Raul had cried out when Alec first told him all this. "You're going to college in a few months. What kind of treatment is this? You're being treated like an adolescent. It's stupid and barbaric and obscene."
Alec laughed at Raul's mad hysteria. "I know," he said pleasantly.
"All right. Look, I don't want to get myself involved with you and your mother, but come on. Aren't you going to fight this?"
"No, because I'd rather have you here, playing the stupid game, than risk, just for these few months, losing you. All right, it's stupid, but you are here. In a few months I won't have any contact with my mother, so it doesn't matter if she's being stupid now."
Raul said nothing.
During the week Raul sat dismally in classes, his notebook open, writing a vast amount of poetry. "Math class," he told Alec, "is my most productive period. I write, on the average, three poems. Nearly all bad, of course."
Between classes—he had only four and was cutting gym every day—he strolled over to different hiding places to smoke cigarettes. On days when long periods elapsed without a class, he slipped down to Mike & Gino's.
"Look at how liberal they are to you," Alec pleaded. "Only four classes. On some days, only two."
"On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I have four. Tuesday, I have three. Thursday, I have two."
"Okay, big deal. It's still great."
"What's great about it? Between those classes I am not in a quiet study writing, or on stage acting. I'm any other indolent, dumb adolescent. The only places I can go to are Mike & Gino's, which is not a Paris cafe, or to some dingy hole in the wall to smoke."
"Just try and stick it out. You'll get all that in a year or so." Raul sighed. "There's no other place for you," Alec continued. "I don't want your talent wasted in some crash pad in the Village."
"What the fuck makes you think…"
"I'm telling you," he insisted, "that there's no other place for you. Without it, where are you going to go?"
Raul stared off into space. His face hard, he finally said, "So I should languish here and allow my talents to be slowly corroded by this luxury. What artist went to an Ivy League school? What the fuck am I going to write about all my life? A neurotic kid in a rich school? Very hackneyed material. Really rather dismal."
Alec got up and walked about the room. "What can I say? I don't want you to leave."
"Why?"
"Because I want us to share all our experiences. When we're in Paris," he said, laughing, "I want us to be able to talk about all the teachers we've had, etc."
"And when you're a senior in college, am I supposed to be a freshman? Alec, I'm above those of my age. I'll go out of my mind."
"All right," he said quietly, "then leave."
Raul sat up in irritation. "It's not you that's keeping me here. You said it, my boy, where do I go? There's no place for an intelligent fourteen-year-old. If I leave this school I'm ruined. My career will have no future." He sat quietly. Suddenly he stood up, screaming, "Bourgeois escapism! Pure, unadulterated escapism. I am such a fucking coward!"
He sat down again. "I have no choice," he said. "I stay. I'm powerless to do otherwise." Silence. He went on: "I'll be fifteen in a month or so."
9
As the month of April began, three things were important for Raul. One, warnings for the last trimester— to those failing subjects or in danger of failing—were sent out. Two, it was now or never, if Raul was to speak to Alexander. Three, the running for Iago was nearing its last phase; from now on the competition would be heated.
Raul talked Bill into coming with him to see Alexander. The two walked into his hushed room. Alexander's face was pitted, giving it a bleak aspect; his eyes were mournful, expressive of a constant sorrow. He glanced up inquisitively at them.
Raul spoke. "I'm Raul Sabas and this is Bill Daily."
"Yes," Alexander said in a whisper, "Mr. Bowden spoke to me about you and showed me some of your poetry. You both want to be in my class next year?"
They nodded.
"I see. Well, we take some fourth formers on, occasionally. It's an informal course. We just hand the writings about and discuss them." He paused. "We're very serious here. I don't like flippancy or jealousy. Unless you know something of the pain and diligence that goes into writing, you won't be likely to stay here." He looked at them. "Do you have any writings with you?" he asked Bill.
Bill said yes, giving him a folder. He glanced at it, setting it aside. "Do you mind if I keep them?"
