by Fritz Leiber
But I suppose Beau Lassiter considers anybody from north of Vicksburg a “rude fellow” and is always waiting for the day when the entire audience will arrive in carriage and democrat wagons.
Doc replied, holding down his white beard and heavy on the mongrel Russo-German accent he miraculously manages to suppress on stage except when “Vot does it matter? Ve don’t convinze zem, ve don’t convinze nobody. Nichevo.”
Maybe, I thought, Doc shares my doubts about making Macbeth plausible in rainbow pants.
Still unobserved by them, I looked between their shoulders and got the first of my shocks.
It wasn’t night at all, but afternoon. A dark cold lowering afternoon, admittedly. But afternoon all the same.
Sure, between shows I sometimes forget whether it’s day or night, living inside like I do. But getting matinees and evening performances mixed is something else again.
It also seemed to me, although Beau was leaning in now and I couldn’t see so well, that the glade was smaller than it should be, the trees closer to us and more irregular, and I couldn’t see the benches. That was Shock Two.
Beau said anxiously, glancing at his wrist, “I wonder what’s holding up the Queen?”
Although I was busy keeping up nerve-pressure against the shocks, I managed to think, So he knows about Siddy’s stupid Queen Elizabeth prologue too. But of course he would. It’s only me they keep in the dark. If he’s so smart he ought to remember that Miss Nefer is always the last person on stage, even when she opens the play.
And then I thought I heard, through the trees, the distant drumming of horses’ hoofs and the sound of a horn.
Now they do have horseback riding in Central Park and you can hear auto horns there, but the hoofbeats don’t drum that wild way. And there aren’t so many riding together. And no auto horn I ever heard gave out with that sweet yet imperious ta-ta-ta-TA.
I must have squeaked or something, because Beau and Doc turned around quickly, blocking my view, their expressions half angry, half anxious.
I turned too and ran for the dressing room, for I could feel one of my mind-wavery fits coming on. At the last second it had seemed to me that the scenery was getting skimpier, hardly more than thin trees and bushes itself, and underfoot feeling more like ground than a ground cloth, and overhead not theater roof but gray sky. Shock Three and you’re out, Greta, my umpire was calling.
I made it through the dressing room door and nothing there was wavering or dissolving, praised be Pan. Just Martin standing with his back to me, alert, alive, poised like a cat inside that green dress, the prompt book in his right hand with a finger in it, and from his left hand long black tatters swinging—telling me he’d still be doubling Second Witch. And he was hissing, “Places, please, everybody. On stage!” With a sweep of silver and ash-colored plush, Miss Nefer came past him, for once leading the last-minute hurry to the stage. She had on the dark red wig now. For me that crowned her characterization. It made me remember her saying, “My brain bums.” I ducked aside as if she were majesty incarnate.
And then she didn’t break her own precedent. She stopped at the new thing beside the door and posed her long white skinny fingers over the yellowed keys, and suddenly I remembered what it was called: a virginals.
She stared down at it fiercely, evilly, like a witch planning an enchantment. Her face got the secret fiendish look that, I told myself, the real Elizabeth would have had ordering the deaths of Ballard and Babington, or plotting with Drake (for all they say she didn’t) one of his raids, that long long forefinger tracing crooked courses through a crabbedly drawn map of the Indies and she smiling at the dots of cities that would bum.
Then all her eight fingers came flickering down and the strings inside the virginals began to twang and hum with a high-pitched rendering of Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King.”
Then as Sid and Bruce and Martin rushed past me, along with a black swooping that was Maud already robed and hooded for Third Witch, I beat it for my sleeping closet like Peer Gynt himself dashing across the mountainside away from the cave of the Troll King, who only wanted to make tiny slits in his eyeballs so that forever afterwards he’d see reality just a little differently. And as I ran, the master-anachronism of that menacing mad march music was shrilling in my ears.
III
Sound a dumbe shew. Enter the three fatall sisters, with a rocke, a threed, and a pair of sheeres.
—Old Play
My sleeping closet is just a cot at the back end of the girls’ third of the dressing room, with a three-panel screen to make it private.
