Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Snug and warm, they were like two animals, Asher thought, the world shrunken to a small burrow, and they two animals who only touched common ground when mating. He talked until there were few words left to say, attempting to turn Julia’s mind from the fantasies which her imagination weaved, constantly asking himself why he allowed it to go on: the repetitive depressing attacks, the questions and tantrums. Why? Now, as always, he had part of the answer: their rhythm together, something he had not known with any other woman, the strange animal mixture which came between the sheets or on the floor or wherever and whenever it happened (once, he would always remember, in a ditch during a four-day holiday they had taken in Devon a year before). Here and now it was like a pair of tiny things, voles maybe, crushed together in an earth tunnel, moving with an almost ritualistic violence towards the bursting of spring. Then the pictures changed as she whispered, ‘Ash...Ash...The Glasgow to London Express...Ash be the Express...The Express...’

  Maurice Kapstein was naked, prone and fuddled, his hands moving like tired spiders crawling over the gross and wrinkled grey flesh. He had lost all sense of time and it seemed hours that he had been lying there, waiting; and now he could not even remember the girl’s name, only that she had hurriedly promised to come to his room, when Rolfe began interfering, and the erotica of imagined moments, the lifting of her dress, touching, the act of undressing her. But she would not appear and even if she did, Morrie would not be able to accomplish anything. He belched, the flavour of alcohol filling his mouth and nostrils so that, for a second, he felt nausea and revulsion, saw himself as the dirty old man, sensed self-pity that it had descended to this: a man grown old and fat, eating and drinking over much and leching after young girls, using his position as a leading actor in order to grope at the young breasts and buttocks. Flesh oozed over the screen of his mind: buttocks, breasts, thighs, hair, all young, beautiful; it was as though he needed to touch young skin in order to rejuvenate his own. Acres of smooth flesh, nausea, the slow relaxation, the dark patch of fern, the thought of a ripe schoolgirl, the wink of action in his loins. Sleep.

  Douglas and Jennifer, in the dark, having talked away the undressing moments, swapped impressions, laughed at each other’s comments, flattered and aware of the venture in which they were involved, now turned to each other. Douglas put his hand down and patted her, holding her, cupped for a moment.

  ‘You okay?’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Her own hand to him. ‘You?’

  ‘No sweat.’

  ‘Sleep?’

  ‘Sleep.’

  ‘I love you Doug.’

  ‘And you, love.’ Pause. ‘So much.’

  The good night kiss held tight, the touching and shuffling of bodies into familiar positions, a sense of safety, warmth and normality. As she nuzzled into her pillow, Jennifer had one tiny anxious mental jump which came unsought, a fraction of worry in which she again saw Douglas and the unknown girl, but fatigue blotted it out, filtering away the unthinkable.

  David Wills finished his third cup of coffee, replacing the cup carefully on the saucer before slowly getting to his feet. ‘Tomorrow there is work.’ He knew it sounded pompous.

  ‘I told myself not to get involved with people in authority.’ Rachel Cohen, tucked, legs under her, into a comfortable human mound at the end of the couch, pouted at him. ‘I chat up a man, bring him back to my lodgings, feed him coffee and then he departs into the night without so much as a light kiss on the cheek.’

  ‘I’m vaguely old fashioned.’

  ‘And very nice. It gives one confidence after all those ghastly young men who take one out, spend the minimum on you and then expect you to be interested enough to lay it all out on a bed for them. Oh, now I’ve shocked you.’

  ‘Far from it. Beds are close to my mind, it’s just that it has been such a good evening I don’t want to spoil it.’

  She rose, coming to him. ‘Thank you, David.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Their arms wound around each other, briefly; one small, almost pecked, kiss.

  ‘See you tomorrow?’ It was a question and there were other queries in his eyes.

