Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  ‘I know,’ she smiled again.

  ‘And I wasn’t always protected; like everyone I live with my past and that’s not always nice. It’s a strange thing, even among the most liberal of whites, even among this company, you’re never free from it.’

  ‘What? The fact that you’re...’

  ‘Black, Jennifer. I know it’s become a cliché, so much so that people say we’ve got what we wanted now and we still aren’t satisfied like your Trade Unions. The fact that I’m a black man. No person with a white skin can ever know what that means. Never. It’s like some great gulf and it’s never going to be bridged until both sides can learn to think differently. Sometimes I think maybe the great massacre’s the only way it’s ever going to happen.’

  They were silent for a moment over their soup; the occasional guffaw came from Kapstein’s party in the bar and there was the general hum of conversation around them, cocooning them in a kind of warmth.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t invite you out to bend your ear with race politics, Jennifer.’

  ‘No? What did you invite me for?’

  ‘I guess I wanted to get to know my Desdemona a little better.’ He looked very much a man of the world, not unattractive, easy, a stylish character. They were both conscious of the interest that was being shown from other tables and from the bar; it was something that Jennifer had never completely mastered, the ability to remain naturally herself in public when she knew that most eyes were flicking in her direction simply because she was Jennifer Frost. She could admire Joe Thomas, now, for his outwardly casual approach, the way with which he dealt with situations as they arose. His command. No wonder, she reflected, he had a lot of girls, he was quite a different person here, alone with her in an English country pub, different from that which he had been last night for instance, with his little group of black actors and actresses at the party: the swinger, the loud and pushy kingpin making the girls, the leader of the group, the guy you saw on television.

  ‘No, that’s not really why I asked you out,’ there was a flash of nervousness across Joe Thomas’s face. ‘I guess this’ll sound stupid...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, Jennifer, I guess I asked you out for several reasons. Yes, to get to know my Desdemona, but also to get out with you because you’re really somebody here, you’re the director’s wife, and I reckoned that with you I’d be safe.’

  ‘That’s flattering.’

  ‘There’s more. I wanted to talk with you because I’m scared out of my mind.’

  Jennifer frowned. ‘What about? Why?’

  ‘Othello, that’s what about. It’s okay for you, baby, you’ve done the fancy acting scene, it’s part of you. But how am I going to be? I’m an entertainer, not a stage actor. I thought I could do it in the start, but now I’m here...well I just don’t know how I’m going to close my mind around Shakespeare and get through it all without everybody busting a gut and laughing their heads off.’ He looked at her intently.

  ‘You do it by being what you are; who you are.’ Jennifer felt for the words, picking with care. ‘By being the professional you are and by trusting Douglas.’

  ‘And trusting you? Can I turn to you for help? Can you guide me through?’

  ‘Not all of the time...’ She had to pause as the girl came to take their soup plates away and serve their steaks. When all was done, she continued. ‘Joe, you have to trust yourself a lot. What I mean is you can’t rely on Douglas, or myself, all of the time. But I’m sure everyone’s going to contribute.’

  ‘This is my problem. I’ve spent weeks learning the part, examining the man, trying to interpret. I did all that on my own, alone. Now I’m here and everybody seems so loose, so natural, taking it all in their stride, while I’m so tense...’

  ‘You didn’t seem tense this morning.’

  ‘Well at least I managed to hide that.’ There was some genuine relief in his voice. ‘I may not look it but I am tense about it, all knotted up. I mean we haven’t begun yet and I’m scared crazy that when I have to come out with my first lines the whole cast is going to jeer and tell me to forget it.’

  ‘That isn’t going to happen, Joe. You may be untried in this particular area, but you’re a successful, seasoned performer.’

  She grinned at him, ‘And don’t come the non-actor bit with me. I’ve seen your movies.’

  ‘The hell with the movies, this is different. I’ve never been so anxious.’

