"And besides, you're so hungry to get back to the theater it's driving you crazy."
Jessica gave a short laugh. "Put in its simplest terms. You're right. I don't know any other way to feel truly alive."
"You're sure you can do it, but you never have. Is that right?"
"I've never directed a play. I'm sure I can do it."
"Well, I'll tell you. I'm pretty sure you can, too. I have a few scripts I'm considering. Do you want to take a few days to read them, think about them, then call me.''"
"Yes. Oh yes. Thank you."
"You should have started with me instead of that prick. Hold on." She left the room and returned with a stack of notebooks. "Six. Take your time. I want opinions. I think they all need work; some more than others. I'm sending you home; you look exhausted."
"I am. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I can't tell you how much I needed you."
"You didn't hide it." They stood and instinctively put their arms around each other. Hermione kissed Jessica on both cheeks. "I'm glad I found you, Jessie. I predict great triumphs for the two of us. Get a good night's sleep."
Jessica held her cheek against Hermione's for a thankful moment. Someone to trust. "I'll call you soon."
"Oh, one other thing," Hermione said casually as she opened the front door.
"Yes.?"
"I'd write to him if I were you. It can't hurt, just to keep in touch."
Jessica stood in the doorway, leaning on her cane. "Good night," she said, and left.
But the words stayed with her and the next morning, very early, she took out a sheet of her new stationery and began to write.
266 ~ Judith Michael
Dear Luke, I've teen in Sydney tor a little over two weeks. I won't go into all tne tninking I aid to get nere, out finally I just nad to find out if I could oe a part of tne tneater again. You trougnt it so crasningly into my life tnat I couldn't ignore it anymore, and so I looked for a place wnere I could negin again witn a clean slate, not on stage nut as a director, and tnat turned out to he Sydney.
I've rented a nouse and done tne tourist tnings and finally I'm beginning to tnink I mignt like living nere. It's odd now a place can seem strange, even faintly liostile, and then, because of one special person, it begins to feel welcoming. That was what happened to me last night. I met a wonderful woman, a producer you may have heard of named Hermione Montaldi, and in a very long evening in her home we became friends and, maybe, partners. If that happens—she gave me scripts to read, to see if there's something I can direct— everything I hoped for by coming here will come true.
This is a lovely city, with its own peculiarities. All the glass-and-steel skyscrapers on the harbor are spanking new, built in the last twenty years, and behind them are buildings from the last century with all the decorative gewgaws that stonemasons used to make when time and money didn't dictate stark silhouettes.
The streets are crowded, and at first I thought the people were so friendly, waving to each other as they walked, but then I realized they were brushing away flies. It's quite fascinating: that constant fanlike motion of hands in front of faces, plus everyone seems to be carrying tiny cellular telephones cupped in their hands, almost invisible, so what you see are streams of pedestrians waving away flies while seemingly talking to themselves. Definitely living theater.
My house is in a section of the city called Point Piper, high above the harbor with lovely views of Double Bay (a fancy neighborhood called a suburb) and the city. Hope is with me and we've both settled in quite nicely. I hope The Magician is thriving, and that all is well with you. Jessica.
A cold letter, she thought, signing it. But she did not know how else to write. / miss you and I wake up at night reaching for you. There was no
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CTS of LOVE ~ 267
way she could write that. I go through the city and find myself describing things to you. She could not write that, either. / love you. No, of course not. All she could do was be friendly.
And why was she doing that?
Because she could not give him up. She desperately needed to feel close to him, even through letters, just as once she had used letters to feel close to Constance, and when Hermione said it was a good idea, it was as if she had been given permission. She had thought she could give him up completely, but it was too hard, at least for now. Maybe later, when she had a play to direct and was making other friends, maybe then she could cut him out of her life. But not now. Not yet.
The letter sat on the dining room table, which she was using as her desk, and she glanced at it as she read scripts that day and late into the evening, and the next day as well. Hermione called that afternoon. "I'm wondering if you've made friends with any of those scripts yet."
