Me and Orson Welles

by Robert Kaplow

  “A bet,” said Lloyd. “Two bucks to the first guy who gets into Sonja’s pants.”

  “That is unspeakably crude,” said Cotten.

  “It’s cheap and demeaning,” I added.

  We sat for a moment in silence.

  “O.K . . . . five bucks,” said Lloyd.

  Eight

  At eight that night we ran through the first real dress rehearsal of Caesar—music, lights, military uniforms.

  I stood on a mattress under the upstage trap, in the basement really, waiting for my cue. Behind me stood Grover Burgess, dressed as Ligarius, in a torn scarf and oil-stained raincoat.

  Up above me the conspirators were whispering. The entire rehearsal so far had been a disaster, and Welles kept breaking character to scream about everyone’s incompetence.

  “ ‘Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius,’ ” said Welles “ ‘to cut the head off and then,’ Jesus Christ, Jeannie, I told you to turn off everything but the goddamn work light. How many times—”

  I stood there with one foot resting on the stepladder. The smell of the paint was still heavy. Someone’s step creaked on the platform overhead. My leg was shaking uncontrollably.

  “ ‘But it is doubtful yet whether Caesar will come forth today . . . .’ ”

  “ ‘Never fear that.’ ”

  “ ‘By the eight hour. Is that the—’ ”

  My cue.

  “Break a leg,” said Burgess.

  “With this ladder, I probably will.” As I headed up toward the conspirators, I imagined what my rising head must look like to an audience. I could hear Burgess ascending right behind me.

  The platform creaked under my step. One line, that’s all this is—

  I said aloud: “ ‘Here is a sick man that would speak to you.’ ”

  “Louder!” said Welles.

  “ ‘Here is a sick man that would speak to you.’ ”

  “Good. Now exit left.”

  I walked into the wings where the four-man orchestra sat watching.

  “How’d I do?” I asked.

  The drummer looked up from his men’s magazine. “What?”

  Caesar had no intermission, and I silently moved to the back of the house to watch some of the big scenes—Coulouris on the black velvet-covered pulpit screaming for silence: Friends, Romans, countrymen! Lend me your ears! Below him the thirteen lights cut into the stage floor shot directly upwards. It looked like the Life magazine pictures of the Nürnberg rallies.

  Sonja sat near me at the back of the house. She tucked her blue-jeaned leg under her. Even in work clothes there was something a little provocative in her presence—her chestnut hair smelled like black licorice. She sneezed, and she whispered, “I’ve got the Mercury cold. Don’t get too close to me. Read this.”

  She handed me a typewritten piece of paper.

  Selznick International

  230 Park Avenue

  New York City

  Sonja Jones: John Houseman speaks in glowing terms of your talents and tells me you’ve got some first-rate ideas for our “Civil War picture.” We’d love to hear them. DOS in town this week. Please give us a call as soon as it’s convenient.

  Sincerely,

  Katharine Brown, Story Editor

  “Wow.”

  “This is one of those letters that change your life, Richard. Four sentences and everything in your future is altered.”

  For a moment she watched the scene being rehearsed onstage. “I hate actors; I really do. They’ve got that invisible camera following them around everywhere they go. Hey, folks, did you see the way I walked up that ramp? Did you see the way I tilted my hat? They make me ill. They really do.”

  “If you hate actors, why are you hanging around with me?”

  “You’re not an actor. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “Is that an insult?”

  “It’s the opposite of an insult.”

  “Well, you don’t like actors. What kind of guys do you like?” I asked and I thought, Here we go again, Richard. The buddy. The best friend. Sonja was talking, and I was remembering last summer. Stefan’s girlfriend, Kate Rouilliard, had called me up at midnight—crying. I’d met her in the bleachers across from the high school.

  “I can’t understand why he turns on me,” she said wiping her eyes. “It would be different if I hurt him or something, but I haven’t done anything. He just turns so cold on me. I don’t understand guys, Richard. I really don’t.”

