Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Sir Basil gave Douglas a knowing look as he left the room for his long, somewhat agonizing, wait. He was not summoned to return until almost five o’clock, and it was obvious, from the atmosphere, that things had not gone easily. Basil Daley looked furious and spoke with some embarrassment.

  ‘Mr. Silver, the board has had some difficulty in coming to an agreement. All of us are not over anxious about the situation between festival and town, but we would appreciate it if you would do all in your power to heal the breach. Now, with regard to your continued status as director here, the board is again divided. The larger majority feels that, while it looks certain that you can financially justify the festival, it would be importunate to make the final decision until the last booking phase has shown concrete stability. We, therefore, reluctantly, ask you to await our final decision which will be made on Monday the second of August.’

  Douglas tried not to show his fury; the immediate reaction was to hand in his resignation, but common sense and judgment held him back.

  ‘They’re a hard headed lot,’ Sir Basil explained later. ‘They now see you as a future goldmine. But they’re cautious men. I’m sorry, all I can hope is that you’ll wait until August.’

  Douglas talked to Adrian about the local situation, and the publicity man promised to make at least an approach to Moir.

  ‘It’ll be a start anyway,’ said Douglas. ‘I can’t stand the man myself, but I must do as the board asks.’

  He then had a long session with David Wills to make perfectly certain that the booking figures could be maintained.

  ‘Old Harper’s a strange bird,’ David told him. ‘He doesn’t really believe what’s happening; you can’t get him to admit that we’re topping anything that’s been done here before; but I’ll push him. I would suggest that you replace him before next season, his diffidence does not inspire confidence.’

  ‘Let’s see if any of us are here,’ Douglas sighed.

  ‘Yes.’ David seemed to be miles away, he was still pushing Rachel Cohen for an answer to his proposal of marriage, but she remained reluctant to commit herself.

  Asher Grey was in a state of despair now that Douglas would not have a definite answer for him until August. He could not wait that long before giving his answer to Ivor Armstrong, and his uncertainty began to overflow into his performances; Ronnie also noticed that his drink bill in the green room was rising sharply, and pointed this out to Douglas who sent for the actor.

  ‘Is it just your answer to Armstrong about The Lord Deputy, or the other decision as well?’ the director asked.

  ‘Only the film. I really don’t know what to do, Douglas; I’m torn in half.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ash. My answer is the same as it was before. Yes, if I’m still the director, I will be asking you to join the company for next season, but I wouldn’t want that to influence your decision about doing the film. When have you got to give your answer?’

  ‘Armstrong’s coming in to The Merchant on Tuesday. I’m having dinner with him afterwards.’

  ‘We need you cool, Ash, I wish I could help.’

  The business was resolved in a strange, coincidental way. On the next Tuesday morning, Carol Evans woke with a severe attack of vomiting. Asher called Ronnie, who sent for the doctor. He pronounced a mild stomach infection and ordered her to stay in bed for the rest of the day, suggesting that it would be better if she did not work that night. Douglas was informed and called a Merchant rehearsal for that afternoon in order to check out the understudy (Frank Ewes and Robin Alvin had, since the first night of Romeo and Juliet, been studiously going through understudy rehearsals). Carol’s understudy for Nerissa was Julia Philips.

  Personal differences were forgotten in the moment of crisis and even Asher tightened into the atmosphere as they took the nervous Julia through her scenes. In performance that night she gave a confident interpretation of the small part, different from Carol, adding an extra edge of bitchiness which pleased Douglas and prompted praise from most of the company.

  Ivor Armstrong was late getting to Asher’s dressing-room afterwards.

  ‘Guess I must smell lucky at the moment,’ said the producer, rubbing his hands. ‘I think I’m going to sign up somebody else for The Lord Deputy, only a small part, but important: the Whore, the girl who plays that scene with Essex in Ireland, you know, the long sexy scene before he returns to England.’