When I sleep I hang my outside clothes on the screen, which is pasted and thumbtacked all over with the New York City stuff that gives me security: theater programs and restaurant menus, clippings from the Times and the Mirror, a torn-out picture of the United Nations building with a hundred tiny gay paper flags pasted around it, and hanging in an old hairnet a home-run baseball autographed by Willy Mays. Things like that.
Right now I was jumping my eyes over that stuff, asking it to keep me located and make me safe, as I lay on my cot in my clothes with my knees drawn up and my fingers over my ears so the louder lines from the play wouldn’t be able to come nosing back around the trunks and tables and bright-lit mirrors and find me. Generally I like to listen to them, even if they’re sort of sepulchral and drained of overtones by their crooked trip. But they’re always tense-making. And tonight (I mean this afternoon)—no!
It’s funny I should find security in mementos of a city I daren’t go out into—no, not even for a stroll through Central Park, though I know it from the Pond to Harlem Meer—the Met Museum, the Menagerie, the Ramble, the Great Lawn, Cleopatra’s Needle, and all the rest. But that’s the way it is. Maybe I’m like Jonah in the whale, reluctant to go outside because the whale’s a terrible monster that’s awful scary to look in the face and might really damage you gulping you a second time, yet reassured to know you’re living in the stomach of that particular monster and not a seventeen tentacled one from the fifth planet of Aldebaran.
It’s really true, you see, about me actually living in the dressing room. The boys bring me meals: coffee in cardboard cylinders and doughnuts in little brown grease-spotted paper sacks and malts and hamburgers and apples and little pizzas, and Maud brings me raw vegetables—carrots and parsnips and little onions and such, and watches to make sure I exercise my molars grinding them and get my vitamins. I take spit-baths in the little john. Architects don’t seem to think actors ever take baths, even when they’ve browned themselves all over playing Pindarus the Parthian in Julius Caesar. And all my shut-eye is caught on this little cot in the twilight of my NYC screen.
You’d think I’d be terrified being alone in the dressing room during the wee and morning hours, let alone trying to sleep then, but that isn’t the way it works out. For one thing, there’s apt to be someone sleeping in too. Maudie especially. And it’s my favorite time too for costume-mending and reading the Variorum and other books, and for just plain wayout dreaming. You see, the dressing room is the one place I really do feel safe. Whatever is out there in New York that terrorizes me, I’m pretty confident that it can never get in here.
Besides that, there’s a great big bolt on the inside of the dressing room door that I throw whenever I’m all alone after the show. Next day they buzz for me to open it.
It worried me a bit at first and I had asked Sid, “But what if I’m so deep asleep I don’t hear and you have to get in fast?” and he replied, “Sweetling, a word in your ear: our own Beauregard Lassiter is the prettiest picklock unjailed since Jimmy Valentine and Jimmy Dale. I’ll not ask where he learned his trade, but ’tis sober truth, upon my honor.”
And Beau had confirmed this with a courtly bow, murmuring, “At your service, Miss Greta.”
“How do you jigger a big iron bolt through a three-inch door that fits like Maudie’s tights?” I wanted to know.
“He carries lodestones of great power and divers subtle to
ols,” Sid had explained for him.
I don’t know how they work it so that some Traverse-Three cop or park official doesn’t find out about me and raise a stink. Maybe Sid just throws a little more of the temperament he uses to keep most outsiders out of the dressing-room. We sure don’t get any janitors or scrubwomen, as Martin and I know only too well. More likely he squares someone. I do get the impression all the company’s gone a little way out on a limb letting me stay here—that the directors of our theater wouldn’t like it if they found out about me.
In fact, the actors are all so good about helping me and putting up with my antics (though they have their own, Danu digs!) that I sometimes think I must be related to one of them—a distant cousin or sister-in-law (or wife, my God!), because I’ve checked our faces side by side in the mirrors often enough and I can’t find any striking family resemblances. Or maybe I was even an actress in the company. The least important one. Playing the tiniest roles like Lucius in Caesar and Bianca in Othello and one of the little princes in Dick the Three Eyes and Fleance and the Gentlewoman in Macbeth, though me doing even that much acting strikes me to laugh.
