Hide Fox, and All After

by Rafael Yglesias

  At the center of the semicircle, Hinton and Davis were guarding two seats for Raul and Alec. Their persistence, unusual for both, in saving those conspicuous seats confirmed many fears. And the smiling calm that Raul and Alec flashed on as they entered the lighted arena became the cue for many to be obsequious. This either creates a foothold or allows one the pleasure of quoting the bragging the object of this servility is taunted into; the only defense is exaggerated modesty.

  Michael Sussbaum, who had played opposite Raul in Aria da Capo, approached the shouts of greeting from Raul, Alec, Hinton, and Davis. His chronic smile broadened beyond all possibility. He thought as he neared them that his early coming would impress everyone as familiarity; while those who noticed it put it down to a lack of subtlety, an overanxiousness to ingratiate himself.

  "What do ya say?" Hinton called to Alec and Raul.

  "How ya doin', mah man?" Raul said, giving Hinton five.

  Davis shook hands with Raul and then with Alec. "This is humiliating," he said.

  Alec lost his smile. "Well, you gotta face it."

  Raul sat down with the grace any actor has when he is center stage. He put his glasses in his jacket pocket and, smiling benignly, spoke in asides to Alec, while exchanging nods with others about the stage.

  Alec sat with his arms folded, frowning at anyone who met his eyes, seeming bemused at Raul's whispered quips.

  "Here comes The Sussbaum," Raul hissed.

  "Number one Jew," Alec said, moments before Mike extended his hand. Alec shook it silently. Mike's smile looked as if it had been frozen into place.

  "How have you been, Raul?" he asked, offering a hand.

  Raul glanced haughtily at the extended organ. "Ah, alas, how have I been, Mike? How, indeed?"

  Mike awkwardly put his hand back at his side. . "Are you a doctor, Mike, that you would ask after Raul's health?" Alec asked.

  "It's concern for me, Alec. No, on second thought, it isn't. You see, Alec, Mike wouldn't want to have to fill in for me."

  Mike's smile was still fixed, but his eyes wavered.

  "We're only kidding you, Mike," Alec said slowly, "just joshin' ya."

  The scene seemed in danger of stopping dead when Mr. Miller asked everyone to sit down. "Well, good luck," Mike said significantly. He moved away toward the tail end of the semicircle, downstage left.

  "Go fuck yourself," Alec murmured.

  "Oh, violent, Alec, very violent."

  Miller asked everyone to quiet down. "This pisses me off no end," Alec mumbled.

  Davis leaned forward to face them. "I won't wish you good luck. I'm sorry we all have to go through this petty jealousy."

  The auditorium fell silent, all attention trained on Mr. Miller.

  Miller spoke of the honor it was for Cabot to be allowed to present the world premiere of Paul I. ("The world premiere," Alec said, "that asshole.") There were hopes, Miller continued, that the play might reach Broadway. Not, of course, he said humorously his yellow teeth briefly exposed, with Cabot's cast. ("Oh, you're a funny man, Miller, ya kill me.") Miller criticized the rumors that tryouts were redundant, saying that, indeed, he had not yet picked the cast, that tryouts were for that purpose. ("In that notebook, see that notebook, is written Paul, dash, Black.") Miller then introduced John Goldby. Goldby spoke of his regret at not being able to be at rehearsals, assuring all that he would, however, be at a few. He said that he would help Mr. Miller with casting but that the final decisions would, of course, lie with Mr. Miller. ("He has to hurry up," Raul said, "or I'm gonna scream. I can't stand this tension and listen to rhetoric") Goldby went on to speak of Eric Hoffer, team effort in plays, and the fact that he and Mr. Miller had decided to do a great deal of the play as a pageant. He went on and on, while Raul sweated and Alec cursed, until Miller got up and explained that he would begin on the right-hand side of the semicircle. The last fifteen people on that side simultaneously shifted and tensed up. And it began. Miller selected speeches randomly, occasionally asking people to read complementary parts; but, so far, he tested them again with more substantial ones.

