Acts of Love (10 page)

Luke gazed at him. “Why are you so sure they'll sound like that on opening night?”

He reared back as the waiter brought salads and bread. “Of course that's how they'll sound! I mean, after I give them some clues. But I'll tell you, Luke, it was pretty close to perfect.”

“I don't think so.”

Kent's eyes narrowed. “You're telling me I don't know my own play?”

“Absolutely, from your perspective. But not from the audience's, and not from mine, and I'm the director.” He pushed his salad aside and folded his arms on the table. “Do you know what a director does, Kent?”

“For Christ's sake, Luke, everybody knows—”

“Let me tell you how I direct a play. First of all, you wrote that script from somewhere inside you, and a lot of the time you looked at your words and wondered where they came from, how that phrase happened to come out just that—”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“It's possible that I know a lot more than you give me credit for. So there you are, with a script that came from inside you, your subconscious or whatever you want to call it. My job is to find the deepest meanings in it, the richest dimensions of character, angles you may not even be aware of, and reveal them to the audience through the actors. Everything the actors do has meaning, and one of my jobs is to help them find the details that make every part of this play—every bit of dialogue or wave of the hand or lifting a glass, whatever it is—have a special meaning that illuminates the special meaning of the play. That's how we reach the audience. A director in Chicago calls it rock 'n' roll theater because every production should be heightened and explosive and as aware of the audience as a rock 'n' roll band is. I mostly agree with that. Otherwise we might as well be putting on plays for ourselves in small dark rooms.”

Kent was staring at him. “I don't know any directors who sound like you.”

“Good. Just remember that the goal of all this is to make your story wonderfully alive, and to realize as much of your vision as we can. We'll discuss and argue and get passionate about our ideas—the more passionate the better the production will be—and you'll be in the thick of it. And that's the way it should be, as long as you see yourself as part of a collaboration, not the Lord sending us a tablet that we're supposed to accept with religious devotion.”

“I never said I was God.”

“I think I recall you talking about perfection.”

After a moment Kent laughed. “Well, yeah, but, you know, I mean I went over it like fifty or a hundred times, editing and rewriting, and by the time I sent it to you it was— Well, I mean, I thought it was pretty good.”

“It's terrific. Eat your lunch. We have to get back.”

They walked into the theater just as Tommy Webb was looking around for them. A young woman stood on stage with Cort Hastings and Abigail Deming. “Okay, Tommy,” Luke said, and the three on stage began to read as he and Kent reached the row where Tommy and Monte sat.

They listened to two women read, then called back the first, and asked her to read Martha's long monologue in the second act. She stood stiffly on the stage and read carefully, as if measuring each word. As she went on, her pace picked up and became smoother and she began to move about the stage, matching her actions to her words. Better, Luke thought. Still not right, but we can work with her. And physically she's right for Martha.

Suddenly he saw Jessica playing Laura in
The Glass Menagerie.
That had been fifteen years ago, but he remembered every detail of her performance: an actress of extraordinary grace and beauty turning herself into a plain, crippled, painfully shy young girl. And she'd transform herself into Martha, he thought. I wish she were here. She'd give Martha more depth than even Kent could imagine.

But Jessica was not here and he focused on the young woman on stage. Her name was Rachel Ilsberg and he knew they could work with her. He looked at Tommy, who nodded, and then at Monte. “Yeah, she's okay,” Monte said.

“She's really Martha,” Kent added.

“Well, not yet,” Tommy murmured. “But she'll be fine. Not too beautiful. Tall, but not too tall for Cort. Good carriage. Nice voice.”

Luke looked at his watch. “Tommy, let's look at those videos tomorrow; it's almost five and I have to see Fritz. And would you talk to Rachel? Tell her how impressed we are, that we're—”

“Excited and eager to begin,” Tommy finished. “And a run-through day after tomorrow. I'll have contracts for everybody by then. Ten o'clock for the videos?”

“Can you make it nine?”

“Nine?
Well, sure. Just don't make a habit of it. Okay with you, Kent?”

