Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Julia sat on the bed, her face flushed and mouth in a sulky pout; it was only then that Asher realized she had not even come back to his dressing-room after the performance.

  ‘Where did you get to?’ he asked, trying to be easy and natural in spite of the nervous anxieties which had begun to crowd in as soon as he saw her.

  ‘Did you expect me to get anywhere?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Sorry, love, I’m really not with you. It’s been a tough day as they say in the trade. Is something wrong?’

  ‘You have the gall to ask that? Something wrong?’ Voice hitting the high, uncontrollable pitch.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Julia.’ More tired than angry.

  ‘You and your black whore, that’s what I’m talking about, that’s what’s wrong. Anyone who knows you, has half an eye, could tell.’

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘What I’m talking about? No, I bet you don’t. Well, I’ll be generous, I’ll spell it out. I’m talking about you and your precious Juliet, your beloved Carol bloody Evans that nig-nog tart.’

  ‘What about me and Carol?’ Suddenly, in the eye of fatigue, he went cold with decision.

  ‘I know you too well.’ She sat, very still, like some dangerous reptile about to strike, Asher thought. ‘Such warmth and passion, they’ll all say. You can’t do all that on Stanislavsky or RADA training. You’ve been laying her, you bastard, making me look a stupid fool. No wonder Douglas took bloody good care to make sure I didn’t get into any Romeo rehearsals. Well, Mr. Asher Grey, nigger lover of nineteen seventy-one, you’re going to have to make up your mind, because I’m not hanging around here as your bit of spare, to be made a laughing stock. You can go with Carol Evans or—’

  ‘Julia,’ he roared, eyes closed, blazing. Will you be a professional for one minute and shut that stupid clack. I’ve had just about enough, not only tonight, but the whole damn...’ He reached for the words. ‘You’re a bore, a bitch and a bore; selfish, unfeeling, emotionally unstable, and a misery to live with; I’ve had it, all that I can take; you’re only good for one thing, Julia, and frankly I’m getting bored with the way you do that. Make your own arrangements, stay or go, it doesn’t matter. I’m fucking tired and I want some rest and sleep.’ He turned and marched out of the room, through the living-room, slamming the door behind him, padding down the stairs, out and across the lawn to the theatre.

  They had employed a nightwatchman since the start of the season and he recognized Asher at once, letting the actor in, even making him a cup of tea, before he retired to the couch in his dressing-room (there was still the light scent of Carol’s body on the leather) to drop into a sleep disturbed by patterns of unpleasant dreams. In the dim rear of his consciousness he knew what he wanted and what he would do next.

  Inevitably, the newspapers on Saturday, and especially on Sunday, took Douglas to task for altering the natural context of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet by introducing the racist theme. They all grudgingly admitted that the added excitement did explode a contemporary topic into magnificent theatre, but argued that it had nothing to do with the Bard’s original intention.

  However much the press was at odds with Douglas’s productions, there was lavish praise for the company; the Sunday nationals reviewed both Richard III and Romeo, singling out Asher Grey for the main attention (though Carol stole some of the Romeo notices), The Sunday Times saying that the two performances bestride the very poles of character, so much that it is, at times, difficult to comprehend the fact that the same actor is playing the fiend Richard and the love-sick young Romeo. He is the brightest thing to have reached the Theatre in the last five years.

  The Observer quoted Asher as a genuine, unique talent which all lovers of Theatre will watch with increasing interest.

  Edward was praised, both for his Buckingham and Mercutio; Carol Evans had ravishing compliments for her Juliet (a bodily grace which defies description added to a voice which conjures a golden quality out of the air, said the Sunday Tele-graph); Felicity Durrant, Liz Column and Rachel all came in for their share. Yet the reviews were really stolen by Asher.

  One of the people who read, marked and took note was Ivor Armstrong.

  At the age of thirty-one, the tall, distinguished Ivor Armstrong already had six solid profit-making films to his credit as a producer-director; a man of excessive energy and talent he had recently acquired a property titled The Lord Deputy, a brilliant screenplay based upon the exploits of the second earl of Essex, his ill-fated mission to Ireland and the resultant, so-called, Essex Rebellion in the City of London. The treatment was ingeniously up to date, using visual technique more than language to create mood, situations and tensions, yet written with authentic style and excitement.

  A man of Armstrong’s ability had little trouble in promoting The Lord Deputy, which he planned to shoot, in England and Ireland, next spring. He was currently on the verge of casting, looking for new faces and new talents. Asher Grey’s name, coupled with the high references and descriptive praise of the reviewers, came out of the blue to him as a possible godsend.

  He made an immediate note for his secretary to book him into an hotel at Shireston and reserve tickets for both Richard III and Romeo and Juliet.

  If Douglas Silver hoped for a period of relaxation once his last production was in, the expectation was in vain. His presence was much in demand as director of the Shireston Festival, in both his administrative and artistic capacities. The discipline of company life had to be maintained, so the morning work periods continued; there were the personal problems of individual company members; and also his own work on the director’s report, soon to be presented to the board of trustees. For Douglas this was now the most important matter: the im-mediate future, for himself and many members of the company and staff, rested on his reappointment as director, a decision which would allow him to prepare for the next season, give him an opening to plan, approach actors concerning their availability, and generally get things under way at an early stage.