  I sat there holding her hand, trying to console her, trying to disguise my sideways erection. Her face was wet and perfumed, and I stared at her bare ankle in the moonlight.

  “Richard, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re the best friend I’ve got. I’m sorry to always be drowning you in this emotional crap.” She got up from the bleachers. “I wish there was something I could do for you.”

  Just unbutton your shirt, Kate. Just leave it unbuttoned for thirty seconds.

  “I always thought being a beautiful woman would be terrifically interesting,” I said to Sonja. I was trying to widen the scope of the conversation, and I thought the beautiful might get her attention. It was code for: I’m in love with you like everybody else, but I’m much too suave to say it. “To watch the world sort of fall at your feet whenever you show up. To know what that feels like. Does this mean I’m a homosexual?”

  “Yes. Mostly I despise the way I look. My neck is too long. My eyelids have too much skin on them.”

  “Your eyelids! Sonja, you’re nuts.”

  “Really, I’m one huge catalogue of faults.”

  “Name me one fault.”

  She thought a second.

  “My left breast is smaller than my right.”

  “Have you got a ruler?”

  Onstage, Marc Antony had finished shouting about the generosity of Caesar’s will (“To every man—seventy-five drachmas!”) and the mob had dispersed, their thick-soled shoes drumming the platforms.

  Lloyd, as Cinna the poet, entered right. He was looking rumpled and bewildered. Some citizens entered left.

  “ ‘I dreamt tonight,’ ” he began, “ ‘that I did feast with Caesar . . . I have no will to wander forth of doors. Yet something leads me forth.’ ”

  The citizens began questioning him:

  “ ‘What is your name?’ ”

  “ ‘Whither are you going?’ ”

  “Stop!” yelled Welles. “Stop! This is worse than terrible. You’re lucky there’s no intermission in this play, Lloyd; they’d come back with rotten fruit. People, let’s come back to this scene later. We’re pushing the river.”

  “The scene’s not working because you never let us rehearse it,” said Lloyd.

  “I’m thinking out loud,” said Welles, now standing in the orchestra. “If we cut this scene and moved directly to the tent scene . . . you know, make it a blackout and a musical interlude—just time passing—we might get away with—”

  “This scene is more than about time passing, Orson,” insisted Lloyd from the stage. “It’s about what happens in a mob.”

  “Why don’t we give Cinna a monocle,” said Welles. “You’re playing him too working class.”

  “He is working class.”

  “I see a monocle, a long coat. Maybe a top hat. This could be a laugh scene.”

  “Orson, the correct reading for this scene is the one I’m giving it.”

  “Then convince me,” said Welles, lighting a cigar. “Because right now it’s dead.” He folded his arms in front of him. “Go on, Mr. Lloyd. Astonish me.”

  The entire company (except Welles, Houseman, and Sonja) headed toward a cafeteria on Broadway. In our olive-green uniforms, we looked like some disreputable unit of Army deserters.

  Up ahead, leading the pack, were Joe Holland and George Coulouris, both loudly maligning Martin Gabel. Next were the two ladies: Muriel and Evelyn. Muriel checked her reflection in every shop window we passed. Evelyn carried her book.

  At ten P.M. on
a Sunday night the cafeteria was jumping. A spilled tray of coffee cups crashed to the floor; the theatre crowd applauded.

  Outside, the headlights streamed down Broadway.

  Inside, we were loud and obnoxious and generally in love with ourselves.

  “What show are you people with?” asked a guy at the table next to ours.

  “The Jewish Julius Caesar,” said Lloyd. “Oy, Caesar, you shouldn’t know from I saw in the sky tonight. Comets, thunder—oy, such a headache I got.”

  “Who are you?” asked Cotten.

  “I’m Cinna! Cinna the farkaktah poet!”

  “From this, Cinna, you make a living?”

  “Give’m a glass tea.”

  “Tyranny is dead! And I get such a pain when I bend.”

  We ran through the second half of the play more quickly. The lighting cues were more effective now—swift, shadowy, fluid as a film.

