Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Genuine screams from three points in the house, and a noise towards the back of the stalls which spoke of someone fainting. Thomas, Othello, swinging and dripping blood; the high whine getting louder over Lodovico’s closing speech, then the whole noise erupting in one brassy bray, a fragmentary shout of aficionados, then darkness and silence for the count of five before the audience also erupted.

  It was like standing in a great white light and suddenly the rain came. At first a small patter, rising, though he could not feel its force or wetness. The raindrops got bigger and louder until it teemed around him and Joe Thomas stood there alone among the ferocious applause and the shouts and cheers. He had known adulation and the sense of achievement before, but never anything like this. He looked to the wings and saw Jennifer coming towards him, a look of other worlds on her face as she clasped him to her in front of the whole company. Then Edward, holding his hand, patting him on the back.

  Douglas Silver sat in silence surrounded by the gleaming noise and remembering something a great director, he thought it was Guthrie, had once said to him. ‘Never trust first night applause; the bulk of the house is friendly anyway. Wait, if there is hysteria, and see if it happens a second, third, or fourth time.’

  The trick was in keeping the mood buoyant, and the emotions in check, holding the crest until the second and third performances. At first it was pandemonium back stage, the corridors and dressing-rooms crowded and the sharp sense of success heady in the air. Over the loudspeaker system, Ronnie’s voice persistent. ‘Notes for the Othello company at ten-thirty sharp, on stage tomorrow morning. The next performance will be at two-thirty tomorrow afternoon.’

  In the dressing-rooms it was smiles and constant cackle.

  You were marvellous darling.

  Beautiful, that finale. I thought I’d die.

  Ash that was splendid.

  What a night.

  Marvellous darling.

  The best Othello since I saw Robeson in fifty-nine.

  Douglas, conscious of the praise heaped on him as well as the actors, threaded his way from dressing-room to dressing-room, tempering his own congratulations to his company with a low key reservation.

  Tommy Carr and Smiley were among the crowd that had gathered in and around Joe Thomas’s room, even so, Douglas was glad that Thomas gave a yelp the moment his director pushed through.

  ‘Doug, baby, thank you. How about that? Just how about that?’

  ‘Great. Fine, there are only one or two things I need to talk about in the morning, Joe baby.’

  For the first time that day, Thomas threw him an aggressive look.

  ‘See you later.’ Douglas pushed his way out again, heading for Edward Crispin’s room, and, after that, to Jennifer.

  Near Jennifer’s dressing-room he met Carol Evans in the crush. ‘Fantastic Douglas,’ her face gleamed. ‘I’m dumb with awe.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s too small a word, but thanks. I guess I’m a little awe-struck too. See you later, maybe.’

  ‘That would be nice. I look forward to it.’

  Jennifer had got rid of the visitors and was struggling into a slinky white creation.

  ‘Yes, Cinderella, you may go to that ball.’ Douglas put his arms around her.

  ‘And at midnight?’

  ‘Who knows, personally I like tattered Levis, and stuffed pumpkin is something else.’ He looked at her solemnly. ‘That was about the most perfect Desdemona I ever wish to see.’

  ‘Douglas.’ Warm, the gratitude in her eyes. ‘But what about Joe? Wasn’t he fantastic? That voice, we didn’t hear that quality at rehearsals.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. So good. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit naughty, I cooled him in his dressing-room just now: gave the impression I wasn’t altogether happy.’

  Jennifer’s excited smile turned to a look of concern. ‘You’re the boss; if you think that’s how it should be handled.’

  ‘His bloody manager’s turned up from the States. I’m just anxious that Joe doesn’t get thrown. It would be so easy for him to walk it now, Jen, and if he begins doing that the whole show’ll come crashing down. That man has got to be kept under pressure for the whole season.’

  ‘I still think a little praise...’

  ‘Okay, I’ll give him one of my famous pep talks at the party.’

  She kissed him lightly. ‘And so will I. He’ll be a better person for that.’

  They both laughed.