“Sure. God, I've finished my run in the park by nine o'clock; that's halfway to noon.”

Luke turned to the stage where Rachel stood. “Thank you. We liked it very much. Tommy will talk to you about it.” He went to the side aisle and up the five steps that led to the stage, then ducked into the wings and made his way to the stage door. Outside, he blinked in the sunlight.
Daylight. We forget what it looks like.

Fritz Palfrey was standing beside a table in the window of Orso, waiting. “I'm having wine, something red. You?”

“Fine.”

He waved to the waitress. “Luke, listen, I know she's hot right now, but listen, I can't work with her.”

“You're talking about Marilyn Marks?”

“Who else? Look, I've got a grandmother just like Lena, she's in her eighties and I know what kind of apartment she likes and this set Marilyn designed, it's not a grandmother's apartment.”

“You mean it's not your grandmother's,” Luke said gently.

“Grandmothers in their eighties like things normal and . . . sort of dull. Not dramatic. I
know
what Lena is like, Luke, believe me. She's just like my grandmother.”

And that's one of the brilliant aspects of Kent's play; everyone sees Lena as his or her grandmother. But no play is a true mirror of real life; theater compresses and exaggerates real life to create its own universe. And Fritz knows that.

The waitress brought their wine and Fritz held his up to the light. “Nice color. So what do you think?”

“Have you seen Marilyn's final drawings?”

“How could I? She's only done preliminaries. I want to head her off at the pass.”

“Let's not do that. I don't pass judgement until I see drawings and a model.”

“Luke, I can't work with that set.”

“Let's wait until we see the model.” He pushed back his chair. “We'll meet with Marilyn and props and costumes next week—Thursday or Friday around three—let me know what works for everybody. And Fritz.” He put his hand on Fritz's shoulder. “I appreciate your ideas. You're the best stage manager in the business and I promise you we'll work together on this.”

“Right, well, we'll see what happens. You didn't finish your wine.”

“I'm going to a friend's dress rehearsal tonight; I have to stay awake.”

He made his way through the late-afternoon crowds to Fifth Avenue, and turned uptown, feeling the slight coolness of shade trees when he came to the cobblestone walk along the low brick wall bordering Central Park. He dodged Rollerbladers and women pushing strollers and tried to find a steady pace between people coming to a halt for passionate debate, lovers walking in step and making way for no one, crowds leafing through used books stacked on folding tables, and children chasing an errant whiffle ball. Finally he crossed to the other side of the street, close to the buildings, where there were no crowds. By the time he reached his building he was perspiring and frustrated—he never had enough time out of doors and when he did it seemed, lately, that it was usually uncomfortable—and he bypassed his library to go straight to his bedroom, where he stripped and stepped into his shower.

It was not until midnight that he finally sat on the leather couch in his library and stretched out his legs. He had taken two telephone calls from Kent, a call from Marilyn Marks and one from Monte, he had taken Tricia to the dress rehearsal of his friend's play and then to dinner with the playwright, director and crew, and then had told Tricia, with some truth, that he still had work to do and in any event was exhausted and so could not go upstairs with her when he took her home. But what he really had wanted was just what he finally had: silence, the seclusion of his library, and a tray provided by Martin with a sandwich in case he was hungry, cognac, coffee and a bowl of pistachios placed conveniently at his right hand.

He sat for a time, enjoying the silence. He watched a newscast on television, then enjoyed the silence again, letting the day unwind in his thoughts like a movie reel, speeding up, slowing down, reversing.

They had a cast for
The Magician,
or they would have one by tomorrow when they filled the minor parts. Marilyn was working on sets; Fritz was agonizing, as he always did; the theater was booked, the rehearsal space rented, the first run-through set for Thursday. Everything was on schedule.

He finished his cognac and reached out to put the glass on the tray, and his glance fell on the box of Jessica's letters.
No time tonight. I'm too tired.
But he continued to gaze at the box.
Well, maybe just one.

