Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  “Peter Pfizer’s office,” answered a receptionist.

  “Christopher Marlowe for Mr. Pfizer.”

  “Please hold.”

  Chris swayed to “Girl from Ipanema.”

  “Chris! What can I do for you? I saw you got your painting back.” Peter had been Chris’ attorney for more than two decades. He knew more about Chris’ affairs than Chris did.

  “They still have it, for a bit, anyway.”

  “Do you need my help with that?”

  “No. Not yet. But, I do need your help. Reporters are asking about the art. People know about it, or will. It’s time to do something with it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Chris could sense Peter holding his breath. “Yes.”

  Peter exhaled. “Storage? Auction? Maybe a gift to the Met or MOMA?”

  “No. I don’t know. I want to still own it, but I don’t see the point of storage. I’ll never see it there.”

  “Let me make some calls. I know a lot of people.”

  “Well, don’t go telling every Tom, Dick, and Mary about it. I’ll come home and it’ll be gone. Or, someone will slit my throat.”

  After an elongated pause, Peter said. “First, I’m putting a security guard at your front door.”

  Chris breathed to protest.

  “Not a word about it.” Peter laughed heartily. “And, while I’m at it, there’ll be security guards at the front and rear of Tamburlaine by tonight, too. I’m worried about you and your people. Something is going on.”

  They’d met late one night at the club. Chris owned it already. Peter came in, tall and handsome, covered with brown, curly hair. His small dick didn’t matter. They talked, a lot. They played chess in the nude. They drank bottle after bottle of bourbon together, even though Peter preferred 30-year-old Scotch. They lounged naked: in bed, on the couch, in the kitchen. They kissed for hours. They went to Greece, laid naked on the beaches—Peter liked to be naked—drank ouzo until they passed out. Chris never did know why they’d stopped being together, it just sort of petered off: he’d always attributed that phrase, petered off, to that relationship.

  Ignoring the direction Peter had the conversation headed and the memories of sun-crisped skin in linen suits, Chris said, “I want you to see what we could get for the Jasper Johns. One of those flag paintings of his just sold for a mountain of cash.”

  “I’m sure we could find a buyer without going to auction. Take a picture of it with your phone and email it to me. Is there anything else?”

  “Peter, the collection is pretty big now. Close to two-hundred works.”

  “And they’re all there?...Of course they are. Let’s get off the phone so I can get some security over there. Sorry, it’s going to feel like you’re being watched for a bit.”

  “There are reporters outside my door right now.”

  “Chris, are you okay? I mean really. Are you okay?”

  He didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “I’m going to make a few calls and then I’m coming over there. What time are you leaving for the club?”

  “No later than six,” said Chris. “I’ll be here if you arrive before then.”

  He did remember why they’d stopped seeing each other. They hadn’t broken up, but drifted apart. They’d argued about the art collection. Chris had wanted Peter to take a small notebook page, a study by Chagall. It had only been a few thousand dollars at an auction. Peter liked it so well. He’d sat stoned in front of the thing for hour upon hour. He said he could enter the sketch. But, he wouldn’t take it. They’d argued. The only time they’d ever fought, ever. Peter left that night. He continued to be Chris’ attorney, but they were never together again.

  Forty-nine

  The Picasso was returned without ceremony. The police handed Chris the painting wrapped in clear, thick plastic marked with codes and numbers. Chris unwrapped it in his office. There did seem to be a nick in the top corner of the painted surface, but otherwise, all was well with his garish women. He wanted to return them to their hallowed home, but just rested them on the couch.

  “Chris?” Nancy Ann stood in the doorway.

  Chris turned to her.

  “I’m glad you got your painting back.”

  “Me, too. Here, come sit with me.” He pointed with manicured finger at the leather sofa. She did as told. “The girls are back.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, I’ve decided to give them to you.” Chris swallowed back his emotions.

  “No! You can’t. They belong here.”