"There's one in particular that I like very much."
"But you're not about to tell me which one."
"Not until I've read them all."
"Good idea. Which means, that's how I'd do it. Are you all settled, or is there something you need.'' Can I do anything for you?"
"No, thank you. I like living here; it's beautiful and very private."
"Not the poshest of the posh suburbs, but definitely my favorite. Call me when you're ready to talk. I'm getting antsy to have a play in the works."
So there it was: she had a friend and a future. I'm not dependent on Lu^e, so now we can be friends. And she mailed the letter.
He replied by return mail.
Dear, dear Jessica, to go so tar to find what you re looking lor. I know you'll say it was necessary and I won't argue with that, but w^hen I think of you (which is most of my waking moments) I have a disconcerting image of you teetering at the very edge of the w^orld, clinging to Point Piper (I like the name) or to your new friend, Hermione Montaldi (I like that one, too).
I haven't heard of Ms. Montaldi; it's surprising how little we in New^ York know of the theater in Sydney, or they of us, I'm told. But of course you chose it lor just that reason: because it was far
268 ~ Judith Michael
away and not part of the two-way street betw^een Ne^v York and London.
We're in the midst of an early cold spell and I'm enjoying evenings at home, working on my plays, w^atching old movies and thinking about you. Martin is a happy man: I'm home for dinner so he can experiment in the kitchen, and both of us agree that he's on his w^ay to becoming a master chef. He'd be happier if I had a companion, since it's much more fun cooking for two than for one, but I told him he has to be satisfied w^ith me, at least for now^.
You know^ how^ much good fortune I w^ish for you. I hope you write often, telling me all that you do; I can pretend you're close by, talking to me, w^hen you do. With my love, Luke.
Almost as cold as mine, Jessica thought. Except for a few phrases. . . . She read the last one ugain. I can pretend... Well, that's the business we're in, both of us. Pretending.
And he had been anxious: her letter had taken four days to reach him, but he had sent his by overnight express mail. I could do that, too, she thought, sometime, if it seems important.
The next day she called Hermione and said that this time she would cook dinner. Hermione arrived at six o'clock and stood in the doorway, scanning the crowded room.
"Well, would you look at this. The lost and found for stray furniture. Stray patterns, too. But it's not unpleasant. Somehow it works. You don't get dizzy, living in this Arabian tent?"
"I like it. Three sides of protection and the fourth is all sky and water." She flushed as Hermione gave her a quick look. "Protection is something I think about."
"So I see."
They sat as they had in Hermione's living room, at each end of the couch, with papers and manuscripts spread out between them. They went through Jessica's notes on each script, lingering over the ones that showed the most promise. After dinner they took their coffee back to the living room and worked on, coming at last to the play Jessica wanted to direct.
"So we agree, right from the beginning,"
Hermione said with satisfaction. "Journeys End. God, titles are so damnably hard to think up, but somewhere in Shakespeare there's always the perfect one. Now tell me why you want to direct it."
Acts of L
o V E ~ 269
"I like the people; I like the story. Only four people in the cast, which makes everything easier, but mainly there's a kind of magic in the way they come together at the end, when they realize everything they've been searching for has been close by, but they hadn't recognized it, or even known how to look for it. There's a mystery in that—how people find each other in such a complicated and vast world—and I like that. The best theater is filled with mystery: all the wonders that make love and friendship and family and belonging possible." She paused. "I'm sorry. That sounded like another lecture. And a maudlin one at that."
Hermione gazed at Jessica for a long moment. "Did you write to him.^"
"What? Oh. Yes."
"Did he write back.?"
"Yes."
"Good. That didn't sound like a lecture, by the way, and you weren't being maudlin. The whole business of love and friendship and family is a mystery: how some people can stay married fifty years and others can't make it through the first six months, how some friendships go on and on, how some families thrive even though they're so stressful you'd think they'd explode, and others are always at each other's throats. Nobody understands it, and thank God. Where would we be without mystery.'' We'd be staging cookbooks. By the way, what's his name?"
