Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  ‘Joe.’ Not even pleading, he was becoming a bore.

  ‘I said git in there.’ Sharp, with a pace forward, and for the first time Carol experienced real fear. She tried to sound calm.

  ‘Joe, it’s late. You’ve got a heavy day tomorrow.’

  ‘Do as you are told.’

  She did not see his arm come up, only the flash of pain as the palm caught her cheek, sending her sprawling sideways. She hit the floor heavily, more pain sharp on the right side of her body, one hand leaping to her burning cheek.

  ‘Git up and into that bedroom.’

  Slowly she began to rise, but he grabbed her, pulling her up into a standing position and pushing her backwards. With a burst of energy, Carol tore herself clear, but his hand came up again, paddling hard across her face, the pain sudden and fierce. He must have struck her eight or nine times.

  She backed away, opening her mouth, screaming in panic.

  The scream stopped Thomas for a second, and Carol sprang clear as he lunged at her again with a spluttered oath. But the alcohol took its toll and Joe’s balance was off once more. He slipped and fell forward, leaving Carol with enough time to make the door and run down the passage, distraught, her whole body sharp with the hurt on her cheeks and side, the stink of stale liquor in her nose and the horror of the sudden, unprovoked violence swirling around her throbbing head.

  By the time she reached the stairs Carol was too bewildered for instant decision, she paused breathing heavily, her weight against the balustrade, not even knowing if Thomas was following. Clear within her disturbed and fractured mind there came one thought, one person to whom she could turn, one woman. A couple of minutes later she was knocking on Felicity Durrant’s door.

  Conrad Catellier left the party relatively early; apart from his natural mistrust of such occasions, he needed to be alone now that he was so deeply entrenched in his Richard III; at the same time he was most conscious of the experience of Thomas’s Othello, not that he was completely in tune with all that Douglas Silver had pulled out of the air, but, as an actor, he felt nothing but respect for the ballad singer who had proved himself so masterful with Shakespeare’s language.

  ‘Your understanding of the role is quite profound and you have that rare gift of complete interpretation; your audience knows and understands you immediately,’ he told Joe Thomas.

  Thomas had thanked him, and said that if it was so, then, he supposed the many years of singing modern songs with meaningful lyrics must be partly responsible.

  Conrad undressed and got into bed, glad that he had entered into no particular liaison with any other member of the Company; his text for Richard III was on the side table, and he worked on it for an hour before finally putting off the light, taking his sleeping capsules and closing his eyes.

  ***

  Liz Column hardly stopped talking after Othello came down. Throughout the party she made a constant verbal assault on Frank, repeatedly asking him what he really felt about her Emilia. Now, with Frank beside her, dropping with sleep, tucked into her bed like some cuddly teddy bear, there as a prop to comfort her, she cajoled him with queries about her Portia: had Douglas said anything to him about her performance? Did he (Frank) think she was playing this or that scene in keeping with the general conception of the production? That move in the Trial scene, in the ‘mercy’ speech, was it too dramatic?

  ‘Liz, can’t we go to sleep?’ Frank at last pleaded.

  A silence almost painful in its stunned atmosphere.

  ‘Darling, have you gone mad?’ she shrieked in a stagy upper register. ‘I can’t sleep on a first night without being laid. Go to, boy, go to.’

  Douglas and Jennifer were at peace, warm clasped as lovers in each other’s arms, their abrasive friction eased away in more tender attrition; their minds at rest and swords put up.

  Felicity Durrant was always a light sleeper, so she heard Carol’s knock almost as the girl’s knuckles touched the wooden panel of the door.

  Her face registered shock as she opened to the sight of Carol leaning against the jamb.

  ‘My dear girl, what’s happened? Have you been in an accident? Come in; Oh come along in child, my goodness me...’

  She fussed around constructively, wanting to send for a doctor, but Carol persuaded her against it assuring her that no bones were broken. Felicity bathed the bruises, and the little blood on Carol’s right cheek, where Thomas’s nail had scratched her; there was a warm drink, sympathy and a ready ear as Carol sobbed out part of what had happened.