  “They aren’t safe here. Everyone knows about them. They were Jimmy’s. You’re part of Jimmy. Don’t protest too much or I’ll change my mind.” He held her eyes and smiled. “I know that the success here has a lot to do with you.” He pointed toward his desk. “There’s a folder there with all the papers and legal stuff that shows the transfer of property to you. Because it’s a gift, there are tax consequences, and I’ve written you a check that should cover those, too.”

  He could tell she wanted to say something, but he didn’t press her.

  “What should I do with this? My apartment isn’t the right place for it either. I live in a pretty rough neighborhood.”

  “Well, I’ve made arrangements and my collection is being moved to a safer place. We could certainly include this with those, for now.”

  “Where? Where is it all going?” Nancy Ann’s eyes were wide, horrified. “How can you let it all go?”

  Chris tried to put the painting back inside the plastic, but couldn’t get the angle right. Nancy Ann helped him.

  “Well, there are still details to work out, but my attorney has made arrangements for MOMA to house them. There’s going to be a show in a bit.” Chris brightened and they safely rewrapped the painting.

  “The Modern Museum of Art? That’s…. I don’t know. I still feel like it should be here.”

  “Are you worried it’s like Sampson’s hair? If the painting is gone, Tamburlaine will fall?” He watched her head nod. Chris took a finger to her cheek and raised her head until she saw him. “Trust me, we had decades with the painting on the wall and no success at all.”

  Nancy Ann smiled through tears. “I love you. I can’t believe how generous you are.” She hugged Chris and held on to him for a long moment.

  He liked the touch and smell of her: youth, vibrancy, future. “Okay. Don’t you have a show to run?”

  “Oh, I do.” Nancy Ann released him and stood. “So, you’ll make the arrangements with MOMA to include this with the collection.”

  “I will call my attorney.” Chris didn’t stand. “Leave the paperwork here until you’re done for the night.”

  Nancy Ann turned back, the office door framing her. “I really do love you, Chris. Not because of the painting.”

  “Yes, I know, dear.” He waved her away and he was alone again. He sat back deeper into the leather of the old sofa. There should be a picture of Jimmy here, but there wasn’t. There weren’t many pictures of Jimmy. The newspaper picture: What would those men think of the painting going to Nancy Ann?

  “Well girls,” he said to the Streetwalkers, our run is finished. You’ll have to find others to inspire in the nighttime.” Chris stood, leaned the artwork against the side of the couch, and left his office. There was time for a bourbon before his set.

  Fifty

  Chris walked with his hand and wrist in the crook of Liz’s arm. The two were headed from an early supper at Mario’s to the club. The chill of the nearly winter air blew in from the river in a gust. Chris tried to pull closer to Liz for warmth.

  “Any closer and you’ll be inside me.”

  Like a teenager, Chris giggled. “We did that last night,” he whispered.

  “It was nice.” Liz put his gloved hand atop Chris’ bare one. “I don’t know why you won’t wear gloves?”<
br />
  “Don’t nag me. We’re having a nice moment and you nag me.”

  “Sorry. I just want you to be warm and comfortable and happy.” Liz gripped Chris’ hand tighter.

  “I am happy.” Chris wasn’t convinced of those words, but he said them. It’s what Liz expected. It’s what everyone expected. He missed the paintings; their removal made him sad.

  They turned the corner; people milled around the front door, mostly smokers, mostly male. Several of them applauded as Chris approached. He loosened himself from Liz, without fully releasing their bond, and curtsied, which brought more applause and a catcall from the small crowd.

  “You boys are so kind.”

  One of the men opened and held the door for Chris. The Tamburlaine stools had butts on them, the tables were mostly full.

  “Coffee,” said Liz to Frank through the patrons before she headed to her reserved, high-top table in the corner, next to the window, where she could watch the room.

  “You got it. Boss, there are messages for you.” Frank finished filling a third shot glass and placed them in front of the guys nearest him.

  Chris immediately went into the routine: he took off his wrap, grabbed the pink message slips, and headed to his office without care for anyone around him. His room held no charm now. It needed to be painted to remove the faded rectangle on the wall, a constant reminder of his good deed. Maybe it was time for new furniture, too.

