Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  ‘What’s he like?’ Daley did not seem worried about the news leak: like most people his reaction was basic, Douglas had touched a legend, now Daley was reaching out to touch Douglas.

  ‘Between ourselves, just like the rumours. There is one bit of news we’ve got to keep far from the press though.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Joe’s only doing it for the experience. He’s only charging expenses.’

  There was a pause: three or four seconds.

  ‘And how high are the expenses going to be?’ Sir Basil obviously thinking out all the angles.

  ‘Well, he’s not bringing a retinue. Just himself.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  Douglas pushed down the desire to be smart and take the credit. ‘I don’t really know. The whole thing was accidental and the timing happened to be right. I still find it hard to believe.’

  Daley chuckled. ‘You’re a clever boy, Douglas. That’ll cool old Dempsey’s ardour.’

  ‘He being difficult?’ As he spoke, Douglas knew that he was being presumptuous, but Daley took it as a matter of course.

  ‘No more than usual. I sometimes think he’ll only be really happy if this whole thing falls flat on its face.’

  ‘Well it’s not going to fall on its face or anywhere else. We’ve already signed Kapstein and I’m seeing Catellier as soon as possible. I gather he’s agreed money but there are other problems. Oh yes, my wife will play Desdemona, that’s confirmed.’

  ‘More good news. It all sounds very exciting.’

  They talked for another ten minutes, then Douglas called Revill. While money was no problem with Catellier, the actor was becoming anxious. Revill felt that he was holding back because of a series of doubts — about his ability to play Richard and anxiety regarding the way the season was shaping. Revill thought it would be best to get hold of Catellier as quickly as possible. Douglas also had to talk with Kapstein before the week was out, and there was young Asher Grey’s audition on Sunday.

  During the next hour, Douglas talked with Ronnie Gregor, fixed lunch with Catellier for the following day and with Kapstein for Monday. Friday was free so he called Adrian Rolfe, apologizing for the hour and arranging lunch for that day. Only then did he cable Jen to let her know he was back safely.

  Going through some of the other papers, the enormous responsibility of the situation began to sink into his mind. If they managed to sign Catellier and half a dozen middle billing actors for whom they were angling, the Shireston company would number around forty. Forty actors and actresses, of different age groups, different backgrounds, black and white: living together with nerve ends exposed and all the hopes, fears, hatreds, superstitions, difficulties, egos and sex drives all lumped together under one roof. Forty individuals of whom half a dozen were great and pampered talents. They would be difficult enough on their own, but slotted into a company of actors learning to play together as one unit their weakest points would be on display within the privacy of the unit: so, it followed, their defence mechanisms would easily come into force — all the sublimations of sex, drink, temperament, drugs.

  For a moment, sitting there in the tiny office, alone and with the night noises of Soho drifting up from below, Douglas Silver wondered if it might be in excess of his ability. He sighed wearily and picked up the diary, noting that Ronnie had pencilled in a meeting for him with Tony Holt, who was to design the plays, at Shireston on Saturday. Life was going to be far from empty.

  ‘O gentlemen! the time of life is short!

  To spend that shortness basely were too long

  If life did ride upon a dial’s point,

  Still ending at the arrival of an hour.

  And if we live, we live to tread on kings;’

  The thought trailed off and he could not remember the rest of the speech. Hotspur in the first part of Henry IV. Douglas’s mind switched. He thought of the apartment in Elton Court: their apartment, his and Jen’s. It had seemed lonely and unwelcoming without Jen’s presence when he had dropped off his suitcase earlier in the evening; now there was no desire in him to return to the place. He looked at his watch: a quarter past eleven. Like an automaton he picked up the telephone and dialled Carol’s number. It rang for what seemed a long time before the familiar throaty voice came on the line.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hi, it’s Douglas.’

  ‘Hey, when did you get back?’

  ‘Earlier this evening.’

  ‘How d’you make out?’

  ‘Great.’ He was almost lost for words now. ‘Great. Hope I didn’t wake you.’