  ‘You go straight down to Douglas in the morning and tell him the whole thing.’

  ‘No, Joe didn’t mean it. He wasn’t himself. He was so drunk, I’m sure something terrible had upset him.’

  ‘You’re a very foolish girl if you don’t tell Douglas. Now, off with your clothes, I’m getting you into bed.’

  It was as though their roles in Romeo and Juliet had broken through the fabric of the play to become reality. Carol, suffering slight shock, needed nothing better than the tender care as the older woman helped her to undress, tutted when she refused to borrow a nightdress, gave up her own bed, tucked Carol between the sheets and kissed her affectionately on both cheeks before retiring to the couch in the living-room.

  And as they approach the first fence at the now refurbished Shireston Festival, it is Othello in the lead. Othello, a stayer, by El Cordobes out of Noises Off. That is Douglas Silver’s production anyway: loud, with strange sounds as scene smoothly dissolves into scene, a technique almost cinematic. No doubt some things will jar, for we have Iago, played at athletic pitch by Edward Crispin, as a heavyweight matador goading Othello with his cape in a flurry of veronicas, naturales and derechazos. the award must go to Joe Thomas for his Othello whom he presents as a complete and believable human being, rendering the verse in a voice which almost sings Shakespeare’s words and certainly passes their full weight and comprehension to the audience. His acting ability is enormous, and... (Daily Mail)

  I have seen Joe Thomas live in Las Vegas, listened to him charm audiences at Plaza Nine in New York, and heard his particular kind of magic soothe and inspire at the Talk of the Town here in London. I did not, in the wildest flights of imagination, think I would ever see his Othello. I did not think I would see it here in England at the Shireston Festival, and I certainly did not think that it would be as it is — brilliant and complete...Joe Thomas speaks a moody blue Othello, so profound that you cannot fail to be moved...Jennifer Frost’s Desdemona, looking like a souped-up loan of Arc, with cropped hair, gives the role tender dimensions by making the woman have a blind spot to Othello’s true needs... (Daily Express)

  In spite of staging and production technique more suitable to Carmen, Douglas Silver gets a double first for his Othello, which opened at the Shireston Festival last night. Much of the credit goes to Toe Thomas whose Othello begins as a whole man, the very presence of a soldier-diplomat, and really progresses, seemingly in voice, manner and body, down the flinty road to outraged, unreasoned, brain-cracked jealous violence. I doubt if I have ever heard the great verse of this play rendered with such power, attack, understanding or emotional control... (Daily Telegraph)

  Shakespeare’s Othello is a complex labyrinth; a vast landscape of mental peaks, valleys, crevasses...the theatricality of Douglas Silver’s production: he sets ‘ago and Othello in juxtaposition, as matador and bull, with background noises redolent of the corrida as well as the central themes of the play. The problem with Othello has always... Thomas’s Othello is a rare dramatic experience. .Jennifer Frost’s touching, bewildered, unaware Desdemona...Edward Crispin’s Iago is a professional con man, fully conscious of what harvest he will reap...Elizabeth Column’s gentle Emelia; a nicely scored Bianca by Rachel Cohen and a powerful Cassio from Asher Grey (A young man worth watching, for he is to play Romeo later in the season)... (The Times)

  A dazzling Othello opens the Shireston Festival this week in a production packed with brilliant spectacle, sex and violen
ce, Othello himself, played by the unlikely Joe Thomas, a performance of explosive skill which you should sell your bed to see... (Sun)

  Douglas called in at Adrian Rolfe’s office before going over to give notes to the Othello company on the following morning. They both had the same sense of elation over the reviews.

  ‘Nearest thing to raves that you’re going to get this season,’ announced Adrian.

  Douglas pulled a face. ‘Wait for the Sundays; you ought to know that rule. We’re healthy now, but those Sunday boys are something else.’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry, I’ve got enough good selling quotes here to have them fighting for tickets. I’ll tell you what we’ve really got to look out for though.’

