surprise.

  “Word travels fast,” said Henry.

  “I’ll bet it’s Rabb,” said Jessie. “He must be publicizing this to lock you into the project.”

  She was very savvy. Henry was impressed.

  He returned to the script. Knowing Variety cared, he paid closer attention. He came to a scene where Greville shares a hot tub with the mother and eighteen-year-old daughter and tries to flirt with both without giving the game away. The scene had possibilities, not least because Henry would get the chance to show off his body work.

  The phone rang again. Again Jessie answered it.

  “Ditchley? Cameron? Oh, ‘Page Six.’ Yes, of course.” She flexed her eyebrows at Henry like semaphore signals, only Henry had no idea what her message was. “I’d be happy to confirm or disconfirm any rumors. Uh-huh. That is correct. Mr. Lewse has been offered the title role of Greville. Uh-uh. Susan Sarandon? Yes, of course. Mr. Lewse can’t wait to work with her.”

  She pressed the but
ton of the receiver but did not hang up. “Oh my God,” she said. “Rabb must’ve had a press release all set to go. Did you know that you’re cast opposite Susan Sarandon? This could be the start of a very busy—”

  The phone chirped again; she hit the button.

  “Hello. CNN? I see. His personal assistant. An interview? Really? I’ll have to check with Mr. Lewse.”

  The phone continued to tweedle and chirp as more people called. Most only asked for confirmation, but others requested pieces of Henry. Entertainment Tonight wanted a press kit and maybe an interview next week. Good Morning, America wanted an interview tomorrow; something called E! wanted an interview tonight.

  It was impossible to read a script with the telephone trilling away. Henry was tempted to go to the bedroom, shut the door, and let Jessie handle this—she handled the calls anyway—but it was too exciting. He didn’t want to miss anything.

  “My God,” said Jessie after the twentieth call, giggling at the lunacy. “You’re like a run on a bank. It’s free-money day at First Henry Lewse. This Adam Rabb must be very connected.”

  He laughed with her. “It makes no sense. I’m famous for starring in a movie that hasn’t even been made yet?”

  “That’s the best kind. An abstract movie. Pure potential.” She shook her head. “Your little friend is going to kick himself for not going to bed with you.”

  “Who? Oh. Toby. You think?”

  What a wonderful idea. Success would bring the boy around. Greville would win him Toby. Or maybe Henry wouldn’t need the love of a pretty little nobody once he had fame and fortune.

  “But he did go to bed with me,” he reminded Jessie and himself. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”

  46

  The bed was piled with naked parts: bottoms, breasts, a leg, a gut. Frank sat at the foot of the bed, staring at skin, thinking about flesh, the ugliness of it. Without love or lust, the human body was as appealing as a mound of raw pizza dough.

  “Does it have to have been bad sex?” said Allegra. “Can’t they have had good sex?”

  Allegra and Dwight were sprawled on the bed, Dwight on his back, Allegra facedown across Dwight’s middle. Her pouty butt was in the air, her T-shirt yoked around her neck. Their jeans and underwear were tangled around their ankles.

  Chris, Melissa, and Toby stood by the wall, approximating an audience. Boaz was out in the living room, rigging up the stereo. He refused to watch Allegra do this scene.

  Tonight was their last chance to get things right. Tomorrow was opening night, but they hadn’t done a tech yet, much less a dress. They were still working out the undressed portion of the program. Nothing was going right.

  “Frank?” said Allegra. “Frank? Hello out there? We’re waiting.”

  “If we’re like this for much longer,” said Dwight, “Allegra’s gonna turn me straight.”

  “Not before you turn me homo,” said Allegra.

  Dwight began to laugh, as if that were the most wonderful joke in the world. Frank didn’t get it.

  “No,” Frank finally said. “You just look silly.”

  “Gee, thanks,” said Allegra. She rolled off Dwight and wiggled her jeans and panties up. Dwight was even quicker about covering up, turning around so nobody would see his privates.

  “Allegra has a point,” said Chris. “Why does it have to be bad sex? Why do they have to look ridiculous?”

  “Because it’s a comedy,” said Frank. “And they don’t love each other.”

  “You can have great sex with someone you don’t love,” said Chris. “You don’t even have to like them. Which I think is funny.”

  Dwight told Frank, “Just because your love life is in a dark place doesn’t mean we should suffer.” He thought he was only making a joke.

  “Fine. What do you guys suggest? How do you want to represent great sex?”

  “Let’s go back to the original idea,” said Allegra. “We’re naked and we’re under a sheet. And it’s after sex and we’re blissed out.”

  “And smoking cigarettes?” said Toby. “That is so tired.”

  She ignored him. “We’re breathless, we’re catching our breaths, we can’t believe it was so great. And then we see who we’re with, and we slowly become ourselves again.”

  “Since we’re under the sheet,” said Dwight, “can I keep my underwear on?”

  Melissa groaned. “I hate plays and movies where people fuck like crazy, then get up and are still wearing underpants.”