"I have copies."
"Good. I don't know the schedule setup yet, so I can't tell you anything definite. I may not have any room, but I'll keep you in mind."
Raul was surprised at his finalizing tone. Alexander got up, Raul and Bill following his lead. He extended his hand. They shook it and left.
They walked to a common smoking ground in silence. It was a beautiful spring day. The grounds of the school were flourishing. The sun spread luxuriously over the grass, a light breeze setting all in peace and solitude.
"What do you think?" Bill asked, worried.
"I expected more," Raul said.
After the play Raul had been surprised at the lack of harassment he was getting from his teachers. He wasn't pushed by annoying questions. There were no urgings to make up tests or to get homework in. It was logical. Henderson had told them to lay off. If, Raul thought, I am playing this school ruthlessly, it is because they play me ruthlessly.
However, the pressure was on again. Not from one teacher, but all. The day after he spoke to Alexander, he was forced to commit himself to nine make-up tests. The teachers complained of his not doing homework but excused him nevertheless. Raul came home, his useless rage collapsing into humiliation.
There hadn't been peace in the Sabas home for over a year, because of Raul's cutting. The open and violent exhibition of passion was routine. And when Rafael Sabas, Raul's father, told him that warnings had been received in all subjects but English, the scene seemed set again.
Rafael Sabas was six feet three, and he weighed nearly two hundred pounds. He had a loud booming voice that suited both his boisterous sarcasm and the sonorous expression of his more uncompromising views. Nevertheless, he had to be pushed to evidence real anger; he would suppress irritation, allowing it to grow like a cancer within him, the visible sign being a certain tension about the temples. It was in this manner that he spoke about the warnings.
He's at his best like this, Raul thought. When he pleads his love, the whining is intolerable. "I know," Raul said, his face burrowed into his plate. He cleared his throat.
"And what are you going to do about it?"
Raul could walk with all the arrogance of an actor_ and speak in a powerful and threatening voice. Anywhere but before his father's voice, he was a man. He cringed at its tone. "Today," he said, obviously exhausted, "I was hounded into nine make-up tests. Is that enough?"
"Are you going to study for them?" Rafael asked.
Raul sighed. No, he was not. He would never waste the time, the energy. He had talents to be cultivated. He would not bow before the petty, flatulent arrogance of school. "Yes. I'll study for them."
Rafael's puffed, red face flared briefly. "You had better, young man."
Raul's mind felt as if it were unbearably constricted; something white hot had been isolated, yelling to get out. He felt blinded as it exploded. "Why? What are ya gonna do?"
"Never mind. I just wanted to know that you are going to do it."
In a moment, after Raul had declared that he would work when and where he wanted to, Rafael was dragging him across the living-room floor, slapping both sides of his head. Raul was screaming, in a high, tense whine, that he was a son of a bitch, a fucker, a bastard. Raul's mother ran to her room, crying.
Despite Raul's curses, while he was being beaten he only felt weary, desperate to escape. And he was more angered by his mother's pointless tears than by his father's hands. It was only when he shut himself in his room that he discovered an uncontr
ollable rage.
He trembled and cried, his frame torn by his impotence. The memory of the scene returned to him again and again, his furor pitched to near insanity. And there was no release, no counter to this insult. The fight between his parents and him had always been waged along specific strategic lines. If they took away his money, he stole from them. The more they insisted he go to school, the less likely he was to do so. Not out of obstinacy, but out of a natural, deeply rooted dislike for doing anything their way.
When Raul had discovered that his father's ego had overwhelmed his, he refused to grant even the most superficial acknowledgment of the likeness. Raul was struggling against the ideal that was forced on him, creating others. Beneath his father's acquired sophistication was a passion for the family unit; his son must inherit his ambience, his values, his life style. To Rafael, no idea or emotion that Raul developed was unpredictable—after all, as a boy, he had gone through that; in the same way any accomplishment became a reflection on his merits. The idea that everything he did was either a natural phase of adolescence or a result of his father's teachings was repulsive to Raul. He even shied away from sex on that basis: he wouldn't give Rafael the pleasure of observing the typical, clumsy beginnings of love: much less allow him to search his face for the beaming smile of a boy who had just lost his virginity.