  Asher remembered the scene, difficult and lengthy with some clever camera work. ‘Who’ve you offered it to?’ he asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘The girl who played Nerissa tonight, the understudy, what’s her name? Julia, Julia Philips. The understudy thing’ll make good publicity and she’s right for the part. I think she’s going to accept, I have to call her agent in the morning.’

  On their way to the theatre restaurant, Asher made up his mind, taking the first real decision he had made about his life for a long time. Over dinner he told Armstrong that he could not accept the Essex role. The producer did not even try to argue with him, long ago he had learned the art of taking actors at their word. He would wait for a month before approaching anyone else, if Asher did not get back to him by then, it would be offered elsewhere.

  Spring turned into summer and Shireston blossomed; play succeeded play as audience followed audience: Joe Thomas’s Othello, Jennifer’s Desdemona, Morrie Kapstein’s Shylock, Asher’s Richard and Romeo, Carol’s Juliet. Early in July, just after the final booking period had opened, and looked, in its early stages, to be holding up well, Emilio Benneto came to see Douglas.

  ‘It’s your advice I need Mr. Silver.’

  ‘Don’t say you’re going to resign. There’s nothing but praise for the restaurant.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I’m a lucky man to have such a good job. No, Mr. Silver, this is a personal problem.’

  ‘You’re certainly looking better.’ Douglas had the evidence of his eyes that the restaurateur was making a complete recovery from his wife’s sudden and tragic death.

  ‘Thank you, I sometimes think I should not feel as good as I do.’

  ‘Come on, Emilio, we can’t go on grieving. It’s not easy, but we have to put life into perspective.’

  ‘This is what I wish to talk about, Mr. Silver. You see, Mrs: Doul and I...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It is so soon after my poor Doris. Back home they would think it terrible...’ He stopped, all the words blocked and stuck in his throat.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that you want to marry Mrs. Doul?’ You did not have to be either a genius or a fortune teller, the pair were inseparable around the festival.

  ‘This is so. Yes, we wish to marry. I am concerned because I think maybe it is too quick after Doris.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ Douglas rose, offering his hand. ‘I couldn’t be more pleased. Truly, I think it would be the best thing in the world, both for you and Mrs. Doul.’

  ‘I am thinking of her also. She has been alone for so many years. We have much in common.’ The man smiled. ‘It is not exactly an affair of passion you understand. We have common interests, a mutual ground.’

  ‘I really am delighted.’

  ‘You don’t think people will say I am a bad, thoughtless man?’

  ‘I think they’ll say you’re a very sensible man.’

  Also in July David Wills’s Recitals took place, before a depleted audience, on three consecutive Sunday evenings. It was a pity about the audiences, because the programmes deserved a better hearing. Douglas knew that Adrian had been spending a lot of time in Shireston, but he restrained himself from asking how he had worked the oracle: Hedley Moir was readmitted for the three recitals and the Gazette gave pleasant tributes both to the choice of verse and the manner in which it was delivered. It was not for many months that Douglas found out the possible reason for the change of heart when he noticed that Sir Basil Daley’s name was on the board of the newspaper group which owned the Gazette.

  It was in the last week of the month, with
Douglas beginning to feel the bite of agitation and nervousness about the outcome of the board’s decision, that Maurice Kapstein decided to make a nuisance of himself once more.

  Kapstein had been on one of his stints at the television studios for a couple of days, returning to the house early on a Thursday afternoon. He had lunched well, but was not overtly drunk (Morrie was not likely to make that mistake again). Eve Lester went up to his room at about four. She was used to his animal appetite (something she shared in common with him) and, seeing him in bed, stripped and climbed in beside him. Kapstein woke from his short slumber and grinned.

  ‘So you have come to me, hu?’

  ‘You’ve been away. I know you, Morrie. You’ll not settle until you’re satisfied.’

  The actor gave a long contented groan and reached out for her, but in the kissing, fumbling, smoothing and frenzied groping which took place during the next hour, Maurice Kapstein was incapable of even entering the girl.

  Eve was sensible and tried to soothe. ‘Morrie, darling, you’ve been working very hard. You’re tired.’