Jessica began to gather up the scripts and notes. "Lucas Cameron."
"Well, you can't do any better than that. If he comes for a visit, I'd like to meet him. Okay, now, let's talk schedules. This is the second week of December. The Drama Theater at the Opera House is available for March and April; they told me I could have it if I let them know right away."
"More than enough time to be ready," Jessica said.
"It is if you know your way around, but you don't. You'll have to rely on me to recommend actors to read for the parts, and a stage manager and production secretary. You'll have the scene shop at the Wharf, and the Drama Theater lighting director and wardrobe and props crew, but it takes time to get to know them and be comfortable with them and have them be comfortable with you."
Jessica shrank back into the corner of the couch. Have them be comfortable with you. She had forgotten. Everything with Hermione was so easy and natural that she had let herself be lulled into forgetting. Comfortable with you. Of course they wouldn't be. Any more than Alfonse Murre had been.
270 ~ Judith Michael
"I'm talking about getting acquainted," Hermione said mildly. "It always takes a while, whomever we're talking about. But let's get this straight. You thought I meant they wouldn't work with you because you walk with a cane. Is that right.'^"
"Not just—"
"Oh, and also because you're not a glamour girl. That's it? That's why they'll refuse to work with you.f' They'll say, 'Great God, she has gray hair—' Why don't you color it, by the way?"
"Because it wouldn't change anything else. It would seem pathetic."
"Well, I don't know about that. But we'll let it go for now. Where was I? Oh, yes. You'll walk in and everyone will say, 'Great God, she limps. She has gray hair and a stoop. We make it a point never to work with anyone who limps or stoops.' "
There was a long silence. Then Jessica began to smile. She had told Murre that it made no difference what she looked like, but it seemed that she hadn't bought her own argument. But now Hermione made her fears sound absurd. And maybe—just maybe—they were.
"That's better," Hermione said briskly. "Now we know where we are. I'm going to produce Journeys End and you're going to direct it, and we'll work together every step of the way. I'd guess that you're a fast learner, and you'll figure out our whimsical Aussie ways in no time. By the way, one other small problem: the playwright died a month after finishing it. Young man, too, just dropped dead. So we'll have to manage without the creator explaining things or rewriting, if we want it, which is sometimes a blessing, sometimes not. Okay, let's look at dates. You're going to want to get your ideas together and think about the kinds of actors you want. How soon will you be be ready to start casting?"
Hermione spread a calendar on the coffee table and they bent over it, and began to make plans.
Dear Luke, we've started. Hermione and I walked tnrougn the Drama Tneater tne otner day and it was as lovely as I remembered it from tne time I appeared there. It has only 544 seats (made with white Australian wood and upholstered in blue Australian wool, wnicn everyone speaks or with great pride), hut the acoustics and sight lines are very rine. It's one or two theaters on the lower level or the Opera House, with symphony and opera halls upstairs, so there are times when the whole tuilding vibrates with rehearsals. Our sets
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c T s of Love ~ 271
will oe made at tne Wnarr Tneater, really and truly a wnarf, converted to two tneaters upstairs, and nuge rooms below ror set construction, props, costumes, and so on. We renearse tnere, too, in a small re-nearsal nail witn a tiny balcony at tne back wnere students come a few at a time to watcn. Hermione asked me ir I'd mind and I said I wouldn t ... I don't tnink. How do I know wnat I'll mind? I've never done any or tnis before.
