The Fourth Wall (11 page)

But it wasn't just the police. Newspaper and television reporters nearly drove me mad; eventually I just locked myself in and didn't go out at all. I knew interest would wane before too long;
Foxfire
's problems would soon be replaced by some new sensation. But for a few days there during Christmas week I felt like screaming. The other
Foxfire
people were being harassed too; we were all curiosities, something to gossip about. Nobody was talking much, except Carla Banner, the most-quoted member of the company. Carla hadn't yet learned that you don't have to answer a question simply because somebody asks it.

In realistic theater there is a convention known as the fourth wall. It is a tacit agreement between playwright and audience that what the audience is looking at on the stage is the room of a house from which one wall has been removed. Those within the three-walled room go about their business, revealing the intimacies of their private lives to the unseen but all-seeing audience. It is a convention first brought into prominence by Ibsen's parlor dramas, but it also gave rise to the term “peephole theater” because of its spying aspect. It works only for plays in which all the action takes place within a confined area—there's no fourth wall convention in Shakespeare, for instance. But in a larger sense the fourth wall works as a metaphor for all theater: we are observers of other people's lives.

I mention this convention now because I couldn't shake the feeling that a fourth wall had been torn away from my life, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. I don't mean the police and the curiosity seekers; they were annoying as hell, but in the long run that's all they were—an annoyance. No, I mean the man who was doing this to me, who sat out there in the safe, darkened auditorium enjoying my discomfort at his leisure. The man who was out to destroy my work—the surest way there is of destroying
me
. There's no way of saying this without sounding paranoid; I'm sorry.

I was scared. Wrecking the set would put
Foxfire
out of action for a while, but it wouldn't kill the play. There was more to come, and we all knew it.

11

During my hiding-from-the-world period Sergeant Piperson showed me the consideration of coming to my place instead of insisting I show up at the precinct station. The first time he just stood in the middle of the living room and gawked. He asked all the usual questions: Have you read all these books? Did you take a course in speed reading? How can you ever find what you want?

Not all of them, no, easily
. “I've spent twenty years building up this library, and I know where things are pretty well.”

“Do you collect first editions?”

“No. That's a whole different ball game.”

The Sergeant pulled a copy of John Marston's
Antonio's Revenge
from the shelf and riffled through the pages. “Is this a good play?”

“It's a terrible play. One of the poorest to come out of the Elizabethan period.”

“Then why keep it?”

“I have a special interest in revenge plays,” I said. “The ethics bother me. Revenge plays offer a rather underhanded kind of wish fulfillment to an audience. You can ‘get even' vicariously, and with impunity. Yet some of the greatest plays ever written are revenge plays.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like
Hamlet
. Or the
Oresteia
.”

Piperson put the book back and said, “Well, I was always curious about the places writers work.”

“Oh, I don't work in here. This is the living room.” I took him upstairs and showed him my workroom.

The brownstone I called home had been divided into two roomy apartments. The first two floors belonged to a married couple who had something to do with advertising and who gave elaborate parties every few months. The top two floors belonged to me—the top floor-and-a-half, I should say. The fourth floor had been the attic and was partially converted into one huge room that I used as a workroom. My library was all over the place, wherever I could find room to put up shelves.

In the workroom Sergeant Piperson took in the three worktables, the piles of papers, the typewriter, the filing cabinets, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He picked up one of my notebooks and hefted it a couple of times, as if weighing the contents. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “If we ever have a serious paper shortage, I'll know who to blame.” I looked at him in surprise; it was the first time I'd ever heard him try to make a joke.

We went back down to the living room and Sergeant Piperson opened some file folders he'd brought with him. “I'll bet in all these books you don't have a single chemistry text.”

I didn't understand. “Why should I have a chemistry text?”

He laughed—a little smugly, I thought. “Not exactly your favorite subject, was it? In college, I mean. You flunked it twice. Got a C the third time.”

I shook my head. “Mistake somewhere. I never studied chemistry.”

“Oh, come on, nobody expects you to know everything. I've got your transcript right here. You flunked chemistry.”

I was irritated by his unconcealed pleasure in thinking I'd failed a subject. “No, I didn't flunk chemistry. I probably would have if I'd ever taken a course—does that satisfy you? I'm telling you there's a mistake in the record. Or you were sent the wrong transcript.”

“Your maiden name's Coghill, isn't it? That's what it says here. How many Abigail Coghills can there be?”

“Let me see.” I studied the photocopy he handed me. “This is the transcript of someone named Abigail Dana Coghill—that's not my middle name. She lists a home address in Madison, Wisconsin. I've never been to Wisconsin. Oh, and look—she graduated only two years ago. She'd be about twenty-four now—yes, here's her date of birth. You've got the wrong transcript.” I handed it back to him.

Now it was his turn to be irritated. “Somebody's always screwing up. It's little things like this that slow down an investigation.”

Frankly I didn't have too much faith in an investigation in which the man in charge hadn't even noticed he'd been sent the wrong transcript. “What do you want a transcript for anyway?”

“Background” was all he would say.

We talked about my younger days for a while, but what the Sergeant really wanted to know about was professional rivalries. “Any writers you're feuding with?”

“No.”

“Critics, reviewers?”

“Almost all of them. But that's par for the course.”

“Give me some names.”

“Why? I've not even met most of them. I misled you—I'm not really
feuding
with anybody. I don't hate critics the way actors do, but they are an irritating bunch. Even when they write favorable reviews, they don't always know what they're talking about.”

“Have you ever told them so?”

“Good heavens, no! Do you think I'm suicidal? A critic who's mad at you can kill you in print.”

“Is any one of them mad at you now?”

“No,
Foxfire
got generally good reviews.”