  ‘It’s a question of confidence, Joe, you know that. Douglas wouldn’t have asked you, and you wouldn’t have come if either of you had initially thought you were going to be that bad. I promise you that you won’t have any trouble. I’ve never worked with Douglas before, but I’ve watched him work, he’s careful and painstaking, and he never asks more than an actor can give, so stop sweating.’

  He gave her an attractive lopsided smile. ‘Yea, it’s all a bit childish of me I guess.’

  ‘No, it’s not childish. I’m glad you talked about it to me. Othello’s the hell of a part for anybody to stake down, I can understand what you’re going through.’

  ‘Yea, Othello sure is a big, big man.’

  ‘He’s big and he’s naive, Joe. I think Douglas will want a lot of the naivety spelled out to the audience.’

  ‘You mean the bluff soldier statesman not used to the ways of women?’ His voice took on a little screech note at the end, as though he was fooling around now.

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘Well how am I going to get that one? I know too much about women.’

  ‘Lucky old you.’

  ‘Now you’re putting me on.’

  ‘No, I just don’t think any man really knows that much about women.’

  ‘And Othello...’

  ‘Knows next to nothing, which does not mean he’s not a good lover. You can be one hell of a lover and still know nothing about the woman you love; not the real, deep important things anyway.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘Yes I do. A man can pour out his love, his affection, make you feel like an empress, say just the right things, be sexually satisfying and all that, without having the slightest knowledge about what goes on in his woman’s brain. He can walk out of the house to his work in the morning and not have even a hint that the girl is in turmoil thinking she’s going to lose him to the first woman that comes along, so she’s in agony until he returns and starts the love ride again, lulling her into satisfaction. Or a man can go for years without knowing that the girl he loves and satisfies is desperate to talk to him about politics.’

  ‘That’s nuts, politics, that’s the girl’s fault if he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Not always. Think about it Joe. Maybe you’ll get some clues to Othello. Desdemona’s a girl who wants to share everything and that’s how I’m going to play her.’ She almost savagely thrust a piece of steak in her mouth and chewed hard, looking at him with a fire that could have been interpreted as a challenge.

  Douglas and Adrian Rolfe completed their meal and sat talking over coffee. They had covered all their separate problems, yet the nag in Douglas’s mind left him edgy about the box office situation.

  ‘I think I’ll catch David here and now, fix a meeting for today,’ he said rising and bringing their meal and discussion to a close.

  ‘I’ll be glad and relieved to know the outcome.’ Adrian looked serious.

  ‘Don’t worry, you will; know the outcome I mean.’

  They shook hands and Douglas walked over to the table where David sat engrossed in conversation with Rachel Cohen, their heads close.

  Rachel looked up and smiled as he approached.

  ‘You settling in?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘Fine thanks, no complaints.’

  ‘I should think not on the first day.’ He turned to David. ‘I wonder if you could look in and see me after rehearsal this afternoon.’

  David asked what time and they agreed on five o’clock. Outside, the rain had started up again, a thin, dismal drizzle soaki
ng into everything. It was only two o’clock but Douglas, hunching his shoulders against the rain, started off at a trot towards the rehearsal hall.

  He was glad to find the hall empty, smelling slightly of damp clothing and stale cigarette smoke. He prayed silently that nobody would arrive for fifteen minutes or so, throwing off his light coat and dropping into his chair behind the table, reaching for his notes on The Merchant. Once they began to really work, he told himself, things would settle into a more gentle routine; he could not expect everything to be right and easy on the first day. At the same time, Douglas was sharply aware that all this was a decidedly new experience for him. He had directed many plays. but always one at a time; now he was faced with doing two in tandem and, in a few weeks, the number would be doubled.

  He took a deep breath and pressed all the anxieties away, including his most recent worry over the box office, that at least could be suitably shelved until late afternoon: now it was The Merchant which had to occupy his mind.