  ‘No. I was just mooching around. Reading a little. Spending a lazy evening doing a bit of work.’

  ‘Working at what?’

  ‘What do you think? The excellent conceited tragedie of Romeo and Juliet as it hath been often (with great applause) played publically...I’m reading Granville-Barker’s Preface.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘You sound shocked.’

  ‘Not shocked. Surprised. I didn’t know actresses still went in for that kind of scholarship.’

  ‘I don’t. I just thought I’d better know something about---’

  ‘Well forget it.’

  ‘Douglas?’

  ‘Oh not Juliet. Forget reading things like Granville-Barker.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve done the Granville-Barker scene and I want this to be my production. I don’t want a load of intellectual actresses giving me second-hand academic theories.’

  She laughed and paused. ‘So you had a good time over there?’

  He nodded at the instrument. ‘Yep. Can I come round and tell you about it?’

  Silence in his ear.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Of course now. When else is there?’

  ‘Okay, come over.’

  ‘See you in half an hour.’

  It took longer. Cabs were scarce and it had started to rain. Douglas’s watch showed almost midnight before he pressed the bell. Carol told him to come on up, the door was open. She sat in front of the gas fire, legs tucked under her, cosy on a black and white goatskin rug. A Penguin Shakespeare copy of Romeo and Juliet was lying nearby with another book, heavy and in a plastic clear jacket — the Granville-Barker borrowed in good faith from the local library. Carol wore a dark blue housecoat: thin material, silky, showing the curves where it touched.

  ‘Hi there sexy Carol Evans.’ Douglas closed the door behind him, realizing as he did so that his reason for coming to see her was not what he had first supposed. He had begun to become involved in work again and did not require, or need, a sexual stimulant for living. He needed friendship now: a human wall against the void of loneliness; he could not bear the thought of isolation, reaching out in the night and feeling himself alone, or turning in the room to catch only his reflection in the window glass or mirror. He needed a kind of constant communication when he worked. Jen gave him that, and with her there was no need, at those times, to explain the sudden impotence. Now, Carol would be puzzled if he did not take her and provide the love thrust.

  ‘Hi yourself.’ Carol grinned, tilting her head on to one shoulder obviously pleased to see him.

  Douglas bent down and kissed her gently on the forehead before sinking down to join her on the rug. She had lolled her head right back, expecting the kiss to enfold her lips. Carol looked up at him, puzzlement around her eyes merging slowly into understanding.

  ‘You saw your wife over there?’ She asked as though the problem was that simple.

  ‘Yep.’ He nodded.

  ‘You had her.’ Statement.

  Again Douglas Silver nodded, not looking at the girl’s glowing dark skin. ‘Yep, I did. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen with wives?’

  It was her turn to nod. ‘And it was good and you felt very guilty about me.’

  ‘I reckon so. It’s always been good with Jen: and with you the few times.’

  ‘I just wanted to get the picture.’
r />   In the silence he saw himself, over-dramatized, romanticized, standing alone on some beach with the moonlight flirting with waves and blue night licking at his profile. He smiled: the picture was secret, a small conceit of self pity.

  Aloud he said, ‘Let’s see what happens, Carol. I don’t know. Tonight I just wanted to see you. I was alone and wanted to see you.’ He reflected that it all sounded like something from a late television movie.

  Carol gave a small sigh, lifting her hands and dropping them back on her knees. ‘What’s it matter anyhow?’ She seemed to shake herself, like an animal waking. ‘The newspapers say you got Joe Thomas.’

  ‘I got Joe Thomas.’

  ‘And...?’

  ‘Period. I got Joe Thomas but don’t ask me how. I got him, then I went on to L.A. and saw Jen.’

  ‘And how was the good old U.S. of A?’

  ‘Like always. Like Simon and Garfunkel say, So long, Frank Lloyd Wright. On the point of explosion. The movie Jen’s doing has gone to seed. It’s just like the old days. They tell you Hollywood and the studio system’s dead; I only wish they’d tell one or two people out there, because they’re still acting like it’s alive.’ He gave a quick smile. ‘But what about you? In work?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of television spots. They’ll carry me through until January I guess.’