Tne play is Journeys End, written by an Australian who died, tragically young, soon alter writing it. It's tne story or a wealtny woman, one or Sydney's greatest beneractors, wbo, we discover, made ber fortune by defrauding a couple sne'd known most of ner life. Sbe's an influential, famous woman, but sne bas no feelings. Sne berself says sne feels dead, without knowing wby. Tne son of tne people sbe defrauded buys tne apartment next door (I bope to use turntables for tbe two apartments, if we can afford tnem) and tne rest of tbe story is tbe way tbey discover eacn otber (tbey baven't seen eacb otber since tbey were children) and the way sbe comes to life, not only through him but through his parents, who are visiting him. It's the story of how an inhuman woman becomes human—a fairy tale, you'll say. Well, we need fairy tales, and every one that I've ever heard of is built around a kernel of truth, so maybe even inhuman people can learn and change. And this story has a strong dose of reality because at the end the parents understand her but never forgive her, so she doesn't get the clean slate she longs for. She's found love, she can feel, she'll be happy, but she can't erase the past.
We begin casting next week. Hermione has called several actors and also a management company; she thinks we'll find our cast very quickly. I hope so; I'm anxious to see this play come to life. I hope your writing is going well. Jessica.
She hesitated before sealing it. There were so many other things she could say. She could tell him how frightened she was, of failing, of disappointing Hermione, but mostly of working on a play without being in it. She did not know if she could bear that.
She shook her head. It was too personal. She'd told him enough. She sealed the envelope, stamped it and mailed it on the way to the Wharf for the first casting session.
272 ~ Judith Michael
Dearest Jessica, I'm wrapping this letter around a Christmas gift and I hope you accept it, since it comes not only from me, but also from Constance. The bracelet is from the collection that she left to me in her will, saying that she hoped I'd someday find a woman I wanted to give them to. She would have been very happy — and triumphant? —to know that you are that woman. With it I send my w^ishes for a very happy Christmas, and a joyous and fulfilling New Year.
Your letter about the Wharf and the Drama Theater just came. I know the excitement you're feeling; I still have it whenever a play begins to take shape. It's like w^orking with a lump of clay for a w^hile and suddenly seeing in it the shape of a head, the curve of a horse's mane, a leaf, a flower, a bird . . . still indistinct but waiting to be set free. That's what you'll be doing: setting free the hidden parts of the play — why people do what they do, the acts of love or hate they inflict or suffer, how they come to understand (or never understand)
the life around them.
Nothing in the world brings the same good feeling as that. It almost makes up for the fact that we can't always shape our own lives the way we want. Almost. Nothing, after all, makes up for the absence of a loved one.
Hermione sounds terrific; I think you're going to have a wonderful time. As for the play, it sounds interesting, with a powerful lead, but it's hard to tell from a summary. Would you send me a copy? All my love, Luke.
The bracelet was of small square diamonds with a ruby clasp. Jessica put it on and held out her arm, the diamonds flashing in the sun. She had wanted something from Luke. Now she had something from Constance, too.
By now a letter from him arrived every day. Sometimes it was just a note scribbled in a taxi, more often it was a single page of news of the city and the theater, tales of people they knew and others whom Jessica had not met, recollections of Constance, suggestions for a movie to see or a book to read, the weather report, Martin's latest menu. He never wrote about a party or going on a date. One could assume, from his letters, that he had indeed become a monk.
Luke Cameron.? Never. Of course he was seeing women.
squiring them about the city, sharing their beds. There was no reason for him to write to her about them; the first she would know was when he wrote to tell her—for she was sure he would do this—that he was getting married.
But she would not think about that. She saved his letters, filling a drawer in the hutch in her living room. Then, one evening on her way home she stopped in Woollahra and saw in a shop window an Italian box covered in fine, dark green leather with a gold tooled border on the hinged lid. She brought it home and put Luke's letters inside—so many, already— then set the box on the coffee table beside the one holding Constance's letters. She stood back, gazing at them. Not much personal contact, but there's a lot of paper in my life.
"Handsome box," Hermione said later that evening. They were eating vichyssoise and cold chicken at the coffee table. "Good leather. Two Italian boxes. Both for letters?"
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