Idea in Stone

by Hamish Macdonald

  “I gathered that. When will you be back?”

  Stefan shook his head. His expression lit up. “That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m going to Scotland.”

  “It’s your mother, isn’t it?”

  Stefan laughed. “Well, kinda. That’s what started it. But now—I can’t explain, really. Things are leading me there. I was worried about telling you guys. I didn’t want to let you down, or make you think it was easy for me to leave you behind.”

  “Hey, we move on. Friends do that. You can’t stand still for your friends. Hell, you think if Allen got an offer to relocate to New York or LA he wouldn’t take it? Or if Rick’s girlfriend asked him to go to Malaysia with her he wouldn’t jump at the chance?”

  “You’re right,” said Stefan.

  “You haven’t exactly been happy here.” Paulo stood up. “Let’s call the others up, and you can tell them. We’ll go celebrate.”

  Stefan walked to the door with him. Paulo gave him one of his big, handsome smiles. “This is great. I’m really happy for you,” he said. But Stefan didn’t think he looked particularly happy, even with the smile.

  ~

  For the second day of the auditions, Stefan arrived dressed more like what he imagined a theatre director should look like—brown corduroys, a black turtleneck, and a jacket with patches on the elbows. Looking at himself in the rehearsal hall mirror, though, it suddenly seemed like a mistake. It was a bit too Seventies, a bit too Fosse. He felt gay.

  Helen rolled in holding a paper cup of coffee in her non-driving hand. “Who are you supposed to be?” she asked. Stefan’s heart sank. He had a long day ahead, and already wanted to go home.

  Stefan put on a haughty cartoon voice. “I’m a thee-a-tah dih-rec-tor.”

  “Oh,” she said, her smirk barely hidden by the cup of coffee.

  “Right,” he said, moving to the table and looking over a clipboard there, “we’ve only got five parts to cast. We can do this.”

  “Yes, yes we can,” Helen assured him. “We’ve got a lot of people lined up. So why don’t you go get the first person and we can get started.”

  “Right,” said Stefan, snapping his fingers. A moment later, he returned from the hallway with a young woman. Out of her line of vision, Stefan raised his eyebrows hopefully toward Helen and mouthed “Truna”, one of the characters’ names. Helen made a barely perceptible nod of agreement. The actress was pretty, with fairytale colouring—pale skin and rosy cheeks, large green eyes, and blonde hair that was chopped roughly into a playful pixie fire.

  The young woman strode confidently to the table and gave her résumé and picture to Helen. She put her bag down—all actors carried overstuffed bags, Stefan noticed—and walked back to the middle of the room. She ran a hand through her hair, and nodded to them that she was ready to start. They liked this, her readiness to get down to business, her confidence.

  “So what are you going to do for us today?” asked Stefan, now versed in audition phraseology.

  “I’ve been studying movement under a Bulgarian clown master, so I’ve put together a little piece called ‘The Bus Stop’.”

  “Oh,” said Stefan.

  The woman stood upright, and then contorted as if shot. Her body curved into a C, and she tip-toed back and forth. She moved her arms in tiny waves, then jerked them up and down. Finally, she dropped to the floor, rolled, and sprang back up, her hands raised, opening like flowers, toward the ceiling. Then her shape melted back into a regular standing position and she stared at Helen and Stefan.

  They waited.

  She blinked.

  They sat politely.

  “I’m finished,” she said.

  “Oh!” said Stefan. “Thanks. That was really— um.” He grasped for something to say. “So what’s your availability?”

  “Well, I’m going to be away in August. I’m going to Myanmar for a workshop on mime for the oppressed.”

  “Damn! That’s when our show opens in Edinburgh. Oh, that’s too bad. Well, thanks for coming by.” He got up and walked with her to the door. “All the best with your... thing.”

  They shook hands, and the woman left. Another woman walked in. She smiled and handed Stefan her head-shot and résumé. They walked to the table and sat down.

  “So, tell us a bit about yourself,” asked Stefan. He knew now that it was a horrible question, but the whole situation was horrible. Neither party knew each other, yet they both knew that one of them was on trial. So it was something to say.

