Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Joe kept his eyes to the front, seeing nothing, nobody, only the man’s uniformed back. At one point he thought he heard someone mutter, ‘Hey, isn’t that Joe Thomas?’ But he could have been wrong.

  At last they moved into a long empty passageway, stopping at a door. The officer knocked lightly and opened as a voice bade them enter.

  It was an ordinary, small office: cream paint and inexpensive standard furnishings. The man behind the desk was stocky, middle-aged and with a greying moustache. He wore the uniform of the customs’ service and was obviously a senior officer.

  ‘Mr. Joe Thomas, sir?

  The senior officer rose, did a genuine double take and swallowed perceptibly. ‘Mr, Thomas? Oh...yes. Come in Mr. Thomas.’ Eyebrows lifted in query towards the other officer.

  ‘A small quantity of cannabis resin, sir.’

  The older man’s face cleared itself of the smile, his lips pursed and he emitted a quiet ‘Oh.’

  ‘Mr. Thomas admits that it is his and that it is all he is carrying.’

  ‘How much?’

  The man who had initiated the whole business was still clutching the soap container which he now opened, drawing out the small cube wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘I haven’t had it weighed or examined yet, sir.’

  ‘Go and establish it then, and make sure there’s no more.’ The older man turned to Joe Thomas, ‘Please sit down Mr. Thomas.’

  ‘What now?’ Joe Thomas perched on the edge of a hard stand chair, wrapped in an air of unreality as though the whole business was some warped dream.

  ‘Have you had problems with the police before?’

  Joe shook his head, again the crushing sense of loneliness, aridity he had not felt like this since he was a child. ‘Sure,’ he laughed, ‘I raise hell from time to time. I know what my reputation is and there’s no smoke without fire.’ Another laugh, stuck in his throat. ‘I don’t trip out on pot very often though, so it’s what you might call ironic. I only use it when I need to relax a little and always by myself.’

  Well,’ the senior customs’ officer shrugged, ‘there has to be a charge I’m afraid. The police will come here with Hodges, the man who found you in possession, and you will be taken to Uxbridge Police Station where they will take statements and formally charge you. Can you get a solicitor — a lawyer?’

  ‘I guess so. Can I make a call?’

  ‘You haven’t been charged yet, but have to stay in the room. Anything I can do to help, Mr. Thomas, you have only to ask.’ He waved his hand towards the telephone.

  Joe Thomas stretched out his arm to the instrument. ‘What happens after they charge me?’

  ‘Probably your solicitor will guarantee your appearance in court, possibly tomorrow morning. If you are as open there as you have been with us then there should be no problem. You only get real trouble in a case like this when the person concerned is truculent and uncooperative. I should imagine the court will fine you: around fifty pounds, about one hundred and fifty dollars.’

  ‘And a lot of mess in the newspapers.’ He sounded glum.

  ‘It needn’t be that bad, not if you’re reasonable.’

  Joe had his leather address book out; he found the number and code and began to dial.

  Douglas felt not unlike a headmaster on the first day of term. The day began for him with his two new young assistants, Frank Ewes and Robin Alvin, being brought up to the office by Ronnie Gregor and Art Drays. Douglas had met both Ewes and Alvin only once previously, when the appointments had been made in London two months before: likeable men in their early twenties, they were both graduates with a little practical experience in repertory companies and their new jobs were chances of a lifetime for each of them.

  Hands were shaken and they all muttered things intending to communicate their mutual pleasure in being part of the Shireston Festival.

  ‘Your real work doesn’t start until we get into production,’ Douglas told them. ‘In the meantime, Frank I want you in this office at eight-thirty every morning. By that time you will have read The Times. While I’m dealing with the morning’s mail you will give me a rundown on what’s happening in the world —the leaders, politics, the international scene, the arts, correspondence. Okay?’

  Frank, shock-haired with the face of an intelligent pixie, nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Today,’ Douglas continued, ‘you can both make yourselves useful to Art and Ronnie, they always need spare hands. You’ll be meeting members of the company for the first time so let them know who you are. Don’t be self-important, you’re only glorified office boys, but remember that sometimes you will be an actor’s only route to me, so always listen when they want to talk to you and don’t show any favours.’