But whatever I am in that direction—if I’m anything—not one of the actors has told me a word about it or dropped the least hint. Not even when I beg them to tell me or try to trick them into it, presumably because it might revive the shock that gave me agoraphobia and amnesia in the first place, and maybe this time knock out my entire mind or at least smash the new mouse-in-a-hole consciousness I’ve made for myself.
I guess they must have got by themselves a year ago and talked me over and decided my best chance for cure or for just bumping along half happily was staying in the dressing room rather than being sent home (funny, could I have another?) or to a mental hospital. And then they must have been cocky enough about their amateur psychiatry and interested enough in me (the White Horse knows why) to go ahead with a program almost any psychiatrist would be bound to yike at.
I got so worried about the set up once and about the risks they might be running that, gritting down my dread of the idea, I said to Sid, “Siddy, shouldn’t I see a doctor?”
He looked at me solemnly for a couple of seconds and then said, “Sure, why not? Go talk to Doc right now,” tipping a thumb toward Doc Pyeskov, who was just sneaking back into the bottom of his makeup box what looked like a half pint from the flash I got. I did, incidentally. Doc explained to me Kraepelin’s classification of the psychoses, muttering, as he absentmindedly fondled my wrist, that in a year or two he’d be a good illustration of Korsakov’s Syndrome.
They’ve all been pretty dam good to me in their kooky ways, the actors have. Not one of them has tried to take advantage of my situation to extort anything out of me, beyond asking me to sew on a button or polish some boots or at worst clean the wash bowl. Not one of the boys has made a pass I didn’t at least seem to invite. And when my crush on Sid was at its worst he shouldered me off by getting polite—something he only is to strangers. On the rebound I hit Beau, who treated me like a real Southern gentleman.
All this for a stupid little waif, whom anyone but a gang of sentimental actors would have sent to Bellevue without a second thought or feeling. For, to get disgustingly realistic, my most plausible theory of me is that I’m a stage-struck girl from Iowa who saw her twenties slipping away and her sanity too, and made the dash to Greenwich Village, and went so ape on Shakespeare after seeing her first performance in Central Park that she kept going back there night after night (Christopher Street, Penn Station, Times Square, Columbus Circle—see?) and hung around the stage door, so mousy but open-mouthed that the actors made a pet of her.
And then something very nasty happened to her, either down at the Village or in a dark corner of the Park. Something so nasty that it blew the top of her head right off. And she ran to the only people and place where she felt she could ever feel safe. And she showed them the top of her head with its singed hair and its jagged ring of skull and they took pity.
My least plausible theory of me, but the one I like the most, is that I was born in the dressing room, cradled in the top of a flat theatrical trunk with my ears full of Shakespeare’s lines before I ever said “Mama,” let alone lamped a TV; hush-walked when I cried by whoever was off stage, old props my first toys, trying to eat crepe hair my first indiscretion, sticks of greasepaint my first crayons. You know, I really wouldn’t be bothered by crazy fears about New York changing and the dressing room shifting around in space and time, if I could be sure I’d always be able to stay in it and that the same sweet guys and gals would always be with me and that the shows would always go on.
This show was sure going on, it suddenly hit me, for I’d let my fingers slip off my ears as I sentimentalized and wish-dreamed and I heard, muted by the length and stuff of the dressing room, the slow beat of a drum and then a drum note in Maudie’s voice taking up that beat as she warned the other two witches, “A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.”
Why, I’d not only missed Sid’s history-making-and-breaking Queen Elizabeth prologue (kicking myself that I had, now it was over), I’d also missed the short witch scene with its famous “Fair is foul and foul is fair,” the Bloody Sergeant scene where Duncan hears about Macbeth’s victory, and we were well into the second witch scene, the one on the blasted heath where Macbeth gets it predicted to him he’ll be king after Duncan and is tempted to speculate about hurrying up the process.
