Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  ‘I just have, Maurice.’ Douglas’s mind reached back to the wording of the Standard Esher Contracts under which all members of the company were signed. ‘Section L. Paragraph five, I think. Conduct on the part of an Artist inside or outside the theatre which is likely to bring the company into disrepute. It goes on to be most explicit about insobriety and stipulates that a person in your position has the right to call in a doctor to examine you at your own expense.’

  ‘I’m a leading member of this company...You’re mad...You can’t do this...You...You…Kapstein cast around him for the insult. His eye fell on Lonnie Barnes and then Carol. ‘...You. You nigger lover.’

  Barnes rose, but Douglas motioned him back.

  ‘I think that’s enough Morrie, get out.’

  ‘Fuck you, Silver. I’ve never had such treatment; it should happen to a star actor? An actor of quality...A household word...’ He lunged to his feet, now wild eyed in drunken fury.

  Ronnie left Douglas’s side and crossed the floor quickly.

  ‘Don’t come near me you lackey. I am going to sue Silver and this whole shit-reeking festival.’ Kapstein lurched towards the aisle, turning and staggering, reeling in his disbelief.

  ‘Come on Morrie.’ Ronnie had reached him, but the actor refused to be helped.

  ‘Away from me, you lynx...you jackal...All of you, all lynxes and jackals...Not one actor helps me...Not even you Escott...’ pointing an unsteady accusing finger. ‘You sit there like sheep while this child...this boy...this apology for a director...abuses me in public...Me...Maurice Kapstein...He’ll pay...My God he’ll pay...You’ll all...Fired? Silver couldn’t fire a cap pistol...Silver...Yo-ho-ho and a bloody bottle of rum...’

  There was a little laughter starting to spread now at the incredible whipped up drama as Kapstein bumped into the edge of the door and made his unsteady theatrical exit still chanting a flow of wrath and revenge.

  Ronnie Gregor turned at the door, lifted his hands in the age old stage Jewish act of supplication and followed the burbling and furious man from the rehearsal hall.

  Douglas, whose face had been white with rage, leaned heavily on the table, arms straight. He looked around the room as though seeking help, and, quite spontaneously, someone began to applaud; the clapping grew and built until the director had to quieten them with calming hand movements. When they had settled again he came round to the front of the table, leaning against it, his buttocks firm on the wooden edge, arms folded.

  ‘I am quite within my rights to dismiss Mr. Kapstein,’ he began, ‘though, naturally, it is very much against the company’s interests at this time. I must apologize for pushing an impossible situation that far. In some ways it was inexcusable of me.’

  Cries of ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘However, Morrie’s behaviour was also unforgivable, and we can all perhaps learn from it. None of us can afford to be undisciplined particularly during working hours. When we have achieved something, then we can relax. In the meantime, working hours means morning, noon and night. I’ll go and do my best to salvage what I can; and I would be grateful to you all if this incident was not spoken about outside the immediate company.’

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  ‘Good,’ Douglas nodded. ‘We can probably still get some work done this afternoon, so I suggest we listen to the rest of Mr. Leggat’s music and then at least plot out and walk through the first two scenes of Act One: we don’t need Shylock until scene three.’

  He half turned away and then thought better of it. Tor the benefit of those who were not at the Othello rehearsal this morning, I’d better make clear what I mean by plotting out the scenes. Some of you may think that it’s an old fashioned and rather rigid method: the director telling his actors exactly where they must move. Now be quite plain about this, I can move you around in the way which I think is most acceptable to the production, but the final result must rest with you. I don’t expect you to always agree with me, and I don’t want to be doing all the work. How you finally deal with a scene must come from you as actors and actresses. You know your own limits, so be quite free to speak out, and, most important of all, to develop the characters the way you feel best.’

  Within half an hour they were well into plotting the first important scenes, getting under the skin of the Merchant’s world of argosies and gold in old Venice. The matter of Maurice Kapstein was, for the time being, forgotten.

