Audition for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  “No. I’ll blame Ophelia,” he said, smiling at her.

  Even with this warning, she surprised them a little. The opening part of the scene was as before, Lisette’s slim proficient body shimmering with the effort of mastering the powerful dread within her. But this time she fought back harder. The beginning of the St. Valentine’s Day song was almost obscene; then she rucked up her skirts in front of the King.

  “Pretty Ophelia!” Claudius was shocked; and his words interrupted her lascivious thoughts, sobering her, and again she was prey to the desire for death.

  “Indeed, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t!” She pounced on Jim’s dagger. He grasped her raised arms, those slim strong arms, and there was the usual brief struggle. Suddenly, to Jim’s surprise, she gave a little smile, and one hand trailed sensually down his strong straining arm and shoulder and back to curl behind his waist, her shapely body molding to his, pressing against his crotch. He stepped back, amazed, dropping the dagger in surprise, and she laughed in lewd delight and finished her song. David in his turn received the same treatment; appalled, he turned away from her, hiding his face as he said his lines. At the end, when she left forlornly, saying “God be with you,” it was clear that she was searching for another dagger.

  Brian was ecstatic.

  “That’s it! Lisette, it’s great! It’s all of a piece now. Are you comfortable with it?”

  “Yes. That’s how it is for her. That’s how we want it.”

  “Jim, David, wonderful reactions. Keep them. But Jim, don’t drop the dagger. David, yours is just right, the horrified brother invited to incest.”

  “It’s scary,” said David.

  “Oh, God,” said Brian. “Your father?”

  Rob said, “David, he’ll have to get used to that sort of thing someday, if you’re an actor.”

  “Yes, but this is his college. His alumni,” said David doubtfully. “Well, I’ll try to warn him.”

  “Let me know if he hits the ceiling,” said Brian. “But it’s good, David, it’s honest.”

  Nick glanced at Lisette, sitting quietly on a platform. What a beautiful and talented and lovable and disruptive wife he seemed to have. She sensed his eyes on her and looked up with a little smile. With a sudden jolt of wonder Nick thought, she’s done it, she’s found her way out. Then his natural caution reasserted itself. Better wait, said his objective self, see how she does back in the city. But at some deep level he was convinced, and jubilant.

  He and Rob, separately or together, were onstage for all but a couple of scenes. During the run-throughs, which were scheduled most nights now toward the end of April, they often spent their offstage time in the house watching the other scenes, absorbing a sense of the whole play. Arriving a minute late at the back of the house one night, Nick leaned on the back railing to watch the first scene. Jason was really not bad as the Ghost, lanky and sepulchral, and Jim was excellent as Horatio, a warm, intelligent reading that made it clear why he would become a prince’s special friend and support.

  Rob and Maggie were watching too, sitting on the side near the back, his arm thrown carelessly across the back of her folding chair, exchanging an occasional whispered comment. After a while she stood up, gave his hand a squeeze, and went back through the door that led to the lighting control booth steps. Rob left soon too, and Nick joined him and the rest of the crowd that entered for the first court scene. When it was finished, Nick exited; but he was a little uneasy and waited by the door to the stage-left wings until Rob completed his scene with Horatio and exited after him.

  “Rob. A word?” he said. David and Lisette were onstage now for their first scene.

  “Anytime, Nick.”

  They were alone in the little hall that buffered the greenroom and shop from stage and wings. Nick said as lightly as he could, “I assume you always make sure that your undergraduate friends are aware of the facts of life?”

  Rob hesitated before he answered, also lightly. “Always, Uncle. They know everything they should know. My whole boring autobiography, entitled From Cradle to Kathleen, and After.” But he seemed a little disappointed in Nick, and Nick regretted now that he’d brought it up at all. Then Rob grinned, not unfriendly, and added, “Not that it’s any business of yours, but I couldn’t teach these modern children anything that they don’t know already.”

  “Well, good,” said Nick, relieved. “I wasn’t suggesting that. It’s just that they’re very young.”