  He flipped through his copy of the text and his notes, remembering all that he had planned: the idea of human corruption inherent in the brittle comedy. The whole style of his conception came back to mind. Raymond Leggat had provided five short pieces of music which they would use as a basic background score for the play and, while the composer was working on material for the rest of the season, Douglas still had to approve the pieces so that they could be properly orchestrated and put on tape for Art and Ronnie to splice in with whatever other effects were needed. Douglas had the music on a cassette tape, recorded on piano by Leggat himself, and he wanted the company’s reaction before going any further. He checked the little cassette tape recorder before ticking off all they had to get through that afternoon: his opening remarks, again about how modern audiences should see the play; the unpleasantness of those involved; the up-pointing of corruption; the music which, to his mind, was what he wanted, rapacious and debased: he had been tempted to go the whole hog and link the play rather as he was doing Othello, with the sounds of corruption, but instinct told him that you could not get away with the same tricks twice in one season. The costumes and settings would help to underline what was already in the text and, now, in the music; the rest would have to come from within the actors and the style which Douglas Silver had to produce.

  There was the sound of a car outside and a moment later Frank Ewes, looking flushed, came in with Liz Column.

  ‘It droppeth like a bloody gentle dew,’ Liz announced loudly, shaking the rain from her arms. ‘God this climate, take us to Venice, Douglas, as quickly as you can.’

  Douglas rose. ‘I’ll do my best, but your magic has to be the power source for this little play.’

  ‘Oh I know, I know.’ Liz shook her head.

  Frank had moved over to sit next to Douglas as Art, Ronnie and young Robin Alvin came in followed by a group of supers who would soon be rushing between the rustic pleasures of Belmont and the streets and the great halls of Venice in the play.

  The hall began to fill and chatter drove the finer points from Douglas’s mind. He saw Asher Grey come in with Peter Berger who would play Antonio, and his mind again slipped into the unresolved decision about Catellier’s understudy; following Asher and Berger was the big Jamaican, Lonnie Barnes who had been cast in the small, but important, part of the Prince of Morocco, one of Portia’s suitors who would have to go through the routine of choosing the correct casket business, thought Douglas; but, he supposed, there were some equally stupid rituals, and just as outmoded, connected with the choice of a bride or groom still active in the modern world: that was another point he must try to make in the production.

  Mark Lynton, their Launcelot Gobbo, a small blond man, bouncy and full of energy, was sitting between Murray Fleet, the production’s Bassanio, and Rachel Cohen who was now talking to Asher Grey: they would be the lovers, Lorenzo and Jessica, well cast, Douglas felt as he watched them.

  It was nearly half past two now and he could see no sign of Kapstein or...the door opened and a breathless Carol Evans came into the hall brushing rain from a white trench coat with a hood which she had pulled up over her head. For a moment her appearance took him by surprise, then he realized that she was, of course, playing Nerissa, Portia’s maid. Last night, Douglas had thought his feelings for the girl were dead, or at least anaesthetized, but now, in the afternoon light, the sight of her, rain glistening on her coat, the nervous smile as she looked around, brought back the unsubtle memories of their time together. He caught her eyes and smiled, hoping to convey at least something, he did not know quite what, maybe warmth, but she gave him only a brief smirk.

  Asher Grey quickly excused himself from Rachel, leaping to Carol’s aid, helping her off with her coat.

  ‘We’re two adrift,’ said Ronnie quietly. ‘Kapstein and Escott; and it’s half past.’

  ‘Give them a couple of minutes, then we’ll have to start without them.’ Douglas turned to Frank Ewes. ‘If Mr. Kapstein or Mr. Escott aren’t here when I begin, make some notes and fill them in after rehearsal would you.’

  Frank nodded, glum inside at the thought of having to brief Kapstein.

  They waited for a couple of minutes. Nobody else arrived.

  At last Douglas rose. ‘We’re not all here but I’ve got a lot to get through this afternoon so we’ll have to start without our Shylock and our Old Gobbo’, he announced before launching quickly into his introductory remarks.

  He had been talking for seven or eight minutes, and the company had settled, listening quietly to his views: about the stink of romantic decadence, greed and racial despisal, the caskets and orgies, the rigging of the trial and how they must work towards a unified production which, while not losing the comic aspects, must hit the audience with the evil of corruption.