  ‘That quality weekly the Shireston Gazette. That joy comes on Friday.’

  ‘So does The Merchant, mate, things really get heavy now.’

  Carol ached and felt stiff down the right side of her body and, worst of all, there was a large ugly purple bruise down the right side of her face, the cheekbone painful to the touch; there was little she could do about it.

  Felicity Durrant continued her tirade against Joe Thomas over breakfast, saying that Carol was an idiot if she did not report the matter to Douglas.

  ‘Douglas has enough to his plate at the moment without me bothering him with this.’

  She got back to her own apartment just after nine-thirty to hear the telephone ringing madly.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Carol?’ His voice was a throaty wreck.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Baby, you okay? I’m sorry, honey, I feel terrible; don’t know what happened to me...’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve been calling you since eight-thirty. When you didn’t answer...’

  ‘I’m okay, Joe. Just a few bruises that show. The best thing you can do is stay out of my way.’

  ‘I didn’t mean...Gee I don’t...Isn’t there anything I can do?’

  ‘You’ve got notes at ten-thirty. I think you’d better be there and go on turning in the performance you gave on stage last night without trying to louse up my body as well as my life.’

  ‘I just want you to know I’m sorry.’

  ‘Being sorry isn’t enough, Joe.’

  ‘It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man: drown thyself! drown cats and blind puppies. I have profess’d me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favour with an usurp’d beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor —put money in thy purse — nor he his to her: it was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration; — put money in thy purse. — These Moors are changeable in their wills; — fill thy purse with money: —

  Crispin flashing round Laurence Pern’s Roderigo, making a pose with his scarlet-lined cloak at each ‘Put money in thy purse;’ Pern, turning, opening his mouth as though trying to break in on Iago’s speech, coming in again at just the right moment to be deflected by the words and the spinning cloak.

  It was the Wednesday evening performance, and Douglas crept into the producer’s box to sit beside Ronnie Gregor.

  ‘Strong so far,’ whispered Ronnie.

  Douglas nodded, three-quarters of his mind wanting the performance to leap ahead so that he could begin the technical dress rehearsal of The Merchant. The day had been arduous and tonight would also be long and hard. After the initial exuberation of reading the reviews, Douglas suddenly hit a down-draught of concern when he first walked into the theatre that morning. Joe Thomas looked terrible, as though a bomb had exploded inside his skull, so much that Douglas had to do an aside to Frank Ewes, ordering his assistant to get a doctor to check Joe over and, maybe, bolster him up before the afternoon performance.

  There were two hours of notes for the Othello company, and Douglas was pleased to see that, before they went up at two-thirty, Joe looked, and sounded, considerably better. He spent much of the afternoon catching up on paper work in the office, slipping over to the theatre to do spot checks on how the afternoon performance was going (he, in fact, caught the Othello and the Senate scene, with Joe’s magnificent Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors; the Cassio drinking scene; the Othello-Iago sequence at the start of Act Four, which ends with Othello having a fit — pish! — noses, ears and lips. — Is ‘t possible? — Confess — handkerchief! — O devil! — and the final sequence). The company had been kept right up to scratch and there was no lagging or sag during the afternoon; now, at the evening performance, it looked as though the pitch would be maintained.

  Douglas, in an understandably restless mood, hovered between the producer’s box and the dressing-rooms all evening, ending up in the prompt corner for the closing moments of the play, his stomach thrilling to the tumult of applause which seemed to hit a higher, everestine, note than on the opening night.

  He waited until the auditorium had cleared and the stage crew had begun to clear and prepare for The Merchant technical dress. It would be a good half-an-hour before anybody could possibly be in even a near state of readiness: a large number of the Othello cast had to change into their Merchant costumes and grab quick cups of coffee; the strictly Merchant people had to get in and be assimilated into already comfortably full dressing-rooms; a certain amount of confusion was inevitable.

  Jennifer came up in her towelling robe and stood beside Douglas as he gave instructions to Frank.

