Love in the Loire

by David Leddick

  Surviving a performance is like surviving a battle. Or having killed a threatening animal. You feel very much of a man for having done your masculine thing in the eyes of others.

  For women I think it is more seeking adoration. And that, too, is crippling. I think being a professional actor makes you an egomaniac. You really can’t do it without concentrating exclusively upon yourself. Even being in love with someone and placing their welfare before your own, which is my definition of love, may well be impossible during the run of a play. Unless that person is in the play and it is useful for you to use those emotions in your performance. And how giving is that?

  Even monsters like Elizabeth Taylor and Liza Minelli must be respected for what they can do. Moviemaking is very different than performing on stage. Admittedly, I don’t know a lot about that. But knowing where the camera is, where your lights are, repeating your brief little scene many, many times. All of that must require great concentration. You cannot think of anything else, and then having the adoration of a public who does not expect you to care for them except en masse. Who could escape only caring about themselves? Some friend of Coco Chanel’s once wrote, “She could play the role of a human being very well, but she really wasn’t one.” Though she wasn’t an actress I feel sure that playing the role of herself, which was a complete creation from humble peasant origins, took all her attention.

  It’s work. It’s very hard work going on stage in any capacity. And then if you care if the public likes you or not, that makes it even harder. Somebody asked me just the other day, “When you’re standing in the wings, don’t you ever worry that you’re going to go out there and they are not going to like you?” And I had to honestly admit that that was an idea that had never occurred to me. And I must owe that to my mother, Iris the Wonderful. I was brought up with a kind of sense of noblesse oblige. That I was so special and wondrous that I owed it to others to be considerate of them because they didn’t have my advantages. Because they weren’t fabulous me. It’s an attitude based upon nothing but a mother’s love, but it works for me.

  I think the theater is a good métier for someone like myself and any self-confident male because it keeps you humble. You constantly risk humiliation. You do not keep yourself out of harm’s way. You place yourself squarely in front of it. You risk failure almost every day of your life. That’s something you can be proud of, even if it isn’t exactly going into a lion’s cage.

  I read something very interesting about lion tamers just last night. They always enter the cage first. The lions follow them into what has been established as the lion tamer’s territory. It is then up to him to keep the lions aware that they are in his space. He is the alpha male. Interesting. It’s not the lions’ cage. It’s the lion tamer’s cage. Perhaps the stage is the performer’s cage. There he can perform the rites necessary for his own good opinion of himself.

  The Six Questions

  We were sitting at the kitchen table at Nina and Graham’s. They had just served dinner to Toca Sacar, Steve Strapontin, myself, and the Comte de Sagesse d’Enfant. The Comte actually owned the Abbey and rented it to various organizations who used it for conferences, training sessions, and the current theater festival. He had become friendly with Toca and although married I had the impression that he was not entirely immune to the attractions of young men.

  He wasn’t a bad-looking fellow. Somewhere in his forties. And I think not yet the true owner of the Abbey. I had been told that he was actually the nephew of the owner, the Duc MacGivray. There were old Scottish names among the noblesse in France. No French person seemed to think this unusual, and certainly you were never of lesser standing because of your Scottish last name. Which wasn’t, of course, your real name, anyway, but your title. Your real name would be something like Falaises d’Amour. And your friends would call you “Fal-Fal.” That’s how things go in a country where history is a morass of competing egos and the need for constant reassuring of social standing. And which country isn’t? It just gets messier when the country gets older. The Comte’s name was Andre and Toca called him that. The rest of us avoided addressing him by name. We had been speaking French all evening. Or for the most part, as the Duc’s English is minimal. As it is for almost every French person. They have party talk in English and that’s about it, and that’s usually among the women. Most men hate to be embarrassed by trying to speak a foreign language. Of course in the United States speaking French is considered effeminate in a man.

  The evening was sagging. Steve’s lack of French had left him out for the greater part of the evening, although I kept throwing him directional information in English. Nina and Graham spoke French quite well, although they told me neither of them spoke the language when they arrived.

  I thought of some of the party games I knew and said, “Should we play Six Questions?” I was really only trying to bring a little amusement into the evening, which had been remarkably pleasant, polite, and dull.

  I explained that it was a little question-and-answer game that gave you insight into yourself. A kind of psychological quiz and that you needn’t reveal any of your answers to the others if you didn’t wish to. All that was required were some bits of paper and writing materials. Nina disappeared to find a writing pad and a bag of pens and pencils.

  I said, “You can only do this once in your life because once you know what the answers mean you can’t answer again.

  “I am going to ask you six questions, and I want you to write the first thing that comes into your mind. No reflection, please.” I told Steve the same thing in English so nobody could fuck up.

  “First, if you could be any kind of animal, what kind of animal would it be? This can include fish, insects, birds, anything except other human beings. And no rocks or trees, please.”

  Everyone at the table bent their heads over their paper. “And, please, also add ‘why.’ Why would you like to be that animal? Don’t think about it, just write.” They did.