  “Well, my name’s Rebecca. I come from Vancouver, and I’ve been here for thirteen months. This is my fiftieth audition. Yay me!” she said, mocking herself. “Apparently I’m not talented enough to sell cat food, feminine hygiene products, or even to be a tight T-shirted bimbo in a beer ad. I’m not a waitress—oh, no—I’m a hostess at the Pizza Piazza. And I only moved here because of Josh, and now he’s—” she continued talking, but Stefan didn’t know what she was saying, because she spoke into a tissue she pulled from her pocket. He watched the top of her head, which began to move up and down. His fears were confirmed: a moment later she sobbed out loud, and made a whistling sound as she struggled for breath. Her crying intensified, the sobs coming faster, the whistling gasps a fast staccato. She muttered something about being sorry, then tried to stand. Her eyes rolled up, and she fell to the floor.

  Stefan jumped up, but was too late to catch her. He turned to Helen. “Crying and fainting. That’s new.” He reached under her arms and dragged her to the hallway, where he sat her in a chair, her head leaning against the wall as she breathed slowly.

  “Next,” said Stefan. None of the actors moved.

  ~

  Helen looked at her watch. “We’ve only got time to see four more people.”

  “Crap,” said Stefan. “Well, it’s not over until the fat lady sings. And we haven’t had one of them yet.” He sang in an operatic falsetto voice as the next auditioner entered the room. “Hello,” he said, smiling at her. He had to: she looked so nice. She had long, soft brown hair, perfect skin, a perfect tiny wedge of a nose, and the kind of casual clothes that made her look like one of the happy people who live on the pages of a catalogue.

  “Hello,” she said, reaching across the table to shake their hands. “My name’s Maria.”

  Stefan smiled, feeling at ease. There was something peaceful about her, and he liked it. “Hi, Maria. I’m Stefan. This is Helen. So, what have you prepared—” he began, then stopped. He shook his head. “No,” he said, reaching into his own overstuffed bag, “I have a better idea. I’d like you to do a reading from the play.” He flipped through the pages, then handed a few to her. “Could you look over these and read Vella’s monologue for me? Take your time.”

  Helen looked at him, surprised. She caught his glance and gave him a “Good idea” nod. She was letting him direct the day’s proceedings, quietly watching to see how he handled himself. But she provided the nods, like a mother horse nosing her foal onto its feet.

  Maria took the pages to the centre of the room, read them for a few minutes, then indicated that she was ready. Before she read, she dropped her head and folded her hands. Her lips moved slightly.

  “Is she—?”

  “Yes,” said Helen, “I think she’s praying.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Exactly.”

  Maria lifted her head, shook out her hair, then delivered the lines. Her demeanour changed as she spoke, transforming her into the subtle temptress in the story. She started walking as she spoke, one leg curving seductively around the other, her one hand holding the script, and the other making gentle, undulating movements. She owned each sentence she spoke, delivering the lines with nuance, each mounting the other until she gave the final words in an orgasmic crescendo.

  Finished, she lowered the script to her side and changed back into the catalogue-woman.

  “Holy crap!” Stefan burst out. Helen gave him a stern look, but he continued on. “You are so hired. If you want the part, it’s
yours.”

  “Really?” she squealed with an innocence that belied the complexity of who she’d been just a moment before. “Oh my goodness!”

  “Are you available in August?” asked Helen.

  “Well, I was supposed to be a counsellor at a youth camp, but I’m sure my minister would understand. He knows how much I’ve been trying to get my acting career going. And my parents—well, they’ll just have to live with it. Yes, I’d love to do it!”

  “Great!” said Stefan, not sure what to do next. “Well, we’ve got your details on your résumé. This is your correct phone number, right?” She nodded. “Okay, well we’ll be in touch to send you the contract and arrange rehearsals and all that stuff. Congratulations!”

  “Thank you so much!” she said, shaking their hands again. “Hee!” she yelped as she ran from the room.

  Stefan looked at Helen. “I know what you’re going to say, but save it. I want her.”

  “You just hired Gospel Girl to play the whore. You don’t see any conflicts?”

