American Dreams (13 page)

Aromas of paint, mold, and dust were still sweet perfumes.

Three more hopefuls came in. A minute later a flurry of conversation in "I the wings preceded the appearance of a fat middle-aged man wearing an English walking suit, long opera cape, and wide-brimmed soft hat of the kind affected by bohemians. He earned a book and papers, which he put Three Witches and Four Actresses 77

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on the work table. He flung his hat away and came down to the footlights, fists on his hips. He shouted at the gallery:

'Is anyone awake up there? Let's have more light, sir, and right away.'

The man's voice surprised Fritzi with its baritone richness. From the high darkness a curse floated down. Instruments hanging on the front of the balcony blazed on. The fat rnan was fully lighted.

'Good afternoon, ladies.' He made a leg, a courtier's bow. His accent was upper-class, his words perfectly enunciated. He unfastened the tie strings of his cape and whirled it away like a bullfighter. 'I am Manchester.'

He beamed, as though expecting applause. One or two sycophantic applicants obliged.

Fritzi didn't know what to make of the 'famed English tragedian.' She guessed his height at five feet six, his weight two hundred or more; he was round as one of Count von Zeppelin's airships. He was decidedly bowlegged, and she could clearly see the height-enhancing heels of his shoes.

His face was red as a beef roast. Bovine brown eyes slanted downward from the center of his forehead, a reverse Oriental effect. His shoulder length hair reminded her of pictures of Oscar Wilde.

'I see no red-haired gentlemen in the house,' Manchester said cheerily.

'Upon entering the theater I tripped on the alley step. These are sure signs no ill fortune will attend our proceedings.' Oh, he's one of those. Fritzi had encountered a few other actors who believed every superstition in the book.

Manchester strode to the table, picked up the signature sheets. Though he radiated self-importance, she liked his panache and his wonderful resonant voice.

Manchester was a traditional actor-manager, a combination of producer and star. The great actor-managers had.dominated the nineteenth-century stage, but their day was passing. New forces drove the modern theater. The director, a relatively new position in stagecraft. The producer, the powerful money man who controlled everything from some hidden cubby upstairs. The star, an actor people came to see even if he or she did no more than juggle apples for three hours. Mrs. Van Sant, Manchester's Lady Macbeth, was that sort of star.

At the footlights again, the great man addressed them.

'We all know why we have gathered here, do we not, ladies? The call of Thespis. The lure of the lights, the claques, the crowd! That literary giant, Mr. Charles Dickens, understood the lure full well. He was an outstanding actor. Organized amateur theatricals, gave platform readings of
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his own works which fairly tore the heart from your bosom. I was privileged to witness those as a youth, sometimes performing the most undignified menial labor round about the theater to garner admission.'

An older actress in front of Fritzi half turned and whispered, 'Full of himself, ain't he?'

Manchester touched the book on the table. 'I trust I needn't explicate or even summarize the famous work we are casting. We never speak the name of the play within a theater, unless we utter it as it occurs in the text.

Today we want three witches. First witch will also play Lady Macduff in act four. Second Witch doubles as the Gentlewoman in act five. Third witch has only that role in which to shine, but it's she who utters the fateful prediction that the title character shall be king over all. Each witch shall understudy all others. We shall conduct the tryout here on the stage, since we have no smaller space available. Kindly be courteous to your fellow professionals. Come up as I call your name.' He consulted the signup sheets. 'Miss Dorcas, Geraldine.'

So began Fritzi's ordeal of waiting through readings by actresses of every shape and disposition, actresses lamentably bad, competent, or dangerously good. Manchester chose the scene for each candidate. When Fritzi's turn came, ten minutes past five, he gave her a side and said, 'This is act four. Kindly begin with the speech at line twenty-two. I shall throw you the cue.'

His magnificent voice rolled out. ^Double, double, toil and trouble fire burn and cauldron bubble.'

''Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, witch's mummy, maw and gulf' Fritzi read. 'Add thereto a tiger's chaudron--' She hesitated; the word always threw her.

'Entrails,' Manchester exclaimed. 'Guts! Pray continue.'

