Expiration Day (26 page)

“Or else?”

“I won't go into details. It's county politics. Let's leave it at that.”

“But can you do it, dear?” asked Mrs. Philpott. “It's only two weeks away.”

“Yes, I can. I know the part of Portia as well as Siân did. I helped her rehearse.”

“Good. I'll tell the costume team, and they can start altering Siân's outfits for you.”

“Thank you. Oh, and Mrs. Philpott, what if I'd said no?”

“We had other possibilities for Portia. But you were first choice, Miss Deeley. You always were.”

I left, feeling almost as good as when I first played bass for Mike and the Stands.

 

 

So for the first time I met my Bassanio. Actually, he approached me at the start of the next rehearsal.

“You're Tania, right? The new Portia?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“I'm Tim. Bassanio.”

“Then we are lovers.”

“In name alone, thou minx. Thou know'st the play.”

He's quick.

“I do, and know these lovers do not kiss.”

“There was a kiss—now cut—yet we could choose.”

“Hold it! I give up. Was that chance, or did you mean to speak in iambic pentameter? If you did, I'm impressed.”

He laughed. A nice laugh, not some awful bray.

“Pure fluke. Cross my heart.”

“Okay, Tim. I believe you. Is this your first play?”

“No, but it's my first major part. Last year I was Snug, in
Midsummer Night's Dream
. I got to run around a lot, but said maybe ten lines.”

“It's my first performance of any sort.”

“And you're taking on Portia? Now it's my turn to be impressed.”

 

 

And there was Jemima. Nerissa.

My maid-servant, my confidante, and … my helper.

She really is, it turns out. Just as I helped Siân with her lines, so Jemima is helping me move. I think I wrote earlier I was no great actress, well I didn't really mean it. I had this idea that I actually would be a great actress when I got on stage. Sure, I can speak the lines, but I can't move my body properly.

Miss James called me out after our first scene.

“What's wrong, Tania?” she said. “You moved so well at the auditions. Now you look terrified. You're rooted to the spot and your arms are fluttering like dying sparrows. They should move gracefully, largely, positively. Big movements, don't let them wilt. Show her, Jemima.”

So Jemima showed me what I was doing wrong, and what to do differently.

“But nobody really moves like that, Miss James.”

“On stage, you do, and it looks normal, I promise you. If you move ‘normally,' it looks weak, if you can even see it at all. Move big, and you'll command the stage. So move big, Tania.”

Well, I gave it a try, but it didn't feel comfortable.

“Forget the people watching you, Tania,” Miss James urged. “You are Portia. Noble, confident, rich. You could buy and sell this school ten times over with your father's inheritance.”

“I know that, Miss James…”

“Yes, your mind knows it, Tania. I can hear it in your speech. But your body doesn't. Your body language is still timid. You don't feel you belong on stage, not yet, not deep down. You think somebody's going to call out ‘fraud,' or some such. It's not going to happen, I promise you. So let's try again, from
‘By my troth, Nerissa…'”

And then Jemima gave me an encouraging smile. Well, blow me …

 

 

Tim helped, too. When I came off after my scene with Nerissa, he said how he thought I'd improved.

“You're getting there, Tania.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“No, I mean it. You're going to be a great Portia.”

“You're just saying that.…”

“No. You speak your lines well, and you're starting to move like you should. I'm really glad. We desperately needed a good Portia.”

“Of course you did, when Siân left.”

“No. Before that, we had a disaster looming. You know that. Siân just about knew her lines, but she couldn't deliver them like you just did, and she never really unfroze. You're already better than she ever would be.”

I didn't say anything. After all, Siân was my best friend.

“Hey, Tania, what I'm trying to say is I'm glad it's you playing Portia. I heard about the auditions—Erica told me—and Mrs. Golightly's spite. I think we've got the right Portia now, and if there's anything I can do to help you, just say.”

“Thanks, Tim. Till next time.”

He hesitated, for a moment, as if he was going to kiss me, but thought better of it. Then he turned and I watched his retreating back, thinking how well he moved. A natural actor …

He's a cute boy.

Funny thing, Mister Zog. I just did a typo, and typed a “t” instead of a “y,” and then I corrected it. But it made me think. Yes, he has. Very cute.

Do robots have Freudian slips?

Thursday, April 9, 2054

Gosh, this feels as bad as the first gig with Mike and the Stands. I feel completely churned up inside. I hope I can control it.

In Belmont is a lady richly left;

And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,

Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes

I did receive fair speechless messages:

Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued

To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:

Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,

For the four winds blow in from every coast

Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;

Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,

And many Jasons come in quest of her.

O my Antonio, had I but the means

To hold a rival place with one of them,

I have a mind presages me such thrift,

That I should questionless be fortunate!

There! It's time. Antonio laments how his own fortunes are at sea and the lights dim.

I'm on, and Nerissa is with me. The lights brighten, and we're in Belmont. Nerissa brushes my hair for a few moments.

By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.

My words seem to startle her, for she ceases her brushing, and chides me.

You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are.…

But I chafe at the command of my poor, dead father, and the lottery he has devised to decide whom I shall wed. Worse yet: the dismal choice of posturing ninnies, dreadful bores, and hopeless buffoons that have descended on me, like wasps round a jam pot, hoping to gain my hand or my fortune. Am I without hope?

Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

She's right.

Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.

Perhaps there is hope, after all.…

Ah, but here's a servant, telling me that the Moroccan prince is about to pay me a call. Damn.

 

 

Curiouser and curiouser, cried Alice.