  Seltzhiem had almost completed his negotiations, and it was practically certain that the Othello company would be off to America for eight weeks as soon as the season ended in September.

  It was from Ronnie Gregor that Douglas got the first intimations of Asher Grey’s domestic problem.

  ‘I gather he’s moved most of his stuff into Carol’s apartment, and Julia’s freaking out on every possible occasion.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better talk to him,’ said Douglas. ‘Though I’d prefer to leave it until after the twenty-first when I’ve seen the board.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem to have affected his work,’ commented Ronnie. ‘Certainly not his Romeo; with Carol he’s incredibly good.’

  ‘Let’s hold it a little longer then. Give me a little air.’

  But Asher got to Douglas first. On the Tuesday before the meeting of the board, they played Romeo and Juliet. There had been a Richard performance on the Monday, and Asher felt naturally fatigued when he came off, irritated when his dresser said that someone was asking for him at the stage door. The vexation left as soon as he discovered that it was Ivor Armstrong who wanted him, Armstrong’s name was immediately identifiable to anyone in the profession.

  Working so tightly, and within such a closed framework, combined with the stress of walking out on Julia had left Asher with little time to ponder on the difference his success within the season could make to his future. He was, therefore, amazed when the producer shook him warmly by the hand and told him he had a proposition to make. When the details were revealed Asher was even more taken aback.

  ‘I know I have to talk with your agent, but what I’m offering is a flat fee of ten thousand pounds for a maximum fourteen weeks’ shooting, starting in April of next year. That gives you plenty of time, but I have to have a fast answer,’ Armstrong had said.

  ‘How fast? I mean I’ve got to read the screenplay and...’

&
nbsp; The producer laughed. ‘I don’t mean tomorrow, Asher, but I have to be a man of quick, sometimes instinctive, decisions myself. I’m basing the offer of this part on what I’ve seen you do here; for all I know you might come out like Dracula’s mother on film, but I don’t think so. No, you’ve got a couple of weeks to make up your mind.’

  Asher read the screenplay that night and it lit up areas of his mind which had been dormant since he left RADA as an enthusiastic actor, thinking he held the world by the throat. The dilemma was further increased by his own knowledge of his needs and capacity as an actor: what he really needed was one more season in a situation like Shireston. The next morning he asked to see Douglas urgently. Douglas, imagining that the domestic situation had taken a drastic turn for the worse, gave him an interview straight away.

  Asher went through Armstrong’s proposition in detail. ‘The screenplay’s a smash, it can’t fail,’ he told the director. ‘I know I’d make it.’

  ‘Then where’s your problem?’

  ‘Deep down I don’t feel ready yet. Oh, the acting’s all right, but I don’t want to face the other things without some more experience; you know, all the things you hear about when people make it big. The pressures.’

  Douglas nodded. ‘But you’ve been through them, you’re going through them, here. What you’re really asking me, Ash, is do I need you here, at Shireston, next season, right?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help you. Not yet anyway. I won’t know if I’m going to be in charge until Friday when the board meets and I deliver my report. Even then there’s just a slight chance that they’ll delay their decision, they don’t have to tell me until September by the terms of my contract. If you’re going to be free, then of course I’ll want you here, but, at the same time I wouldn’t wish to stand in the way of something like this.’

  ‘Can I come and see you after the board meeting then?’

  ‘Yes,’ he hesitated, uncertain whether he should bring up the domestic issue at this point. ‘Ash, how are things? I gather you and Julia...’

  Asher Grey sighed. ‘I don’t know how things are, Doug. I couldn’t take Julia and give of my best at this particular moment, so I’ve had to pull out.’

  ‘But you’re living with Carol?’

  ‘I’m living in Carol’s apartment. Oh sure, yes, we have a thing, but there’s nothing permanent. I wish I could get into a situation as clear cut as that. I’ve been with Julia for a long time, there’s a sort of natural love-hate relationship upon which we both used to thrive. It sounds like a paradox, but I seem to need friction to spark me.’

  ‘I guess the friction would come in time with Carol.’ Douglas felt a trace of sadness, he also knew what it was like with the black girl, the enthusiasm she had to bolster a tired confidence, making you into a kind of marvellous human being. Did he mean making you feel like a God?

  Asher chuckled. ‘I expect it happens with every relationship given time. Leave me to sort that one out, Douglas. I’ll find my own level, no doubt.’

  For a good fifteen minutes after the young actor left his office, Douglas sat and thought about the strange patterns made by life: the way in which one relationship led to another, the chance meeting or sudden idea blooming into a completely new way of life...or something else.

  After a while, he shook himself free of the wandering thoughts, returning his attentions to the facts and figures of his report.

  Friday, twenty-first of May was a warm day and Douglas found that time had a trick of turning full circle on him; there he was, back in the trustees’ board room, the pretentiously panelled chamber with the oil painting of Richard Longwell hanging behind the chairman’s place at the end of the long oak table; and there was still the scent which reminded Douglas of that 1964 Exhibition in Stratford-upon-Avon.