  Rachel nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’

  The leave-taking at her door was simple, not a protracted, self-conscious business, but quick and friendly. When he was gone, Rachel set herself about the task of tidying up: carrying the coffee tray into the kitchen, rinsing cups and pot before heading for the bathroom. It was an automatic action, all done without thought. Alone again without having to smile, be bright, make light conversation, she asked herself what she had expected of David Wills. Part of her, she knew, had wanted him to ease her into his arms, force her down and open her; the other part held back, after all it was only six weeks. Six weeks and four days, Christ she knew that without having to stop and count. Harry with his non-stop clattering charm, their closeness and the sense of safety within the little flat, so convenient for them both. Their involvement in each other’s work, the short, heady week-ends and their lives so locked together that she thought it could never end.

  Then the cold evening, coming home to him after a day in front of the cameras, having had nothing substantial to eat, swilling coffee against a super meal with Harry and finding nothing but the oblong envelope, he could not even tell her face to face. Just the classic note and the crevasse of emptiness and disbelief.

  It had lasted almost exactly two years; and in the bad moments which followed there were natural periods of self-accusation: she should have known, seen, should have pressed for a more satisfactory outcome. It was not as though she did not know that he had a wife, that he was sometimes troubled about her and the five-year-old boy; theirs had been so perfect a relationship that she had no doubts that one day Harry would announce the divorce and all would be straight and easy.

  I cannot deny that I love you and you have given me more than any other woman ever will, but my greater responsibilities lie with my wife and child. Thank you, Rachel darling for everything. I do not mean to hurt you but I know what this is doing to me so it must also be a deep wound to you.

  Harry in the kitchen, Harry on Hampstead Heath, Harry shopping with her, taking her to the cinema, holding her hand, Harry in a restaurant or walking close to her, Harry in the bedroom CA little touch of Harry in the night. That had been an obvious joke, but a good one for them.).

  At the time it all finished she sometimes thought that death was perhaps easier than this present rending: at least with death all was removed; with life she would go about her jobs and the necessary things knowing that, somewhere else, Harry, was doing the same, with someone else, while she was alone.

  There had been the suicidal moments, overcome by reason and the inbuilt instinct for survival; and they had been followed by the natural desires. She knew the exact number of those as well: two, each different and giving her nothing except a kind of animal relief, guilt and a refusal to see either of the men again. After each small lapse there was the fall into desperate dreaming, the impossible hopes and longing. Then there was tonight and David Wills; brief, but the feeling of being alive again. She was wary about the emotion, approaching it with care as though it was a dangerous crossroad.

  Rachel Cohen sighed: like a girl in some romance, she thought, sitting in her nightdress, the cotton wool in her hand oily with make-up remover and her mind far away in dreams. If David Wills came closer, all the better. She thrust out her chin, the defiant pose; whatever happened it was her career which counted at this place. Tomorrow she would start on Bianca and Jessica — she gave a little loud laugh. Bianca the whore and Jessica the spoiled, wayward daughter of Shylock. A lot of work tomorrow.

  Joe Thomas was without sleep. Beside him Sylvia Kostamore groaned and stretched in a dream, sated, physically dried out in the dancing and sexual exercises which had followed. But Joe was uncompromisingly awake, his body still crying out for warmth, love and comfort with the image of Carol Evans high on the list.

  Mingled with the lust there
was fear, something he could not quite put his mind to, or realize in a definite shape: fear for tomorrow, fear of facing up to the enormous task which he had set himself. These others were actors, experienced in the art, while he was a singer of ballads, bouncy tunes, catches. To-night, he knew that he had deliberately held himself apart from the others, played at being Joe Thomas the pop idol, but now, in the dark, the moment of reality drew nearer, closer. Tomorrow he had to stand up, catch Othello’s many moods, be part of the company.

  Frank Ewes was not experienced with women; true there had been a girl at Cambridge with whom he had slept a dozen times, and another about a year ago who had twice brought him to an unnerving passionate heat, but he rarely felt at ease, as though he knew he lacked the true ability to stimulate a woman’s mind, which was the only real way to make a woman’s body come alive.

  Liz Column seemed a terribly mature person to him, almost a sacred object, an actress whom he had almost worshipped as a superb craftswoman, a lady destined to be a great person of the Theatre, someone in a lofty position of awe. Yet here she was, this goddess panting for his kisses, her hand cupped around him while he blurted, ‘Liz, you shouldn’t. No, Liz...’ Like some girl being felt up behind the bicycle sheds at school.