  He gave her a sideways look. ‘Any problems and you only have to ask.’

  ‘I’m not the asking kind. Actions speak—’

  ‘With a higher volume than dictionaries, I know. Did I tell you that we might just have a Romeo for you?’

  Not just the eyes, but her whole face lit up. ‘No. No. Who?’

  ‘Young actor. Unheard of. Unsung, doing his thing in the provinces. I’m auditioning him on Sunday, you won’t be offended if I don’t ask you along?’

  ‘Mortally.’

  ‘Pity. I wanted a live Juliet: for the bulk of the play anyway.

  Carol made coffee and they began to talk about the Theatre. Inevitably the conversation shifted to Romeo and Juliet.

  ‘Is it just a gimmick, Douglas?’ asked Carol.

  ‘The racial thing? No. Sure, some people are going to see it that way. As far as I’m concerned the racial thing will in some way serve to make the play more immediate: more comprehensible to the kids who haven’t seen it before. It’ll also bring it right into the present and that’s what Shakespeare’s about. It’s about now. I want you and this boy and all the others to give us a great hymn of language and love. That’s not a gimmick, it’s realistic direction.’

  Carol raised her eyebrows: almost a cynical look. ‘Any other startling suggestions?’

  ‘The love scene.’ He lifted his head, looking straight at her. ‘You averse to playing it nude?’

  ‘It’s the only way isn’t it?’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded.

  As Douglas was about to leave, around two in the morning after they had talked much, Carol laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘Douglas, some of them are going to knock hell out of you: you know that?’

  ‘I know. They’ll say that you and your Romeo constitute a theatrical gimmick which isn’t necessary because Shakespeare’s language is enough, and if I get Catellier to play Richard they’ll call it tricksy casting; Kapstein playing Shylock sounds all right, but they’ll probably have a go at the sanctity of Shakespeare: some of them did when George Robey played Falstaff and Jay Laurier played Launce and, for that matter when Frankie Howerd appeared as Bottom.’ He grinned, lifted his eyes, rolled them and made a grimace. ‘God knows what they’ll finally say about Joe Thomas.’

  The first hint of real criticism came from within the profession and on the following day. Conrad Catellier had insisted they should meet on his own ground, in this instance the Savile.

  People in the profession often wondered why Catellier had never been given the accolade of a knighthood: in his late fifties the man stood undeniably among that knot of British actors which protruded, from the feet upwards, from the top talent. True, Revill Sutcliffe’s comment that Catellier was a ‘raging old queen’ might have had something to do with the absence of a knighthood, for scandal had hovered close to the actor on three distressing occasions; but ability, a tremendous understanding of the Theatre, the knack of judging the best way he could interpret a role, plus an extremely wide range, had carried Catellier to the summit. He was also a man of private means, tracing his ancestry back to the Norman invaders, a fact which his publicity had, over the years, used to no mean advantage.

  Douglas Silver had met Catellier on four or five previous occasions: a tall grey man, grey close-cropped hair, grey suit, slim, almost thin, body which, strangely, gave one the impression of great physical fitness as though you could sense through the man’s clothes the fact of a firm athletic body.

  On stage you could not detect any homosexual proclivity, unless the role called for it; it was only when one was close to the man in private that the slight veneer of effeminacy showed through, and even then it was only apparent in the odd mannerism, or the way in which he used his voice. As far as professionalism went, Catellier was a hard coiled spring with almost the attitude of a big business executive. Douglas could feel the toughness as they shook hands in the hall of the Savile.

  Catellier smiled, not much warmth about the eyes, but the facial muscles did all the right things. ‘Douglas, how good to see you. Are you well?’

  The grip was very firm. ‘I’m fine, Conrad.’

  Catellier raised an arm, the palm of his hand flat. ‘Let’s talk over lunch then. Unless you want a drink first.’

  Douglas shook his head, he seldom drank during the day and in any case they both knew that time was limited and it was necessary to talk.