No, that's the wrong part, I know. I'm thinking of her meeting with the Caterpillar. “Who are
you
?” he asks, and then, “Explain yourself!” and poor Alice can't, “because I'm not myself, you see.”

That's me: not myself. I stumble off stage, into the wings. I glance at Antonio and Shylock as they head past me in the opposite direction, taking their places for Scene III. I'm not quite myself, though, and not quite Portia, either. I catch my reflection in the mirror, and a well-bred Venetian lady looks back at me, so perhaps I am Portia. I don't know.

I do know that I really don't want the Prince of Morocco to choose the casket with my portrait in it. I mean, I don't really know Khalid, but he's Tim's best friend at school, so I suppose he's all right. Anyway my heart really falters when I think he might choose
that
casket. I'm not sure I want to know which it is—my father never said—because I don't think I could stand it if I could see him about to choose it.

Tim, Khalid—shadow names. And there's another name. Tania. I know her, distantly, because she had an upset stomach, and was very worried about something, but I'm all right now, and she'll be fine.…

 

 

Time moves oddly, lurching. Morocco has gone, and so has the equally annoying Arragon. Gold and silver caskets have proven false, and lured them to a doom that, whatever it may be, will be far from me.

So now Bassanio is here, and my heart pitches wildly, storm-blown by hope and buffeted by fear. If he chooses lead … oh, how my heart will leap, but then, why would he choose lead? Surely he will choose gold, or silver, and I will be lost. I reach my hand and touch his arm.…

I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two

Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,

I lose your company: therefore forbear awhile.

There's something tells me, but it is not love …

But I think it must be, really. My hand lingers upon his arm, longer than a casual touch should be, while I attempt to stanch the flow of time, bleeding away toward the moment he will make his choice.

He is so near, and I fear lest he never come near again.

Now he strides from me, and I have nothing save a fading warmth in my fingertips—unless he chooses lead. I stand mute, bound by my father's will to say nothing, though I am consumed by an agony of anticipation.

Therefore, thou gaudy gold,

Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;

Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge

'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,

Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught,

Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence;

And here choose I; joy be the consequence!

Yes! Yes! He's done it, and “fair Portia's counterfeit” looks back at him from the casket of lead. And I must endure the presence of these others, Nerissa and Gratiano, daintily announcing my love for Bassanio to the world, while within I am battered by gales of unaccustomed emotions. I must master myself …

 

 

Time jumps again, and now I stand in a court of law, dressed as a man, a lawyer, and preparing to spring the trap I have laid for the vengeful Jew Shylock. Ask him for mercy—ah, he will not offer it, but demands justice, and now I will give it to him.

 

 

I sense an ending is close.…

It is almost morning,

And yet I am sure you are not satisfied

Of these events at full. Let us go in;

And charge us there upon inter'gatories,

And we will answer all things faithfully.

Gratiano makes brief reply, and then …

Applause.

And I am Tania once more, though Portia still walks the shadows nearby, closer than a dream.

It is my turn now—I face the wings opposite and there stands Tim, Bassanio's ghost at his shoulder. We spring toward each other, touch hands, and turn to face the audience and bow, braced against the tide of applause.

Only Simon—Shylock—left to come on now and take his own due praise. He's played his own part well enough.

But did he live it, as I just did?

The curtain falls and we are done.

Tania turns to Tim and says, “Thank you,” and Portia kisses Bassanio with a deeper passion than Tania knows.

Yow! Where did that come from?

I feel myself blushing, and Tim is looking surprised, and shocked. Though I think he enjoyed it too—there's a little glint in his eye. Oops! I remove Portia's hand from Bassanio's very cute bottom.

“Er, that was from Portia, for Bassanio. She's been wanting to do that—the kiss—for a while, but the play got in the way rather.”

“Riiight. Well, Bassanio's still here, and feels the same way.…”

So we kiss again, but it's not a success, because Portia is starting to fade and we're in the middle of a crowd, and they're making some very immature remarks about us, and anyway, here's Mrs. Philpott coming up on stage to make a well-done-everybody speech.…

 

 

What am I going to do, Mister Zog?

I mean, after the play, it all got quite hectic. John was there, waiting to say congratulations, and I'd got out of my costume, so Portia was out of sight and out of mind, but John kissed me “well done” and it wasn't the same, but then he had to go back to London, and then Tim found me and wanted me to go to the post-play party, and he kissed me, too, and that wasn't the same, either, and I didn't go to the party, but came back home instead with Dad.

I need to use more full stops. Sorry, Mister Zog, but by now you should be used to reading my drivel. Here you are anyway.…

Right, those were your full stops.

I need to see Tim again.

No, correction. Portia needs to see Bassanio again. And that's got nothing to do with Tania or John.

So why do I feel bad?

Friday, April 17, 2054

So where did the year go?

The exams are done, the play is done.

And I'm fifteen and three-quarters, the way toddlers say it, when every month matters. Each one does—time is running out. I must use every second that remains to me. Experience as much as I can, before …

What?

I'm seeing Tim. By which I mean that Portia and Bassanio are seeing each other. And Tania is still seeing John. Is that bad? I like them both, in different ways. You see, I can talk to Tim about literature, and I can't do that with John. He's a bit of an
engineer,
you see. He reads books, but incredibly fast. I don't see how he can enjoy them, at that speed. And Tim has a blind spot about music, so I need both of them, for different reasons. I'm not being unfair to them, am I? I mean, it's not like we're human, and we'd be agonizing over sex, and who was sleeping with whom. Robots don't do that gucky stuff.