  The rest of Douglas’s morning was spent greeting first arrivals and making sure that the whole organization started to take up the slack and pull together.

  Most of those who had come on the first day were supers: the younger actors and actresses who would play soldiers, court ladies, attendant lords — ‘Spear carriers’, as Ronnie called them, enthusiastic and longing to be at work. There were, however, one or two important exceptions among those who arrived early. Asher Grey got to Shireston around noon with Julia Philips who, for once, seemed to have made the effort to look happy, her pudgy face carefully made up and hair in decent order. Douglas made a point of inviting them to lunch in the new theatre restaurant together with Edward Crispin who had also come early.

  Until the season started it had been arranged that the theatre restaurant would cater for the director and executives and their guests only. Once the season began, in April, the general public would be admitted, but this three months’ run up would give Emilio a chance to get his staff working properly and provide much needed experience for them.

  From the outset of lunch, Julia Philips managed to annoy Douglas. During the meal she constantly drew the conversation towards herself, embarrassing Asher and straining the ever courteous Edward Crispin. Douglas, on the other hand, sat fuming, making mental notes about the girl and trying to show his disapproval by ignoring her.

  Even taking the baulk of Julia’s behaviour into account, Asher seemed more shy than Douglas remembered him; eventually, by consistently pushing Julia to one side the director was able to get and hold the young actor’s attention.

  ‘You’ve managed to give some thought to Romeo since I last saw you?’ queried Douglas.

  ‘I’ve thought of little else,’ Asher looked up from under his eyelids. ‘Old Shakespeare really knew what he was at, didn’t he?’

  ‘You mean the “love story” formula?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve never examined that play in depth before. William really knew how to do it though, the whole compulsive inevitability of the thing.’

  ‘I think that’s one of the problems.’ As he said it, Douglas realized that far down within him he was quite frightened of Romeo and Juliet. If taxed with it he could not have been explicit about his fears: not knowing if it was some sense of awe, or the fact that he was going to direct Carol Evans (still a dark sensuous pulling fact in his mind), or simply a rooted knowledge that he had never yet seen a satisfactory production of the play on stage. ‘It’s a long piece,’ he continued, ‘there’s so much to be sustained...’

  ‘And the audience knows exactly what’s going to happen,’ interjected Asher.

  ‘Ah well, that’s one of the great difficulties with all the classics.’ Douglas smiled, ‘That’s why we knock ourselves out trying to make them fresh and new every time we do them. The poetry is of paramount importance; so are gripping performances, but it’s always a good rule to approach William’s plays as if each one is a new work.’

  ‘It’s the question of conviction that worries me...’

  At the other side of the table Julia was loudly telling a now thoroughly bored Crispin about her interpretation of some character recently played.

  ‘...and my Miss Hoyden in The Relapse brought the house down...’

  Douglas stop
ped himself from murmuring a vicious line concerning type casting but caught the look in Asher’s eye. ‘Conviction?’ he repeated wrinkling his brows.

  ‘Love.’ Asher sounded bleak.

  ‘It’s the key and it’s difficult. You have to convince even the most cynical person in the audience that you are totally a slave, enmeshed in the emotion of love and desire, Shakespeare found all the right words but they don’t do the trick by themselves, particularly with a twentieth-century audience. To some extent you have to create an almost visible volcanic emotional and passionate area between you, a state of need, reliance, lust: the whole thing as thrilling as hurtling along at some unimaginable speed, knowing that disaster has the edge on you.’

  From across the table the loud monologue continued. ‘...but then he’s such a fabulous director, so inventive and willing to take risks, to take everything from the Noh Theatre, the Mexican Flying Festivals and the Kathakali Dancers down to beat music and heavy groups and fusing them, using them...’

