So Little Time (12 page)

The orchestra was a deserted dark space filled with the peculiar sort of loneliness which he always associated with theaters in the morning. He was taking off his hat and coat, walking down the empty aisle. The glare of the stage lights added to the emptiness and he could see his old friend, Jesse Fineman, the producer, and Hazel Harris, Jesse Fineman's secretary, down in the front row. There was no make-believe or illusion about that vacant theater with all its mechanics pitilessly bared before him. The stage was stripped of scenery so that he could see all the wires and ropes and the brick back wall. Sidney Coles, the leading man, in light gray flannels, was standing in the center of the stage facing Marianna Miller, for whom Jesse had bought the play. She was wearing a very severely tailored suit, and her yellow hair was pushed tightly under her hat—an unmistakable effort to look plain, because Jeffrey had told her once that actresses were always self-conscious and always overdressed.

He had known Marianna for a good many years and Jesse Fineman a great deal longer, but it was business which brought them together that morning, and not friendship. His attitude toward Marianna, as she stood on the stage, was entirely professional. He knew from Marianna's worried look the exact part of the play on which they were working. It was where the husband surprised his wife in the midst of a telephone conversation with her lover, and Marianna and Sidney had never been able to do it naturally. At the moment Sidney and Marianna were themselves, probably quarreling, because they did not like each other, while the rest of the cast sat on wooden chairs or benches looking like a group of people who had just walked in from anywhere.

“Oh,” Jesse Fineman said, “there you are, Jeffrey.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I'm sorry I'm late.” He was sorry because it made Jesse Fineman very, very nervous when people weren't on time.

“They're at the telephone,” Jesse said, “and Jeff, it completely lacks validity. Give Mr. Wilson a script, Hazel, dear.”

You always called everyone “dear.” You were always sweet, whether you felt that way or not. In a little while Jeffrey would be calling Marianna “dear,” whether he felt that way or not.

“It's between here and here, Mr. Wilson,” Hazel said.

“I think,” Jesse said, “she'll have to throw him another line. See what you think, Jeff.”

Jeffrey sat down with the script on his knee and looked up at the stage. He was watching Marianna Miller impersonally but with a sort of creative pride. At such a time he could think of her as a piece of property and not as a person. He was thinking that she was looking very well that morning, rested and not too nervous. He was pleased with the way she stood, even on that dismantled stage. He had begun talking to her years ago about the importance of detail, and now she appreciated it more than he did, because Marianna was an artist now.

“We're ready now, Sidney,” Jesse Fineman called. “She's just talking as you come in. We'll start right there, Marianna darling.”

Marianna looked at Jeffrey through the glare of light and her face lighted up in a quick smile. Her smile had an artless quality and was one of her greatest assets; it came slowly and lighted up her entire face, and Jeffrey had taught her not to use it too often.

“Hello, Jeff dear,” Marianna called. “Thank God you're here! You've simply got to give me something else to say.”

“Try it the way it was,” Jeffrey said. “Pretend it isn't a line.”

“Yes, dear,” Marianna said.

“Keep your voice like that,” Jeffrey said, “just like that.”

“All right.… Marianna, darling, perhaps if you take it just a little more slowly …” Jesse Fineman called. “… It's merely a suggestion.”

“Jesse,” Marianna called back, “don't say that again, please. Jeffrey, ask him not to say that again.”

“No, no,” Jesse Fineman said, “it was merely a suggestion, darling.” And then Jesse held his head in both his hands, his fingers writhed through his black hair. “Oh God,” he whispered, “oh God.”

“Don't,” Jeffrey whispered back. “Just let her go, Jesse.”

“Jeff,” Sidney called, “may I interrupt for just a moment? Not that I wish in any way to inject my personality, but my interpretation is that I should not be surprised, but whimsical, cynically whimsical.”

“You're always your old whimsical self, Sidney, dear,” Marianna said, “and you don't have to try.”

Sidney gave his head a gentle shake.

“All right, sweetheart,” he said.