  ‘But it is not normal, not for me, not for Morrie Kapstein. I know. I haven’t ever been like this before. Age is ruining me, this is the first sign, emasculation...’

  It was the full farcical scene, with Kapstein over-dramatizing and Eve getting anxious. (It was a Romeo night and she had to be in the theatre, one of the sultry girls of Verona.)

  Just after the quarter had been called, Maurice Kapstein came into the theatre, through the stage door, at last wandering into Felicity Durrant’s dressing-room, unzipping his fly and exposing himself directly to her.

  ‘Wouldn’t you say that wasn’t bad for a man of my age?’ he asked in all seriousness.

  Miss Durrant had experienced many things in life and was not easily distressed, but the sight of Morrie shaking his great mane of hair and asking her opinion of his sexual organ was too much. She laid about him with her clenched fists, finally pushing him into a corner, where he lay, dejected, as she swept out of the room in search of Ronnie Gregor, demanding that Kapstein be removed from the theatre before she would go on.

  Maurice was gently prodded back to his apartment where Douglas saw him later that evening.

  ‘You’re a bloody old fool, Morrie. Who the hell do you think you are, a mixture of Bacchus and eternal youth? I’ve never known a man like you, openly screwing one of the youngest girls in the company, working like a horse and expecting to go on doing it. I’d see a doctor if I were you, otherwise, one of these days you’re going to go out like a light.’

  It was the kind of storm that Douglas could well do without. He managed to get Maurice to apologize to Felicity Durrant the next morning, and for her to accept the apology; by the next evening, when they were playing The Merchant, Morrie seemed to be his old self again, at least Douglas spied him going across the lawn to the theatre, Eve Lester by his side, arms entwined around each other, and a burst of laughter floating over the air. The incident became a roaring joke for the rest of the company, but, not unnaturally, remained an embarrassment for Felicity Durrant.

  On the evening of the second of August, Douglas received a short telephone call from Sir Basil Daley.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know that the board met in London this afternoon. Their decision is to ask you to stay on as director for a further three years. I hope you accept.’

  There was no hesitation on Douglas’s part, it was like unlocking a section of his mind, he knew the broad outline of what he wanted to achieve at Shireston and began to take immediate steps.

  On the next morning he talked to Adrian and David, who both agreed to stay for at least another year. Frank Ewes had already accepted a job at Chichester, where Liz Column was playing as a member of the company in the following season, but Robin Alvin would stay; there was no problem about Ronnie and Art, from their manner and style they might easily become permanent fixtures.

  Edward Crispin was booked for two films, so Douglas did not even approach him. Laurence Pern would come back, as would Ronald Escott. Late in the afternoon Douglas spoke with Rachel Cohen, who seemed overjoyed at the thought; then he talked to Asher Grey.

  ‘I can’t promise to find anything for Carol, though,’ he told the young actor.

  ‘I want to stay for another year, of course, Doug. As for Carol, I don’t think she’ll settle or find permanence for a long time. I don’t know what it is, Doug, apparently there was this big love in her life and she hasn’t really got unbugged from him yet. Would you mind if she was around for some of the time? If she’s not working?’

  ‘Of course not.’ But Douglas had already left the actor, his mind far back in time.

  David came in to see him towards the end of the day, particularly to ask if he could have a double apartment. ‘I’ve persuaded Rachel to at least share with me,’ he said, looking considerably brighter than he had done during the past weeks: ‘Douglas, I really think she might just marry me when we get back from the States.’

  That night, as they were preparing for bed, Jennifer, in the midst of removing her day make-up, asked Douglas if he wanted to know her availability for next season.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The place is buzzing: who’s been invited to stay, who hasn’t and why not? You haven’t even mentioned it to me, apart from telling me that you’re going to be director of Shireston for the next three years.’

  Douglas smiled and sat down beside her. She was half lying on the bed, a stand mirror propped against her pillow, her jars of cream and box of cotton wool littering the counter. pane.

  ‘I was going to ask your availability as the director’s wife,’ he said quietly.

  She went on sweeping her face with the cotton wool. ‘For three years?’

