Harris entered into the silent, wood and paint-smelling backstage world. Scenery flats were stacked in neat piles ready for the stage hands to make quick changes between acts.
There was a small door to the stage manager’s office next to the props table. The stage itself was bare. Only one other worker was there, young William sweeping the boards with a broom almost as old as the theatre itself.
He nodded to the boy and headed through another door to the dressing rooms, up a short flight of steps. Number six was the first on this side. The door was shut. The placard on the door with the names of the occupants had not been changed – it still showed the previous act. Harris ripped the sign off and knocked.
“Hello!” he called.
There was no response. He knocked again,
“Hello! Medinis!”
The door opened. One of the younger men peered out. Behind him his brother and Mrs Medini were seated in chairs in front of mirrors. Mr Medini stood at an open trunk, away from the light so his face was in shadow.
“Good morning,” said Harris. “I’m glad you came back. Sorry about last night.”
“What do you want?” said the young man at the door. His voice was higher than would have been expected, with a nasal whine.
All right, Harris could be blunt too.
“The door banged. Don’t tell me it didn’t. I know every splinter in this place. The boss doesn’t take to that sort of thing, especially if there’s a show on. You can be heard clear out in the gods.”
Mr Medini stepped away from the trunk into the light cast by the gas jets. Harris could now see what wore a Commedia mask. Unlike most of its kind, which left the performer’s mouth and chin uncovered, this was a full-face mask.
The nose was long and hooked, and the eyebrows bright red. The cheeks spread out almost to the ears, which had huge holes in the lobes from which depended heavy earrings. Ribbons hung down from the chin as if to represent a beard.
“I assure you,” said Mr Medini through the mask, “we will be as silent as ghosts when the time comes.”
His voice had lost none of its politeness or measured tones since the night before, and was not at all hindered by the mask.
Harris swallowed as he looked into Medini’s black eyes. “Well, yes of course you will,” he said. “I just meant…well, the boss doesn’t like it, as I said.”
At the make-up table, Mrs Medini hissed. It was the same sound she’d made the night before: no words, just a hiss like a snake. If she’d parted those lips, Harris thought, would a forked tongue flick out? He decided in the harsh make-up lights that the woman was old – older than she’d appeared last night. Sixty, perhaps.
“All right, then,” he said, pulling a folded slip of paper out of his pocket and consulting it. “You’ve got the stage for rehearsal at twelve for an hour and a half. I’ll be here if there’s anything you want. You can discuss your lighting needs when Frank gets here at three.”
The young man at the door leaned in close to Harris’s face.
“We won’t need any lighting,” he said, and pushed the door closed.
Harris frowned. That was a new one. No lighting?
Everyone needed lighting.
~~~
He watched the Medinis rehearse when their turn came.
The act before them didn’t need much time on stage: it was Smiling Sally Summers, the Singing Sensation, as she billed herself, and smiling she was, her cheeks spread permanently apart even when singing, which tended to warp her pronunciation. None of the audience seemed to mind. She only took a few minutes with the rehearsal pianist to run through a new number she was going to try that night.
After her the Medinis took their rehearsal time. Harris and Miller went out into the stalls to watch.
“They were pretty good in audition,” said Miller, lighting a cigar and not offering Harris one. “Commedia dell’arte is really popular on the continent at the moment. It’s Italian impromptu theatre, you know.”
Yes, Harris did know, but it wasn’t his place to admit it.
“They get into masks and outlandish costumes and play traditional characters that are centuries old,” continued Miller. Harris still continued to know. “Then they decide on a broad storyline and make up the details and dialogue as they go. They improvise acrobatics and songs and all sorts of things. Takes lots of talent.”
Harris watched the rehearsal with a rising sense of gloom. The first part was merely warming-up. The actors wore costumes that seemed to suggest medieval Italy, or at least fantastic exaggerations of clothing worn back then. After a few minutes of what Harris would normally call ‘faffing about’ they retired backstage for a moment.
One of them re-emerged: Harris guessed it was Mr Medini since he now wore the same mask as he had in the dressing room.
It was clear also why Medini had appeared short the night before, and had been able to make such a change to his height by straightening his spine – the character he now played was stooped, almost double, arms spread out to the sides to lift his cloak over his head. After years playing the role, this spider-like gait had affected his real stance, perhaps.
Harris yawned.
Medini was joined by the others and what followed was totally incomprehensible, partly because the movements were highly stylised and consisted of gigantic gestures and partly because they spoke in Italian, roaring out lines and pausing every few moments as if they’d made a joke and expected a laugh.
One of the younger performers did some acrobatics where he twisted and tumbled his body across the stage in an extraordinary performance. Mrs Medini – it had to be her because the mask she wore had long black crepe hair hanging all around – did a bit where she belted one of the younger ones over the head with a frying pan.
“That’ll have them rolling in the aisles,” said Harris mournfully.
Beside him, Miller chewed his cigar and smiled. “Aren’t they fantastic?”
Harris had had enough. He shuffled sideways between the seats to the end of the row and went backstage through the prompt side tormentor so as not to violate the sanctity of the performers’ space on stage.
