Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  He was also seeing some chefs, which helped take his mind off the girls and brought him nearer to his goal. In fact Emilio thought he had found a chief chef and possibly one assistant. If he completed the arrangements with the chief chef by next week they could get down to the real planning, the part he liked best, the kitchen organization and preparation of menus. Next week would be good.

  But he was now faced with this afternoon, the afternoon he had dreaded all week. Each morning, Emilio’s wife, Doris, a dark-haired woman of twenty-nine, still a firm-boned beauty and ten years his junior, packed a neat cold meal, consumed by the restaurateur at his desk and washed down with half a bottle of wine. That was each morning until today, for today he had lunched in the permanent staff cafeteria, and this afternoon he would have to face the permanent staff cafeteria manageress, Mrs. Doul, a lean razor-faced, forty-year-old widow who had once supervised the catering at a well-known boys’ preparatory school and never forgot it.

  For Emilio, the lunch in the permanent staff cafeteria was all kinds of hell and he knew at once why Mr. Silver had told him that he never ate there. To begin with, Emilio deplored the idea of collecting your own food from a greasy self-service counter. To have lunch pushed at you, with hardly a second choice, and by people whose enthusiasm was barely sub-liminal, had been the depth of humiliation. He had grabbed the badly typed menu from the counter and demanded, ‘What is da soupa da day?’ his usually perfect English lapsing into caricature, ice cream man, Italian as it always did when he was nervous or angry.

  The large white-grey overalled woman, who was serving behind the counter and hot plates, eyed him up and down, then shouted to a colleague who could not be seen.

  ‘Lil, is the soup of the day the same as yesterday? The veg?’

  Lil responded in the affirmative and Emilio and asked for the tomato juice. He also chose the lamb which arrived dry and cold, trying to fight off the swash of soggy mashed potato and cabbage. Two mouthfuls told him all he needed to know, though the taste and memory lingered with him as he sat at his desk, one hand on the telephone, the other on the little typed cardboard list of internal telephone numbers, checking, for the tenth time, that Mrs. Doul, permanent staff canteen manageress, was 456. He took a deep breath and dialled. The ringing tone came on and continued for some time until someone picked up the instrument and said, ‘Yes,’ sharply.

  ‘Ah. Mrs. Doul?’ Emilio asked nervously.

  ‘Mrs. Doul speaking.’

  ‘Ah. Mrs. Doul, this is Emilio Benneto.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Benneto. Emilio Benneto. I am the theatre restaurateur.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes I heard you were coming up here. You used to run that little coffee place in Mead Street didn’t you?’

  The tone was patronizing and a tiny flare of anger flamed and burned Emilio. ‘I used to do a lot of things. Mrs. Doul. But now I am the theatre restaurateur.’

  ‘Yes.’ Without interest.

  ‘I wonder if you would be good enough to step over to my office. It is at the back of the new restaurant.’

  There was a pause which Emilio recognized as one of shock.

  ‘Well Mr...er...Mr. Benneto...I’m rather busy at the moment. My orders you know. The food for tomorrow.’

  ‘I would still like to talk with you. It is a matter of some importance.’

  ‘So are my orders.’

  ‘With respect, Mrs. Doul, I am in charge now and we have to talk.’

  Again the shocked pause. ‘In charge? In charge of what and whom may I ask?’

  ‘I am in charge of all catering at the Shireston Festival, Mrs. Doul, and I must ask you to come over to my office.’

  ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it. I don’t think you understand the way things are done down here, Mr. Benneto, I...’ She paused, this time to make an impression. ‘I am the permanent staff cafeteria manageress, and as such I am answerable only to the executive director, Mr. David Wills. Until two weeks ago I was answerable to Mr. Alec Keene, the house manager, but that’s been altered. You, Mr. Benneto, have never been mentioned, so I presume that I am still only answerable to Mr. David Wills, and from Mr. David Wills I will take my orders.’

  ‘But...’ Emilio Benneto clutched at the telephone in frustration.

  ‘And Mr. Wills has, so far, seen fit not to interfere with the running of the permanent staff cafeteria. Good afternoon Mr. Benneto.’