'Thank you, um, tiger's chaudron, for th' ingredients of our caldron.

'Excellent, please be seated. Who is next? Miss Levi.'

They finished at a quarter of six. Manchester studied comments he'd penciled on a separate sheet. 'Permit me to thank you all most sincerely for participating. I regret I am not able to use each and every one. Will the following four ladies kindly report back to this stage tomorrow morning, ten sharp? The Misses Sally Murphy, Cynthia Vole, Elspeth Ida Whittemeyer, and Frederica Crown.'

Fritzi let out a little squeal, then blushed. The actresses not chosen, angry or wearily resigned, gathered their things and left. She heard one
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snap, 'Hell with him, I hear he can't pay his bills anyway.'

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Four actresses for three roles. Miss Murphy was a soft-cheeked young woman with perfect features and startling blue eyes. Miss Whittemeyer was older, with wild, spiky gray hair and a wall eye; she was sure to be cast.

The third rival, Miss Cynthia Vole, appeared the most formidable. She had a dark, almost demonic beauty, a bosom like the Matterhorn, and a husky voice that had frankly thrilled Fritzi almost as much as Manchester's. With a glacial smile Miss Vole strode up the aisle. She happened to glance over at Fritzi. That glance said she would if necessary kill someone to get a part.

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All she had for breakfast was a glass of water and two stale crackers. At

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that, she was afraid she'd heave it all up.

She tore her comb through her frizzy hair and donned her best suit, dark red silk. When she walked into the Novelty, Miss Vole was signing in.

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'Oh, good morning, dear. That is the loveliest outfit. Let's wish each other well, shall we?'

During this gush of goodwill Miss Vole continued to poke the nib of the pen at the open ink bottle. Somehow the nib tipped it. She cried, 'Oh, dear,' as the bottle rolled over, splashing ink on Fritzi's skirt.

'Oh, horrors. I'm so sorry. Whatever can we do?'

Speechless, Fritzi stared at the stain on her gored skirt. The old doorkeeper said, 'Try washing it out before it dries. C'mon, there's a dressing room with hot and cold taps.'

'My dear, I am so terribly sorry,' Miss Vole said as they left. She had laid out the rules for the contest: there weren't any.

In the dingy dressing room the doorkeeper tested the sink taps, found an old towel. 'Damnation,' Fritzi said, scrubbing the stain. 'It's ruined.'

'I'll tell Manchester you'll be a minute late.'

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'Will he be mad?'

'No. He's a gas bag, but decent enough when you let the hot air out.'

Fritzi worked valiantly but could wash away only some of the ink leaving a large wet place over her thighs, with a black bull's-eye. 'Sorry about the mishap,' Manchester said when she walked on stage. 'Don't let it throw you, my girl.'

It already had, though Fritzi fought to hide it. Miss Vole hovered.

'Whatever will you do if the stain won't come out?'

Fritzi smiled sweetly. 'Oh, just put the suit in the ashcan, I have many I

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more.' She wanted to break something. Like Miss Vole's neck. Seated in the front row, Miss Murphy gave her a solicitous smile.

The doorkeeper appeared between dusty tormentor curtains. 'Sir? It's Mrs. Van Sant. On the telephone. She don't like her room at the Astor.'

'For God's sake - she demanded to be put there.'

'She says the room's smaller'n a loo. What's that?'

'I shall not answer that question in the presence of ladies.'

'Well, she wants to talk to you.'

'Impossible. Inform the lady she may contact me later this afternoon at the Players Club.'

'She won't like that,' the old man muttered as he shuffled away.

Manchester passed out sides to the other three actresses. He pointed at the orchestra and said to Fritzi, 'You may wait down there.'

He auditioned the first three hopefuls using the third scene of act one --

the witches meeting Macbeth on the blasted heath. Manchester read both the title role and Banquo, pitching his voice differently for each. He really was remarkable when he projected. Composed and confident, Miss Vole nearly matched him with her memorable huskiness.

Manchester sent Miss Whittemeyer down and called Fritzi. The stout lady gave her a good-natured pat as they passed on the steps, but Fritzi was confused about looking at the right eye or the left. She couldn't
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remember being so nervous.