  Frank thought about it. “Take everything off,” he said. “Both of you. And scatter it around the bed. Then, as you do the scene, you’re not sure whose clothes are whose. You pass things back and forth. Starting with your underwear. Now that’s funny.” And pathetic. He was determined to include some pathos here.

  “I like that,” said Allegra. She turned to Dwight. “We can have fun with that, don’t you think?”

  Frank led the others back down the hall where the audience would be. Nobody was very interested in seeing Allegra and Dwight naked again; they were only “acting” the role of an audience here.

  “I wish I was doing Dwight’s part,” said Toby. “I could make naked funny.”

  “Toby,” said Frank. “Just focus on your scenes, okay?”

  Another day, another set of problems addressed and solved, maybe. Toby forgot half of what they’d worked out two days ago. Dwight was dropping lines. Chris and Allegra were resisting Frank just to be difficult. Tomorrow was opening night and nothing was working, but even if it did work, what would they have? Dog meat. Frank had spent four weeks of his life trying to turn a piece of unwatchable dog meat into watchable dog meat. He could not wait for this show to be over. He could be free again, but free to do what? Jessie was over. Jessie was dead. There was no chance of Jessie anymore. There was nothing but his stupid job and this stupid show.

  “We’re ready!” Allegra called out.

  “All right,” said Frank, and he led the others down the hall, grumbling, “Let’s see what they have for us this time.”

  47

  YOU: You must know everything.

  ME: Is that a moral command or a sarcastic comment?

  YOU: You think you have to be a polymath in order to succeed.

  ME: I just want to know stuff. History, religion, physics, math.

  YOU: But you know only the names. You want to talk about Fermat’s equation, Riemann spheres, the Mandelbrot set, and the rest, but you can’t even take the time to learn elementary calculus.

  ME: I like the metaphors. Hedonic calculus. Moral arithmetic. Irrational numbers.

  YOU: But they’re just metaphors.

  ME: And the clarity. The finalities. When you spend your life playing at questions that have no final answers, it’s a relief to know that ten times three is thirty, or thirty squared is nine hundred.

  YOU: There’s something sick about a playwright wanting to do numbers instead of words. Anything to avoid actors, huh?

  ME: Words are so sloppy. I want to be precise.

  YOU: If you knew some real math, you’d understand there is no deep truth in numbers. It’s a closed system, a tautology. You’re like those literary critics of forty years ago who went gaga about quantum physics, thinking it proved everything was subjective, which it didn’t. Your discussion of fractals in Chaos Theory was pure nonsense, you know.

  ME: Not that anybody noticed. They were too busy hating my drama to catch the mistakes in my math.

  YOU: You made a botch of my dementia too. I was your model for schizophrenia. All the absurd, irrational things said in my fevers?

  ME: And witty things too. “The tune goes round the tangent, but it comes out the cosine of bliss.” That was a direct quote.

  YOU: You turned my dementia into lyrical schizophrenia: theater madness.

  ME: Would you rather I told the truth?

  YOU: No. The truth was awful. The truth was boring. Just a sick man in a hospital room. Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. Then waking up and talking paranoid
shit about his doctors or his family. Or getting well, but only for a month or two, and only well enough to hate his body for betraying him. Or hate his brain for abandoning him—

  ME: Or hate his life partner for going on in life.

  YOU: I never hated you.

  ME: But you didn’t love me. You withdrew from me. You shut yourself off. I remember sitting beside your bed in Intensive Care in the last days—

  YOU: No hospital porn. Please.

  ME: And you told me to go.

  YOU: I didn’t.

  ME: You did. You whispered, “I don’t want you here.”

  YOU: I didn’t want you to see me die.

  ME: You were embarrassed by your death. The way you used to be embarrassed about being seen on the toilet. You did not want me, who loved you most of all, to see you suffer that final humiliation.

  YOU: I looked awful.

  ME: I was used to it.

  YOU: I wanted to protect you.

  ME: You wanted to die alone. You were ashamed of dying. Or bitter over my being alive. Or something, I don’t know what. But I was hurt that you could not share your death with me.

  YOU: Why’re you so angry? I’m the one who’s dead.

  ME: Only the dead have a right to be angry?

  YOU: Yes.

  ME: You have all the rights and I have none?

  YOU: You could always join me here.

  ME: Don’t think that I haven’t considered it. But there’s nothing like the death of someone you love to spoil the cozy fantasy of death.

  Caleb stared at what his pencil had just scratched on the page. Here was the crux of his sadness and pain, in the unfinished business of Ben’s death. Ben could sleep with all the guys that he wanted, and Caleb could accept it. But then he wanted to die alone, and that hurt.

  YOU: You sound like you’re depressed.

  ME: I am.

  YOU: You should see a doctor.

  ME: I am seeing a doctor.

  YOU: What can I do to help?

  ME: I don’t know, Ben. I just don’t know. I don’t know anything about anything anymore. (Pause.) But thank you for the offer.