  Jennifer arrived back from lunching with Joe Thomas around three o’clock. She went straight to the apartment and worked alone on Desdemona until a little before five. The rain had stopped again and she felt in need of some fresh air. Coming out of the front door of Shireston House she met David Wills heading for his appointment with Douglas. The executive director smiled broadly and greeted her excitedly. ‘Jennifer, I’m so glad I’ve bumped into you like this.’

  Jennifer smiled her hello and let him continue.

  ‘Has Douglas mentioned the poetry recitals yet?’ David asked.

  She knew Douglas had said something but could not quite bring the facts to mind. ‘Yes, he has,’ she said, not going into detail.

  ‘I know we’re not doing them until the summer, but I rather wanted to get started on the programmes as soon as possible.’

  She remembered now that Douglas had said it would keep David happy if he had a hand in some form of creative project. ‘Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘I had thought of a small meeting to discuss things.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you and Rachel, the boy who’s playing Romeo...’

  ‘Asher...?’

  ‘Yes, him and Carol Evans; and possibly Edward Crispin and Conrad.’

  Jennifer nodded. ‘Why don’t I hold a little tea party for them, at the weekend, say Sunday.’

  David was like a small boy in his enthusiasm. ‘Could you? Could you really? That would be splendid.’

  ‘Leave it to me then. I’ll have them all at our place, about four.’

  ‘You don’t think Douglas’ll mind?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so for a minute. It’ll probably be a good excuse for him to get out.’

  David went on his way, happy with the chance meeting.

  Douglas broke the rehearsal at four, going straight over to his office where Ronnie Gregor was waiting to give him the news that Kapstein had staggered across to the house, shouting abuse and calling a great deal of attention to himself, but had almost collapsed in the hall. Ronnie had got him upstairs to his flat, seen that the man was comfortably laid out, loosened his collar and tie, and left him in a snoring stupor. ‘He must’ve drunk a gallon,’ he commented.

  ‘About a bottle and a half of gin,’ said Art Drays who had come over with Douglas. ‘I asked Ronald Escott. He went over for a quick beer and thought he’d better stay with him. Kapstein was there soon after the meeting finished this morning.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Douglas.

  ‘The Sheep, where else?’

  Douglas sat down at his desk, picked up his telephone and put a call through to Kapstein’s agent. The agent came on the line a couple of minutes later and there followed a protracted conversation: Douglas carefully breaking the news and then calmly explaining the whole situation, promising that he would not take any further steps if Kapstein apologized and agreed to at least a partial ban on drinking during working time. The agent in turn agreed to help by being unsympathetic with Morrie and pointing out the actor’s best course of action but could not promise more.

  ‘Douglas,’ he said towards the end of their discussion, ‘I’ll do what I can, but you know what Morrie’s like, mercurial sometimes. You can never tell, though, this might just shock him into behaving himself; it’s enough I’ve got a big actor to deal with, I have to be his wet nurse as well; you’ve no idea what trouble he’s caused with the television people in the past...’

  And on, with Douglas sitting, the earpiece held away from him and his head nodding in agreement.

 
David Wills was kept waiting for fifteen minutes, and, just before Ronnie and Art left, Douglas told Art that he would speak with Asher Grey that evening about understudying Conrad Catellier. ‘I’m still not sold on it, Art, but let me talk to him and see how he feels before we take it any further.’

  David was eventually shown in and Douglas began a lengthy monologue on the advertising campaign, the block buster publicity they were mounting in the national press and on hoardings, the amount of personal publicity that would be given in features and articles, and the special links that had already been forged with tourist organizations, British Rail, hotels and schools. He went through all the figures he had already given to Adrian and told David about the need to sell the season and every seat in the place. ‘You’ve seen our booking form?’

  ‘The one Adrian’s sent out, yes?’

  ‘Have you any idea how many of those are going to come floating back at us after the campaign gets underway and the box office opens on the first of February?’

  ‘I should imagine we’ll be drenched with them,’ David replied happily.

  ‘Do you think the box office will be able to cope? After all, the box office is your pigeon.’

  There was a moment’s silence, the seeds of doubt slowly germinating in David’s mind. ‘Graham Harper isn’t the most dashing character in the world, but he seems a decent enough fellow; capable enough.’

