Last Act

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “And now look at us.” Mrs Riley went on grumbling as she adjusted Anne’s tunic. “Half the world press here this afternoon, and I bet you one of the Roman matrons falls over her own skirts. Oh well, you’re perfect, thank God.” She handed Anne the breastplate and helmet she wore for her first entrance, with Regulus, just home from Carthage. “I took in the straps of the breastplate too,” she said. “Don’t lose any more weight, there’s a dear, or I’ll have to get you a new one, and I’m way over my budget already. And all the seats today are complimentary ones, so that will be no help! If you ask me”—she lowered her voice—“Prince Rudolf is off his head. We’ve not paid a bill for the past two weeks, and all the local ones have come in for the second time. They were to be pacified, the local tradesmen, with first night tickets. Now they’ve been switched to this afternoon. I do hope they’ll make a decent audience for you, Miss Paget. Oh!” She put her hand to her mouth, “I wasn’t supposed to say, about the bills—you won’t mention it, will you? Only, if there was trouble this afternoon, I wouldn’t want you thinking it was your fault.”

  “Trouble?”

  “There’ve been some pretty tough letters coming with the final demands. And talk downtown—I’m staying in Lissenberg, you know—” She stopped. “I oughtn’t to be telling you this.”

  “I think you should. But—quickly.”

  “A demonstration of some kind. They’ve put most of the shopkeepers in those side-galleries almost over the stage. If they chose to throw things … unpaid bills, they said, but it might be worse.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Anne.

  “I shouldn’t have told you!”

  “Oh, yes, you should.” She took the wall telephone off its hook. “Herr Meyer, bitte” And then, “Carl, I know you’re busy, but could you come to my dressing-room for two minutes? Thanks.” She turned back to Mrs Riley. “And thank you. Now, off with you, and I won’t say who told me.”

  “We can’t search the audience,” Carl protested.

  “Why not? Remember the peace conference, Carl. I don’t think you can not!”

  “Oh, routine, of course. Metal detectors. Naturally that’s been laid on. But—that won’t spot rotten eggs or soft tomatoes— or unpaid bills, for the matter of that.”

  “I could wring Prince Rudolf’s neck,” said Anne.

  “Yes, but it’s a bit late in the day.” He glanced anxiously around as if he thought the dressing-room might be bugged— and, really, Anne thought, by now anything seemed possible.

  “When do I get paid?” she asked. So far, it had not been important that the advance promised under her contract had not been forthcoming. Now, suddenly, it was.

  Carl looked at her with something approaching dislike. “That’s just what Herr Stern has been asking,” he told her. “And he wants extra for today.”

  “Well, dear Carl, of course. Look, we need Michael. He knows everyone in Lissenberg, doesn’t he? Would be able to get in touch with the angriest of the tradesmen? The ones who might really demonstrate.”

  “I suppose so. But what could he tell them?”

  “That I care so much for Lissenberg, and”—she smiled at him—” for Beethoven, that I would like their bills to be paid before I get anything.”

  “But, Anne—”

  “No buts.” What an amazing advantage it was to have only six months to live. Perhaps she would die in less comfort as a result of what she was doing, but what comfort is there, anyway, about dying? “I mean it, Carl. Now, please, go and get working on it. I will not have this opera, and the peace conference, wrecked on Prince Rudolf’s idiotic meanness.” Suddenly furious, she remembered that vast bouquet he had sent her. “He doesn’t deserve to rule,” she said. Her telephone rang and she picked the receiver off its hook. “Yes?”

  “All cast onstage, Miss Paget. And”—anxiously—” is Herr Meyer there, perhaps?”

  “Yes. We’ll be right there.” She heard the audible sigh of relief and thought: we’re all tense to breaking point. “You must do it, Carl. Straight after the costume call.”

  “But Annchen, can you afford it?”

