by Tim Powers
“Enough for what?” she asked.
“Enough for me,” he replied irritably. “Get out of here.”
She left indignantly, with sotto voce observations to the effect that certain people were crippled in more ways than one. So long, Life, Thomas thought.
The self-descriptions of the next few women were very subdued, and Thomas soon stopped listening and stared at the girl in the gray sweater. After a while he became aware that she was staring back at him, and he blushed and looked away.
“And yourself, miss?” Gladhand said politely, turning finally to her.
She rose. “I saw your ad in the Greeter, “she said, and shrugged. “I’ve never acted before, so you know I haven’t developed any prejudices or bad habits. I have read the play, at least. And I have no previous jobs or commitments to prevent my starting directly.”
Gladhand nodded, and wheeled himself into the middle of the stage. He beckoned to Thomas, who hurried over to him. “What do you think, Rufus?” the theatre manager asked solemnly.
“Jesus, sir,” Thomas answered under his breath. “Take the girl in the gray sweater. She’s…” He hesitated.
“Yes?” pursued Gladhand with a half-mocking smile. “She’s what?”
“She’s probably the best actress of them,” finished Thomas defensively.
“Nonsense. That one I ordered out was probably the best actress.” He threw up one hand in a surrendering gesture. “But—I must have people I can work with. Okay. I’ll take her.”
“Sir? Why didn’t you have an audition for Touchstone’s part?”
“I didn’t have to. You dropped in at the right moment, and seemed adequate.” Gladhand rolled forward. “The truth is,” he whispered over his shoulder, “I hate auditions. I never really know what to do.”
He was at the edge of the stage again. “Ladies, it will not be necessary to do readings. I have made my choice. The ones not chosen may pick up free tickets to the performance from the young man by the door there. And the part of Rosalind, I’ve decided, goes to you.” He pointed to the girl who was Thomas’ choice. The others got to their feet and shambled out.
The girl in the gray sweater stepped to the stage, and resting one hand lightly on the edge, vaulted gracefully up onto it. Thomas noted that she was wearing faded black corduroy pants. She was somewhat short, and her figure was full but certainly not plump.
Gladhand bowed somehow in his wheelchair. “I am Nathan Gladhand, and this is Rufus Pennick,” he said. “You are…?”
“Cleopatra Pearl,” she said.
“Cleopatra Pearl,” Gladhand repeated gloomily.
“My mother thought it sounded sharp,” the girl said apologetically. “I can’t help it. Call me Pat.”
Gladhand brightened. “Pat it is. Well, Pat, Rufus here is a newcomer to our company like yourself, so I’ll explain our rules and customs to both of you at once.” He plucked a cigar out of his pocket and struck a match on the wheelchair arm. “First (puff puff), know your lines. I realize you two haven’t had a chance to, yet; but starting tomorrow I will expect every actor to have his or her lines down pat, so we can spend our time on movement and inflection and things like that. Second—what I say is law. You may make suggestions from time to time, but you may never persist in disagreement. Third—nothing is beneath an actor’s dignity. Everybody builds sets, hangs lights, paints backdrops, goes next door to fetch chop suey and eggrolls. Let’s see, what am I on, fourth? Fourth—there are no fights within my troupe. In the event of a fight, both parties are expelled, no matter who it might be.” He pinched the cigar out and replaced it in his pocket. “And there’s no smoking in the auditorium. That’s all the rules I can think of for now. If any more occur to me I’ll let you know. There’s a rehearsal in about an hour; you two needn’t participate yet, but you should watch. I’ll see both of you later. Rufus, show her around.”
“Aye aye.” Thomas led her away into the wings while Gladhand wheeled himself off in the opposite direction. “Actually,” Thomas confessed to her, “I don’t really know my way around the place yet. I’ve only—”
“You’ve got a cold, haven’t you?” she interrupted.
“What? Oh, yes. Haven’t been taking care of myself this last couple of days. Anyway, I can show you the greenroom—which is painted yellow, by the way; I guess it used to be green. That’s the only landmark I know, so far. Maybe you and I could explore—”
“What did you do before you came here, Rufus? Where did you live?”