In a demented state, Raul opened his penknife. He walked out into the living room where his mother was reading and sat next to her. His father was washing dishes in the kitchen. She looked at him sorrowfully, obviously about to say something consoling. Raul cut her off. "I'm going to ask him to apologize."
"You'll just get hit again," she said.
Raul drew his knife out, smiling. "I don't think so." He put it away. "If he tries, I'll have to fight him."
"You're crazy," she said, mocking yet worried.
"Dad," Raul called.
"Yes," he said, coming into the living room.
"I want you to apologize." Raul was arrogant. The scene was written. He had lines and could be secure in them. This was a struggle that he had set up.
Rafael laughed. A loud, mocking, sure laugh. He returned to the kitchen.
Here, in essence, was Raul's humiliation. How neatly he fit into the would-be rebel. Put me in a cubbyhole, I fit so neatly. Now my image is comfortable.
His mother looked at him. A look mixed with confidence, sympathy, and rebuke.
"Well, he didn't fight me, did he?" And he left.
Raul avoided speaking with Miller on the subject of Iago, though the other candidates, John Henderson and Michael Sussbaum, had been doing so. They were so obvious in their attempts to feel him out on the subject, so ridiculously greedy for the part, that Raul thought he'd maintain his dignity by not speaking of it. But he was desperate to play Shakespeare. God, he thought, would that be a reason to stay!
It wasn't long before he abandoned that decision. He thought that if he didn't seem eager Miller might not give it to him.
Of all the actors in the theater, Miller loved him the most. He saw Raul every day for more than an hour, constantly giving him advice and encouragement. Raul never took, for a moment, any of that advice seriously, but he appreciated the man's love for him.
In the theater Raul was God—with Alec the only other. This was his domain, perhaps his only one. Here, his walk was consistently important. So when it was heard that Raul had decided to speak to Miller about Iago, a small panic was set off.
Raul got Miller talking about the production. Soon he was being shown the stage design. After that, Miller went on to the problems he would have with Hinton. And then he talked about casting Iago.
He said he was thinking of either Michael or John. Raul looked shocked and hurt. Miller looked sadly at him. He said he had to give the part to a senior or a junior. He knew Raul could handle the part better than anyone else, but there were other problems. Raul was too skinny: he wouldn't look good in tights. Exercise? Maybe. If he could build himself up before next year, he would reconsider. Nothing was definite, he ended, he just didn't want Raul to hope for much. There would be a good part in the fall production in any case.
Raul told this to Alec, Davis, and Hinton. The three of them decided they would go to Miller to get him to realize how important it was to give Raul the part. Davis threw a fit. Who else could play it? Raul wouldn't play it very well, but who else could? Alec just frowned and said it was absurd. Hinton said he didn't want to play Othello without Raul supporting him.
Though all the major leads pleaded with him, Miller promised nothing. To Alec and Davis, he pointed out that Raul would overshadow Hinton. Raul's voice, no matter how much Hinton improved, would point up its faults. Then there was his body, and the fact that he would be only a fourth former. There had been an uproar about his giving second lead to a third former. They had to remember that, under the circumstances, no one else could have played Rosencrantz.
Hinton spoke to Miller alone, and after that no longer stood behind Raul. He didn't desert him, but he treated him as he did all the other candidates.
Raul went to Miller and said this to him. He wanted the part terribly, however he understood why Miller might not give it to him. Miller repeated all his reasons, promising a lead in the fall production and a marvelous lead in his senior year. He wanted to save him, he said.