  ‘Almost the same words I used to Adrian, David. But do you realize that for the last nine years or so this festival’s been operating well below par. I can’t give you the exact figures now, but I’ve seen them. I think the fullest house this theatre’s seen in the past few years has been only half capacity, so I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that our gallant friends in the box office don’t really know what’s going to hit them.’

  ‘I’ve talked to Harper, of course.’

  ‘David, so have I. I wasn’t fully conscious of the danger until lunchtime today. I want you to get in there and sort out the box office, sort Harper out if you have to; if you still think he’s capable after you’ve had a session with him let him stay. If not, get rid of him and bring in somebody else, fast. In any case they’re going to need extra help; for the first few weeks they’re going to be wading through those booking forms: with luck it’ll be like a mail order firm the day they offer a ninety-nine per cent discount.’

  David agreed to move in on the box office operation, but Douglas was left with the impression that his executive director’s heart was not in the task. As he was leaving, David tried, a little abruptly, to turn the conversation on to the poetry recitals; Douglas understood the man’s needs; basically he was a director and, while he was competent enough in an administrative job, the arrival of the company — the very physical presence of actors — had disturbed David; he wanted to be there on stage, working, not routing around the box office personnel. Douglas had consistently reminded himself, since David’s appointment, that the man needed watching and pushing; just as consistently he had failed to watch or push him.

  Feeling genuinely tired, Douglas signed the letters which Deborah had ready for him, dictated a dozen or so more on to tape, and left the office.

  Jennifer, who knew how he planned to spend his evenings during the first couple of weeks, had a meal ready for him back at the apartment and their conversation turned naturally to the Kapstein drama. Jennifer was appalled, though not surprised, when her husband related the events during the afternoon rehearsal.

  ‘He was terribly drunk by the time we got to The Sheep,’ she told her husband. ‘Very insulting to Joe.’

  ‘For one of the chosen he’s got a nasty streak of racial prejudice in him. How did lunch go?’

  ‘Joe was sweet really, not as I expected him. You’ve got a frightened man on your hands, Doug.’

  ‘They talked for a while about the difficulties which Joe Thomas was undoubtedly going to meet.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled by the sweet manner,’ Douglas eventually told her. ‘Thomas was quiet and malleable after the Heathrow business. He was nice and frightened today with you, but once he gets really confident, which he will, that guy can be seven different kinds of bastards.’

  Before Douglas left, Jennifer mentioned her brief meeting with David Wills, and the tea party she was going to arrange for Sunday.

  ‘Who does he want?’ asked Douglas.

  She reeled off the list and looked questioningly at the frowning face.

  ‘I just hope to heaven he doesn’t upset anybody.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You’re the director’s wife, Jen. You’re throwing a tea party for certain members of the company; those who are left out won’t all get the message that it’s a professional meeting. Temperaments, you know.’

  ‘Christ, it’s worse than living on a housing estate.’

  ‘Much worse, love. We’re both in the hot seat with our knickers down, exposed to the world. Jealousy, pride, the idea that there is a particular “in” crowd. It can be damaging.’

  Jen shrugged. ‘I shall use what tact I have left. Don’t worry about it too much, love. Go and talk to your lovely Asher Grey while I try and muster the poetry readers.’

  Later that night in bed, close to Douglas, Jennifer’s mind turned, uninvited, to the physical presence of Joe Thomas: a picture of him leaning across the table towards her, jumbled with the vivid imaginings culled from newspaper stories; the women with whom he had been associated; his reputation; the natural energy which buzzed around him like some invisible force field.

  The glow in her mind spread to her body, and, even though she tried to shake it, her sensuality was awakened like some burning irritation. The need was so great that she reached out for Douglas, deep in sleep, unresponsive and oblivious to her demanding hand and body thrust hard against him.

  In the end she moved away from him and quietly went through the lonely ritual of self satisfaction. She was no stranger to it; the long separation from Douglas, when she was filming Hidalgo, had brought many lonely nights when the mind could take in nothing but the ache and need for that male pervasion to which she was now regularly accustomed: the movements, passions and experiments, the simple and straightforward joys which the pair of them shared. Removed and far away from Douglas her body had gone through regular patterns of withdrawal which could only be quelled by her own quick moving hand.

