Now the riding arena is a theater and the mess is most of the student body. I had ten kids from the ages of ten to eighteen, boys and girls. A mix of English-speaking and French. The English speakers were from both England and the United States. I think I can go on record that none of them were exactly jailbait. They all seemed to be slow developers. The ten-year-olds were among the most mature. The rest were struggling with acne and overweight bodies. Or maybe they had been selected for me because of their uniformly loser qualities. Why do many of the children of well-to-do people want to be in the theater? Just because Dina Merrill made it shouldn’t be an inspiration. She is a great beauty and although the money came from her mother, Marjorie Merriweather Post, she could really act and no one knew she was rich. Most of her public, anyway. At any rate, there were no Dinas among my little crew, all present for a class called “Theatrical Movement.”
The kids sat on the edge of the stage; I stood in front of them. “Let’s get ourselves lined up in order of height,” I said. They all stood up obediently, and I indicated with my finger who should move where until I had them all in order of size.
One little girl lifted her hand, “Shouldn’t we be separated into boys and girls?”
“Why would you like that?” I said, not too friendly.
“Because our bodies are so different and we’ll play very different kinds of roles.”
“Your bodies aren’t so different,” I said, looking at her flat little body. “At least not yet.”
What in the hell was I going to do with them? The most they could hope for was a crowd scene or being a dead body during a battle. If we ever got around to battles.
“How many of you can sing?” I said. Of course they all raised their hands.
“All right. Let’s do movement for singers. Let’s all pretend we’re in an old Jane Powell or Deanna Durbin movie and we’re the friends who march along behind Jane or Deanna singing vigorously.” Yes, I used the word “vigorously.” I don’t know what was getting into me.
“What will we sing?” the little flat little girl wanted to know.
“How about a Beatles’ song? I know that’s long before your time, but maybe you know ‘We All Live in a Yellow Submarine.’ Come on, let’s march around the theater here. Follow me.”
So I started singing “Yellow Submarine,” which fortunately only has the words “We all live in a yellow submarine.” In order of height they marched behind me singing loudly, and once we had marched around the theater I could think of nothing better than marching them out the open door and around the Abbey grounds. At least this will be good for weight loss, I thought, and then marched them out of the Abbey grounds and down the little main street of Cornichons. It certainly brought the shopkeepers to their doors, me looking even more of a fool than the kids. It was a hot day, and there was a lot of perspiration flying about. It was good for the fatties. Henrietta, Little Miss Thin Body, was, of course, right behind me, strutting and shouting without a drop of moisture. She’s probably headed toward being the first female president of the United States, the little bitch. She should have been back at the far end of the line.
I saw Toca Sacar sitting at the café near the Abbey gates as we marched by, so after the march about and a little lie down to dry out their unattractive bodies I let them go and went over to have a cup of coffee with Toca. My petite nemesis Henrietta said, “It hasn’t been an hour yet.” But then ran out the door when I said, “Would you like a second march around town? This time we’ll sing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’”
Toca was sitting with a good-looking young man. Very dark hair. His unusual green-gray eyes had the look of an intelligent animal. “This is Steve Strapontin,” he said. Gesturing toward me, “Hugo Bianchi.” Steve was a perfect gentleman and stood up to shake hands. Don’t you think that’s the first clue that a young man’s not going to make it when he doesn’t know the rules well enough to stand up when shaking hands? If he stays seated to shake hands you know you can forget all about him. On every level. He’s headed for a nice lifetime job at the hometown high school.
Steve had gotten that part right. Firm handshake. Nice smile. Conservative clothes from some Italian name. Impossible to know where he was from. “Where are you from?” I said as I sat down. The nice man who runs the café already knew that I wanted an espresso and brought one out. Before Steve could answer Toca said, “Steve’s here to do the lead in The Red Mill. He can really sing. I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
“Are you kidding? I’m thrilled,” I said to Steve. “I don’t have much of a voice. I’ll be fine in the chorus.”
Toca said, “No, you’ll play the best friend. You get one song.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
“I’m from Germany,” Steve Strapontin said without a hint of any accent.
“You have no accent at all,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
“Steve also speaks French, Spanish, and Italian,” Toca said proudly, as though he personally had taught Steve. Or was Steve’s mother. Obviously Toca had a letch for Steve. But then Toca had a letch for almost anyone. He had his arm draped possessively across the back of Steve’s chair. Steve sat straight up with his elbows on the table. His body language was ignoring Toca, even if he wasn’t. I wondered if Toca ever had a lover. He was acting like a love-struck seventeen-year-old who had never had a date.
Toca said, “I think that was great what you did with the kids. They thought it was exercise, but actually you were training them not to be self-conscious. Marching them through the village like that with everyone staring. That was brilliant.” He smiled approvingly. I had obviously been replaced in the romance department. Now I was the young teacher under his supervision. Toca was always living in the movie of his own life.
I learned that Steve lived in Paris. He had been working as a model. I could see that with those strange eyes he would do well. He had done some Off-Broadway in New York. He didn’t say what. He had been on the road in Bye-Bye Birdie. Toca seemed to know all this.