  He spoke briefly about Leggat’s music for the play and was just going to switch on the cassette tape when the door burst open to reveal Ronald Escott and Maurice Kapstein. Douglas stopped speaking and stood in silence while the rest of the company shuffled and turned towards the commotion.

  Escott looked all right, but it was obvious to even the most unpractised eye, that Maurice Kapstein was either unwell or more than a little drunk: his breathing was heavy and irregular and he stood, a swaying hulk, hanging on to the door as Escott, with a mumbled apology, slipped into the nearest available seat.

  Kapstein straightened up, still holding on to the door, and took one shuffling, almost furtive, step forward; he raised his head to disclose features flushed a deep reddish blue and eyes wet and uncoordinated. ‘My apologies, Mr. Silver,’ with a great sweep of his arm the grotesque figure lurched forward. ‘And my apologies to all of you, a Shylock shouldn’t be tardy. What news on the Rialto, eh?’ Feet wide apart, Maurice Kapstein swayed again, began fumbling in his pockets and looked down to catch Liz Column’s eye. He shook his head sadly, ‘And special apologies to you dear lady.’

  There was a small explosion of laughter from the centre seats.

  ‘Are you ready to join us, Mr. Kapstein?’ Douglas forced the civility in spite of himself; there was an intense anger building up within him and he knew that he could not restrain it for ever.

  ‘I am ready and contrite. I apologize for keeping you good people waiting, I was engaged in matters spiritual. Now, you all wish to hear my Shylock, yes?’

  ‘I have been talking about our approach to The Merchant of Venice,’ said Douglas coldly, ‘and I was about to play five short pieces of music which have been written for this production. I think the music underlines the approach we have to make. If you would sit down we can, perhaps, proceed.’

  ‘Indeed. Music to soothe the savage...whatever it is...’ Kapstein tottered forward, lurching into an empty aisle seat where he remained, slumped and still.

  Douglas continued with the last of his remarks before switching on the cassette tape for the introductory piece.

  The piano came out sharp and clear, three long discordant notes followed by an almost Rachmaninovian theme
, not unlike the eighteenth variation on the Paganini Theme, but off beat and key so that, while one was aware of the potential lyricism, the whole had an abrasive and hurtful quality. In spite of his irritation with Kapstein, and the rise of temper still throbbing in him, Douglas smiled at the skill with which Leggat had interpreted the director’s needs. He caught Carol Evans looking at him and saw her return the smile; but it was simply that of two professionals appreciating the artistry of a third.

  ‘Bloody awful row, Douglas Silver. Music? The food of love? Must be joking, s’not music; s’shunting of steam engines.’ Maurice Kapstein had pulled himself into an upright position.

  It was enough. Douglas snapped off the recording and Kapstein breathed aloud, ‘Thank God for that.’

  The remainder of the company were still. ‘Do you require a doctor, Mr. Kapstein?’ Douglas asked in a precise, clear voice.

  ‘Doctor? Why should I require a doctor? I have no need of doctors here. All doctors...charlatans.’

  ‘You may well require one. Maurice I warned you in private before you joined the company. As far as I’m concerned there can only be one warning. The board of trustees has put a lot of money into this season of plays. We have started the first rehearsal of The Merchant of Venice and you, our Shylock, are drunk and practically incapable. I told you before that I would not stand for any temperaments or difficult behaviour: and that applies to everyone, we haven’t got time to play around at this.’

  ‘Douglas...’ An unsteady conciliatory tone.

  ‘You’re drunk, Maurice, at the first rehearsal. It’s irresponsible, unprofessional and I can’t risk it happening again. You’re fired.’

  Douglas could hardly believe that he had said it; he heard a gasp from one of the girls and saw that someone behind Kapstein had half risen and then changed his mind, sitting down again. Ronnie muttered something about being careful.

  Kapstein’s mouth dropped open and he emitted a kind of shocked snarl. ‘Fired, Douglas Silver? Who am I to be dismissed by a chit of a boy? I have a contract: can’t fire me.’