  The shrewd blue eyes gave him a calculating look. “Young or not, you can’t seriously be worried about our soubrette! She’s far more sophisticated than you or I, Nick. She tells me she was thoroughly deflowered in Paris.”

  “Goddamn it, Rob! That’s what I meant!” Nick was surprised by his own vehemence, and lowered his voice again. “You’re right, it’s none of my business. So don’t tell me, or anybody! You shouldn’t spread stories like that.”

  Rob looked hurt. “I’m not spreading stories. I haven’t told another soul, and I won’t. I was just trying to ease your troubled mind.”

  “Okay. Fine. Good. Consider it eased.”

  “Okay.” Rob looked at him, puzzled, and then jerked his thumb toward stage right. “I have an entrance in a few lines, if you’ll excuse me now.”

  “Okay.” Nick made an effort and met his friend’s gaze. “Excuse me too, Rob. I was out of line. The subject is closed.”

  “Sure.” Rob clapped him once on the shoulder and disappeared.

  Well, meddler, thought Nick, let that be a lesson to you. Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool. Rob knew his responsibilities. Nick vowed to stay out of it.

  The developing mad scene helped all the actors. Nick had been working on Claudius’s political playacting, his ability and insecurity, his constant weighing of every situation in terms of maintaining his shaky throne. Now, with this basic line of the character as natural as breathing, Nick realized that Claudius was taking on a life of his own. He was deeply afraid of damnation not only because of the murder, but because of his passion for his Queen. With trepidation, Nick decided he’d better do some work with Grace.

  He knew it might hurt her. She wasn’t professional. But it would help her performance as much as his. Nick liked to think of himself as a kindly man, but he had to admit that Ellen had been right; in the quest for a strong performance he was a bit insane. He would sacrifice himself, and if need be, he would sacrifice Grace. Ruthlessly.

  She listened in silence. Nick explained to her, carefully, his reasons for what he wanted to try; and, calmly, she agreed. Then, with a flash of bitter humor, she added, “It’s all right, Nick. Don’t protest too much. I’ll help you tune your damn piano.”

  They went over their scenes together that afternoon, alone in the rehearsal room, and expressed the feelings behind the lines in exaggerated physical action. When Claudius felt fond of Gertrude, he kissed her passionately; when he was irritated by her attachment to Hamlet, he shoved her angrily away. Even when he was urging Hamlet to remain at court, Claudius’s hands moved sensually over her responsive hips and thighs and hard-nippled breasts, his lips murmuring the lines against her throat, in demonstration of his hidden motive of pleasing Gertrude. Grace too exaggerated Gertrude’s actions, fondling him and kissing him; and during some of his long speeches to the court, she knelt by him, running warm hands along his legs. Then, in the later scenes after Hamlet scolded her, she gave her lines from far away; as he approached her, searching for comfort, she would recoil, backing away, dodging his attempts to reach her. They worked the scenes several times until, finally, they were satisfied with the interplay.

  Nick checked his watch; he had thirty minutes before he was scheduled to meet with the Players. He’d been ruthless long enough. Hoping the session had not hurt her, he asked casually, “Do you want a quick coffee or something?”

  She was buttoning her suede jacket, and smiled and shook her head. “No, thanks, Nick,” she said. “Not today.”

  “Appointments? The busy profes
sor?”

  “If you must know,” she said pleasantly, “the busy professor is going straight home to teach her husband about the golden tree of life. Today’s lesson includes screwing before cocktails.” And she left.

  Nick stared after her, rubbing his head, amazed and rather pleased.

  That night their scenes were full of life. Nick’s well-trained body remembered the afternoon’s work, and while he stood in the same places and did the same things he had done every night, he could tell that the work was paying off. There was a quality to his voice and movements that betrayed the new emotional weight of the lines, a sort of electricity in the exchanged glances and light touches that had never been there before. When they assembled in the house afterward for notes, Brian said, “Nick and Grace. Interesting development tonight in the Claudius-Gertrude relationship.”

  “Yes,” said Nick. “I thought it was much more intense.”

  “I liked it. You might look for just a couple of places to physicalize it—stroke her arm when no one’s looking, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Grace, good work tonight. Keep going in that direction, okay? Nick will help you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he will.”