Manchester gave her a side. 'Second witch.'

They read the scene, then did it a second time with Fritzi as first witch, Miss Murphy as second, Miss Vole as third. Miss Vole had a little trick of retiring a few steps upstage, forcing the other two actresses to turn awkwardly.

Positioned down right of them, Manchester noticed but said nothing. The upstaging made Fritzi read more passionately.

After ten minutes Manchester called a halt and produced new sides.

'Now for something completely different. This is act five. I would like each of you to read Lady Macbeth, as the doctor of physic discovers her madness. Miss Murphy? If you would join me. You ladies kindly take seats and await your turn.'

Fritzi was all nerves again, hot one moment, chilled the next. She'd never played Lady Macbeth. She knew the part, though not well.

Miss Murphy read competently, Miss Whittemeyer too. Manchester played the Gentlewoman as well as the doctor.

'Miss Crown, please.'

She nearly tripped as she started up the steps. Behind her in the Three Witches and Four Actresses 81

auditorium, someone laughed. If she had Macbeth's dagger, she'd know what to do with it.

As the doctor, Manchester read, LHark! She speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.1

lOut, damned spot!1 Fritzi read. ''Out, I say! One, two: why, then--'

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'Pardon me, excuse me.' The unmistakable voice came out of the dark.

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'I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, but I'm seated way back here and I can't hear Miss -- what is her name? I want to hear her, she's excellent.'

'Thank you, Miss Vole,' Manchester said. 'We appreciate your conm structive

interest, but kindly don't speak again. It tends to unnerve the artists.' He whispered, 'A little louder, can you?'

Completely thrown by the interruption, she struggled to the end. ''What's, done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed . . .'

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And to hell with it. Disgusted with herself, she flung the side on the

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table. Manchester patted her arm and thanked her.

Of course, Miss Vole read magnificently, with volume that probably rattled the doors all the way up in the gallery. Manchester took the stage for a final word.

'As you leave, please write down your correct address. I will send a note to the three chosen, in tomorrow afternoon's mail. To one and all, however, my sincerest thanks.'

He made a point of intercepting Fritzi in the wings. 'I do hope the damage to your dress can be remedied.' He gave her a little bow and crinkled his eyes. She felt he liked her. In the end, though, that would count for nothing.

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Back in her room, she shed a few tears. Then she wiped her eyes and wqrked on the ink stain. She couldn't remove it. And she couldn't afford a new suit. The more she thought of Cynthia Vole's sneaky tactics, the angrier she became.

'I'm not going to be beaten by that witch.' When she realized what she'd said, she laughed. Just like that, a beautiful idea popped into her head.

For a long time she paced the room. One moment she told herself the scheme was too wicked. The next moment she started for the door, only to stop. She had been raised to play fair. Must she therefore lose to someone who didn't?

No!

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She rehearsed aloud for half an hour, saying lines over and over to get the huskiness just right. She'd always thought it a silly talent, useful only to amuse.

Maybe not this time . . .

Downstairs, she knocked on Mrs. Perella's door to make sure the landlady
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was out for her regular late-afternoon pushcart shopping. At the wall telephone, she called the Novelty and asked for Manchester.

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'His lordship's gone. Try the Players down in Gramercy Park,7 the doorkeeper said.

'Thank you, I shall, it's urgent.'

'Is that Miss Vole?'

Fritzi clicked the receiver on the hook and sank against the wall, eyes shut, hands trembling. Any minute a copper would march in and arrest her.

Another tenant came off the street and tipped his derby. Fritzi gave him |

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a wiggly little wave and a queasy grin. As soon as he went upstairs she telephoned the actors' club. She was in luck:

'Manchester here.'

'It's Miss Vole, sir' - every syllable of the impersonation was a fight for control. 'I regret to tell you I've been offered another role, which I've accepted.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry. For the sake of my production, I mean to say. To you I offer congratulations. May I ask the vehicle in which you'll be appearing?'

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Oh,

my God, she hadn't thought of that. ¦

'Sir, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you, it's a bad hookup.'

'Who is the producer? What is the play?'