Piperson switched to earlier plays I'd worked on, either as writer or director. He wanted the name of everyone who might bear a grudge against me—actors I'd turned down for parts, other actors I might have clashed with during rehearsals, directors I'd disagreed with, designers whose ideas I'd rejected, stagehands I'd fired—

“Whoa, wait a minute,” I protested. “What kind of power do you think I have? The playwright's opinion is solicited during casting and rehearsal, but that opinion is ignored as often as not. Ultimately all decisions are made by the people who control the money. And I've never fired a stagehand in my life—that's the stage manager's bailiwick.”

But Sergeant Piperson insisted, so I spent the next few hours going over the past fifteen years or so, remembering quarrels, artistic differences, blatant personality conflicts. Not the most cheerful way to spend an afternoon.

New Year's was approaching, and I was getting fidgety from being cooped up so long. I knew I was getting cabin fever when I found myself reading the TV listings in the
Times
.

My self-imposed confinement ended when a friend called with news that he'd gotten hold of two opening-night tickets to a British production of
Hamlet
that had created quite a stir in London the year before. It was opening in New York on New Year's Eve in order to qualify for that year's Tony Awards.

A theater story: A distinguished and world-renowned British actor was playing
Hamlet
. One night, to his dismay, his codpiece came undone. Not wearing anything underneath, the actor quickly turned his back to the audience and made the necessary repairs. Fortunately the stage was dimly lighted, and the other actors on stage managed to keep their composure. The audience never caught on that anything unusual had happened.

So far so good. But the next night in the very first scene—in which the guards and Horatio are awaiting the appearance of the Ghost—everything went swimmingly until they reached the line, “What, has this thing appeared again tonight?” At which point
everybody
on stage broke, and the audience sat there bewildered at the sight of the actors in this serious scene all laughing hysterically.

So on New Year's Eve I ventured forth, feeling very brave, and was relieved to find the only newspaper and television people in sight were the reviewers at the theater. I was excited about spending an evening with my favorite play, especially a production as talked about as this one.

I hated it. The Hamlet yipped his lines like an overexcited lap dog, caressed the air in front of his face to show philosophical confusion, and displayed a greater passion for Horatio than for Ophelia. We left at intermission.

But I was back in the swim of things again, and feeling much better about it.
Foxfire
was scheduled to reopen the eighth of January. The set had been completely rebuilt in only four days, but the new electrical installations had to be approved by the city building inspector. The city was in no way obstructive; in fact, I think some red tape was cut to help us reopen as soon as possible. But it did take a little time.

On reopening night enthusiasm was running high with the tentative hope that maybe the worst was over. Even the presence of a police guard backstage didn't dampen the company's spirits. Gene Ramsay's guards would be on duty twenty-four hours a day now; the owners of the Martin Beck Theatre had threatened to break the lease unless Ramsay could guarantee the safety of their building.

I stood in the middle of the stage admiring the new set. Stage sets get shabby fast, a fact more readily visible to the actors than to the audience. A totally new set gave us a lift when we all needed one. Maybe the worst
was
over.

Tiny was on the stage setting up a chess set. I was fascinated by the sight of his fat sausage fingers flying nimbly over the board, placing each piece in its proper place. He glanced up and saw me watching him. “Nhhmumb bergernumph all over dumble mubble in the blarg.”

I opened my eyes wide. “I didn't know that!”

Tiny nodded and turned back to the chess board.

Griselda Gold had called a brushup rehearsal the day before, so the cast was ready and rarin' to go. John Reddick had come backstage, keyed up and fidgety. Vivian Frank told me that she looked on tonight as her real debut in
Foxfire
and that all her earlier performances had just been rehearsals. Ian Cavanaugh was pacing, as he always did when he was up. Hugh Odell's child-wife Rosemary was in his dressing room, and even she was aware that something special was happening.

“I'm feelin' good, Abby,” beamed Hugh. “I'm feeling so good, I'm going out there and win a Tony tonight.”

I laughed. “I don't doubt it for one minute, Hugh. Let me be the first to congratulate you.”

“I've already done that,” said Rosemary.

“It's like opening night,” Hugh went on, “but without the tensions of wondering whether the audience will like you or not. It's the strangest thing, but I have the feeling it's going to be all right from now on. Do you feel that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don't know what you were worrying about anyway,” Rosemary said to her husband. “It's not you they're after.” She realized what she'd said and shot me a quick look.

Hugh laughed and kissed her.

John Reddick and I found ourselves places where we wouldn't be in Leo Gunn's way and settled down to watch the performance. That is,
I
settled down; John was still fidgety. Neither one of us wanted to go out front and mingle with that curiosity-seeking crowd. I kept thinking that the omens for a good performance were so strong that something
had
to go wrong.

But it didn't. Early in the first act Vivian Frank began asserting her right to be considered an actress of the first rank. She was too smart to imitate Sylvia Markey's interpretation of the role and thus invite unfavorable comparison. The character she was playing was a strong-minded one. Sylvia had snapped out her lines with an authority that established her as a voice to be listened to. When later in the play the character began to crumble, Sylvia's picture of mental disintegration was all the more poignant because of the illusion of strength she had created earlier.

Vivian went at it differently. She'd pause before certain lines, as if thinking over what she was going to say. The lines then gained weight as
considered
responses. In the breakdown scene in the second act, Vivian would blurt out her lines without thinking at all, as if she'd lost her normal thought processes. Two different ways of creating the same picture—both valid, both exciting.

I was tickled pink at the way the performance was going. John Reddick and I grinned foolishly and punched each other like a couple of locker-room boys after the big game. Leo Gunn made a circle of his thumb and forefinger and beamed from ear to ear. Carla Banner and Griselda Gold and Tiny all stood as if hypnotized, entranced by what was going on on the stage.