“Your name sounds French,” I said. Toca had pronounced it with a good accent. Toca spoke French well. Where he learned it God only knows. “My family was Huguenot. They went to Germany way back when. Long before there was any Germany. They went to Westphalia. About the only thing we kept was the name. I don’t think I have much French blood.”
“But you speak French?”
“Hardly at all. We never spoke French at home. That was lost long ago.”
“You have unusual eyes.”
“I think that’s from my Russian grandmother. She fled Russia during World War II and got involved with my grandfather who was a soldier. I think he actually brought her out of Russia. They didn’t get married until a long time after my father was born.”
I said, “Is your father as handsome as you are?”
Steve said, “Am I handsome? Whatever I am, my father is much better looking.”
“What does he do?” I said.
“He’s an accountant. He lives with my mom in Augsberg.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
Steve hesitated a moment.
I said, “Brothers and sisters.”
“One sister. She’s married and lives in Augsberg, too.”
Toca said, “You probably want to know if there are any more like him wandering around on the earth.”
“No, Toca,” I said, “I was just placing him. I always want to know certain things about people. Like where their parents met.”
“My parents met on the Autoroute,” Steve said. “My mother picked up my father, who was hitchhiking. She was with some other girls. He was in the army at the time. He was something in that uniform.”
“What about your parents?” I asked Toca. I didn’t want to seem to be concentrating too exclusively on Steve.
“My parents?” Toca said. His tone suggested he didn’t have any parents. “I think they always knew each other. They’re cousins.”
“Oh, God, Toca,”
I said. “That explains so much.”
“That I’m crazy,” he said. “It sure cuts down on ancestors when your parents are cousins. When you get to your great-grandparents the family tree gets pretty simple.” He laughed. “They are so much alike they could only have one kind of child. I’m exactly like them.”
“They’re both gay?” I said.
“Who said I was gay?” Toca said.
“Hello,” I said.
Steve broke in. “What are some of your other questions you like to ask people?”
“My favorite is ‘What were your teenage masturbation fantasies?’” I said.
“Men,” Steve said with no hesitation.
“I don’t know. I didn’t masturbate much. Hardly at all,” Toca said. “Not until I was about eighteen or so.”
“Really?” I said. “Think of what you have missed. Mae West said, ‘There’s no substitute for experience. Except being sixteen.’” I didn’t want to get into it. At sixteen I didn’t have time to masturbate considering what was going on in my private life. But I certainly wasn’t going to wave that in Toca’s face.
“Are you going to the Abbey?” Steve said, starting to get up from the table.
“I am as a matter of fact. Do you already have your room there?”
“Yes. Toca was nice enough to show me to it. I need to unpack.” Turning to Toca, “Didn’t you say there was a meeting at six o’clock?”
“Here, Toca.” I put some francs on the table. “This is for my coffee.” He was fumbling in his pockets. “We’ll see you later.” I could tell he was ready to kill me for making off with Steve.
We walked away quickly as though we were conspirators. The conspiring young against the older.
“Actually, I don’t have a room in the Abbey. I have a room across the street. I just wanted to come to your room with you,” I said. Steve turned the doorknob and opened his door.
“You’re right across the street?” he said, as I walked into the room behind him. No one locked doors at the Abbey. It was something like a mixed fraternity and sorority house. I went over to the window and looked out. Before I could turn around he was pressed against me from behind with his arms around me. He pressed his lips against my neck, and one hand reached for my crotch. We stood that way for a moment. “The door is open,” I said.
Without speaking he backed up with me still held tightly and kicked the door shut.
“What should we do next?” I said.
“What would you like to do?” His voice was muffled against my neck. I was stiffening under his hand. I put my own hand behind me. He was already hard. Very hard. As I took my hand away he pressed against me.
“I want to take your clothes off,” I said. I walked over to the bed. I turned around and put my arms around his neck and kissed him. Steve was a good kisser. No tongue. But very warm lips. He had full lips but not the kind that look like they’re stuffed with something. Cul de poule they call it in French. “Chicken ass.”
When lovers fall down on a bed in each other’s arms it is always awkward, particularly if they are two sizable men. Steve and I were very much the same size. Could probably wear each other’s clothes. I pushed him on his back and pulled his T-shirt up over his head. He was very passive about it. Beautiful torso, natch. Like a dancer’s. I love that. I love muscles that look like they do something. That aren’t just there, all puffed up with no particular use in mind.
I turned around on the bed and knelt to untie his shoelaces. He began to open my pants as I did so. I always want the shoes and socks off before the pants. There’s something really ridiculous about a man with nothing on but his shoes and socks. Particularly if they’re not wearing sweat socks. Black ankle-clingers and oxfords. I don’t think so. Like an old porn film. Did people think that was sexy?