  Knowing that the first night of the season could mean the letting down of hair and a complete abandonment of discipline, Douglas had organized things so that there could be some kind of control. The last thing he wanted was a series of spontaneous, or organized parties going on all over the house and theatre. So, to make certain, there was to be an official Opening Of The Season Party in the theatre restaurant, to which the whole company and their friends were invited: the party beginning one hour after Othello came down.

  It was essentially Joe Thomas’s night, Douglas caught the general feeling as soon as they reached the restaurant, the thing bubbled with the singer’s success and, while Tommy Carr was keeping close to his client, he could in no way monopolize him; Joe was in constant demand. Even Conrad Catellier went out of his way to discuss the performance and tell him how good it was. There was music, unlimited talk, a lot of laughter and many important guests. On their way in, Douglas and Jennifer met Asher Grey with Julia Philips clinging on tightly.

  ‘Wasn’t he super, Douglas? Absolutely super,’ gushed Julia.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get to you, Ash. Splendid, congratulations and thanks.’ Douglas clasped the actor’s hand firmly.

  It set the mood for Douglas, and the next hour became a continuation of the conversations in which he had been engulfed back stage. Eventually he even got to Joe Thomas and poured a little honey on his leading man. Thomas was obviously being puffed full of praise, but there was a change in him: Douglas felt that he was talking to a much stronger character than the one with whom he had spoken in Vegas, it seemed a million years ago now.

  ‘You mind if I dance with your wife?’ Thomas asked after a few minutes conversation against the babble and music.

  ‘If you can find her.’ They had been split up on arrival. ‘Alas, she’s your Desdemona, as well as my wife.’ Douglas laughed, turning away straight into David Wills and Rachel Cohen who seemed to have little time for anybody but each other. Again mutual compliments. (Rachel’s Bianca was, in Douglas’s mind, the most neatly-conceived piece of characterization among the smaller roles, and his praise was sincere: she played Bianca, the whore, without recourse to any of the stagey tricks which so many actresses use when giving an impression of what they believe to be carefully observed whoreish traits.)

  ‘I bet you haven’t been over to the exhibition now that it’s all happening,’ said David.

  They had decided to leave the exhibition open until after the party so that members of the company could all see it in a certain amount of privacy. ‘No, but I’m going over in a minute. It’s on my schedule, David. How’ve they done over there?’

  The executive director grinned broadly. ‘A sell out. We reckon that just about everybody who was in the theatre tonight went round the exhibition as well. If that keeps up right through the season we’re made men.’

  A few minutes later, Douglas caught sight of Jennifer dancing with Joe Thomas; it was impossible to catch her eye, she was laughing a lot, moving well to Thomas’s rhythm. It had become increasingly hot in the restaurant and Douglas felt that he needed a break from the smoke; obligatory back-scratching and noise. Almost stealthily he made for the exit, the exhibition uppermost in his mind.

  Jennifer knew she should not have drunk four glasses of champagne so quickly as she now bounced to the strong beat with Joe Thomas; she was aware of the light-headedness. Then there was something else, something she had felt during the later rehearsals of Othello, and again, on stage, that night: during the more tender scenes her nipples had hardened and she ha
d been conscious of the reek of sensuality wandering through her mind and body. It was all part of playing Desdemona, part of the character, she told herself: she had to have some earthy feelings for Joe as Othello, otherwise she could not project the emotions. Now, with the alcohol relaxing her, she felt the sensuous strain again and knew it for what it really was: one part of her fancied Joe Thomas in the most basic of ways, another fancied him for what he had proved to be that night, and a third was obsessed with screwing the world, simply to show Douglas and that black bitch. There was, of course, particular irony here with Joe Thomas.

  ‘You look hot, baby.’ Joe shouted above the din.

  ‘I am hot. It’s stifling in here.’

  ‘You want some air?’

  The nip inside her and the rising sense of her sex: the throbbing, tingling pulse low down.

  ‘Yes, come on.’

  With the tapes running and the lighting properly set, the exhibition seemed to assume new dimensions. Douglas had viewed it with a kind of reverence on his previous visit, but now the magic increased and his mind had nothing but gratitude, tinged with wonder, for what David and Tony had managed to invent.