  He read and tossed two of the messages in the trash. The third was from Jericho. He sat, poured a few fingers of bourbon in a glass, and dialed Jerry’s number. It rang and rang and rang before finally going to voice mail: “Hi. It’s Chris.” He didn’t know what else to say. “Returning your call.”

  They hadn’t had a serious conversation since the late-night phone call. Yes, he continued to rehearse the shows and give notes to the actors, but he’d avoided Chris for weeks. He replayed their fight over Nancy Ann again in his mind.

  A knock at the door brought him back. “Chris?”

  Ingram stood, ruddy faced and handsome. Slightly thinner, but more solid in his frame hugging shirt: rehearsals were good for dancers.

  “My boy! Come give mother a kiss.” Mother? Where had that come from?

  He laughed and glided to Chris and kissed his cheek. “I have something for you.” Ingram pushed an envelope toward Chris. “I really want you to be there.”

  Chris took the envelope and opened it, revealing a single ticket.

  “For opening night of Godspell. I don’t have anyone else and you helped me get my foot in the door and…”

  “It’s tomorrow! And, only one?”

  “Yes. I know it’s really short notice. I have to admit I wasn’t going to invite anyone. I didn’t realize they’d held tickets for me. So, today, they were on my dressing table. There should have been two, I know, but the guy next to me needed a ticket for his boyfriend, and since I wasn’t going to ask anyone…”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Great.” He quickly kissed Chris on the cheek again. “I’ve got to run. There’s a party tonight.”

  “Don’t drink, too much. You’ve got an important show tomorrow.”

  Ingram backed out of the office, facing Chris, smiling broadly. “Yes, Mother!” He laughed and bolted from the room.

  The ticket proclaimed Godspell! The seat number was orchestra center. He’d always hated being in the middle, preferring the safety of the back. But, for the boy, of course he’d go. Chris absently picked up his cell and redialed Jerry’s number. Again, he got voicemail. He hung up without leaving another message.

  He tossed off the last of the bourbon in his glass and contemplated a refill. He could hear the buzz of conversation punctuated with forks on china in the dining room. Nunsense would start in ten minutes. The dining room would be mostly empty then. Fifteen minutes later, he’d start his first set. Chris felt tired. He poured more liquor into his glass, contemplated it for a moment, tossed it back. He thumbed the lipstick on the glass and looked again at the faded spot on the wall. Success, he thought, would help him feel better, help him feel happier. It hadn’t. Not really. A boyfriend, Elmer, it was nice to have someone in his life again, but old man sex wasn’t a fantasy fulfiller. All that combined wrinkled skin, like two old Shar-Pei fighting under the sheets. At least he wasn’t alone.

  He pushed the ticket around on his desk. Listened to the sudden, near silence. Chris applied a fresh coat of lipstick without the benefit of a mirror, and headed out to the barroom stage.

  Fifty-one

  The packed theater frightened Chris. He’d been alone in theaters of all sorts, of course. This felt different. He’d grown used to being with Liz, or Elmer, whoever he decided to be on any given day. The alternating personalities felt strange and odd to Chris, who had, for a lifetime, strived to be just Chris, not a transvestite, but a drag queen, a man with a woman’s flair.

  He drank a glass of bourbon on the rocks at the lobby bar, enjoying the cool liquid on his tongue with its slight burn as it traveled down his throat. He took in the audience, some in tuxedos, others with their pants so low Chris wondered why they even bothered to wear them. The op-eds harped about the poor state of dress at the Broadway theaters these days; Chris loved it. He loved the personal expression of these men. True, he didn’t fully understand the evolution from gangsta to exhibitionist, but he loved it all the same.

  The house lights blinked.

  Inside, Chris found his aisle and waited for the people to stand so he could wriggle his way to the center seat. Once he arrived and began situating himself, he discovered he sat next to Nigel Folgate. The old man turned toward him, tried to engage him. His heart beat so hard he thought it might burst.

  How could Ingram have done this to him? More important: how did Ingram even know Nigel?