  “I must. Anyway, think what a difference the success or failure of this opera will make to me. Carl, I’ve made up my mind. You’ll do it?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll do it, and God bless you.” But he looked miserable. “I only wish I could afford …”

  “Nonsense.” She suddenly thought how oddly they had played this scene. Usually, when they were together, he made some pretence—she never felt it as more than that—at being devoted to her. This time he had entirely forgotten to do so. She reached out impusively and took his hand. “Dear Carl, you’re a good friend to me. Now, how about this costume call?”

  It went better than she had feared. She suspected, correctly, as it turned out, that Mrs Riley had taken a couple of inches off the chorus’ togas without consulting anyone, and this made a great difference when it came to climbing the shelving flights of steps that rose from each side of the main stage. Carl had simplified their movements as much as possible at Friday’s rehearsal, when he had announced they would stay onstage throughout the opera, but from time to time either crimson Carthaginians or white Romans had to come down the steps to make a dramatic background for a scene between contrasting soloists, and then get back into position as the stage was blacked out. He took them through these movements now and it all went smoothly. At last, satisfied, he looked at his watch.

  “Time to go and rest,” he said. “A light lunch is being served in the hostel at one. I do beg you will all go straight back there and stay. Herr Winkler has made a particular point of this. His men have all they can cope with on their hands already. I believe he has had to beg even more help from the Italians. So, if you will very kindly go back down the arcade in a body as you came, it will be a help to everyone.”

  There were a few grumbles, but when they did emerge, en masse, the good sense of the arrangement was obvious. The green meadow that lay between the two wings of the opera complex was now black with people. The crowd had been concentrating on the arrivals of conference delegates at the hotel, but it changed direction when the cast appeared under the great portico of the opera house, and surged forward across trampled grass to give them a friendly cheer. The morning’s foot policemen had been replaced by mounted ones, who seemed to be on amicable terms with the crowd. It was a pleasant scene, in the kind spring sunshine, with here and there a family contentedly picnicking beside the stream that ran down the middle of the valley.

  “If it’s like this now, what about later on!” grumbled Adolf Stern. “Ask me, this place is about as badly designed as you could get. Lunatic that we have to come outside at all between the hostel and the opera house.”

  “I suppose no one expected such crowds.” Anne was thinking of the sinister corridor that ran under the buildings. Would they be reduced to using it? She very much hoped not. Not after that flood.

  She felt a coward, but had her lunch sent up to her room, hoping against reason that Michael might telephone, to wish her luck, to say he understood, to explain … Absurd hope. He was doubtless fully occupied trying to pacify the angry tradesmen of Lissenberg. What a fool Prince Rudolf was, she thought, settling herself on her bed, to put so much work into his project and then risk it all for a few unpaid bills.

  And yet the morning crowd had seemed cheerful and friendly enough. So did the still thicker one that greeted them when they emerged after lunch to go up for the long, careful business of costume and makeup. There was no room now for picnickers; the crowd was packed solid, standing, on either side of the stream. Anne turned to Hilde Bernz. “I wouldn’t have thought there were this many people in Lissenberg.”

  “There aren’t,” said Frau Bernz. “Buses have been bringing them in all morning. From God knows where. We’re news.”

  “And this is only the preview.” Anne looked anxiously across the crowded valley. “What will it be like on Monday?”

  “I hate to think.” Adolf Ste
rn joined them. “And I wish I knew where all these people were going to spend the night. If they’re meaning to camp, I shan’t get a moment’s sleep. You’re lucky to be in the guest’s suite, Miss Paget.”

  “Yes. I do hope they go home when the dress rehearsal is over.”

  “Why should they?” Stern was determined to make the worst of things. “Weather like this, they can sleep out well enough. And God knows there’s not room for a midget in town. A friend of mine telephoned a while ago to ask for help. His paper sent him here at the last minute, and of course he’s got nowhere to stay And would that Josef let him come and sleep in my room? No, sir, he would not.”

  “Well,” said Anne reasonably. “It would be a bit of a thing to have a journalist right here in our midst. Ah, here we go.” She was glad that the general move gave her the chance to move away from Stern and his grumbling.