  Then I said, “Now, putting that animal aside, what animal would you be if you could be any animal? If you can’t think of another animal you would like to be, you can repeat the first one. And ‘why.’ Please write down why you want to be this second animal.” They wrote dutifully. The Americans wrote immediately and at some length. The Europeans, the Comte, and Steve mulled longer and had shorter answers.

  The third question startled them. It was, “Now, thirdly, if you could be any kind of animal, what kind of animal would you be? And why? And remember, you can be underwater, in the air, anywhere.” The Comte was scratching his head. Steve wrote immediately, as did the others. “You can repeat an animal if you want to,” I reminded them.

  Then there were the last three questions. Number four. “When you think of coffee what do you think of?” And five. “You are looking at the sea. What do you see?” And lastly, number six. “You are looking at a wall. Describe the wall. The subquestions are, ‘How difficult is it to get over, through, or around this wall?’ And ‘What is on the other side?’”

  The last question caused a lot of confusion as the Comte didn’t understand why question six had subquestions, weren’t they questions seven and eight? No, just six. Toca kept wanting me to describe a wall so that he could decide if he could get over it. “It’s your wall, Toca. Just shut your eyes and imagine it. Maybe you’re indoors. Maybe you’re outdoors. You tell me.”

  When they had finished I watched what they did with their paper. That part is always interesting. Toca turned his over. The Comte folded his up in four. Steve left his laying face up. Nina and Graham were leaning against each other reading what the other had written.

  I gave my little speech. “The first animal represents your true self. Your essential being.

  “The second animal is your interior self. The person you are when you go into an empty room and close the door.

  “The third animal is your exterior self. Who you are when you relate to other people.”

  Nina said, “What is your first animal, Toca?
”

  Toca said, “I really don’t want to say. Do I have to?”

  I reassured him that no one had to reveal anything. Nina said, “Mine was a cat. Then I was a butterfly. Then I was an ant.”

  “An ant?” Toca said.

  “I work well with other people,” Nina said. “I love being on a team.”

  “What were Graham’s?” I said. “Do you want to tell?” Graham looked at his paper. I noticed that his handwriting was very regular. He had been a porn star perhaps, but he had been a well-educated porn star. “I wanted to be an eagle, a bear, and a horse,” he said. Without asking he said, “The eagle so I could look down and see what was happening all around me. The bear because he is cuddly.”

  “That’s right,” said Nina. Lucky Nina, porn or no porn.

  “And the horse because the horse is fast.”

  “People frequently choose an eagle or a horse because they perceive them as being free,” I said.

  “But the eagle will return to its owner’s wrist, and the horse is really more of a pet, don’t you think?” Graham said.

  “That’s why the ‘why’ is so important,” I said. “People see things differently. Men choose the bear quite often, but not because he is cuddly. And you don’t have any lions or tigers. A lot of men choose them.”

  “I did,” Toca said.

  “I thought you weren’t going to tell us,” I said.

  Now that Toca was getting an idea of what things were all about he wanted to join in. “I chose the lion first because he is the king of the jungle. Then a tiger, because he is so beautiful. And a cheetah because it is the swiftest animal.” All killers, I thought. Oh, Toca, Toca, Toca. One must watch one’s step with you, Toca, my darling.

  Toca went on. “My coffee was black and hot.”

  “That represents your attitude toward sex,” I said.

  The Comte said, “I put down ‘Only in the morning.’”

  I looked at him. “Say no more. And how about your sea? What did you see? It represents your attitude toward nature.”

  “Immensity,” he said. In French, “Immensité.”

  “No, no,” I said. “Was it green, was it blue, was there a storm? Were there waves? Wind?”

  He looked blank. “No, only immensity. Immensity.”

  “And your wall?” I said.

  “Immense,” he said. He stretched out his arms. “It went forever in both directions and up.” He pointed up.

  “Was it brick, cement, plaster?” I asked. He looked blank. That did not occur to him. “Immense,” he said. The Comte was obviously not planning to give any clues away.

  “So you can’t get around it?” I said.

  “No,” he replied.

  “Do you know what is on the other side?” I said. I already knew the answer. I was right.

  “Immensity.”

  “The wall represents death. Your ability to get on the other side represents how much you can accept the idea. And what is on the other side, of course, your idea of the afterlife.”

  “Immensity,” Steve said.

  “Exactement,” the Comte said, looking at Steve approvingly.

  And then we discussed the others’ answers. A little surprisingly, Toca saw a storm at sea. “I was brought up in the country,” he said. “That’s probably why I see waves and clouds. I always loved going down to the sea on stormy days.” I thought that I should discuss his childhood with him later.

  His wall was low and brick and covered with ivy, and he just stepped over it and went into a cottage in the meadow on the other side, and called a taxi. Old Toca has stuff going for him, no doubt. He’s not afraid of dying and is planning to reappear.

  As I expected, Nina had more coffee than she should really have. “Don’t feel guilty, Nina, dear.” I thought, That coffee represents making love with Graham. It may be frequent but don’t think you don’t deserve it.