  ‘You want me to stay so we can go home together after?’ she asked when the assistant had moved away.

  ‘That’s sweet of you.’ He looked and sounded fatigued. ‘Did I tell you how great you were tonight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well you were.’

  ‘It did seem to go well. Did I lie still tonight?’ During the post-first performance notes, that morning Douglas had made reference to his wife’s twitchiness as the dead corpse of Desdemona.

  ‘Not a flicker.’

  ‘Good, I tried hard. You want me to stay?’

  ‘If you sit down in front and remain silent.’ He flashed her a grin, called to Frank, telling him it was about time they started to call The Merchant company on stage. ‘Prod ‘em a bit.’

  ‘I’ll go and slip into some jeans.’ Jennifer left him to his work.

  Members of The Merchant company began to drift on to the stage in costume. They were not required to wear character make-up, for tonight’s rehearsal would be concerned only with those parts of the production which required technical assistance from the stage crew: cues and changes of scene.

  Maurice Kapstein came up in enormous good humour; Douglas also noticed Rachel Cohen and Asher (their Jessica and Lorenzo) and, at the far side of the stage, Carol Evans, her back towards him. She was walking away but her poise did not seem natural, a stiffness about the manner in which she moved. An unnatural concern flowered in Douglas’s mind and he went over to her.

  ‘Happy in your work, Carol?’

  She turned and he saw her face, even the heavier evening make-up she was wearing could not completely disguise the extent of bruising.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You are hell. What happened? You get the number of the truck?’

  She gave an apologetic little smile. ‘Not looking where I was going; that’s the trouble with us drunks: I fell down the stairs last night.’

  It did not ring true, but he wasn’t going to stop and argue with her at this point. He had so wanted the impossible, an ideal theatre society, an integrated company, working together without clash or friction: that was impossible, but violence was something else; he smelled violence here.

  ‘How much of you’s hurt?’

  ‘Just my face.’

  ‘You’re a liar, you’re walking badly.’

  ‘I bruised my side as well. Only a little.’

  ‘Seen a doctor?’

  ‘
No.’

  Douglas called over to Frank Ewes who came up at a trot. ‘You arrange for a doctor to see Miss Evans in her apartment tomorrow morning. As early as possible. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And check the time with Miss Evans.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Okay Carol, love, there you go; no heavy lifting tonight, you’ll get looked at in the morning.’

  He was still uncertain about her story; no definite clues on to which he could lock, but her manner was almost furtive. He mentioned the business to Ronnie when they finally completed the technical dress rehearsal around three in the morning. (They had to cope with several difficult moments: the hydraulic lift mechanism, used to bring the corner of Shylock’s house up to stage level became temperamental and stuck: as this device was used several times during the play this caused heavy delays; then an archway, used for one of the Belmont exteriors, got fouled up in the fly tower, and two bulbs burned out on number three batten necessitating dropping the batten from the grid to stage level, replacing the bulbs and flying the batten again, an operation which cost them more than twenty minutes.)

  Ronnie agreed to nose around and see what he could find out about Carol Evans ‘accident’.

  On the following afternoon they got through the stopping dress rehearsal in almost record time. Friday was quickly on them bringing with it fury and chaos.

  The same old first night anxiety flowered and buzzed in the pits of two score stomachs as the company and staff woke on Friday morning, the whole organization seeming to flex itself in preparation for a day which would include both a full dress rehearsal and a first performance.

  Douglas was up early, glancing through the Daily Mail and the Express during breakfast. He would get a resume of The Times later from Frank Ewes, and he was on to his second cup of coffee before picking up the weekly Shireston Gazette. Straight away he turned to Harvey Moir’s review, immediately annoyed by the heading — MINSTREL SHOW AT FESTIVAL.

  Moir began with a lengthy, pseudo-scholastic, examination of Othello as a play before going on to recall great Othellos he had seen at Shireston: there had been very few but this did not deter the journalist who used up at least half his space before getting down to the point. Douglas hardly credited what he read—