“Sidney, dear,” Marianna said, and she turned towards Sidney slowly. Jeffrey was more conscious of her motion than of what she was saying. He had known the first day he had ever watched her that timing could become her greatest gift. “I've never mentioned this before, but since we have to play together I would really much rather, if you don't mind, not be called ‘sweetheart.' You don't mind, do you, dear?”

“Mercy, no,” Sidney said, “please don't think it was a term of endearment.”

“I know it wasn't, Sidney dear,” Marianna said.

“Oh God,” Mr. Fineman whispered, “God.”

“Marianna,” Jeffrey called; their eyes met. “How about getting on with it?”

“Jeff, dear,” Marianna called back, “I love you, I always have.”

“That's fine,” Jeffrey said, “and I'm right here just loving you. Let's get on with it.”

Mr. Fineman raised his head from his hands.

“And now,” he said, “if we're all ready, Marianna darling, the telephone.”

He always felt anxious for her when she started. There was a pause, and she had changed into another person. She was holding an imaginary telephone and her voice had choked into a low, seductive laugh. Her voice range was magnificent. Jeffrey had often lectured her on the importance of control.

“Hugh,” she was saying. “How can we, Hugh? It's like wildfire. I know, dear, but I can't tonight. Yes, I remember. Oh darling … oh darling …”

Then she turned, and he loved to watch her because she always did the right thing by instinct. It was not her fault, if the lines were bad. She was aware for the first time of Sidney standing near her.

“Why,” she gasped, “why, Reggie!” It was not her fault if the lines were bad.

“Perhaps I'm interrupting, my dear,” Sidney said, and she gave a gasping, throaty laugh.

“No, no,” she said, “it's nothing, Reggie, darling. It … why, it was just …”

“Cecily,” and Sidney's voice rose, “let's be frank for once. Let's not go on living forever in a tissue of lies. Look at me, Cecily darling.”

Mr. Fineman clapped his hands, and the illusion was over.

Marianna shrugged her shoulders in an ugly way, one of her few bad gestures.

“Stop a minute,” Mr. Fineman called. “That was marvelous, Marianna, darling. Marvelous.”

“Jeff,” Marianna called, “you've got to do something with those damn lines.”

Jeffrey looked up from the script.

“Where's the author?” he asked. “The author ought to be here.”

“What would you be here for,” Jesse Fineman said, “if the author was not utterly hopeless, Jeffrey? It actually doesn't sound real, does it? Although Marianna was marvelous.”

“Jeff,” Marianna called, “you've got to do something.”

“All right,” Jeffrey called. “It was lousy.”

“Jeff …” Marianna began.

“Not you,” Jeffrey said, “I wasn't talking about you.”

Then she smiled at him again.

“Jeff …” she began.

“Please,” Mr. Fineman called, “will you give us just a little minute, darling?”

Marianna walked to the footlights.

“You leave Jeff alone,” she said. “You don't have to tell him what you think. He can fix it. Just leave Jeff alone.”

She stopped and no one spoke for a moment. Marianna was always temperamental at rehearsals, but in a way it pleased Jeffrey.

“That's it,” he said. “You tell him, darling. Maybe we'd better go through the whole thing, Jesse.” And Mr. Fineman clapped his hands.

“Act One,” he called, “all ready for Act One.”

Jeffrey was watching Marianna again as though she were not a friend. He was trying to be both an appreciative unit of an audience, and an artisan who would eventually take that play apart. It was never wholly possible to be both at once, but he knew that he was better at it than most; it was all that he was really good at—making a bad play better, giving it technical precision and making it run more smoothly. His skill was derived from a sort of dramatic instinct, a sense of theater if you wished, but no term could entirely define it. You had to be born with it. The gift of rebuilding someone else's work might be a small one, but still it was a gift which called for an accurate appraisal of dramatic values and a sensitive ear for dialogue.