  “She can act.”

  “Yes, well she’ll have to,” quipped Helen, “because I don’t think she has much to draw on there.”

  Stefan stuffed his fingers into his ears. “La la la,” he sang, as the next actor walked into the room.

  “Hi, I’m Thom,” said the young man. He had a full head of sandy brown curls and a sharply-trimmed goatee. Stefan recognised the trousers he had on: Stefan owned the same kind, hemp, with buttons of recycled plastic. His shirt was made of a loose weave, with a Nehru collar, open at the neck, where the actor’s chest hair showed through.

  “So what have you prepared for us today?” asked Stefan.

  “What have I prepared?” he replied, sounding offended. “What have I prepared, you ask me. How dare you? How dare you ask what I’ve prepared! What have you prepared? Are you prepared for this day? Are you prepared for any day? You may think you’re some kind of god, but you’re just a man, a man playing God.” For several more minutes, the actor ranted, growing angrier and angrier, until he spat accusations and threats at Stefan. Finally he jumped up on the table and grabbed Stefan by his turtleneck. “And I ask you,” he screamed in Stefan’s face, the spittle making him blink, “are you prepared?”

  He let go of Stefan, who dropped back into his chair. He sat down and cleared his throat. “That was ‘Jake’ from The Nightmare’s Actor.”

  Stefan cocked his head. “Oh. That was your piece? Oh!” He laughed uncomfortably, still shaken. “Oh. Ha!” He turned to Helen. “That was him acting. Haha.”

  “I’ve got another piece,” said Thom.

  “I don’t think I’m insured for this,” said Stefan.

  “No, you’ll like it. Wait.” He moved his chair further back, and cleared his throat. He closed his eyes and made a low, humming noise. He breathed in a strange, audible way, then opened his eyes and made a loud “Ha!” noise. “Okay,” he said to Helen and Stefan, “here it is.”

  He spoke to an imaginary person, who, as he continued, turned out to be his grandmother. He held her hand, and told her things quietly that made Stefan laugh, and by the end of the piece, made his throat tighten with emotion. When he finished, Thom dropped his head, then looked up at them.

  “That was nice,” said Stefan. “I really liked it.” Thom thanked them, and left the room.

  “I hate to say it, Helen, but I think he’d be great as Seth. He’s a complete and utter freak, mind you.”

  Helen turned to look at him. “Well, you’re not casting for friends, you’re casting for the characters in the show. And I have to agree. He’s going to give you everything he’s got. God knows what that is, but you’re going to get all of it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Put him on this pile, then,” said Helen, indicating the smaller of the two stacks of photos and résumés in front of her.

  Stefan uncomfortably slid his papers into the ‘Winners’ pile, uncomfortable about the implications of the other pile. “So are we calling the people we’re not hiring?”

  “We don’t have to, but I think it’s a good practice, so they’re not left hanging.”

  “So you don’t mind?”

  “Me? Oh, right, your telephone thing. Yeah, I can make the calls when we’re finished auditioning.”

  Stefan looked at his clipboard. “We’ve only got two more people scheduled. What happens if they don’t—?”

  “It’s not over yet,” said Helen, sorting through the résumés. “Here, this is a submission we got from an agent. She’s up next.” Stefan took the résumé, but didn’t get further than the photograph.

  “Holy! She’s beautiful.” He flipped the photo over to look at the credits listed there in professional-looking type. “She’s done a lot, too. Let’s call her in here.” He headed for the door.

  “Wait a sec’, Stefan. Just so you don’t—hypothetically speaking, of course—get into an awkward social situation: people don’t usually look like their headshots. Some of them are very flattering. So no goofy double-takes if you’re expecting Venus de Milo and Ernest Borgnine walks into the room.”

  “Right. Got it.” He opened the door. “Serena Knight?” he asked, poking his head around. Helen saw Stefan go goggle-eyed and sighed. She must be pretty bad, she thought.

  Stefan walked back in, his eyes still wide, with Serena behind him. “Holy crap,” whispered Helen unconsciously.