  “ ‘Lucius!’ ”

  Gabel was exiting the upstage ramp as I stepped out from the wings.

  “ ‘Lucius!’ ”

  “ ‘Here my good lord.’ ”

  “ ‘What, thou speak’st drowsily? Poor knave, I blame thee not. Thou art o’er-watched. Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so.’ ”

  Welles had wandered down to the apron of the thrust stage—only a few feet from the audience. I followed him there. The lights were dimming slightly. Welles, in his military coat and leather gloves, sat on the small step that led to the main playing area. He pretended to read his small book.

  He gestured that I also sit—and I did, next to him.

  I was sitting on the empty stage of a Broadway house. We were too cheap to run the heat with no audience, and the place was freezing. I could smell the fresh gray paint of the platforms. There was no one under those lights but me and Orson Welles—and floating between us were words written four hundred years earlier. I was trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. Don’t lose your place, Richard. What are the chords to the song? You should have practiced it more.

  Welles said, “ ‘Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes a whiles and touch thy instrument a strain or two?’ ”

  “ ‘Ay, my lord, an’t please you.’ ”

  “Slower,” said Welles.

  I nodded and thought: Please, God, just let me remember the goddamn song.

  “ ‘I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing,’ ” said Welles tenderly.

  “ ‘It is my duty, sir.’ ”

  What was the second chorus?

  “ ‘I should not urge thy duty past thy might. I know young bloods look for a time of rest.’ ”

  “ ‘I have slept, my lord, already.’ ”

  B-flat to what? C or F?

  “ ‘It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again. I will not hold thee long.’ ”

  Thursday every theatre critic in New York would be sitting there—every seat in the second balcony filled.

  My right hand strummed an F, but since the musicians had retuned the ukulele it sounded too high.

  I sang in a reedy, nervous tenor: Orpheus with his lute

  Made trees and the mountaintops that freeze

  Bow themselves when he did sing . . .

  The lights were dimming completely now—nightfall, moonlight. Fade the damn lights already. The horns and drums picked up the melody.

  In the dark Welles gave my shoulder a light touch. “Needs work, Junior.”

  Monday, November 8 Nine

  My alarm clock went off at 6:55. I turned up the thermostat downstairs and added more water to the boiler.

  I did my exercises on the bedroom floor: sit-ups and push-ups. “Every day in every way I’m getting better and better—one!”

  That morning the radio was playing “I Can’t Get Started with You.”

  “ ‘I’m a glum one,’ ” I sang along with the verse. “ ‘It’s explainable . . . .’ ”

  Sara was up now; I could hear the shower running. Because she usually left the door open a quarter of an inch to vent the steam I could sometimes catch a glimpse of her standing naked in front of the mirror. It was sort of a sleazy thing to do, but I was feeling the increasing necessity of seeing a girl naked. And my standards were getting lower every day.

  I ate the same breakfast every single morning: Fig Newtons and coffee (“Hearty and nutritious,” he said, spitting out all his teeth.) And this particular Monday I sat with my legs jammed against the kitchen radiator, determined to feel the first stirrings of warmth.

  “Mommy’s going to kill you,” said Sara, bopping into the kitchen, already dressed, scented, and perfectly groomed.

  “For what?”

  “For what?” She whittled down a couple of carrots and then ate them aggressively. “For coming in after midnight on a school night.”

  “Hey, I was helping Caroline and the play people strike the set, and we—”

  “Strike the set, huh? And why would they be striking the set when the play was canceled? You better get your story straight, twerp.” She bit into another carrot, enjoying her power. “And I’ve got something else you better get your story straight on.”

  I fanned the air. “Why do you wear so much of that stuff?”

  She ignored me and pulled her chair closer. “You know your little girlfriend, Caroline?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend; she’s my friend.”

  “She certainly isn’t your girlfriend. Joan was at that party Saturday night over at Kristina Stakuna’s house, and Joan told me she saw your little friend Caroline dancing her sweet little behind off with your big buddy Phil Stefan! Everybody in the whole school knows about it.”