I sat up. I did hesitate a minute then, my fingers going back toward my ears, because Macbeth is specially tense-making and when I’ve had one of my mind-wavery fits I feel weak for a while and things are blurry and uncertain. Maybe I’d better take a couple of the barbiturate sleeping pills Maudie manages to get for me and—but No, Greta, I told myself, you want to watch this show, you want to see how they do in those crazy costumes. You especially want to see how Martin makes out. He’d never forgive you if you didn’t.
So I walked to the other end of the empty dressing room, moving quite slowly and touching the edges here and there, the words of the play getting louder all the time. By the time I got to the door Bruce-Banquo was saying to the witches, “If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not,”—those lines that stir anyone’s imagination with their veiled vision of the universe.
The overall lighting was a little dim (afternoon fading already?—a late matinee?) and the stage lights flickery and the scenery still a little spectral-flimsy. Oh, my mind-wavery fits can be lulus!. But I concentrated on the actors, watching them through the entrance-gaps in the wings. They were solid enough.
Giving a solid performance, too, as I decided after watching that scene through and the one after it where Duncan congratulates Macbeth, with never a pause between the two scenes in true Elizabethan style. Nobody was laughing at the colorful costumes. After a while I began to accept them myself.
Oh, it was a different Macbeth than our company usually does. Louder and faster, with shorter pauses between speeches, the blank verse at times approaching a chant. But it had a lot of real guts and everybody was just throwing themselves into it, Sid especially.
The first Lady Macbeth scene came. Without exactly realizing it I moved forward to where I’d been when I got my three shocks. Martin is so intent on his career and making good that he has me the same way about it.
The Thaness started off, as she always does, toward the opposite side of the stage and facing a little away from me. Then she moved a step and looked down at the stage-parchment letter in her hands and began to read it, though there was nothing on it but scribble, and my heart sank because the voice I heard was Miss Nefer’s. I thought (and almost said out loud) Oh, dammit, he funked out, or Sid decided at the last minute he couldn’t trust him with the part. Whoever got Miss Nefer out of the ice cream cone in time?
Then she swung around and I saw that no, my God, it was Martin, no mistaking. He’d been using her voice. When a person first does a part, especially getting up in it withou
t much rehearsing, he’s bound to copy the actor he’s been hearing doing it. And as I listened on, I realized it was fundamentally Martin’s own voice pitched a trifle high, only some of the intonations and rhythms were Miss Nefer’s. He was showing a lot of feeling and intensity too and real Martin-type poise. You’re off to a great start kid, I cheered inwardly. Keep it up!
Just then I looked toward the audience. Once again I almost squeaked out loud. For out there, close to the stage, in the very middle of the reserve section, was a carpet spread out. And sitting in the middle of it on some sort of little chair, with what looked like two charcoal braziers smoking to either side of her, was Miss Nefer with a string of extras in Elizabethan hats with cloaks pulled around them.
For a second it really threw me because it reminded me of the things I’d seen or thought I’d seen the couple of times I’d sneaked a peek through the curtain-hole at the audience in the indoor auditorium.
It hardly threw me for more than a second, though, because I remembered that the characters who speak Shakespeare’s prologues often stay on stage and sometimes kind of join the audience and even comment on the play from time to time—Christopher Sly and attendant lords in The Shrew, for one. Sid had just copied and in his usual style laid it on thick.
Well, bully for you, Siddy, I thought, I’m sure the witless New York groundlings will be thrilled to their cold little toes knowing they’re sitting in the same audience as Good Queen Liz and attendant courtiers. And as for you, Miss Nefer, I added a shade invidiously, you just keep on sitting cold in Central Park, warmed by dry-ice smoke from braziers, and keep your mouth shut and everything’ll be fine. I’m sincerely glad you’ll be able to be Queen Elizabeth all night long. Just so long as you don’t try to steal the scene from Martin and the rest of the cast, and the real play.
I suppose that camp chair will get a little uncomfortable by the time the Fifth Act comes tramping along to that drumbeat, but I’m sure you’re so much in character you’ll never feel it.