  ‘What did you say his name was?’ Crispin, like Asher Grey, had a distinctive voice; the man was a natural for Iago, Douglas thought in the brief moment of distraction; short in the body, swarthy, black-haired with Italian good looks, a natural, Douglas had been convinced about that from the start: Crispin was a man who could ‘play deception with absolute conviction’ as Zeffirelli once put it.

  ‘What’s she like?’ asked Asher.

  Douglas had the feeling that it was a repeated question, that he had done the unforgivable and switched his mind from their conversation. ‘Sorry Ash, I got carried away. What’s who like?’

  ‘Juliet. Carol Evans.’

  ‘Carol?’ The sleigh ride down a rainbow; she was earth, fire, air and water; the soft well-oiled gate to paradise; every poet’s perfection; the adored one in all beautiful ballads; the dark lady of the sonnets.

  ‘She’s a nice girl,’ he said aloud, part of his mind fragmenting, the shattering mirror. With firmness of will, Douglas pulled himself into the present and reality. ‘A very strong actress. You’ll get along very well.’ Somewhere, in colour, behind his mind Douglas saw and heard Sinatra singing I Get Along Without You Very Well. ‘You two should make a singular commixture. If it works you might just blow all the fuses.’

  Asher Grey gave a pleasant grin which faded as Julia’s stridency made itself once more apparent. Douglas switched topics as a prelude to leaving. ‘Your living quarters okay?’

  ‘Splendid.’ In the one word it was obvious that the accommodation provided by Shireston was the best that the young actor had ever enjoyed. There was no need for Douglas to probe any deeper. He looked up and spoke in a louder voice. ‘Your accommodation all right Edward?’

  Crispin looked relieved, as though the Fifth Cavalry had arrived. ‘Great, Douglas. I’ve never been here before but it looks as though you’ve got things organized.’

  ‘Our apartment’s fabulous,’ Julia cut across the conversation. ‘You should have seen the hell hole we were living in; this is a palace compared to that. We’re so grateful, Mr. Silver,’ she had started to gush without a trace of sincerity. ‘You have no idea what difference it makes to actors when they have pleasant surroundings in which to live and work.’

  ‘I have every idea, and I know it from bitter experience.’ Douglas’s tone was effectively rude and brought the conversation to an ultimate standstill. He dabbed his lips with his napkin and asked if he might be excused.

  ‘I have a lot to do. No doubt you have as well.’

  Outside it was overcoat cold, but with a blue sky and a bracing atmosphere. There were more people about than usual and across the lawns the theatre building seemed to stand out in glistening clarity. The director caught the spark of activity and realized with a singing of nerves that it was all about to happen. The plans, the expense and the care that had gone into the last few months’ work was about to have its first test. Under the clump of tall conifers which rose from the lawn to the right of the theatre he caught a glimpse of Conrad Catellier, alone and aloof, walking with a measured pace. He is going to have to learn to mix with the rest of them, thought Douglas as he headed back to his office. Catellier might well be one of the larger personality problems which would have to be fixed here at the start of rehearsals; if there was one thing Douglas had to accomplish quickly it was the establishment of a team where each person pulled with the same amount of strength. He could not expect quick miracles with members of the company working together, anticipating each other’s moves with instinct: you only attained that kind of ensemble acting through the creation of style, and style was usage, the linking of actors’ minds and bodies over a long period of live performance. Yet if this was to be his final goal they had to start with equality; Conrad would be difficult on that score, so would Kapstein, maybe others.

  It was late in the afternoon when the call came. A crackle on the line and then Joe Thomas’s familiar voice, ‘Douglas?’

  ‘Joe? Where’re you calling from?’ Since the episode with Jennifer, Douglas left nothing to chance.

  ‘I’m at Heathrow Doug. Look...’

  ‘But you aren’t due until tomorrow.’

  ‘I know Doug, but, look, listen, I’m sorry. I’ve goofed again. I’m in trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’ Douglas immediately alert.

  ‘I’m with the senior customs’ officer at Heathrow. They found me carrying.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A little pot.’

  ‘How little?’