  ‘For ever, but at least for a year without doing anything else.’

  ‘I’m available. For ever if you really want it.’

  Joe Thomas was still under pressure. Tommy Carr had fixed three long recording sessions and he was to do a concert, with the London Philharmonic Orchestra, at the Albert Hall on one of the non-Othello nights in early September.

  ‘If Tony Bennett can do it so can you,’ the manager had told him.

  The Othello still stood up well, but Douglas knew the strain must be great for Thomas and that he would have to take the whole company through some stiff, disciplined rehearsals before they left for Boston and New York.

  For Joe the strain became a little too much on a hot night towards the end of August. He had been in London for two days, a day recording and another rehearsing for the concert. That night his performance was good, steady with no hint of what was to come.

  They got to the final scene, Joe mounting the spiral staircase and padding along the gallery—

  ‘...Set you down this;

  And say, besides, that in Aleppo once,

  Where a malignant and a turban’ d Turk...

  He seemed to falter, his feet in the nooses. Then, slowly, one hand came up as though holding a microphone, his body changing position.

  ‘Aw, let’s call it a night, folks. What say I sing you a song?’

  Shuffling and murmurs from the audience. Ronnie, who happened to be in the prompt corner, reacted, his hand moving to the telephone link with the control box.

  ‘No?’ Thomas swayed. ‘Okay. But I want you to know you’ve been a great audience, the best since I’ve been here, so come back real soon. God bless you and let’s live in peace, hu?’

  He plunged the dagger in and broke the blood pellets, toppling forward to the usual intake of breath from the audience.

  Mark Lynton had the presence of mind to go straight into Lodovico’s closing speech. Ronnie was already whispering into the house phone, calling Douglas over to the theatre.

  ‘I don’t know what happened, Doug, I’m sorry, baby, suddenly I didn’t want to go on.’

  ‘It was bloody unprofessional.’ Douglas stood in Thomas’s dressing-room looking down at the singer who sat, slumped in a huddle
in his chair.

  ‘What did you want to prove, Joe?’ The question cracked down.

  ‘I didn’t want to prove anything. Doug, I’ll do the run of Othello in the States and then get back to my own line. I’m no actor.’

  ‘Your Othello’s a knock out, except when you do stupid things like tonight.’

  ‘Cut it out, Doug. Yeah, sure, I’m great. But do you know what it’s like going out there every night?’

  ‘I’ve got a fair idea.’

  ‘No, I mean for me? I’m used to doing my own thing, being Joe Thomas. It doesn’t matter if I decide to light a cigarette, or chat up the folks in the audience. Going out there and doing Othello again and again is like something else.’

  ‘What do you think it’s like for someone like Asher, playing four big, important roles, a different one each night?’

  Joe looked up slyly and grinned. ‘It’s like a bullfight, man. Every night’s a sodding bullfight, when the moves have to be so accurate or you’re a dead duck; either the bull gets you or the audience does. Every night’s a bullfight, Douglas, baby.’

  Douglas grinned back in comprehension.

  Imperceptibly the days passed and summer began to turn to autumn. Suddenly they were in the last week.

  The closing night was an Othello performance. All day the atmosphere built; a party was planned in the restaurant to begin once the play had come down. After the Othello calls, the whole company were to appear on stage, and Douglas had agreed to make a short speech.

  There was the natural sense of change, of the company breaking up, of productions ceasing to be living things, only memories.

  Douglas could not bring himself to go in for any of the performance, bathing, changing and walking over to the theatre just before Othello was due to finish.

  It was a mild, clear night, and he stood on the lawn in front of the theatre’s white façade, looking, looking back at the bulk of Shireston House, like the hulk of some great old ship, a dark ungainly splodge against the night sky. His mind traced towards next season, following that huge, endless wheel of work which always turns for festivals like Shireston. He wanted to do The Shrew, there were some things about Women’s Lib there; and, most of all, there was this conception he had for The Tempest: Antonio, Alonso and Ferdinand as space travellers wrecked on Prospero’s planet, the magic island. There were so many ideas there.