  There was a thump, followed by the dialling tone. Emilio looked at the instrument as though it had personally assaulted him. The small confrontation made him angry. It also showed that there were flaws in the organization. Emilio Benneto did not like flaws. He was asked to do a job and part of that job had been explained to him as a very difficult task, that of reorganizing the permanent staff cafeteria: to do this he needed backing and authority. Either Mrs. Doul had not been made aware of his authority or she was flouting it.

  Emilio dialled Adrian Rolfe’s number. Mr. Rolfe’s secretary came on and said that he was with somebody, so Emilio told her that it was most urgent. At last—

  ‘Adrian Rolfe.’ Whatever his mood, Adrian had long acquired the habit of answering the telephone with a soft, calm voice.

  ‘Mr. Rolfe, it is Emilio here. Emilio Benneto. I have great difficulty.’

  ‘And I have someone with me, so if you could make it quick.’ Rolfe flashed a smile at his visitor, a tall, white-haired man with a thin moustache and a suit which suggested shabby elegance. The visitor, who had only just been seated, returned the smile with a nod meant to convey that he quite understood about the interruption.

  ‘Mr. Rolfe,’ said Emilio with as much Latin charm as he could muster on the telephone, ‘when I talked last with Mr. Silver he ask me if I will take over reorganization of the permanent staff cafeteria. I say yes, and you tell me that I have overall charge of all catering staff and arrangements at Shireston Festival. Right?’

  ‘Right.’ Rolfe still quiet, though he now had a rough idea of what was coming.

  ‘Today I eat at the cafeteria, Mr. Rolfe, and it is a terrible experience. So this afternoon I call the manageress to my office: I call Mrs. Doul.’

  ‘She refuse to come. She say I have no authority and that she is answerable only to Mr. Wills. How can I work like that, Mr. Rolfe? I am right am I not? I have authority?’

  ‘You’re quite right.’ Rolfe spoke quickly now. ‘The fact of your position and authority here has obviously not been passed down the line. Where are you speaking from?’

  ‘My office.’

  ‘Someone will call you. Just sit tight. It’ll all be ironed out. Okay?’

  ‘If you say so, Mr. Rolfe.’

  Rolfe replaced the telephone and with a shrug excused himself. In the outer office he hissed to his secretary, ‘Get the director on the phone. If he’s not in his office track him down, but get him; and when you’ve got him, call me out, I can’t talk in front of journalists.’

  His secretary was already dialling as Rolfe closed the door on himself and his visitor.

  Adrian Rolfe had a special interest in this particular visitor whose name was Hedley Moir.

  A couple of weeks before, Tony Holt had mentioned the existence of the Shireston Festival Society. Holt had been digging around and discovered that the society still held meetings, even though their contact with the festival had, in the last six or seven years, become merely nominal. They had, Tony said, a reputation of being difficult and their chairman was a man named Hedley Moir.

  Adrian recognized the name at once, for Hedley Moir was also the editor of the Shireston Gazette, the little weekly newspaper which still operated, serving the area well, even though it was engulfed in a large, centrally operated chain of newspapers.

  The Shireston Gazette had devoted half of its front page and a double page inside spread to the festival’s plans, so when Moir had called Adrian that morning the chief of publicity had arranged a meeting straight away. Adrian Rolfe knew well enough what use both the local newspaper and a festival so
ciety could be. He was prepared to smooth any edges and iron out any bumps for Mr. Hedley Moir.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ Rolfe resumed his seat behind the desk. ‘I’m afraid I might get called out again in a few minutes. Reorganization has its problems.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’ Moir had a clipped manner. Like his moustache, thought Rolfe.

  The publicity man leaned his elbows on the desk and smiled pleasantly. ‘I’d like to say, first of all, Mr. Moir, that you and any members of your staff are always welcome here. Now that we have a young administration at the Shireston we hope to make a lot of friends in the town and among local people in general.’

  Moir let out a long sigh. ‘That’s really what I wanted to talk to you about.’ He placed his briefcase on his knee and began to open it. ‘You are aware of the chain to which our newspaper is tied?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you will appreciate that we are bound by certain group policies.’