Even if the act was terrible, Harris knew his theatre etiquette.
The rehearsal continued for an hour, but Harris didn’t return to watch. If the boss liked them, they would play that night. The usual contract dictated a week’s trial. If the audience response was good, another month could be booked. If enthusiasm still continued, they could sign for another three months. After that they were out, successful or not: the audience was easily bored if the acts stayed too long. Harris groaned at the thought of having to sit out this rubbish twice a night six nights a week.
After the rehearsal the Medinis left the theatre. They went as a group, the two older ones in front; the younger twins behind, silent. Harris was at the stage door and saw them go out. They didn’t bother to acknowledge him, and he didn’t expect them to.
It was time for the other staff to arrive. Frank the lighting man was first as usual, because the lime-lights required a lot of maintenance.
It was tedious, and sometimes dangerous, work servicing the things, and he always wanted to do a good job.
Harris approached him when he was halfway up a ladder struggling with a gas pipe to break the bad news to him.
“No lighting? They can’t have no lighting!” Frank dropped ash from his cigarette onto Harris’s upturned face.
“That’s what they said.” Harris stood on the stage apron and stared up at Frank’s tweed-covered backside. “I told them it didn’t make any sense, but...”
“They’ll get nothing from me, then.” Frank hit the hydrogen feeder-tube with a hammer and nodded with satisfaction at the result. “A standard wash and bugger ’em.”
It was a rule that the cast be fully assembled backstage by six o’clock so the first show could start at seven-thirty. In the theatre world, a six o’clock call meant five forty-five.
The other acts trickled in around that time an
d started to fill their respective dressing-rooms. Harris was busy from that point, finding missing props, listening to complaints about the lack of hot water – again – and overseeing the preparations for the night’s performances.
At fifteen minutes to six, he took out his ancient fob watch and stepped along to Miller’s office. The boss was inside, and looked up as Harris appeared in his door.
“They’re not here, sir,” he said. “They’ve still got quarter of an hour.”
Miller had the Medini’s contract open in front of him. “Bloody Eye-talians,” he said. “Probably out getting boozed up somewhere on Eye-talian wine. All right, let me know if they’re not here by six.”
Clause fifteen of the contract stipulated quite clearly that he could fine them a pound for not being there on time.
He checked at the bottom where Mr Medini had signed on behalf of his troupe. Miller squinted at the signature. He’d been there, of course, when the paper was signed – his signature appeared on it, too.
But now the monogram seemed a little odd, a different colour, as if the gas light in his office tinted the ink red. And the last letter of the signature was daubed with a drop of ink that had fallen from the pen, like a drop of blood. He rubbed the signature idly as he counted the minutes.
In the meantime, Harris had gone back to the dressing rooms. He stopped beside number six – perhaps he should knock and make sure they hadn’t slipped in and not told him, although that, too, was against the rules.
He knocked.
No answer.
He opened the door slowly and peered in.
They weren’t there. The room was as it had been before: the trunk was closed, a few items of clothing were flung about, but on the whole the place was as neat as actors usually left it. He was about to exit when he noticed something on the dressing table, near the chair which Mrs Medini had used earlier.
He walked into the room – there was an odd smell, like earth, like charcoal, like…
The object on the table that had caught his attention was a hand – a skeleton hand from the wrist down. It lay beside the closed make-up kit of Mrs Medini, as if it was just another item of cosmetics.
Harris had seen some bizarre things in dressing rooms. A former act, the Great Marvello - who despite his name had been a rather mediocre illusionist - had used a shrunken head in his act, and kept it on a hook beside the door when it wasn’t on stage.
There had been a knife-thrower once who had spilled a bottle of fake blood so it looked like a particularly gruesome murder had been committed. But Harris knew enough about Commedia to know such a prop was a most unusual one for what was supposed to be quick-fire, bawdy comedy.
He looked at the hand for a moment and then turned to the trunk. There were symbols on it; weird runes and what he assumed were zodiacal signs. The trunk was closed by a hasp, but not entirely: it clearly wasn’t locked. Slowly, he bent down and reached out a hand to lift the lid.
Something hissed.
He glanced up: Mrs Medini was in the doorway, teeth bared. Beside her was her husband, tall, and dark, his thin lips tight between nose and chin.
“Can I help you?” asked Mr Medini. His voice could have cut wood.
“Er – no.” Harris straightened up and had the presence of mind to haul out his watch. “Just on six. I trust the other two are here.” He hoped his voice sounded as officious as he intended.
“We will not detain you,” said Mr Medini and Harris scuttled to the door, stepping around the two younger men who had come up behind. In the suddenly cooler air of the dressing room corridor, Harris felt his pulse slow. He hadn’t realised until then how breathless he felt.
“Now see that you’re on time in future,” he said. “The boss is most particular.”
~~~
The first house began at seven-thirty and finished at nine.
The second house started an hour later and packed up close to midnight – it always went longer – performers were tired, and the crowd more drunk, more jovial, and applauded longer. Harris always preferred the second house.