  The center and the left-hand side of the semicircle were lulled into calm, not only by the removal of testing but by the general mediocrity of the candidates. Yet it swung its slow way toward Raul and Alec, and Raul periodically shot apprehensive glances at the approaching tide of speakers. Alec stared off into the lights, his lips moving occasionally.

  Raul fell to studying Miller's face. Never had he seen him so inscrutable, so sinister that he became threatening. Raul was nudged by Alec, the exhausted face nodding toward Hinton, who, Raul realized in spasm of fear, was being called on by Miller.

  "Page fifty-two, read Paul's speech. Raul, read Count Grigory."

  Raul fumbled with the script. Grigory had three lines between two long speeches of Paul's.

  Raul wiped his palms, tried to quell the nervous tremors of his stomach, and studied the three lines. He used all his superficial reading tricks: a devastating pause there, let his voice crack here, and end with a pleading, humanitarian tone. Then, as quickly as he could, he memorized the lines. Hinton reached his cue, and Raul admired his own voice discoursing most eloquent music. Hinton continued, but Miller, after a few lines, said that it was enough. A new wave of fear rose up in Raul. He held his script, prepared to open it when Miller called the page out to him.

  "Davis, page forty-six, the Jew's part. Alec, will you read his wife." The audience broke out in laughter. Raul's script began to slide off his knees, but he caught it absently.

  6

  When tryouts ended, the hopefuls had gone over to Miller, some to hint at roles, others to be blunt enough to name them openly. Alec and Raul, however, had hurried silently off the stage, out of the theater, into the subway and home. Alec lived a block away from Raul, so they were together on the subway and for two more blocks to Alec's apartment.

  In all that time together they consistently predicted doom. Alec had never been favored by Miller, so the slight given him in tryouts could be viewed only as a death sentence. Raul was confused—there was every reason to believe Miller would favor him, but on the slight evidence of tryouts, Raul could see no hope. And not having a good role had a greater implication for him than a mere slight to his ego.

  They egged each other on into greater depths of tragedy. They wouldn't even get supporting roles, perhaps not even speaking parts. Raul suggested that; he then suggested that Alec would get a speaking part, indeed all along he had thought Alec would be favored, but he, Raul, would be a guard or something. Alec frowned. No, they would both get decent parts, but forget about anything important. "That fuckin' Miller," Raul said, "doesn't know what he could be doing to me."

  The weekend was interminably long. Raul called Alec once. It was Saturday night; he asked him where the parts would be listed. Alec said on the main bulletin board in Porshe Hall. Ten minutes later Raul called back, asking where the main bulletin board was. Alec said outside Henderson's secretary's office.

  Sunday night Alec drugged himself to sleep with television. Raul was up all night, practicing a graceful acceptance of a major role, and angrily, nobly refusing a degrading demotion.

  In the morning Raul hurried to the theater, finding an unusually large crowd there. He asked Miller when casting would be listed. After lunch, he was told. Raul called Alec, as they had agreed, and arranged to meet him at Mike & Gino's. They would eat lunch and together read their glory or doom. "You know, of course," Raul said to him, "it's going to be embarrassing if one of us gets a good role and the other doesn't." At eleven-thirty, when Raul was let out of history class, he crossed over to an acre of land that Cabot kept as a memorial to a student who had died in World War II, slid down the rocks that bordered one side of the acre, ran down a street that was exposed to Porshe Hall, and therefore dangerous, down a flight of steps to a long driveway that, farther down, led to another flight of steps and finally to the bottom of the long hill leading to Cabot. This way he avoided walking down the hi
ll in full view of the school.

  He waited ten minutes for Alec, who came at eleven-fifty; they had lunch and went up to the school, following, in reverse, the route Raul had taken.