“I—” I can’t tell her I was a ward of the local cloistered monastery, he realized. She’d recoil. And I ditched that identity, anyway. “I was a student at Berkeley,” he said. “I got expelled, though, for punching the dean one night, so I signed aboard a tramp steamer and came to Los Angeles. Oh,” he added, “and I’m a poet in my spare time.” That much, at least, was true.
“A poet?” she echoed, her voice a blend of doubt and awe, as if he’d claimed that he’d been brought up by wolves.
“Well, yes,” Thomas said, a little disconcerted. “A few sonnets and things. I haven’t been published yet.”
They walked on, silently, to the greenroom. “This is where everybody seems to congregate,” he told her, though the only one there at present was Negri, who was combing his hair in front of a mirror. “Bob,” Thomas said, “this is Pat Pearl. Pat, Bob Negri. Pat is taking the Rosalind part.”
Negri turned around and gave the girl a long, interested up-and-down look. “Well, hello,” he said with a slow smile.
“I’ll show you the rest of the place, Pat,” Thomas said quickly, taking her arm.
“That’s all right, Rufus,” she said. “We can explore later. Right now I’d better get my stuff out of my cart. It’s parked out back and somebody’s likely to grab it.”
“I could help you carry it in,” Thomas pointed out.
“No, it’s only one bag. I’ll be okay.” She waved and strode away down the hall.
“There’s a piece,” commented Negri. “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”
Thomas looked at him sharply. “Jesus, Negri. You sure adapt quickly.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Give it some thought.”
Thomas left the room angrily and walked out to the lobby. Bright sunlight glittered on the asphalt of Second Street outside the windows, and Thomas stepped out onto the sidewalk for some fresh air.
Spencer was slouched against the wall, smoking a cigarette. “You’ve got no shoes on, Rufe,” he observed.
“You’re right.” Thomas leaned on the wall too. “I don’t like Negri.”
Spencer squinted through the tobacco smoke. “I hear the new girl’s real pretty,” he said.
“True.” Thomas relaxed and looked up and down the street. “Say, did you ever find Evelyn last night?”
“Yeah. Finally convinced her that I hadn’t intentionally stood her up. Lied like a bastard, too. I couldn’t tell her the truth.”
“I suppose not. Gladhand wasn’t real pleased about last night, was he?”
Spencer grinned. “Oh, he didn’t really mind so much. When he’s fatherly-stern you know he’s not genuinely upset. He just doesn’t want his people to get killed running off on drunken inspirations.”
“Oh.” A beer truck rattled past, pursued by a gang of little boys. The city seems to be about its usual business, Thomas thought. “How’s Pelias?” he asked. “Have you heard?”
“Yeah. The official word is—give up?—he’s still in a coma.”
“I didn’t know you could be in a coma this long.”
“Oh, sure. Three days isn’t the world record. I think he’s alive,” Spencer said, “because Lloyd, the major-domo, hasn’t named a successor, and he hasn’t tried to take the office himself, either. I’m sure he’d have done one or the other if Pelias was dead.” Spencer pointed over the rooftops at a trailing plume of smoke that stood out sharply against the blue sky. “Roughly Alameda and Third Street, I’d guess. And
I heard exchanges of gunfire three times this morning, in the south. Somebody’d better take charge pretty soon.”
Thomas nodded helplessly. “Uh… will there be a funeral or something for Jean?” he asked.
“No. Not for us, anyway. She has some folks in Glendale, and Gladhand had her body sent out there.”
For a while, neither of them spoke, and then Thomas turned to reenter the theatre. “You heard right,” he said. “The new girl is real pretty.”
CHAPTER 6
The Dark-Rum Queen
TWO SEATS TO THOMAS’ right, Gladhand puffed on a cigar and regarded the people on stage through narrowed eyes. The short-haired man, Lambert, whom Thomas had met earlier in the greenroom stood with Alice in the foreground; behind them were a young man and woman Thomas didn’t know, and, holding a script, Pat Pearl.