  Adrian nodded, neither of them needed to mention the Sunday newspaper which was the cornerstone of that particular group: it was a paper noted for its in-depth, news grubbing and its drilling to the core of small sensations, blowing them, if it felt necessary, into vast and important issues.

  ‘Then you will understand that I am absolutely obliged to send certain stories direct to London.’ Moir was looking up over his eyelids in a vaguely unpleasant manner. Adrian was conscious of intrigue.

  ‘What is it Mr. Moir?’

  Moir began to remove papers from the briefcase. ‘Nothing of great import, Mr. Rolfe. We gave you a pretty good spread last week, yes?’

  ‘As did most of the nationals. It was big news for Shireston.’

  ‘Quite, and I don’t suppose the nationals received any correspondence like this.’ He passed a small pile of papers across the desk. Adrian took them and settled back to see what was obviously making the newspaperman feel so smug. The man’s attitude was becoming more and more apparent to Adrian, as though some bad odour had seeped under the door with Hedley Moir’s advent, so that the smell now built up to considerable proportions.

  Adrian turned his attention to the bundle of papers in his hand. They were letters, about a dozen of them, on a varied array of notepapers: azure, white, grey: expensive, cheap and thin, lined and unlined. They were all addressed to the editor of the Shireston Gazette and the one on top of the pile spoke for the rest, even though it was the shortest and not the most intelligent.

  Dear Sir,

  While it is always good to hear that the Living Theatre is to have an injection of much needed financial aid, there are some disturbing elements regarding the forthcoming plans for the Shireston Festival, published by you in last week’s issue of the Gazette.

  As one who has known and loved the Festival for the best part of my life, I would like to ask who Mr. Douglas Silver thinks he is to foist tasteless, hippy productions of the Bard’s great works on Shireston? True, we have yet to see Mr. Silver’s work in action, but, it would seem obvious from his casting and the ideas so far made public, that we are to be treated to a display of gimmickry and red herrings in which William Shakespeare will come off a very poor second best to the whims of the director, coloured actresses, scene designers and actors. Can nothing be done to stop this travesty before it is too late?

  Yours faithfully,

  Norman Myles

  Adrian looked up with a laugh. ‘Norman Myles. You aren’t taking this seriously Mr. Moir, surely?’

  Moir nodded, grave faced. ‘I take it very seriously, Mr. Rolfe. There are twelve letters there. In all we have had thirty-three.’

  ‘But they’re crank’s letters.’ Adrian began to sort through the pile, ‘Racist even. God there’s one here complaining about casting Maurice Kapstein as Shylock. Listen to this — Mr. Kapstein has no place in the legitimate theatre. He is a lowbrow and vulgar television comedian. It is a blot upon Shireston and its Festival to be even linked with his name. The genius of English Drama must be turning in his grave at such an insult. My dear fellow that’s just intolerant ignorance.’

  Moir looked at him coldly. ‘As a newspaper editor I have to be objective. I felt you should have some warning. I must publish a selection of these letters and I must also pass the story on to London.’

  ‘What story? Local Objections to Shireston Festival Plans? Colour Prejudice in Shakespearean Season? It wouldn’t get three lines at the bottom of page eight.’ As he said it, Adrian knew he was wrong. If handled properly it would be a wonderful news story. It would also drag in the TV cameras.

  ‘I beg to differ. It will be most harmful to your image.’

  Again Adrian laughed, trying to show an attitude of sophisticated, liberal disbelief. ‘All publicity is good publicity you know.’ Then, in spite of himself he added, ‘Except ignorant critical publicity.’

  ‘There has always been a certain element in Shireston which has fought for true Shakesperean productions.’

  Rolfe got it, suddenly the fact slid into his head and the puzzle was solved. ‘You’ve told me what you think about it as a journalist, Mr. Moir. Now tell me what you think about it as chairman of the Shireston Festival Society.’

  Moir visibly preened himself, but at that moment the telephone rang and Adrian’s secretary was telling him that she had Douglas Silver on the line in the outer office.