  Only four of the trustees were present: Sir Basil, smiling encouragement to Douglas, Rupert Crown and William Dempsey, both looking sour, and George Tupnall, the local solicitor, as sad and precise as ever. Promptly at two o’clock Sir Basil called the meeting to order; they went through the minutes and preliminaries, after which the chairman asked Douglas if he would make his formal report.

  Douglas got to his feet where he remained for the next three-quarters of an hour, first giving a detailed account of what had been done to the property, the refurbishing, the work on the new theatre restaurant, within the theatre itself; he then went on to comment on the company and the productions, pausing to pay tribute to Conrad Catellier; he talked about the achievements in artistic terms, and the exhibition, giving due praise to Tony Holt and David Wills; then the forthcoming American tour, stressing that this was the first time a Shireston company had played outside the festival, let alone the country, and coming, at last, to their financial statement. Things were in a good and healthy state, they were playing to houses with a ninety-eight per cent capacity and the bookings were well up to this standard for the remainder of the first three-quarters of the season; there was no reason to think that there would be any drop in houses once the last quarter’s bookings were open to the public. On top of this the exhibition was already showing a profit and the restaurant would undoubtedly give them at least a fifteen per cent margin by the end of the season; at this stage it was difficult to give an exact figure regarding total profits from extras like programmes for the theatre or exhibition, sales of postcards and the like, but they were certain to at least break even, and possibly might come out with a five per cent profit. In all, Douglas was confident that he would be able to show at least three-quarters of the board’s original investment returned to them.

  He had hardly sat down when Dempsey began to quiz him over the figures, pompous as ever, some of his questions even verged on being impertinent, but Douglas had made sure that his figures were accurate and nobody could change the fact that, provided the bookings continued to come in at the same level, Douglas would be well inside the board’s margin, maybe even higher.

  At last, Dempsey seemed to have exhausted his queries, and Sir Basil began to speak.

  ‘I take the greatest pleasure in congratulating Mr. Silver on the success of his first season at Shireston. I can think of no area in which improvement has not been made—’

  ‘I can,’ from the hangdog George Tupnall. Douglas knew what was to come, Tupnall was a local man and had undoubtedly been approached.

  ‘I am most concerned,’ continued the solicitor, ‘about the situation which has developed with regard to the relationship between the festival and the town.’

  ‘By the town I presume you mean the local newspaper,’ Douglas replied acidly. ‘The Shireston Gazette.’

  ‘No, I mean important local people.’

  ‘The Shireston Festival Society.’

  ‘Some are members of that body. But we should remember that there are people concerned here who were once personal friends of the late earl. Mr. Silver and his staff have seen fit to ban the local newspaper from access to the theatre. There have even been protests — physical protests; and there are rumours of gross immorality and wild orgies at Shireston House. I must admit that some of the actors here look as though they needed a good wash and a change of clothing.’

  ‘I can assure the board that there have been no orgies, nor, to my knowledge, has anyone been corrupted. The way in which individuals dress is, to my way of thinking, a personal matter. I am not running a school for young people here, I’m running a festival company.’ Douglas met the accusation calmly. ‘As for protests, there has been one, very lame, protest. Half-a-dozen local people, very much a minority group, paraded in front of the theatre with banners which seemed to imply that they were the guardians of all Shakespearean Theatre.’

  ‘They have a right to be heard.’

  ‘They have been heard; they’ve aired their bigoted views in the local press. I understand from my director of publicity that some have written letters to The Times and the editor of that august newspaper has not seen fit to publish them. I can
bring evidence of their bigotry if the board wishes to waste its time, but—’

  ‘What about the banning of the local newspaper?’ Sir Basil sounded concerned.

  ‘Most serious consideration was given to that. Again the evidence is in the press reports. Mr. Hedley Moir, the editor of the Gazette, with whom I presume you are all acquainted, is also the dramatic critic. From the day of my appointment he has made disparaging remarks about the company and the season. When it came to reviewing the plays it is quite obvious, if-you read him in context of all the other reviews, that the man is biased out of all proportion. We came to the conclusion that his reviews could only aggravate the local situation, so we barred him from admission to the theatre.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Silver,’ Sir Basil appeared to have accepted Douglas’s version. ‘The board will let you know if an individual report on this matter is needed. We would like you to leave us now so that we can deliberate on the matter of whether your contract is to be extended and if so for what period. You must be aware, of course, that we are doing this today at your request; that we are in no way obliged to come to a decision at this stage.’

  Douglas pursed his lips. ‘I understand, Sir Basil, but may I briefly explain to the board that, if I’m to accompany Othello to the United States, a later decision will hold next season in jeopardy. If I am to follow through with a second season, I do need to start planning and signing people in the immediate future. I’m also thinking about the availability of actors and actresses, many members of the company are already coming to me for advice about their futures?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought actors were scarce,’ unfeelingly from William Dempsey. ‘I hear there are twelve thousand of them out of work in this country.’

  ‘That is precisely why some of the company are concerned,’ retorted the director.