  Chris kept his focus on the stage. No grand drape: instead, a simple set with playground equipment and a back wall of chain-link fence, broken side walls covered with colorful, spray-painted tags and graffiti. A breeze ruffled the trash on the stage, explaining why it felt so cold in the theater.

  “Chris,” whispered Nigel.

  The man touched Chris’s arm. Chris pulled it away, tighter to his side.

  The opening night of Godspell began with soft music, piano and guitar. The audience settled. It shifted to harder rock, electric guitar, loud for a moment, and then words over synthesizer: Man arrives on God’s newly created earth as gardener.

  Chris pulled tighter into his seat, torn between the action on stage and knowing Nigel sat next to him. Disjointed, disjunctive, disconnected. Actors sang “Tower of Babble.” They were all over the stage, singing, cleaning up the trash, shoving papers into cans. The colors of costumes, lights, moving pieces of set. It all felt like a music video. Tension formed in Chris’ neck. His heart beat harder. He felt trapped. He looked at the people on stage; there went Ingram, mixed in with others of all sizes and races. “Each of us, a Child of God.”

  With eyes closed, he focused on the songs: “Prepare ye the way of the Lord. Prepare ye the way of the Lord.” Light came up slightly in the house. People in the audience, not actors, were singing along. The world of stage and viewer merged for an uncomfortable moment. Ingram at the front of the stage, he looked so good, so solid, so in his element.

  Chris was thankful they ran the show without an intermission. Time had stopped for him as he listened to his heartbeat, felt the heat coming from Nigel, watched them sing and move on stage. He’d seen the original cast, and later, the revival; Jericho had updated the show, slightly, it held its ground. And, it sounded good, really good. Time had obviously been spent on vocals, on musical rehearsals. Of course. He wasn’t The Great Jericho Taylor for nothing. Yet, Chris longed for the end, for the death of Christ, so that he might escape his own current hell.

  And, as with all scripted ends, this show’s demise came. Thankfully,
they didn’t carry the dead Christ through the theater. The cast carried him out through the wings. A great wind erupted and once again trash and paper caught in the chain link. The set looked as it had when the audience had arrived. Full circle.

  The rows stood, began emptying into the aisles.

  “Chris.” Nigel grabbed Chris’ arm, tight. “We have to talk.”

  He breathed deep. “No, we don’t.”

  “We do.”

  Chris turned to his accoster. “How did you get this seat? How did you end up next to me?”

  “Norton. Ingram gave Norton the ticket.”

  Confusion. “Ingram?” Was this what a swoon felt like? “How. But. Are.”

  “Chris, sit.”

  People slowly shuffled out of the theater.

  “I don’t understand,” said Chris.

  “Ingram and Norton. They’ve been…seeing each other.”

  “Norton has been cheating on you with Ingram?” Chris sat back into the soft chair.

  “Yes. They’ve been living together for months.”

  The boyfriend. It wasn’t a fellow actor’s boyfriend, it was his boyfriend. Ingram had set him up so that he’d be sitting next to Nigel for two hours. “So, he’s been found? He’s turned up again?”

  “Found?” Nigel asked. “He wasn’t lost.”

  “But, you…the police.”

  “There’s so much you don’t know.” Nigel placed his hand on Chris’.

  Chris pulled his hand away. With effort, he propelled himself out of his seat. He wanted to be gone, to be at his club, to be drinking a bourbon. “I don’t want to see you again.”

  “Chris, what have you done?”

  He knew what Nigel spoke of, but didn’t say anything.

  “You’ve taken over my company!”

  He had. He’d taken the proceeds from selling the paintings, because that’s what he’d done, sold the paintings. Once they’d been reviewed by the curator, they’d offered a king’s ransom. He’d taken it. Sold everything, except the Picasso—not his to sell—and the Pollack, which he truly loved more than all the rest. He took those proceeds and bought every share of the Folgate Company he could get his hands on. “Your sister hates you.” Because of her, he now owned sixty percent of that company. “You and Norton, or whoever he is, will never take away Tamburlaine, now. You two will never tear down my neighborhood.”