  The sounds within the first section, The History of the Shireston Festival, were neatly interwoven: music, combined with the noises of the countryside (birds and animals, cries, the sounds of the seasons), and, behind them, extracts from Shakespeare, spoken by members of the company, and well chosen for their allusions to the fields, woods and country life: Conrad spoke the Duke’s lines from As You Like It—

  And this our life exempt from public haunt,

  Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

  Sermons in stones, and good in everything:

  I would not change it.

  Overlapped by Asher as Corin in the same play—

  Sir I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness; glad of other men’s good, content with my harm; and the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck.

  On top of this a girl’s voice, he thought it was Rachel singing—

  And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,

  When turtles tread, and rooks, and Jaws,

  And maidens bleach their summer smocks,

  The cuckoo then, on every tree,

  Mocks married men; for thus sings he,

  Cuckoo;

  Cuckoo, cuckoo: 0 word of fear,

  Unpleasing to a married ear!

  Jennifer and Joe walked across the lawn in the direction of the theatre, now in darkness.

  ‘You enjoyed tonight?’ Jennifer forcing herself to be serious, the champagne had brought on an attack of frivolity combined with the raging randiness.

  ‘I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it, honey. I like it now it’s over and I know I can do it. Hey, that’s a gas isn’t it? This feeling?’

  ‘Yes, it’s the whole experience. But you’ve had it before, Joe.’

  ‘Not quite this way. You know, Jen, I wasn’t so happy when Tommy and Smiley turned up tonight after the show. They’re from another part of my life that has nothing to do with this. I really believe I’ve found something out about myself here: here with you people.’

  ‘A change of mood and pace?’

  ‘No, a change of style, language, thought, the way you learn to use your mind in this medium, the way you learn to use your voice, move your body.’

  Jennifer giggled in spite of herself. ‘You move your body all right, Joe. I bet you use it really well.’ She could hardly believe that it was herself talking, the entire night exploding in her head; legs unsteady, stomach trembling. The adolescent volcano.

  Joe Thomas caught hold of her hand, stopped and moved closer. He could feel the grass under the soles of his shoes, his body rising to meet Jennifer’s.

  ‘You really want to prove that old Othello-Desdemona legend, baby?’

  ‘I think so, don’t rush me though, Joe. I feel something. I don’t know.’ The automatic, self-imposed cut-outs of her whole moral background already working behind the natural desires.

  ‘We can go to my dressing room and talk, anyhow. I got a spare bottle of that French fizz water in there.’

  Douglas had moved on through two more sections of the exhibition: famous productions of the four plays was backed by some wonderful voices from the past, recordings culled from the B.B.C. Sound Archives. In the section on the Four Current Productions at Shireston the voices were more familiar, those of the present company, cross-cut with Leggat’s music, the whole giving an electrifying effect.

  Now Douglas stood at the entrance to THE LIFE AND TIMES OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE and again marvelled at the way in which the project had been put together. Here, the sounds were diffused, as though a hundred voices were whispering from all corners of the long room, interspersed with fragments and snatches of music.

  He quickly discovered that what they had done was to work one particular segment of poetry, prose or music for each individual exhibit, using a phased loudspeaker system. He chose one or two exhibits at random. Shakespeare’s Death had a trio of voices whispering—

  Fear no more the heat of the sun,

  Nor the furious winter’s rages;

  Thou thy worldly task has done,

  Home art thou and ta’ en they wages:

  Golden lads and girls all must,

  As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

  At the marriage between Susanna Shaxpere and john Hall, a delightfully off-beat Kapstein spoke Theseus’ closing words in The Dream—

  The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve;

  Lovers to bed; ‘tis almost fairy time.

  The exhibition was beginning to fill with couples who had drifted over from the party; Douglas turned back, pausing for a second beside the exhibit showing the bond exempting the Bishop from liability should William’s marriage to Anne be proved unlawful, with its illustration of the pair of broken rings. Edward Crispin’s voice came softly from the loudspeakers—

  I knew a boy went wandering in a wood,

  Drunken with common dew and beauty-mad

  And moonstruck.