  She had given him brandy when they got to her apartment and he tried to talk Theatre to her, seriously, wanting to know the process by which she had created so many of her outstanding performances, her Hedda and the fantastic Shrew he had seen her do at Stratford the same year as she had moved him so much with her Ophelia. But she only partially communicated with him, getting closer and closer to him on the couch: first a hand over his, then stroking his knee, and now the kisses and her hand on him. Frank was appalled, his mind not accepting the facts, his body reacting against his will. He gave a little scream of pain as her nails bit into him but she took it as a sign of mounting desire. For a moment he was free as her hands moved inside her dress, then he had to take his eyes from her, not able to look at this great lady struggling to get her underclothes off. He lunged sideways but she was again on top of him, her hand reaching towards him.

  Then it was all over before anything really happened and Liz Column was being tender and cooing, ‘There, Frank, never mind, I’ll teach you. There’s a great deal to learn, but you mustn’t worry. There’s plenty of time.’

  Felicity Durrant dreamed of rose petals falling on her face; Laurence Pern did not even dream; Edward Crispin fell asleep reciting Iago; and the super who had promised to join Maurice Kapstein in his room (a thin girl called Eve Lester) lay awake worrying about whether she had done the right thing. Mr. Rolfe told her she was to go back to her room, stay there and lock the door; but a. fragment of her mind said that big roles and success was not all talent, perhaps a notable actor like Kapstein might...Then she thought how it would be with a man like that, fat and with the flabby skin, a slobberer. Eve Lester felt sick.

  Carol Evans thought about Asher Grey: just for a long moment before sinking into sleep. She also thought about Joe Thomas and how, if she lifted a finger, she could have him, for a while anyway: and she thought how odd it was, this negative feeling about Douglas when he had once meant so much, the whole world, to her.

  Frank Ewes did not find it either easy or intellectually stimulating to verbally lob his precis of The Times newspaper across the desk to a Douglas Silver who did not seem to be listening anyway. Heavy rain was striking the windows and the blonde secretary, Deborah, hovered in the background, interrupting, commenting all the time while Douglas gave her curt instructions.

  The news was bleak, in character with Frank’s own mood, disturbed and bewildered: strikes, impending strikes, industrial unrest, rising prices, government indecision, the eternal gloom from Vietnam; he stumbled through it while Douglas scanned the day’s mail, gave Deborah letters she could answer herself and instructions about the taped letters he had managed to do in odd moments through the week-end. He also checked the diary to see the way his day was going to run.

  At nine-thirty there was the first company meeting, at ten they started rehearsing Othello which would call for a lot of concentration, they would break at twelve-thirty when he had a working lunch with Adrian and a meeting directly afterwards with Adrian, David Wills and Tony Holt. The afternoon would be taken up with the first Merchant rehearsal until around five-thirty when he would have to get into the office and clear up the day’s mail, taping replies to the letters which only he could answer. With luck he would have an hour for a meal with Jennifer before starting the series of personal interviews which he had scheduled for most evenings during the next fortnight: he wanted to spend a minimum of half-an-hour with each member of the company, if possible fitting them all in within the first two weeks of rehearsals.

  Frank had got to the correspondence columns of The Times now and Douglas was glancing at his watch, eight-forty-five and the director felt low and a little apprehensive, which was not surprising as he had been awake since five, his mind already churning with the way in which he would handle the first real working sessions with the company.

  Deborah had by now made her exit, but was gone only a moment before she buzzed through to tell Douglas that Robin Alvin, his other young assistant, was waiting.

  ‘Wheel him in,’ Douglas snapped into his squawk box, then lifting his head signalled Frank to stop. ‘That’ll be enough for today. We can only presume things are going to get worse before they get better.’

  When Deborah had closed the door on the three of them, Douglas pushed back his chair and looked up at the two young men. ‘All right,’ he began. ‘You should have managed to integrate with them all by now. Who are the Marxists in the junior echelons of the company?’