Tonight, he took up his usual position in the stage left wings, near Mr Miller who acted as master of ceremonies from his box above the orchestra. From his position Harris could both operate the curtain and run any messages that were needed.
Miller was done up in his usual striped coat and enormous bowtie. When he was master of ceremonies he emerged from his gruff exterior, improvising jokes and banter with the audience as he introduced the acts.
The show began on time to a full house. The band gave an overture taken from a variety of musical numbers then there was a duet singing act, and the obligatory ventriloquist, and a couple of young girls who could twist themselves into all sorts of odd positions. Then there were more singers, including Sally Summers, whose new song went down well.
By the time Miller announced the Medinis, the house was in a good mood and ready for whatever new act was on tonight.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” roared Miller, slamming his gavel down on the desk in front of him. “Tonight we present the most amazing new talent ever to grace the LeBlanc The-ay-ter! All the way from Florence, Italy, with an act that will be sure to amaze and amuse – and no doubt titillate your fancy – the Medini Commedia Extravaganza!” He slammed the gavel down again.
In his box at the back, Frank put up a standard lighting wash and flipped open his newspaper to read. He didn’t even bother to glance at the stage as Harris raised the curtain.
Their costumes were garish: long, flowing robes that almost completely disguised their forms. Mrs Medini – Harris presumed it was her, in the role of Isabella – had a huge collar on that reminded him of Queen Elizabeth. Mr Medini played the old man Pantalone, bent double, arms out, shuffling around the stage as he berated Isabella for her poor housekeeping.
It was a typical Commedia scene.
There was little actual story, and every few minutes it would be put aside entirely so a set piece of acrobatics or singing could be performed, then they would return to the flimsy plot. There was a lot of falling over and slapstick and many rude jokes.
Harris perched on a stool and prepared to be bored. He squinted in the harsh light that made the dazzling costumes appear even more extravagant than they really were.
He stood up. The harsh light? That was nothing Frank would ever provide for anyone, even for someone he didn’t like – it was too white, too unforgiving. No actor would wish to appear in something so bright it displayed every wrinkle, every pit and blemish. They relied on carefully placed shading to disguise the fact they wore make-up or, in this case, masks. What was Frank thinking?
Harris stared at the back of Mr Medini’s head. The mask didn’t appear to fake in the light after all. He expected to see a piece of elastic across the back of the man’s head that held the mask on, but there was nothing. Harris had to admit, the hooked nose, the jutting eyebrows, the impossibly sharp chin, were most effective.
He looked at Mrs Medini’s mask, and frowned. Of course, he now remembered – in Commedia dell’arte female actors didn’t wear masks. Only the men did. But here she was, decked out in a paper-white mask with bright red spots on the cheeks and long crepe hair hanging down at the back. Around her neck, like a ghastly pendant, the skeleton hand hung on a necklace.
The two younger men entered. One was dressed as Arlecchino, in chequered one-piece suit and high, narrow mask, and the other as the Capitano, a huge twirled moustache under his nose. As they entered, the light increased in intensity, as if it came from the masks themselves.
Harris glanced out at the audience. The initial response had been polite anticipation for the new act, but as the antics went on the patrons started to lose interest. Harris knew the signs – shuffling in their seats, opening programmes, whispering to their neighbours. The act was not going well.
“Hey, Mr Miller!” he whispered to his boss’s back. Miller knew better than to turn and attract attention, but he cocked his head enough to show Ha
rris he was listening. “They aren’t doing so well, I think. We’re losing the pit.”
Down in the front rows the audience was even more restless than in the stalls. Even the musicians were turning the pages of their music ready for the next act. In a moment someone would jeer, and that would set the rest of them off.
What would Miller do? It was his call. He could order Harris to lower the curtain, or take the risk that the lousy act would be over soon and he could introduce the next one.
On stage, as if noticing the change in the audience’s mood, the Medinis began to dance. The steps were weird, uncoordinated. The conductor stared, wondering if the orchestra should be playing something.
The four actors lined up and began solemn steps, pacing and interweaving among themselves. Commedia relied on improvisation – had they detected the bad reception and were ad-libbing this dance to try and save the act? The conductor glanced at Miller, who shrugged.
Harris looked out to see what the audience thought of it, but they had gone strangely quiet, staring at the bizarre circles and measures of the four actors. They were stock still – more so than they should be, eyes open, mouths agape as they watched.
Ah – someone was leaving! Harris shifted his gaze to the movement that had caught his eye. No, it wasn’t an audience member, it was…
…it was another Commedia figure. In the back row, another person dressed like the Medinis, wearing an equally bizarre mask, walked down the aisle with its arms spread out, lifting its legs high and setting its feet down carefully with each step, like a strutting rooster.
And another one! Down in the pit this time, hovering over the end of a row of seats – masked, outlandishly attired, spreading its arms over the people. Then more of them appeared, emerging from the shadows as the weird dance continued.
As Harris watched, a thin mist appeared over the heads of the crowd, a white, roiling miasma that seemed to exude from the audience’s bodies, drifting up and over their heads to trail and twirl around the fingers of the Commedia characters.
Masks Page 5