  They walked up to the office floor of Porshe Hall silently; they were solemn, heads bowed. Students and a few faculty who passed them smiled knowingly. Raul, who saw this, took it, illogically, as an evil omen. Alec opened the door onto the main floor, his eyes going directly to the sheet of paper. Raul cleared his throat. They both looked up and down the hallway, slowly strolling over to the bulletin board. The parts were listed in order of importance. The sheet read: 1. Paul—Alec Shaw; 2. The Peasant—Raul Sabas; 3. Grigory—Al Hinton; and so on.

  They stared at the mimeographed sheet for a while, vague smiles crossing their faces. Then, abruptly, they turned on their heels, facing each other, extended their hands, shook hands, said together: "Congratulations."

  "It was no more than we deserved," Raul said.

  "No. No more than we deserved. We shouldn't lose control like that again."

  Raul looked at the clock. "I have a class."

  "I'll see you in the theater after school."

  "Do we have rehearsals today?"

  "They begin immediately."

  Seeing a group of hopefuls approaching, they left hastily, to avoid giving the impression they were gloating. Raul, since he had to go up four nights of stairs to reach his class, couldn't avoid being overtaken. John Henderson, as embarrassed as Raul, mumbled his congratulations.

  "You're not happy about your part, are you?"

  "No," Henderson said, without hiding his bitterness.

  "What part did you want?"

  "The Peasant," he said, smiling strangely.

  Raul laughed. "Oh my God, we're on dangerous ground."

  "Well, that's show biz," John said, hurrying up the stairs.

  Raul listened to Henderson's steps echoing. To no one, he said, "It certainly is. You bet your goddamn asshole." He started up the stairs, thought briefly, and then said, "That lacked poetry."

  Raul and Alec were exhilarated all day, and what puzzled them most they resolved quickly. When they asked Mr. Miller why he had given them such small parts to read, he looked surprised and said, "I just worked with the two of you in the fall production. I knew your capabilities, there was no reason to test you."

  From this point on, both Raul's and Alec's manner became cocky and businesslike toward the other, actors. One asked either Raul or Alec what was being rehearsed that day, whether one was playing one's well, or what was going on in Miller's mind. Indeed, once Alec and Raul had achieved their positions of distinction, and with Miller as Raul's faculty adviser, they were completely in his confidence.

  Miller felt fatherly toward Raul. He had ambitions for the boy. He would retire in three years, and he cherished the idea of turning out an actor who would make his mark. He had abandoned his rule that only seniors or juniors could get leads to keep Raul in the school. And he hoped by making an example of his life he could make Raul face facts and compromise with reality.

  Raul went to school, beginning with the day casting was posted, faithfully. But in the afternoon, from one to three-thirty, when he was supposed to be in gym, he went, instead, to the theater. Miller knew this but said nothing, using the time to indoctrinate him. The two chatted as if they were friends; Miller's informality was pleasing—and if Raul had no respect for him as a director or as an adviser, he respected him for this. In a few weeks they were on a first-name basis. It was not rare to ask Raul a question about Paul I and be told, "I don't know. Ask Fred." And he would laugh uproariously at his pretentious informality.

  Alec was more often than not in on these talks, and before long they became aware of Miller's dissatisfaction with both the playwright and his play.

  Miller had asked Goldby to alter a few things in the script. In all cases, he had refused even to rewrite slightly. Goldby's insistence on a pageant became an insurmountable difficulty. Miller was not a forceful man, but Goldby's youthful arrogance caused him to write an ominous letter, and Goldby, for a time, seemed to be giving in. He wrote Miller he would try to rewrite one of the scenes. A week later he wrote again, "I cannot alter the play in any way. Each scene complements the other—it is a delicate balance. Should I change this scene or the other, it would throw the whole thing out of whack. I simply cannot do it."

  Miller hesitated. He spoke to both Raul and Alec about it, and they were for throwing the play out altogether. Miller hadn't expected this from the two leads. When they went on to discuss the whole cast's apathy toward the play, he was almost decided. A day or two later he pointed out to Raul and Alec that he needed another play: one that could hold a cast of more than thirty and that had leads suitable for Raul, Alec, and Hinton.

  Neither Alec nor Raul hesitated. They named Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. "That doesn't have a cast of more than thirty people," Miller said.