  Rob, sitting next to Nick, leaned over, hand hiding his mouth, and murmured, “Nick, old man, has the bloat king been giving that woman reechy kisses again?”

  Nick looked at him innocently. “One does what one must,” he said. Rob chuckled.

  Rob’s performance too was changing subtly, in part because of the strengthening performances of the others. The aching vulnerability that had first been glimpsed in his scene with Ophelia was more and more apparent now, in stark contrast to the politicians—Claudius, Laertes, Polonius, Fortinbras. In scenes with them he seemed younger, a brave boy standing up to his sophisticated elders. With Horatio, as with Ophelia, he hungered for companionship, a lonely prince who yearned to be loved for himself. In the soliloquies especially, the vastness of destiny, the enormity of his supernatural assignment, seemed to overwhelm him—the young man shrinking from his fate. Nick admired what Rob was doing; to take a strong six-foot frame and project that kind of human frailty was quite a feat.

  “It’s looking good, Rob,” he told him one night. “You’re appealing to all our mother instincts.”

  “Thank your wife,” said Rob. “She gave me courage to let go. Hamlet wants to die as much as Ophelia.”

  “You’ve been there too?”

  “Sure. When my marriage was breaking up. Not recently.” He shrugged. “I’ve pretty much come to terms with myself. Has she, Nick?”

  “I think so, Rob. I think she finally has.”

  In the midst of their frenzied preparations, one interesting bit of information sifted in from the outside world. Laura, said Brian, was coming back to school. Hargate officials had agreed to allow her to finish the term, with the understanding that she would continue in psychotherapy, and that she would stay away from the theatre except for necessary classwork. If this probationary period worked, charges against her would be dropped.

  “What are the charges?” Ellen asked Brian.

  “Damaging the theatre, and stealing and defacing the photos.”

  “There was more than that,” said Nick.

  “Yes, but the Hargate legal counsel says we only have real evidence about those things, and that’s all she’ll admit to. It should be enough to keep her in line, I think. Nick, we’re all furious about this, but obviously it’s worse for you two. When she’s back in your class, will you be able to hide your feelings?”

  Nick shrugged. “That’s how I earn my living. Besides, she’s more sick than evil. I want her to get well.”

  It was going to be a damn good show, thought Ellen. A damn good show, but strewn with the discarded husks of hardworking techies such as Ellen Winfield. Dry tech tomorrow. A perfect name. It meant a rehearsal of technical effects without the actors, but this time it described the state of the exhausted crews as well. Paul and Cheyenne were haggard, the other crew heads not much better off. The old moles seemed older every day. Even her energetic roommate had been to the clinic, and now collapsed every night in cheerful exhaustion.

  Still, Ellen had to admit she was almost grateful to be so busy, because Jim was gone again. Ignoring her half the time, wrapped up completely in the play. His Horatio, of course, was thriving; he and Hamlet had developed a genuine, palpable relationship, an honest friendship that projected warmly. She had never felt so proud of a show before, and Horatio was part of it.

  But the Jim who was so alert to every nuance of her life had disappeared. Again. She missed him desperately. But that’s how things had to be, she knew now. He’d be back again.

  Others had problems too. Judy, struggling to prove herself to Cheyenne, had a chronic cough these days. Three members of the staging crew had flunked a big biology exam, one of Maggie’s follow-spot operators had quit when he realized that working on the show would mean failing calculus, and Ellen herself had received a mere B-minus on her history paper, completed at four a.m. one night last week. Not the way to get into law school. But the worst off was probably Paul Rigo, although he was not complaining. He seemed to have stopped going to classes altogether. He was there, painstakingly reworking the curtains, every time Ellen arrived or left. He was tired but oddly cheerful, though Maggie occasionally gave him a sad glance. They never worked on physics anymore.

  One day Lisette sought him out where he was adjusting one of the new velours. “Paul,” she said, “you’ve missed three classes this week.”

  “I know, Lisette. But I have to finish this.” He waved vaguely at the stage.