  ‘A thumbnail, but they have to take me to...’ A pause while he obviously checked with someone, ‘...to Uxbridge Police Station, to charge me with being in possession. It’s a police matter.’

  Douglas swore inwardly, a moment of fury towards the man.

  ‘Among other things I need a solicitor,’ continued Thomas.

  ‘All right Joe,’ Douglas pressurized the calm into his voice. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine,’ wrestling with a confusion of thoughts. ‘Whatever else happens, stay cool. Right?’

  ‘I am being cool, man. So cool it’ll freeze your ass to come near me.’

  Douglas did not know whether to chuckle or sob, the mixture of emotions clashed in his throat. ‘Stay put Joe. I’ll be over with a solicitor as quickly as I can.’

  ‘I ain’t got much option about staying put, man, but you’d better come to Uxbridge.’

  ‘All right, to the police station, but don’t you say anything: No statements, nothing, not until we get to you. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  It was a definite crisis, a situation that could rock the whole festival. Douglas sat quite still for a couple of minutes, thinking the matter out before taking any action. The Trust used a big firm of London solicitors for their work, but there might be complications about getting somebody over to Uxbridge at speed, and speed was essential. In the previous week he had, been introduced to a local man, young, lucid and, on the surface, a bright man, called Robert Hughes, junior partner in his father’s firm. Adrian had invited several professional men up to drinks: local doctors, a dentist, two architects and Hughes. Douglas had spent the best part of the evening with the man: an instant rapport which he trusted. Now the decision was fast and he was through to Hughes in a matter of seconds, not waiting upon the niceties of social chat.

  ‘How are you on drugs, Robert?’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘You know who Joe Thomas is?’ Stupid question, they had talked of Thomas during the party.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘He’s being charged with being in possession at Heathrow. They’re taking him to Uxbridge now.’

  ‘They usually do. What was he carrying?’

  ‘I gather a nominal amount of pot.’

  ‘Has he talked?’

  ‘I think he’s played it very cool. Can you handle it?’

  ‘Do we go in your car or mine?’

  ‘Mine. I’ll pick you up within the next half-an-hour’

  Hughes gave him directi
ons on how he could get to the office and Douglas had the phone down and up again, calling David Wills and Adrian Rolfe to come over to him fast. Once that was done he called Jennifer at their apartment.

  ‘...and whatever else you do, don’t talk to the press if they get on to you,’ he told her after outlining the situation. ‘I’ll come through to you as quickly as I can, but if the press start on you transfer them to Adrian as quickly as possible and take the phone off the hook.’

  David and Adrian reacted calmly, like the professionals they were; young Robin Alvin was called in to sit at Douglas’s desk and deal with the simple things which might come up, and in less than his calculated half-an-hour Douglas collected Robert Hughes and they were on their way, ploughing against the homebound traffic, heading for Uxbridge.

  A small knot of men outside the police station told them that the news had already been leaked to the press, and flashbulbs exploded as they left the car, Douglas being quickly recognized. In fact it was the press whom Douglas feared more than the police or a court decision, and he feared them for the sake of the Shireston Festival and nothing else. If they wanted to do so, the national press could splash open a smear campaign that might condemn the festival before it even started, and the very thought of that made Douglas shiver.

  Inside they were greeted politely by a uniformed inspector who took Robert Hughes off to see his client while Douglas was asked to wait in the inspector’s office. It was an experience which he did not relish. Like most law-abiding citizens, Douglas felt nervous, ill at ease, sitting on the edge of his chair and pondering what kind of men had sat in this plain utilitarian office before him. A young policewoman brought him a cup of coffee and the general worry on his mind began to grasshopper, first to Joe Thomas then to the ill fortune of the incident’s timing, back to the daily running of Shireston, what he had to say on Sunday night at the reception for the company, what he would have to say at the first company meeting on Monday, rehearsals, technicalities, personalities, Jennifer, Carol, who would arrive tomorrow or on Sunday.

  It was a good hour before the door opened to admit the inspector followed by a smiling Hughes and Joe Thomas looking most subdued.