  Her sea was tranquil. Her wall was in her living room, and she went through the door and was in the bedroom. What an afterlife!

  Finishing up the evening the Comte revealed his animals to us. The whale. The dolphin. The turtle. He obviously was going to stay submerged, and as far as other people were concerned, stay safely in his shell. I wasn’t surprised. He’s French.

  Graham’s last three answers were:

  Coffee because it wakes you up. His sea was blue and windy and with sun. His wall, a high wall, but he was able to crawl over it. And Nina was on the other side. Graham is smart, but I don’t think he guessed what the answers were supposed to mean. I think Nina truly is everything to him.

  Steve was the surprising one. His answers were brief and looking at his notes I saw that he had the raw handwriting of a young child. He wanted to be a cat, then a dog, then a cat again. His reasons were all the same. Other people take care of them. His response to the coffee question was “all day long.” I could believe that.

  His sea was a tidal wave. And his wall was a prison wall. He was on the outside and didn’t want to get in. Prisoners were on the other side. Well, Steve. Sounds like you find life a pretty threatening procedure.

  He asked me to explain his answers, and I told him that the cat represented independence and self-confidence; the dog loyalty; his coffee answer made all of us laugh; he must have been brought up in the deep countryside to see nature threatening as a tidal wave; and he must love life as he had no interest in the afterlife and saw it as being imprisoned. He seemed pleased with these answers, and I didn’t believe a word of any of them. I’m not here to make other people feel despondent.

  The Comte and Toca left, and we talked about them, naturally. Nina said, “There’s more to Toca than even he realizes, I think. And didn’t you think the Comte was very typically French? He couldn’t really see anything when he closed his eyes. He could only play back ideas.”

  “The immensity.” Both Steve and I said simultaneously.

  “Curious, isn’t it?” Nina said. “The French were such great painters, and then that talent seemed to just disappear. Their last good painters were Dubuffet; maybe Bernard Buffet; what’s her name, the French woman who does the weird sculptures in New York?”

  “Louise Bourgeois,” I said.

  “Yes.” Nina went on. “All painting and sculpting of ideas about things, rather than the things. I don’t know why, but I always prefer the things.”

  “I’m beginning to think that there isn’t any cause-and-effect process,” I said. “It all depends on the phases of the moon and sunspots. Suddenly there are waves of talent. Suddenly the Tartars appear out of the East. Suddenly Hitler goes from being a joke to ruining Europe.”

  “It’s probably better to think of things in that way. Then you don’t have to consider it someone’s fault, particularly your own,” Nina said.

  “Nothing is by chance,” Graham said. “You just have to sit tight until your good luck or the turn in your affairs comes along.”

  “How do you people think of these things?” Steve said.

  “Oh, we’re just all so very, very smart,” Nina said and got up and started doing the dishes. Steve and I cleared, and Graham put away, and dinner was out of sight very rapidly.

  We kissed all around, twice on both cheeks, even Steve and Graham, and went our way. “Shall we go back to our rooms or go to the café?”

  “I’d like to go back to my room,” Steve said, so we turned into the Abbey gate and crossed the lawn. “What was that six o’clock meeting about?” he said.

  “I think Toca wanted to show the students and faculty off to the Comte,” I said.

  “None of us had ever seen him before and perhaps with your arrival word was leaking out that there were some lookers here.”

  “What’s the English expression for a group of people like that? A motley crew?” Steve said.

  They were a motley crew. About twenty students from three countries. Each and every one of them that “special student.” Not a jock or a cheerleader among them. All of them perhaps with intellects that made th
em fit in poorly with other children and teenagers. They would come into their own later. Or perhaps never. Some of them might even turn out good-looking later. Certainly few of them were now. Then there was Toca, me, Steve . . . what could Toca be planning for him to teach? And there was Nadia Barkley, the choreographer from London, something like a very mature elf, emphasized by her unusual clothing, and Estelle Anderson, who had once had a career on the New York stage and also had a school in New York, and supposedly knew more Shakespeare than Shakespeare did himself. Kitty Carlisle Hart was showing up later to coach us in The Red Mill.

  After the meeting Steve and I had headed across the street to have dinner with Nina and Graham, as well as Toca and the Comte. And here we were now returning to his room. I was not going to make the first move.

  In front of his door, Steve turned to me and took me in his arms. In my ear he said, “So are you going to take care of me?” He had understood the answers to his six questions. “I certainly plan to tonight,” I said.

  Toca Remembers the Evening

  That new kid is hot. Steve. And Hugo is hot. Very hot. And Nina’s husband is hot. Graham. I have to try to find some more of his porn movies. He was very, very hot. Maybe I could show them to Hugo and he’d get hot. What would I show them on? I don’t have a video player here. Or a DVD player.

  I’d like to make a movie with the three of them. I can just see it. Graham is topping Steve. Steve has Hugo in his mouth. Then I come in. In my black leather outfit. I pull open the crotch flap. They all get excited.