Raul was exhausted from this. Harassed, disappointed, listless, he didn't, or couldn't, care about honor. When his father came into his room to apologize for hitting him, Raul nodded—I don't care, he thought. You're a liar. He promised his parents he would work. Pass his make-ups, go to the school next year and not cut.
He pulled himself together to face the awful week ahead. Nine make-up tests; nine hours of waste, anguish, and humiliation. Within, the blackest hate grew for this system that shattered the mirror he held up to himself. In his eyes, he was the most miserable of worms. In his diary he wrote: "My lips are raw from the asses I've kissed this week."
After that week, though Raul knew he had failed nearly all the tests, his parents, believing he had done well, left him free to see Alec over the weekends. The weekends with Alec were bursts of sunlight in the midst of threatening skies.
During the next week Bowden, Miller, and all of Raul's teachers smiled and patted him on the back. "Glad to see you're working hard," Bowden said. Miller smiled at him. "Keep your nose clean," he advised. He hadn't failed all his tests, and with the teachers he had, it didn't matter—just that he made them up.
"By lying," Raul told Alec, "I've bought a little freedom."
When Raul had just begun to relax, to feel free to walk about the campus without teachers running up to him, asking about this test or another, he got the news that the gym department was after him.
"Trouble comes in a downpour," Bill said. "One of the jocks was up in Miller's office asking about you." Bill had a class, he had to go.
Raul sat down and sighed. "Why don't they leave me alone?" he cried. "Why can't I have any peace?"
He tried to avoid them, but two members of the gym department came into the cafeteria, spotted him, and went over to him. They tried to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible. He promised to go. He didn't and heard nothing more about it.
At last his peace was won. The next trouble would come with final examinations.
Iolanthe was nearing production. Alec had been seducing one member of the cast after another, but he seemed tired of it—the hours of stupid lies and inane protestations of love. Raul talked to him for hours about having a serious relationship, and Alec became eager for one.
A girl named Barbara, who had seen Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, became his target. Not for mere seduction but for love. What blinded Raul to the absurdity of the decision was his happiness at the attitude.
Neither of them, for this was a joint seduction, looked very carefully at the girl's character but went full steam ahead into a mass of ignorance. Alec took her out but failed miserably to interest her even in a good fuck.
Raul
knew why Alec was suddenly so clumsy. For a change, his line was truthful, and nothing is so absurd as sincere affection.
Barbara took mescaline, and they knew she would be tripping that night. On Raul's urging, Alec said she could come over, for they would be smoking.
Alec was more than despondent—the blow to his ego had been a sharp one. It's like seeing a god in misery, Raul thought, that this great seducer should suddenly lose his prowess, his image.
Alec was sure she wouldn't come, Raul tried to convince him otherwise. Alec insisted she wouldn't; evidently they had exchanged bitter words, but Alec was vague about it.
They smoked, their respective losses of face passing from view. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern rose easily within them. Their egos were riding high as they assumed the grace and power of the stage, the music's volume surrounding them with majesty.
After a time, deep in the dance of their game, the ringing of the telephone, a sharp reminder of reality, broke through the suddenly discordant noise.
Alec left the room, Raul subsiding in a heap, lost without his companion. Soon Alec reappeared. He turned the stereo off, leaving the room in a dismal silence. "It's Barbara," he said. "She's downstairs somewhere and wants us to meet her."
They left the apartment in silence. Alec looked troubled, Raul dismayed. In the elevator Alec said, "Did you hear the doorbell ring?"
"When?" Raul asked absently. "When we were in the room."
"No," he said, surprised. "Why?"
"Barbara said she was here, ringing the doorbell."
"Maybe she was trying the wrong apartment."
"I don't know."
They met her at the corner of Eighty-sixth Street. She looked tired and degenerate. They walked back. "I kept ringing the doorbell," she whined somewhat frantically. "Where were you? I kept ringing and ringing. With the number getting bigger."
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