  "The first productions didn't," Alec said. "But do you remember the New York production?"

  Raul took out a copy of the play—either one or the other of them always carried one; it had become a Bible to them. He turned to the pages listing the cast of the New York production and gave it to Alec. Alec counted the number of people and said, "Thirty, not counting the musicians."

  Miller was dismayed. He hadn't expected, or wished, for a feasible alternative.

  Raul said, "Alec and I would take either Rosencrantz or Guildenstern, Hinton would be the Player."

  Alec laughed. "Thank you for casting the play, Raul."

  Raul hurried to explain. "No, I mean, he just said that he didn't know, that he needed…"

  Alec laughed again. "It's okay, Raul, you can calm down."

  Miller came out of his reverie. "I would probably cast Raul as Rosencrantz, and you as Guildenstern. Hinton could be the Player." He paused. "It's a good idea, I may do it."

  That night Miller wrote to Goldby, "The difficulties being so great, I have decided, at least for this term, not to do Paul I."

  Miller's decision threw the theater into panic. With a month of rehearsal time lost already, Miller seized upon it and worked to increase it. Within a week Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had progressed, proportionately, to where Paul I was after a month.

  He had an advantage in doing this play—Raul and Alec had most, if not all, of their lines already memorized and mildly interpreted. There were disadvantages in that, however—the rest of the cast was behind them: and Raul and Alec had a habit of reinterpreting parts over and over, which added to the chaos.

  Miller found unusual problems working with the three leads. It was impossible to block moves for Raul. He refused to stay in the same place, and Miller didn't realize that he looked so natural on the stage because of it. Alec followed blocking perfectly, but he blocked his own moves. He also had a tendency to be stylized, and Miller's solution for this was to block more moves for him. With Hinton there was the old difficulty of his Harlem accent.

  Miller would remind him that Othello was coming up next year, and the cast would regularly pronounce "I," for his benefit. Hinton tried, he tried hard, producing, eventually, a dead middle ground. Raul smoldered inwardly with political objections. When Alec once complained of Hinton's inability to be Shakespearian, Raul, with all the force of a dormant volcano erupting, said, "What crap! What bullshit! You're not only trying to make a white man out of him, you don't realize that, theatrically, Al's accent is beautiful on stage, however incongruous."

  After Raul had calmed Alec out of his resentment at being so viciously attacked, Alec realized something about Al Hinton that he had never realized before.

  The rehearsals of the play started unusually—with hysteria. In a while that tension dissipated into the indolent stretch of time distant from performance. Raul calmed with this quiet work, which allowed him a minimum toleration of school. But he did no school work, and a great distant dread hovered over him. Alec, having the major role—Guildenstern was regarded as lead—
was consistently nervous. Not only because of the performance but because it would affect his entrance application to Carnegie. But this is the kind of pressure actors feed on, the kind of pressure adolescents are forced to live with. Because of all this, Alec was drawn strongly to Raul; and Raul, having found a companion in art, needed Alec for his survival at Cabot.

  Yet a month and a half after the rehearsals of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had begun, neither had been at the other's house. Raul, alone or off the stage, was shy to an extreme; and Alec was not in the habit of cultivating long-term friendships with his own sex, so he was on shaky grounds as well. But Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is not a play to be done by polite friends, and as the hysteria rose again as the performance neared, Raul and Alec decided they would have to rehearse outside of the theater. After dinner Raul would walk the one block to Alec's house, and they would rehearse until eleven or twelve. After a week or two Raul began to sleep over, and they would rehearse until two or three in the morning.

  Three weeks before the performance, Alec's mother and stepfather left for Europe for two and a half weeks—they would return just in time for the play. Raul asked his parents if he could live at Alec's during that time and was given permission.

  By this time Raul had dropped biology, the first class he had in the morning. This meant, as long as Raul skirted the attendance taken in an early study hall, he didn't have to appear until eleven-thirty. Objectively, this was a risk; to Raul, it was as minor as cutting gym.