They’d begun rehearsing the fifth scene of Act Three. Phebe, played by Alice, was unsympathetically explaining to Lambert’s Silvius that she wished he’d stop bothering her with his wooing.
“That’s good,” called Gladhand. “Just the right amount of impatience. Silvius, try to look anguished, will you? Dumb, sure, but anguished too. All right, now, Rosalind, walk over to Phebe.”
Pat stepped forward, and Thomas envied her air of self-possession. Gladhand had decided that his two new players ought to at least walk through their parts, reading from scripts, and Thomas feared that he’d bungle even that. He remembered uneasily the panic that had always assailed him when he’d been called on to serve Mass as a boy.
Rosalind, through Pat, was now advising Phebe at length to take Silvius at his word. “Sell when you can: you are not for all markets,” she told her finally. It was a long speech, but Pat read it well and with conviction.
“Not bad,” said Gladhand.
The scene moved on, and it developed that Phebe had now fallen in love with Rosalind, who was to be, in the actual performance, disguised as a man. Needlessly complicated, Thomas thought. And it’s just not credible that Rosalind’s disguise could be as convincing as the plot demands.
“Hold it, Rosalind,” Gladhand interrupted. “Do that last line again, but look at Phebe when you say it. You were looking out here at us.”
Pat nodded and repeated the line, looking this time toward Phebe: “I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.”
“That’s how it ought to go,” the theatre manager nodded.
At five o’clock they had run through the scene several times—with Pat looking at her script only once or twice the last time—and had begun work on the first scene of Act Four. Thomas, sitting with his feet on the back of the seat in front of him, heard with relief the five distant notes of the city hall clock.
“That’s plenty for today,” Gladhand said, struggling up onto his crutches. “I’m feeling more optimistic about the damned play now than I have in a week. I think you’re all beginning to relax into it.”
Most of the lights were put out, and the actors broke up into groups and wandered offstage. Thomas tried to intercept Pat, but she was talking and laughing with Alice, and didn’t see him. Jeff was sliding the plywood flats back into the wings, and Thomas waved to him. “Jeff.” he called. “How does one get dinner around here?”
“One follows the east hall—” Jeff pointed, “—all the way to the back. There’s a dining room.”
“Much obliged.”
Thomas followed the stragglers down the hall and wound up sitting at a long wooden table, wedged between Lambert and the girl who’d brought him coffee this morning. Pat, he noticed with a hollow, despairing sensation, was sitting next to Negri, who was performing some trick with his fork and spoon for her amusement.
“You’re Rufus?” the girl on Thomas’ right asked.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Skooney,” she said. “Here, have some of this stew. Greg, pass the pitcher, Rufus didn’t get any beer.”
“Thank you,” Thomas said automatically, his attention focused on Pat and Negri.
“I’m the gaffer,” Skooney said.
Thomas reluctantly turned to her. “The what?” He had thought gaffers worked on fishing boats.
“I’m in charge of the lights. Did you know we’ve got some real electric lights? Gladhand set up a generator out back. There are only two other theatres in the whole L.A. area that have electric lights.”
“Well,” said Thomas, “I’m glad I’m starting out at the top.” He took a deep sip of beer and set to work on the stew, still casting occasional furtive glances down the table.
A little later Spencer wandered through the room, and leaned over Thomas’ shoulder. “Meet me on the roof when you get done,” he whispered, filling a spare glass with beer. Thomas nodded and Spencer, after exchanging a few rudely humorous insults with Alice, left the room.
Beneath the high, cold splendor of the stars, the winking yellow lights of Los Angeles looked friendly and protective, like a night-light in a child’s bedroom. From the streets below the broad concrete coping of the roof there echoed from time to time the rattle of a passing cart, or the long call of a mother summoning her children.
Spencer flicked his cigarette out over the street when he heard Thomas’ footsteps on the stairs.
“Is that you, Rufus?”
“Yeah. Wow, what a view.” The Santa Ana wind was still sighing its warm breath from the east, and Thomas took off his coat.
“No kidding. Listen, I was talking to Evelyn today, and I casually asked her if they’d caught this escaped monk, Thomas.”