  The woman ran a hand through her long black hair, which reflected the light like a moonlit lake. Her face was a perfect, chiselled shape, the only colour added by some light powder. A shiny blue dress clung to her curved body. “Hi,” she said, utterly self-possessed, as if she weren’t auditioning but accepting an award. She gave Helen a sideways look that was all too familiar: pity, as if she were something lesser, an unfortunate accident, then gave a laughing smile clearly intended to charm, but it was too late.

  Stefan, missing this, asked her to sit down. Helen could see that he was taken with her. She thought perhaps his natural inclinations might have inured him to her effect, but no. He was a child of the media, and bought it all.

  “Sorry I’m so dressed up,” she said. “My boyfriend is coming by to take me out for dinner afterward.”

  “No problem,” said Stefan. “You look nice. Ha, ‘nice’. Not exactly the word. Um, hey, this is a great résumé. I know these shows—West City Beat, Glamour Squad.”

  “Those weren’t big parts. Well, I was a recurring on Glamour Squad. There was talk of my character joining the team. But then I died.”

  “I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”

  “They dropped a police car on me.”

  “Hmm. Pretty hard to recover from that. Oh, wow, it says here that you sing, too.”

  “Yeah, I did some backup vocals in studio for Stacey Hillman, The Hinges, Delonia Mackech—”

  “Hee,” laughed Helen. Stefan glared at her.

  “What?” asked Serena.

  “Nothing,” insisted Stefan. “So. What will you be doing for us today?”

  It surprised neither of them that she acted well. Her piece was calm and thoughtful, with several subtle shifts in it. They appreciated being spared a big emotional outburst, intentional or otherwise. Even Helen couldn’t deny that the woman had everything. When Stefan looked to her at the end of her piece, she nodded.

  “Here are the dates,” he said. “We’re paying scale and arranging accommodations. No per diem. Is this all okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, “I think this will be a good opportunity. So does that mean—?”

  Helen gave another nod. “Yeah, I’d like to offer you the lead female role, ‘Truna’.”

  “That’s great!” she said—happy, but not surprised. She stood. “So you can send the details to my agent. If he gives you any hassle, you just tell him I said I wanted this part.”

  “Great!” said Stefan. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you,” she said, standing. The door opened behind her. A tall man with huge arms
and a broad, defined chest walked in. His long black hair was full of ringlets. “Sorry,” Serena said to Helen and Stefan, “this is my boyfriend, Leonidas.”

  “How did it go?” he asked, touching her arm gently. They were both so attractive and enthralled with each other that their intimacy filled the room. Stefan and Helen felt like voyeurs.

  Serena faced away from them, but they could see her make little triumph fists at her side and hear her squeal. Leonidas smiled and took her under one of his arms, which flexed of its own accord. He waved to Helen and Stefan and led her from the room. “That’s great,” they heard him say, “let’s go have dinner, and then we can—” The door closed, sparing Stefan and Helen the rest.

  “Why is she free?” asked Helen, partly to herself.

  “Because there are more actors than there is work,” said Stefan.

  “For someone like her?”

  “Hm.”

  The door opened. “Hello?” asked a man about Stefan’s age. He bounded in. “Am I next?”

  “Uh,” said Stefan, reaching for his clipboard.

  “Chris Cook. I am next. It says so on the list outside. My asking was a formality.” He rushed up to the table and placed two cupcakes on it. He took two candles from his knapsack, stuck them into the cupcakes and lit them. As if letting them in on a secret, he whispered, “It’s a party.”

  They looked appropriately confused.

  “C’mon. Auditions are like funerals, but without the fun. Which would make them ‘erals’, wouldn’t it?” He laughed at this. “Go on! Blow them out!” he said, pointing at their cupcakes. Stefan hesitantly put Helen’s within her reach, then they blew out the candles.

  “Wasn’t that fun? I think every occasion should be a party.” He stood and flounced to the middle of the room and rubbed his hands through his strawberry-blonde hair. “Well,” he said, “aren’t you going to say ‘So what have you prepared for us today’ or something?”

  “Yeah,” said Stefan, uncomfortable with having this person running his audition, “I guess that’s what’s next.”