  In her dressing-room she found a scribbled note from Carl. “I talked to Michael. He sends his thanks.” No word from Michael himself, and his violets were beginning to wilt.

  Would he be in the audience, she wondered, starting to change. During the costume call that morning she had looked up at the galleries to left and right of the stage, and thought how very unpleasant people in them could make it for the actors, if they should want to. She was almost beginning to agree with Stern about the design of the opera house. But then, who could have expected all this offstage drama?

  At least, she thought, costumed and made up at last, the general tension had left little room for individual stage-fright. She herself ought to be down in the greenroom now, sharing this time of tension with the rest of the cast. Marcus, page to Regulus. The chance of a lifetime. A deathtime. Don’t think of that. She adjusted her helmet, smiled at herself in the encouraging glass, and went down to join the others.

  Since the vast stage had no curtain, there were various vantage points from which the auditorium could be seen. “It’s packed already,” reported Carl Meyer, ten minutes before the last call. “And Michael says, don’t worry. He is in the right-hand gallery, and Josef on the left, just in case, but he seems to think all’s well. We’re a romantic lot here in Lissenberg; a gesture like yours is bound to have a great effect. He said to tell you you’d never regret it.”

  “I know I won’t.” She would not have long in which to do so. Nor want it, if all Michael had for her was gratitude. And yet, she made herself face it at last, she should be glad of this. Michael would be sorry when she died. That would be all. That must be enough.

  “You’re feeling all right?” Something in her tone had made Carl anxious.

  “Stage-fright. Naturally. I’ll be fine when we get started.”

  “That’s what they all say. There, the orchestra are tuning up. God, Annchen, I wish I had something to do!”

  “You’d better get round to the front of the house,” she said. “There must be someone you ought to be welcoming.”

  “They’re all here! No one was chancing being late today. Not with the battle for seats, and the crowd outside. Listen to them.” He opened the greenroom door a crack, and behind the tuning of the orchestra she could hear the good-humoured roar of the audience.

  “They don’t sound as if they were going to throw things,” she said.

  “Of course they’re not. Don’t even think about it. You’re right, though. I must go round to the front. Annchen, I’m counting on you.”

  She laughed. “Carl, dear, sound a little more certain when you speak to the press, or you might find you did more harm than good.”

  “Does it show so? It’s my great chance, Anne!”

  “I know. But there’s always Monday. After all, too good a dress rehearsal is supposed to be unlucky.”

  “Not when it’s a preview with half the world’s press present.”

  “As many as that? Ah, there’s the five-minute call,” she said with relief. “Good luck to us all, Carl dear.”

  “Dear Anne, you’re a miracle.” He took both her hands, kissed them warmly and left.

  She must forget Michael, forget everything. She was an idealistic young Roman, doomed to death. And that at least was true. A roar of applause from the audience told her that Falinieri had taken his place on the podium, and then came the miraculous hush as the last, tuning instruments fell silent one by one. As audience, it was almost her favourite moment, the pure anticipation of what was to come. As performer, it left her shivering with a mixture of fear and excitement. She settled her helmet firmly on her head and moved out into the corridor to hear the overture better. The chorus were already in place, offstage, but ready to file on when the opera began; first white-clad Romans from the right, eagerly expecting the return of their hero, Regulus, then, massed against them, the threatening crimson of the Carthaginians, to form a background for her own entry with Regulus.

  No need to go down yet, and it was quiet here. Mrs Riley and her assistants were down there checking the chorus for last-minute adjustments. She could listen to the overture in peace. But she must not let it make her cry as it had once or twice when the theme of her last duet with Regulus was introduced, then modulated into her farewell to his daughter Livia. Extraordinary and rather eerie to be so totally alone in the backstage rabbit warren. Or rather sidestage, she thought, remembering that the Roman chorus had had to take their places on the far side of the stage before the theatre had been opened to the audience.