  “The problem is, I can’t give you a passing grade if you don’t come. Acting class isn’t like other classes, where I can just give you a test to see if you know the facts. The whole process is important.”

  “I know. But I don’t have time.”

  “You’ve worked so hard in class up till now, Paul.”

  “Thank you.” He gave her a shy, pleased smile. “I know I’m not much good at it. But I liked it. You’re a good teacher.”

  “Thank you, Paul. But really, I want to pass you if I can.”

  “Oh, I know you do!” He looked concerned. “I don’t blame you, Lisette. Honest. Don’t think that.”

  “Okay. But please come. Someone else can fill in for you here a few hours a week.”

  Cheyenne materialized suddenly next to them, his steely fingers closing viselike on her forearm. “The hell they can!” he snapped, black eyes angry. “You leave my crews alone!”

  Startled, Lisette stared at the clamped fingers, then at his glaring face. “I was trying to help, Cheyenne!”

  “Bullshit. He’s got work to do. You’re supposed to be so professional, you know that.”

  “But Paul isn’t professional. He’s still a student.”

  “Listen, lady, you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. You’ve got one purpose, and that’s Ophelia. Period. Now leave my crews alone!”

  “Cheyenne, you’re hurting her!” Paul jumped up, grabbed Cheyenne’s arm in protest. The designer’s attention shifted to him; then, with an effort, he forced himself to release her arm and stalk off. Paul turned to her anxiously. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” Lisette rubbed her arm, looking after Cheyenne, bewildered.

  “It’s just that we all care about the show. And he’s tired,” Paul explained apologetically. “So I’d better stick with it.”

  She gave up. “Well, think it over, Paul, if the grade is important to you.”

  Ellen went up to him when Lisette had gone. “Is that true, Paul? You’re going to fail acting?”

  “Well, sure. She can’t pass me if I’m not there.”

  “Don’t you give a damn about the draft anymore?”

  “Ellen,” he said, and for once he did not smile, “they’ll never send me over there to kill people. Don’t worry. They can’t force me to do that.”

  “But Paul,
you don’t want jail either! It would be so much easier if you kept your deferment!”

  “Don’t worry, Ellen. Please.”

  Ellen ignored his instructions and went on worrying. She asked Lisette if he could be given a grade of incomplete in the course, but Lisette had already checked the requirements for all possible non-failing grades, and Paul’s case simply did not qualify. And his other professors, physics for example, could not ignore his complete abdication either. “Jim, I’m so worried about him,” Ellen said one night after rehearsal.

  “He feels he has to do it,” he explained.

  “But he could ruin his whole life!”

  “Abandoning the show right now might ruin his life too.”

  “Insane! You’re all insane!”

  “Is that supposed to be a news flash?”

  Paul got his work done. Ellen stayed late Friday night, helping him get the last tapestry curtain hung before Saturday’s dry tech. Then she dropped him off at his dorm before driving back to hers. These last two weeks she had hardly noticed the outdoors; now, abruptly, she was aware of the new growth, vigorous young leaves on the trees and bushes, opening to the mild air.

  The lot was nearly full, and she had to park at the far end. She walked back to the dorm along the edge of the woods. The lights from the parking lot did not reach very far into the trees and she might not have seen them if it hadn’t been for the gleam of the flute, a shock of silver in the dappled darkness. It hung down from her dangling arm as she stood, body stretched a little to meet his height, the two slim forms merged in the leafy darkness. One of his hands cradled her head; the other moved gently down the length of her back and then, lean and masculine and expert, caressed the blue-jeaned buttocks. His pale hair, like distant flame, mingled and was lost in the feathery dark curls of hers. Ellen, unwilling voyeur, hurried past without indicating that she had noticed anything; but the image haunted her as she climbed the stairs to their room. She did not know what she had seen. Apollo, finally mated to a creature suited to his bright and airy realm? Or merely dallying with a poor doomed Icarus? She looked sadly at the daisies in a water glass on Maggie’s desk as she brushed her hair and got into bed. Cut it out, Winfield, she told herself, you’re just being fanciful. They are mere human beings like all of us. Get some sleep before tech.