  Tonight, though, it was different. When she had been parted from Douglas her mind had always been filled, at such moments, with thoughts of him, erotically poised or riving into her. Now, like a young virgin on heat in the first summer of full knowledge, it was Joe Thomas who was fabricated into her boiling thoughts: fantasies of him stripped and entering, a different way, new words and actions. The flush of guilt came at the moment of climax, after which she lay very still listening to Douglas’s gentle breathing, ashamed at her own thoughts; yet, somehow, pleased with the new sensation.

  Before they left the office for rehearsals on the following morning, Douglas took Art Drays to one side.

  ‘I talked with Asher last night,’ he told him. ‘The boy’s overjoyed, naturally, and swears to me that it’s not overtaxing him to take on the Richard understudy.’

  ‘Well, he’s used to hard work in rep,’ the productions manager replied.

  ‘I went fairly deeply and he does seem to have got Lorenzo and Cassio under his belt. But we’ll see how he works out during the next couple of weeks’ rehearsals. He’s spent a lot of time on Romeo as well, and I’ve told him that he needn’t begin doing anything about understudying Catellier until we’re well advanced with Richard.’

  Art nodded. ‘The same as all the other major under-studies.’

  ‘Yes, so you might as well put his name up and tell Conrad.’

  ‘Fine. Then we’re completely covered, except for poor old Morrie.’

  ‘And it is poor old Morrie,’ interjected Ronnie Gregor. ‘I went up to make sure the old bugger was all right this morning and he’s like the proverbial bear with a s
ore head. Told me to do the usual and stop bothering him. He was still breathing threats and fire against you, Douglas.’

  Douglas chuckled. ‘We’ll hear from him when he’s good and ready. In the meantime, if he doesn’t submerge and come to suitable conclusions by this afternoon’s rehearsals...’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You’re going to put in Joe Thomas so that we can have a black Shylock’ Art laughed loudly.

  Douglas shook his head vigorously. ‘Sammy Davis we’ll need for that.’ His face composed itself. ‘No, I’m going to put more weight on Edward Crispin. If the worst really came to the worst he wouldn’t have the drawing power of Kapstein but he’d do a good job. Let’s see.’

  Maurice Kapstein had spent a terrible night. After falling into his stupor during the afternoon, he half woke, with a parched throat, at around ten in the evening. He stumbled through to the kitchen and drained two glasses of water; befuddled, both from the heavy drinking of Sunday night and the memorable lunchtime at The Sheep, he fell into sleep again, not waking properly until just before five in the morning.

  This time he felt really ill: his mouth sore and dry, a pain piercing behind the eyes and a stomach which seemed to be filled with vile poison. He vomited, gasping and sweating, in the bathroom, then stumbled, with aching limbs, into the kitchen to make coffee.

  As he sat there, cold, wrapped in gloom and physical discomfort, Morrie dredged back into his mind which only seemed to be throwing up fragments of the past forty-eight hours. Then the big memory returned: the rehearsal and Douglas Silver telling him that he was fired. Agitation and fury began to take over from the feeling of self pity: an anger which at first knew no logic, only the remorseless desire to hit back at the humiliation which he had undoubtedly suffered in the rehearsal hall.

  With complete disregard for the time, Kapstein slammed about the small flat, adding physical dimensions to the manner in which he was rummaging around his mind for a solution. Instinct and past experience told him that it was useless to call his agent in the small hours. In the end he came to the only conclusion left: he would have to sit it out, sipping coffee, reviving body and mind, until the hands of the clock moved to a more advantageous hour. Time dragged, but as it ticked away, Maurice Kapstein’s brain became more active, his anger more of a controlled fury laced with cunning. In the back of his thoughts there lurked the start of a plan to overthrow Douglas Silver. By eight he had convinced himself that his departure from the company would do irreparable harm to everybody but himself, and when Ronnie Gregor knocked at the door, around eight-fifteen, Kapstein exploded in a satisfying burst of invective.