  “You think I care?” I said, and I threw my plates noisily in the sink. “Jeez, the small-mindedness of people around here.”

  “I told you she was just hanging around you to get near him.”

  I held my hands to my ears. “I am suffocating!”

  Of course Stefan’s pursuing Caroline was exactly what you’d expect from the lying, drunken, horny, overly developed son-of-a-bitch. He couldn’t wait five minutes to pounce?

  I slammed the door and headed toward school.

  The morning sky was perfect blue. Tangerine-colored leaves filled the steps and the sidewalks and the gutters and the flowerbeds. The trees looked like enormous sculptures, vaulted up into the sunlight, creaking. A man stood on a ladder putting up storm windows, and the morning smelled of rain and woolen scarves.

  First class was Shakespeare with Dr. Mewling. He was in his early sixties, and he conducted every class in exactly the same manner: he took attendance, sat behind his desk, and then read us his notes for one hour straight. They were written on yellow legal sheets—God only knew how old they were—and he carefully returned each page to the bottom of the stack, perfectly prepared for next year’s lesson. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, the woman Shakespeare married was clearly already with child when he married her, and her name was? Her name was? Don’t overwhelm me now. No one remembers?” And here he didn’t even bother to look up to see if anyone might attempt to remember. He just kept talking. “Well, let me tell you. Anne Hathaway.” He’d glance at the wristwatch he kept on his desk to keep us from noticing that he was checking the time every two minutes. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, the Earl of Southampton was Shakespeare’s patron. Do we know what a patron is? A patron?” His eyes never left his notes. “Don’t everybody speak at once now. Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you. A patron—”

  It was beyond ghastly. It was a sort of deranged monologue in which the presence of the students was entirely irrelevant. If anyone in that room had ever held the remotest affection for Shakespeare it was being bled from us, page by yellowed page—any questions, don’t overwhelm me now.

  The only thing at all interesting about that morning’s one-hour prison sentence was that Kristina Stakuna was late. Of course, the Amazon Queen of the Swollen Softballs was always late; she’d sweet-ass it into class ten minutes after the bell sounded, wagging her little rich-girl’s
note on pink stationery. And Mewling would read it, smile, and gesture to her to take her usual seat. The Black Crow Crew had this joke that all her notes read: To Whom It May Concern: Please excuse Kristina’s lateness this morning, but her breasts are so enormous that she finds it difficult to walk at a normal speed.

  That morning the student teacher was sitting in Kristina’s usual seat, and the only other empty chair (besides the one directly in front of Mewling) was right next to mine. There was simply no way she couldn’t sit next to me. My heart accelerated just thinking about it. I could see it all: she’d come in late with her gray sweater with the blue W sewn across the front. She’d stand there looking confused for one adorably sweet second—then she’d sit down next to me.

  I was ready. Rule Number Two: Smile. Kristina, I heard the play was canceled. You must be so disappointed. You know, I was wondering, could I come over some night for extra help on my Spanish? Why don’t we work up in your bedroom—it’s so damn noisy in this kitchen? Tell me, Kristina, a few of us were wondering if it was really true that your boyfriend screwed you for nine hours?

  Mewling lectured on; months passed; seasons changed. “Now, Shakespeare dedicated his first poem Venus and Adonis to whom? Don’t all jump in here at once. To the Earl of Southampton, now isn’t that a coincidence, ladies and gentleman. Shall we move on? (places page on bottom of pile, realigns stack, glances at watch) Part Two—The Histories: A Period of Development—1594-1600. Please make sure this is in your notes, ladies and gentlemen, hint, hint.”

  The door opened—loudly, boldly—and there was Kristina Stakuna, in her seventeen-going-on-twenty-seven magnificence. Gentile angels walk the earth, I thought. And some poem began taking shape in my head: O, women of Westfield! Gray sweater with a blue letter W. She handed Mewling her pink note. She took in the room in one glance—oh, the beautiful consternation of her lightly freckled face! And there was smiling Richard—and there was that barbarically empty torture-chair directly in front of Mewling.