  Robin tittered and was cut short by Douglas’s abrupt tone. ‘I’m not joking. That’s the kind of information I need from you two. You’re not going to tell me that the younger set are apolitical because I just won’t believe you. Two things motivate the minds and actions of men and women, whether they’re actors, on the shop floor, in government or doing flower arments for the Women’s Institute: sex and politics. They operate in equal levels and in the same strength. In the young they are unpredictable, because the young will usually go for the highest ideals with the least choice. Hence the Communist Party and the Roman Catholic Church having so many young adherents. I know about most of the bigger guns in this company, or at least I can make intelligent guesses. It’s among the young element that I’m going to find the idealists, the fanatics even, and if I’m going to be hung up in arguments involving Karl Marx, or even the Pope of Rome, I want to know who I’m most likely to be arguing with and who’ll be on my side. You, my lads, are my secret police, my agents and if either of you have any political, moral or religious scruples concerning that part of the job you’d better declare them now. If we’re not careful this place will be like a Tudor court within a week.’

  ‘Do you really think...?’ began Robin.

  ‘Yes, I do really mean that. There will be intrigue, attempted assassination of careers, there will be petty squabbles and, if we’re not careful, the Shireston corridors of power will ring to the axe and thumbscrews. Christ you’ve both worked in rep’, you know what that can be like if it’s not checked — the whispering, tale-bearing, sackings, directorial favouritism. Magnify that in a big company like this, chock-a-block with prima donnas, would-be prima donnas and people who think they could do it all so much better than the man at the top. Yes, very like the Tudor Court, so I rely on both of you.’ He grinned. ‘Be my eyes and ears.’

  Deborah buzzed to say that Art Drays and Ronnie Gregor had arrived. It was five minutes to nine. Douglas, unaware that his old directorial manner and authority was beginning to show through once more, told them that he planned to arrive in the rehearsal hall at about five past nine. ‘Should give time for the stragglers to arrive.’ Adrian Rolf, David Wills and Tony Holt should already be waiting for them. He did not have to explain that their entrance was meant to be an impressive sh
ow of executive force.

  The rehearsal hall was exactly as Douglas had first described it to Jennifer, a great barn of a place, built like a cold gymnasium by an architect who must have favoured the mid-Victorian period.

  The company had assembled quietly, some even subdued: Maurice Kapstein and Joe Thomas both looked mildly unwell and the whole picture was not one of unrestrained enthusiasm.

  The members of the company were seated like an audience facing a plain wooden table behind which eight chairs were ranged. In spite of the party hangover feeling, the director’s entrance, followed by his entourage, was welcomed with some loud shouts and hand clapping from the younger element, while throughout the hall there was a general stir and buzz of conversation.

  The rise of noise was quickly stopped, however, when Douglas reached his chair. Hardly pausing he turned and began to speak.

  ‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen. I’m not going to waste any time because we’ll do enough clock fighting before the season is over. If you don’t know it by now I am your director and my name is Douglas Silver.’ He caught Jen’s eye and winked, she was sitting in the front row between Joe Thomas and Carol Evans. ‘You should know the other gentlemen here with me and if you don’t then it is their fault because they should have introduced themselves to you. In case any of them have omitted to do this...’ He proceeded to introduce Frank, Robin, Art, Ronnie, David and Adrian, adding the exact facts regarding each man’s position within the organization.

  ‘Last night,’ he continued, ‘most of you heard me say that we were out to make a company from this glorious mulch of talent. Now we’re in private I can tell you that you don’t look all that glorious, but that won’t stop us making a company, an ensemble. This we have got to do, and we can only do it together as a team. I think I’m likely to be a bit of a disappointment to some of you as a director. I believe in a liberated and liberal society, but I also know from my experience that, in Theatre, the classics can become travesties of what they should be when they are handled by an undisciplined company. So, in order that we can quickly achieve a unified style I have to operate like a dictator. My political standpoint, then, will hover somewhere between that of Marxist sheep dog and Fascist hyena.’ There was some more clapping at this, followed by a short burst of laughter. Douglas held up a hand.