Dearest Constance, I'm sorry I haven't written in so long; I've missed writing to you even though we talk on the telephone now. It really is wonderful to hear your voice (even better to be with you, oh, so long ago now . . . wasn't that a splendid day we had together at my graduation?) but there's something special about letters so I decided to write this time instead of calling. I was sorry to leave Steppenwolf—those were the most wonderful two years of my life and I've never learned so much so fast—but you were right:
Anna Christie
on Broadway is much more important. Did I tell you what Phil Ballan said when he called? This was how it went:

Deep, deep voice: “Miss Fontaine, I was in Chicago last week and caught the latest play at Steppenwolf.” Then he stopped and it took me a minute to understand that he was waiting for me to say something.
“Really?”
said I, just a trifle breathlessly. His voice got deeper. “I must tell you that I have never been as impressed with a performance at Steppenwolf as I was with yours.” He stopped again, waiting, and I said, “Oh, thank you”—so unutterably
dull—
why couldn't I think of something clever? But I couldn't quite get myself together because except for you nobody from Broadway has ever told me I'm really good. “And,” he said, dragging it out like Santa with his presents, “we want you to come to New York and read for
Anna Christie.
I think you'll be an absolutely splendid Anna. And I'm never wrong about my judgement.” Another time I might have laughed, but not this time: he could have whinnied like a horse and I would have thought it was a beautiful sound. And then he said, “Are you still there? You're coming to New York?” and “Yes!” burst out of me, and then I apologized because I thought I'd blown that poor man's ear off through the telephone.

So now here I am, back in New York—so enormous and hectic after Chicago and my “family” at Steppenwolf, but in another way a lot of fun: like walking into a huge party where I don't know anyone but they all look familiar. I found a tiny apartment in SoHo; it barely has room to turn around but it has a window and for about forty minutes a day it gets sunshine. Of course I'm almost never home for those forty minutes, but it's nice to know it's there anyway. Isn't it amazing how little sunshine we see when we're working on a play? It's like we forget what daylight looks like. I've had two long talks with the director about how to play Anna; he has some ideas I never thought of that might work. The best part is, he cares about what I think and I've thought about nothing else but playing Anna since that phone call so I have some very definite ideas of my own. Do you believe we should do just what the director tells us, or do you think we should insist that we play a part the way we feel inside? We've never talked about that as much as I'd like to. Would you tell me what you think?

There is a problem with being in
Anna:
one of the producers seems to have taken a fancy to me—what an old-fashioned phrase!—and now he haunts the theater, wandering around backstage like a little boy set down in a strange neighborhood, pretending to “run into” me, then saying, “Well, now that we've run into each other, why don't we have dinner?” And he comes across too hearty, too anxious, when what he's obviously trying for is a
bon vivant—
casual, debonair, irresistible. There's nothing really wrong with him, in fact I think he's probably very nice, but I'm in
Anna Christie
! In New York! How can I think about anything else? I'm so nervous I just want to be left alone. He says I'd be better off with a companion to relax with. I suppose he could be right, but he seems so absolutely sure that it makes me suspicious. A lot of people around here are like that, always saying things like “You've
got
to do this” or “I will
not
read that line” or “I have the perfect person for that” or “I will absolutely
not
tolerate this lighting” or . . . oh, you know; you've heard it all. Wouldn't it be novel if someone, just once, said, “Well now, that seems like a prodigiously stupid idea but we're here to experiment and learn, so why don't we give it a try?” Everyone would probably be stunned into a very uncharacteristic silence, but it certainly would lighten the atmosphere.

Luke chuckled. He read the last line again, smiling, and then it occurred to him that it was as if Jessica had been with him all day, her lively young voice cutting through sham and histrionics, sweeping away melodrama, sharing her observations with him when they were alone. He looked up from her letter and gazed across the room at a Picasso print of a dancing woman. He remembered Jessica Fontaine's voice from the times when he had seen her on stage: a magical voice, musical and rich, with a lilt that was like the faintest trace of a foreign accent. He imagined hearing her now, her freshness and honesty, the rill of laughter that ran beneath her words, the unexpected phrases that sparked her sentences. He liked her companionship; he liked hearing her comments at the end of his day.