  Adrian excused himself with as much courtesy as he could muster. Outside he hissed into the telephone, ‘Douglas, someone has made a balls. I passed Emilio Benneto on to you. You gave him full authority to get on with putting the catering problem right, but apparently nobody has bothered to tell Mrs. Doul, the arch-priestess of the permanent staff cafeteria. We have some evil tempers flying around. Emilio’s in his office. I suggest you get on to him there, and that somebody tactfully breaks the bad tidings to La Doul.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ moaned Douglas standing at the Prompt Side telephone to which he had been called. ‘It’s bloody David. Okay, I’ll see them both later on. Leave it to me Adrian.’

  ‘I’ll have to, I’m up to my eyes, mate. The local vigilantes are out in force. Save Shakespeare for those who understand him and don’t monkey with the plays by casting nasty television performers and spade singers. I didn’t think that kind of muddle-headed intolerance existed.’

  ‘Oh it does, Adrian. You should hear some of the things they told me at...’ He stopped short as hammering in the auditorium almost drowned him out. ‘Look, drop into my office later this afternoon would you. We’ll talk then, okay?’

  ‘Okay Doug, but please get that catering business sorted.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Douglas sounded weary.

  Adrian Rolfe made a face at his secretary and returned to his office and the smooth Hedley Moir. The man was smiling and began to speak as soon as Adrian closed the door.

  ‘You asked me what I thought about these protests in my capacity as chairman of the Shireston Festival Society, Mr. Rolfe. What do you know about the society?’

  ‘I know of its existence; I know that you are its present chairman, and I know that its aim is broadly to establish a link between the festival and the town.’

  Moir steepled his hands, tips of the fingers resting on his lips. Was, Mr. Rolfe.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, was: its aim was to establish a link between the festival and town. You have not researched the history of the Shireston Festival as well as you should.’

  ‘No? Well you tell me.’

  ‘There were many keen students of Drama in Shireston long before the festival. Some of our older members, Mr. Norman Myles, for instance, and one of our most respected medical practitioners, Dr. Michael Archer, were close friends of the late Richard Longwell, earl of Shireston, whose untimely death began this whole business. His lordship had a way of infecting people with enthusiasm and there are, as I say, many who studied the Theatre in general and the Elizabethan Dramatists in particular with Richard Longwell. Some were very close friends, and were surprised
not to have been included among the Shireston trustees.’

  The picture became even more clear. ‘But they must be old men now?’

  ‘Old men and women,’ corrected Moir. ‘Yes indeed, but the membership of the society stands at around sixty or so and most of them are middle-aged or young.’

  ‘You were going to tell me about the society’s aims.’

  ‘Yes indeed. The founders of the society started out with the good intention of bridging the natural gap between town and theatre; but it did not take long to discover that the commercial side of the festival was outweighing the artistic: the producers, or directors as you call them nowadays, were staging Shakespeare’s plays for their own benefit and not for the enrichment of the public. The society began to see that it had a more important role to fill. We try to be guardians, Mr. Rolfe, guardians of tradition, a word that is not popular these days.’ Moir seemed to swell visibly.

  ‘What do you call tradition?’

  ‘We protest at any production of a Shakespeare play which warps the original by overlying it with gaudy stagecraft or vulgar acting techniques. It is the poetry and wisdom of the plays which we seek to protect: anything that detracts is unworthy.’

  ‘I see.’ Adrian saw clearly enough and he wanted to know why nobody had warned him that these biased extremists were active around Shireston.

  Moir still droned on. ‘We protest, quite peaceably I promise you, whenever we find this kind of dramatic sacrilege: Stratford, London, Nottingham, Shireston.’

  ‘Particularly Shireston?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are concerned about the coming season? I mean personally concerned?’

  ‘Most. It seems to me that Mr. Silver is bent on giving us trivia and not grandeur.’

  ‘And as editor of the Gazette you’re going to make a lot of noise?’

  ‘As editor of the Gazette I shall remain objective.’

  ‘But you’ll publish these letters.’