  In the dining-room, Douglas was conscious of the presence of a well-known comedian and a couple of familiar publishers. They had a table to themselves and Catellier refused to be drawn into any conversation until they had ordered.

  Catellier signified almost regally that he was ready to talk, raising his eyebrows and giving a short nod.

  ‘I believe we have some difficulty in persuading you to join the Shireston next season.’ Douglas began.

  Catellier ignored the comment. ‘Is it true that you’ve signed Joe Thomas to act Othello?’ he asked.

  Douglas did not hesitate. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘And that you’ve signed Maurice Kapstein to play Shylock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that you are contemplating a production of Romeo and Juliet with black actors playing the Capulets, thereby making it partly an essay in racism?’

  ‘Not through any inference within the production. I’m not making it an explicit controversy on stage.’

  Catellier gave the director a quick, nervous look. ‘You’re being explicit by casting it like that. You—’ He stopped short, hunching himself into silence, then, with a change in his voice he quietly quoted —

  ‘O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.’

  Douglas remembered that some twenty-five years ago Conrad Catellier’s Romeo was reckoned to be definitive.

  ‘How does your Romeo say that about a black Juliet?’ Catellier asked.

  Douglas shrugged and pushed back his soup plate. ‘I suppose he says it with a smile.’ He tried to grin but Catellier did not respond.

  ‘Why have you asked me to play Richard?’ the actor asked.

  ‘Because you have never played him and because I think that an interpretation by the two of us could be explosive and fit into what is going to be an explosive and sparkling season.’

  Catellier made a sound that Douglas could not translate. ‘Your season of juggled Shakespeare.’

  ‘Juggled?’

  ‘Three tragedies and a comedy, conjured, juggled with contrivance, slick casting, every gaudy tri
ck and artifice that you can raise. Fairground Shakespeare. I thought better of you, Douglas. Your season will not glitter, it will be shoddy. A season of faded parchment overlaid with plastic paint.’

  The speech was so violent and extravagant that Douglas was silenced for a moment: for almost the count of ten.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong, Conrad.’ When he spoke his voice was soft in contrast to Catellier’s last eruption.

  ‘Have I? What if I did play Richard for you? Who’d be my Buckingham? And who my Duchess of York?’

  ‘Steady Conrad, you really have got it all wrong. A lot of people have got it wrong and we haven’t announced the season yet. My appointment has yet to be announced. My job, Conrad, is to put the Shireston back on its feet. They are giving me the money to do it and I must do it my way, which is not the way of gimmicks.’ He tapped the table lightly, mentally willing all his enthusiasm towards Catellier, beaming it into him, hoping that some of his own static would penetrate the actor’s mind.

  ‘Consider what I have to do in return,’ he continued. ‘My theatre is in a rural setting. The rail service is inadequate; the setting perfect, but forty miles from London. I can’t compete with the Royal Shakespeare at Stratford. They have an ensemble: a company with its own picked leads, people used to working with each other. They also operate in a town geared to tourism: the Bard’s birthplace; people flocking for seats to see Shakespeare’s plays in the town where he was born. I’ve got none of that, yet in one season, six lousy months, I’ve got to rouse enough people to make the trip down to Shireston from all points. And those people have got to take a message back with them: they’ve got to say it is memorable so that they’ll want to come again, bring their friends and tell others. Think what that kind of operation entails?’ He paused as the waitress brought their lamb cutlets.

  Catellier said nothing, pausing with almost a studied patience for Douglas to complete his argument.

  ‘Just think, Conrad, what it takes these days to get people up off their asses and away from the small screen when the living Theatre is within easy reach. I have to lure tourists from their hotels and computorized dinners and easy entertainment; people from their homes after the long hot day at the office; kids from their schools. And when I get them I’ve got to provide them with a unique service. I have to give them nights they are going to remember for the rest of their good, bad or indifferent little lives so they’ll say to people and to each other, “The night we went to Shireston to see Fred Bloggs in The Taming of the Shrew, that gave us as much as the five package holidays on the Costa Brava. That was the night we touched life again.”’