As he sat there listening he could see why Jesse had bought the play and also why Jesse had hesitated for a long while to produce it. The inexpertness of its structure was dangerous and at the same time refreshing. It had been written by a professor of economics at Columbia, which was not strange, since Columbia professors seemed to do almost everything except teach there. It was what Jesse called a “comedy of manners.” Jesse felt it would come to the theater like a clean breath of spring, and perhaps it might if it were fixed. The acts, as they were outlined in the manuscript, told the story without his listening: Act One—Cecily and Reggie's penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park. Act Two—Hugh's bachelor apartment, three hours later. Act Three-Cecily and Reggie's penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park the next morning. They would be through with their infidelities the next morning and would be reconciled as man and wife again, as they looked out over Central Park. It had the quality of what was known as a vehicle, and nothing else.

When it was time for lunch he was absorbed in it as a problem. The dialogue needed cutting and the opening of the first act was not right. It very seldom was in a beginner's play. Given some hours of intensive work he could smooth it and change the emphasis and take out the vagueness. He wished that Jesse had not put it into rehearsal first, although he admitted there was an advantage in hearing the lines spoken.

“Jeff,” Marianna said, “will you take me out to lunch?”

The actors had finished and they were in the orchestra putting on their hats and coats. There was no use having them go on with it until he had completed the revisions. Jeffrey stood up and put the manuscript in his pocket.

“Yes,” he said, “where do you want to go?”

“I don't know,” Marianna answered. “Anywhere. I'm tired.”

“Well, make up your mind,” Jeffrey said. “Everybody's tired.”

“Let's go to the Echelon,” she said, and then she raised her eyebrows. “Who let you out with that tie?” she asked.

“Don't be possessive, Marianna,” Jeffrey said.

“I always am,” she said. “You always are with me.”

“Not any more,” he answered. “You're quite a big girl now.”

“Jeff,” she said, “please don't say that. You're the only one who tells me anything that makes sense.”

Now that the rehearsal was over they were friends with a mutual sort of respect for each other's abilities. It was pleasant to think that Marianna still admired him. He thought of all the times that they had sat at tables in hotels when they were trying out other plays. Once she had been a wide-eyed and rather awkward girl who was delighted to have lunch with anyone like him, but it was different now. He could see people watching her and he could hear them speaking her name in undertones. The Echelon was a small place, so that he was particularly aware of the patrons watching him, wondering who he was, simply because he was with her.

“God,” Marianna said, “I'm tired, dear.”

“Then you'd better have a drink,” Jeffrey said.

“I don't usually,” Marianna answered. “Do you think I ought to? What do you think I ought to have?”

“Make up your mind,” Jeffrey said. “You're a big girl now.”

“Don't start that again,” Marianna said. “Do you think you can fix it?”

“Fix what?” Jeffrey asked.

“The play,” Marianna answered, “that lousy play.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey said, “I guess so. It's going to be all right.”

Marianna sighed, and rested her elbow on the table.

“Do you mind if I say something, dear?” she asked.

“No,” Jeffrey answered, “of course not.” He did not mind exactly, but he wished that everyone in the Echelon did not know who Marianna was as she leaned toward him across the little table.

“Jeff,” she said, “why do you waste your time fixing up those rotten plays? You could write better ones with the same effort—so much better.”

He smiled at her, although he did not want to smile.

“Let's not start on that either,” he said. “It's one thing writing a play, it's another thing fixing someone else's.”

She leaned farther across the table.

“It's only that you don't believe in yourself,” Marianna said, “and I don't see why.”

“Marianna,” Jeffrey said, “don't talk lines.”

“It isn't a line,” Marianna said, “I wish you wouldn't keep saying that about me. I believe in you, I believe—”

“Marianna,” Jeffrey said, “stop and think and you'll see that it doesn't make sense. You're a nice girl, and we're just having lunch. Don't talk lines.”

“I wish—” Marianna began.

“Listen, sweet,” Jeffrey said, “let's talk about something else. This doesn't get us anywhere. I'm not as good as you think I am.”

“All right,” Marianna said, “you talk about something else. When did I see you last?”

“At Jesse's office,” Jeffrey said, “the day before yesterday. You wore a gardenia, and you never look well with gardenias.”