  The overture was rising to its climax and she had forgotten even to think of shedding a dangerous tear. Time to go down and join Adolf Stern for their entrance. A whisper from the audience, like wind over a cornfield, greeted the end of the overture and then came the slow, throbbing notes to which the Roman chorus would be beginning to file onstage. She took a deep breath, a diver about to take the plunge, and went down to where Adolf Stern was awaiting her.

  12

  “Colossal!” Carl had hurried round behind the scenes for the opera’s one, long interval. “They’re drunk with it. I love you all.”

  “We love ourselves,” said Anne. “It is going well, isn’t it?”

  “Better than I’ve ever heard you. And not a movement wrong, so far.”

  “’So far.’” Stern took him up on it. “Why should there be a movement wrong, pray? Are you looking for trouble, Herr Meyer?”

  “Of course not. My unlucky turn of speech. I just wanted to say, it’s tremendous. You’re tremendous. All of you. Beyond anything I had imagined … hoped for. And—one other thing. The press have asked for a photo call after this performance. The stage hands are willing. Well, it suits them. Much more convenient now than after Monday’s late show. If you don’t mind?” It was addressed to the principals, but the chorus too were all there in the crowded greenroom, since the Romans had filed quietly across the open stage when the auditorium lights went up and the audience turned away at last to push towards the bar.

  “My contract only calls for one photo call.” Adolf Stern answered the general question.

  “This is it,” said Carl. “Anything else will be separately negotiated. I do beg you, Herr Stern.”

  “Disorganisation,” said Stern. “We should have been notified sooner. But”—he set his helmet at a jauntier angle—” since you ask it, I think we should agree.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Anne, and the others joined in.

  “Thank you” Carl was sweating with anxiety. “And, then, as you know, there is the reception Prince Rudolf is giving for press and cast after the performance. The valley outside is as crowded as ever. It looks as if people are settling down for the night, and the police do not want to create a disturbance by removing them. So—His Highness asks that you will be so kind as to come straight to the hotel, all together, in costume, so that the police can protect your walk up the arcade.”

  “We can’t go back to the hostel and change?” asked Gertrud,

  “I’m afraid not. Your day clothes will be taken back there, and your costumes collected first thing tomorrow. The Prince apologises deeply for
any inconvenience, and begs you will recognise that it is entirely due to the brilliance of your performance, on which he congratulates you.”

  “And no doubt he plans to squeeze some more publicity out of our being in costume,” said Adolf Stern, but his voice was drowned by the ringing of a warning bell.

  If possible, the second half of the opera went even better than the first. The audience had had time to compare notes, and approve, over drinks in the luxurious foyer. When they filed back into the house, Anne could hear the higher note of expectancy, and knew that, barring disaster, they were safe.

  So far there had been no moment when she could even think of looking up at those dangerous side-galleries, but halfway through the last act, Regulus caught her and his daughter Livia in each other’s arms—a scene that Anne oddly disliked playing with Gertrud. It was a relief to stand back while Regulus rebuked his daughter. And, since the audience’s attention was focussed on Regulus and Livia, it gave her a chance to look quickly up to right and left. The central section of the audience was blacked out, but the two galleries of cut-price seats were dimly illuminated by the stage lights and she could just see their occupants, sitting still as death, apparently riveted by the performance. Impossible to recognise faces, but at least she knew that Michael was there.

  The music called her attention back to the stage. Frau Bernz, Regulus’ wife, had just made her entrance, and it was time for Anne to join the three others in the quartet that she thought the high point of the opera. Regulus’ wife and daughter had recognised at last that nothing would turn him from his resolve to keep his word and go back to Carthage, torture, and certain death. Finally accepting this, his daughter turned to Anne, to Marcus, her lover, and urged that he at least take the path of wisdom and stay in Rome, with her.

  “Never.” Anne could feel the impact of her cry on the audience. From then on, as the opera rose, stage by triumphant stage, to her final exit with Regulus, and the blood-red Carthaginian chorus closing in behind them, Anne knew that nothing could touch them. The opera was where it should always have been, safe in the eternal canon of music.