  Then there came a nightshade witch,

  Locked hands with him, small hands, hot hands, down drew

  him,

  Sighing — ‘Love me, love me!’ as a ring-dove sighs,

  (How white a woman is under the moon!)

  She was scarce human.

  Douglas began to move away with a puzzled frown.

  ‘You look worried, Doug.’ It was Carol Evans who had come up quietly behind him.

  ‘Hallo. I couldn’t place that passage.’

  The loudspeaker cycle went on and finally the voice of Edward Crispin again repeated the piece. Carol smiled. ‘I know where it comes from.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh, I only know because I was in on this recording session and they had a laugh about “How white a woman is under the moon.” It’s from a nineteen-twenties’ play called Will Shakespeare, by Clemence Dane.’

  ‘Before my time.’ Douglas gave a wry smile. ‘You come here with somebody?’

  ‘No, I came looking for you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes. To give you some information from tonight’s play.’

  ‘Go on.’ He felt a small stream of apprehension in his blood.

  She came close to him and whispered. ‘Even now, now, very now, an old black ram is hipping your white ewe.’

  At first, Douglas did not grasp the significance. Then, ‘Jennifer?’ he queried, voice small against the whispers and music of the exhibition. ‘Jen and Joe Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, at least I think so. They left the party together. I saw them and it had that look.’

  ‘No, Jen wouldn’t...’

  ‘We did,’ soft, her hand on his velvet sleeve.

  The fury crossed his face and he saw that his fist was tightly balled. ‘I’ll bloody well...’

  ‘No, Doug. Please. All I know is that they’re to
gether and it looked, well, you know how people look. It wouldn’t be a serious thing. It’s to do with Othello if it’s anything.’

  ‘Sod, Othello. It’s to do with my wife.’

  ‘And you’re the last person to interfere. Don’t do anything you’d regret.’

  He relaxed slightly, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’d better go and find her though. I still can’t believe...’

  ‘I don’t suppose she could believe it about you either. We were very close, Doug; and people are pretty much the same, I guess; having our cake and eating it; not wanting to get involved with things that are unpleasant. I don’t want to get caught up in this race thing, but I’m black and you’re white; none of us want violence until there’s some guy stealing your paper money, or your property and so you fight back; we all share; we all breathe the same air, drink the same water, share the same pollution.’

  Douglas bobbed his head up and down slowly, gave her hand a small squeeze and walked away, unhurried.

  The silence in the theatre had a depth and vastness to it, Jennifer almost hearing her heart-beat, crossed with their footsteps, echoing down the whitewashed corridors. Joe’s dressing-room had been cleaned and aired, the Othello costumes hung neatly, ready for the next afternoon. Inside, he leaned against the door and she saw his hand move down to the key. He turned the key and they collided with mutual consent, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he kissed her, the first time, on the lips, then she knew she was biting him as he pressed harder. sliding his stiff tongue into her mouth, the miniature of the act itself. They must have stayed locked together, mouths and lips sucking and playing, for a good minute (he kissed her with tiny jabs all over her face and neck; she felt the tingling within and the oncoming rigidity of her nipples). Then she drew away and Joe began to unbutton his shirt.

  Jennifer put her hands behind her neck, slipped the hooks and eyes, then drew down on the zip. The dress was of a heavy material and she wore only a brief pair of white pants underneath. She caught a glimpse of herself in the long wall mirror as she stepped out of the dress, her breasts hanging full; she let the dress drop and looked up at the mirror again. Between her breasts the shining medallion, which Douglas had given her that morning, hung like a small golden sun between the two smooth mounds. It seemed as though in a second a whole jagged montage of moments and actions came alive in her brain: the arrival back from the States; the Christmas angel, and the knowledge of Douglas having needed someone else, outdated maybe, but the pain still soared; the moment in the apartment when she really knew and Carol Evans was reading Loving And Losing. The truth that this thing now had nothing to do with Joe or Othello or Desdemona, that it was really only the bitch in her spitting at Douglas.