He had my pants open and pulled down and jockey shorts also as I got his shoes and socks off and thrown on the floor. He put me in his mouth. I continued on with business as usual. With my knees on either side of his head I undid his jeans. He wore no belt. I pulled his jeans down. He lifted his hips to make it easier. It was a very sexy movement. He was wearing jockey shorts, too. I pulled them off his extremely stiff stiffie. Pretty great. I put it in my mouth as I pushed his jeans and shorts down his legs. He pushed them off with his feet. I laid down on him and felt the two thrills at the same time. I don’t usually like this kind of thing all that much. I don’t know which to concentrate on. Sort of like trying to make a circle in front of your chest and pat your head at the same time. It takes so much concentration you really can’t relax. With Steve it was different; who knows why?
Steve pushed me over on my back and turned around, his feet on the pillow. “I think I am going to have to fuck you,” he said. I pulled him down on top of me. He kissed me with a lot of concentration. I put my arms around his shoulders. They were very hard. Much harder than the smoothness of his body would have suggested. He didn’t have much body hair. The German part. His cock was between my legs and moving.
“What about a rubber?” I said in his ear.
“There’s one in my jeans,” he said, reaching for them. I have to say he was excellent. When you’re beginning to make love with someone and they have to get up to . . . pull off their shoes, go to the bathroom, get a rubber, get the lube, whatever . . . is always that bad moment that requires the suspension of disbelief. Steve wasn’t letting that happen. That cock was pushing in and out and that mouth was on mine while his hand was reaching out for his jeans at the foot of the bed. He found it. He stopped kissing for just a moment to tear it open with his teeth. It was on very expertly with one hand.
He pulled away. He reached down and pulled my feet up. My shoes were still on, my pants and shorts around my ankles. He left them that way and put himself against the backs of my legs. I’m supple. All those dance classes even if I can’t dance.
He was pushing his way in. Very gently. Softly. He was all the way in. He lay there. “That’s so great,” he said in my ear. He was kissing me again somehow, over my trapped ankles. I reached up and got my sneakers off, leaving my socks on. And then got one foot out of my pants and shorts so I could open my legs. I put them around his back. He started to work.
He pulled away a little bit to look at me. “I’ll know when you’re starting to come by the look in your eyes,” he said. And he kept looking at me and I at him. This whole thing was as though we were very much in love, and I didn’t even know this German freak who was fucking my brains out. “How do I get into these things?” I asked myself. He came at the same time as I did. He buried his face in my neck but the groaning was pretty loud. If Toca was outside the door he was going to hear.
He stayed hard inside me long after he was finished. I thought perhaps he had gone to sleep. I held him firmly in my arms until finally it slipped out. He still lay there a long time. “You’re very sweet,” he said, looking at me as he pushed his body up a little. I said nothing but just patted him on the back. He shifted off my body and lay beside me, one leg over me. “I could really do that all over again,” he said resting his head on one hand, his elbow bent, looking at me.
“Could you?” I said. “But now it’s almost six, and there is a meeting to go to. Someone may throw the door open at any moment to tell us to get ready.”
“I’d rather fuck,” Steve said.
“Who wouldn’t?” I said. Then he took his shorts and cleaned up, pulling on his pants without any underpants as we clambered off the bed.
“I hope we’re going to be doing more of that,” he said.
“Let’s not talk about it,” I said. “Let’s just see what happens.” I kicked his underpants under the bed. No use letting the world know what had just gone down.
Why I Like the Theater
I think acting is really a man’s profession because you are constantly risking failure. Maria Callas said, “The audience is the enemy. They must be beaten into submission.” I think they can be charmed into submission also.
But
every time you stand in the wings waiting to go on is like running out on a tight rope. The nightmare of suddenly losing focus and forgetting your lines hangs forever over every stage in the world. And suddenly you will not be playing your role but will simply be yourself, standing in front of hundreds of strangers with no idea of why you are there. Standing with other players on the stage who are looking at you, waiting for you to continue so they can continue, sometimes having the presence of mind to step forward and ask you a question that is in fact your next line, and if that is enough you grasp it like a falling man grasps a windowsill and you pull yourself back up and go on. This is the thrill, this is the challenge, so that when the curtain finally comes down, it is with a sense of great relief. You have reached the other side of the tightrope.
It’s all about concentration really. You can think of nothing else. Thoughts about finishing the laundry, or if you are truly in love with someone, or your mother’s telephone call, must all be rudely suppressed. The blinders must go on. You can think of nothing but the lines that you are to deliver next.
I have seen actors with many years of experience pacing up and down the hall running the lines of their next scene in a play they have had down a hundred times. Not because they are forgetful, but because the mind is a tricky thing. It can desert you without notice no matter how much training you have had, no matter how many years you have worked or how many times you have played the role.
Peter O’Toole and Richard Burton were once playing Becket in London, and to keep themselves on their toes they exchanged roles every night. One night Peter was Becket and Richard the king. And the next night they exchanged roles. One night they suddenly stopped dead in the middle of a scene. The moment stretched on. The audience became restless. Finally Burton turned to the audience and said, “It’s not that we’ve forgotten our lines. It’s just that we’ve forgotten which character we are tonight.” This must be apocryphal because someone must have been wearing a crown, but the concept is there. You must constantly corral your reluctant mind and force it to not let you down. How well can you act the role is quite secondary to simply remembering it. This is something a civilian never knows about, never understands.
Love in the Loire Page 5