“What did she say?” asked Thomas, with the sinking feeling of one who’s been reminded of a lingering disease.
“She says they’re looking for him day and night. They’re not even looking for the guys who bombed Pelias as hard as they’re looking for you. No charges have been mentioned, though.” Spencer lit another cigarette. “Are you sure you haven’t forgotten something? Something you saw or heard, maybe?”
Thomas shook his head helplessly. “There’s some mistake,” he said. “Maybe some other monk named Thomas ran off from some other monastery on the same day I did.”
Spencer inhaled deeply on his cigarette, then let the smoke hiss out between his teeth. “They said the Merignac, remember?”
A deep, window-rattling boom shook the roof, and part of a building several blocks away collapsed into the street. Flames began licking up from the rubble.
“The rent on that place just went down, I believe,” Spencer said.
Thomas could see, silhouetted by the mounting flames, people appearing on the surrounding roofs, waving their arms and dashing about aimlessly.
“What was that building?” Thomas asked, leaning on the coping and staring out at the conflagration.
“Oh, a city office bombed by radicals,” Spencer answered, “or a radicals’ den bombed by city officers. I just hope it doesn’t spread real far on this wind. Do you hear any bells?”
Thomas listened. “No.”
“Neither do I. The fire trucks aren’t out yet. If they appear within the next couple of minutes, we’ll know it was some administrator’s house or office. If it was a troublesome citizen’s house they probably won’t get there before dawn.”
They watched without speaking. Five minutes later they’d been silently joined at the roof-edge by five other members of the troupe, but no fire trucks had made an appearance at the scene of the fire.
“Maybe we ought to organize a group to go help put it out,” someone suggested. “If it gets to the buildings next to it the whole city’ll go up.”
“No,” said Negri. “Look, they’ve got it under control. When the roof collapsed it killed most of it. See? The whole thing’s darker now. The only stuff burning now is what fell in the street.”
“We’ll have to read about it in the Greeter tomorrow,” Thomas said. “Find out what happened.” Everyone laughed, and Thomas realized his statement had been taken as a joke.
“Did you see the damned paper
this morning?” Jeff asked him. “You know what the headline was? Pelias has been bombed, you know, and the androids are running amuck, right? So here’s the headline: ALL-TIME HIGH FROG COUNT IN SAN GABRIEL VALLEY.”
“They’re right on top of things,” Thomas observed. The fire really was dimmer now, and the actors moved away from the roof-edge.
“You bet,” Jeff agreed.
“I read that,” Spencer said. “Apparently the summer wasn’t as hot as it usually is, so the Ravenna swamps didn’t dry up this year. The frogs didn’t all die, like they usually do—they just sat around and multiplied all year long, so now the valley’s choked with ’em. I was thinking that some enterprising businessman should drive up there and pack a few tons of frogs in ice, and run them down to Downey or Norwalk and sell them for food.”
“You’re a born wheeler-dealer, Spence,” said Alice.
Thomas spied Pat still standing by the coping, watching the diminishing fire. He walked over and leaned on the wall next to her. She was sniffling and wiping her nose with a handkerchief.
“You aren’t catching my cold, are you?” he asked.
She sneezed. “No,” she answered.
“Hey,” came a jovial voice, and Negri interposed himself between Thomas and Pat. “Running off with my girl, are you, Rufus? Come on, Patsy, I want you to meet some people.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her back toward the rest of the group.
Thomas stared after them for a moment, and then strode angrily toward the stairs.
“Rufus.” Thomas stopped. Gladhand had got up the stairs somehow, crutches and all, and now sat in a wicker chair in the far shadows. “Come over here a moment,” the theatre manager said.
Thomas picked his way over a litter of two-by-fours to where Gladhand sat. Another chair stood nearby, and he sank into it. “Weird evening,” he said. “With this wind and all.”
Gladhand nodded. “Several hundred years ago it was considered a valid defense in a murder trial if you could prove the Santa Ana wind was blowing when the murder was committed. The opinion was that the dry, hot wind made everybody so irritable that any murder was almost automatically excusable. Or so I’ve heard, anyway.”