by Marvin Kaye
I was familiar with the place, having dined there a few times in more indigent days. Its menu and atmosphere appealed to me. On that particular sodden winter evening, it was a welcome oasis of warmth and dryness.
No sooner had we entered than I was hailed by name. I looked around and saw Harry Whelan seated by himself at a corner table. Steering Hilary in that direction, I reached out to shake his hand as he half-rose to greet us.
He was tall, with dark, curly hair, a cleft chin, and large brown eyes whose corners crinkled up as if their owner were permanently amused at some private joke. I’d first met him a little over a year earlier, when Hilary got us mixed up in the death of a toy executive. At that time, Harry was playing the lead in a nude production of Hamlet, and the first glimpse I saw of him made me think I’d wandered into a locker room instead of a theater.
He was still casually dressed, though not quite so drastically. He had on a plain white open-collared shirt over a dark green dickey, a pair of brown, beltless trousers without cuffs, and tan shoes buckled at the sides. Taking Hilary’s hand when I introduced the two of them, he flashed her a broad smile. She returned it, craning her neck to look up at him.
“Gene mentioned your name a few times. Didn’t you once moonlight for Trim-Tram Toys?” Hilary asked.
“Yes, as a product demonstrator at Toy Fairs. But now I’m acting full-time.” It was awkward for him to maintain his position halfway between sitting and standing, so he offered us chairs at his table. I figured Hilary would mention our previous engagement, but to my surprise, she accepted the invitation. I took the seat opposite as Harry resumed his place, after he’d helped Hilary out of her topcoat. An undersized waiter in a quaint tavern apron asked us for our drink orders, and we gave them to him.
Harry looked at Hilary. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Gene.”
“Oh?”
“You’re supposed to be some kind of wizard. I understand you can take one look at a person and know everything about him.” It was hyperbole, but Hilary seemed to enjoy it. “What can you tell about me?” he asked, smiling.
“Not much, really,” she replied, with a deprecating gesture. “I already know your profession, so it’s not a fair test. It’s evident to me that you’ve had a deal of training in period acting style—”
“How did you guess that?”
“Guess? You wrong me, sirrah!” she laughed, pretending to be affronted. “You must have some classical training. Last year you played Hamlet and now you have a part in another Shakespearean play.”
His eyes widened. “Hey, how did you know that?” He turned to me. “Is she a mind reader?”
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I just noticed the book you’re reading.” She gestured to a paperback propped open on the table to the left of his napkin. From where she was sitting, it was turned around wrong, and anyway, the print was too small to read. He picked it up, perplexed.
“If you can read upside-down from your angle,” he said, “then you must have a great pair of eyes. Which you do.”
She flushed. The arrival of the waiter spared her from responding to the compliment, which was just as well, since her experience is light in that quarter. I took a healthy swallow of Bushmill’s.
“I suppose I should quit while I’m ahead,” Hilary murmured, her gloved fingers curled about the stem of a martini glass, “but I feel lucky. I believe you’re in a show that’s going to open at Felt Forum.”
“Bravo!” said Harry, breaking into a round of applause. “They’re liable to arrest you for playing Sherlock Holmes without an Equity card!”
“Am I right?”
“Sure,” he agreed, “but you blew it. There’s no way you could know that unless somebody briefed you beforehand.”
Hilary shook her head. “I had no idea I was going to meet you tonight.”
“Then how—?”
“You just held up your book a second ago. I saw that it’s Macbeth.”
“So what?”
“So—Gene and I are here to meet the Godwins. If they ever show up.”
“Ah, so!” Whelan nodded. “The denouément!”
Hilary laughed. “I’m afraid I’ve dispelled the mystery.” She sipped her drink. “I talked to Michael on the phone, and he said he’s directing Macbeth at the Forum. I took a chance there wouldn’t be many New York productions of that play rehearsing at the same time.”
“True, milady!” Harry said somberly. “It’s always been more popular with English teachers than theater people. But how could you see I was reading Shakespeare when the book was upside down?”
Hilary thumbed through the volume, opened it partway through. “I recognized the Folger format,” she said. “Here’s a page similar to what I saw. Look at it upside down. You can still see the text has uneven margins and occasional line numbers—both of which suggest blank verse. The left-hand page, though, is set in a rule and is blank except for about an inch of copy at the top. It consists of annotations to the facing text Only Folger and Laurel-Leaf print Shakespearean plays in such an arrangement; I collect books, so I know. Your book is too small for a Laurel-Leaf, so—”
“Wait a minute,” Harry interrupted, “that still doesn’t explain why you said I have a part in Macbeth. I might only have been reading it for my own amusement.”
“Nobody,” I remarked, “reads Macbeth for amusement.” But they weren’t listening to me.
“I made an educated guess,” Hilary admitted. “On the page I saw, one of the character’s speeches were underlined. Actors do that when they’re memorizing a role, so I assumed you were trying to commit the marked lines to memory. Correct?”
“One hundred percent,” he said, chuckling, “you’re terrific!”
“Thank you,” she replied, rather archly. “Then you’re not unimpressed?”
“Immensely to the contrary!” Harry said. “Drink up!” We drained the last drops of our respective libations, and Harry made a flamboyant gesture, his version of a signal to the waiter for another round. Soon I had a second Bushmill’s in front of me.
“Isn’t Felt Forum an odd place for a legit show?” I asked.
Whelan nodded. “It sure is, but then we’re practically doing a three-ring circus. Sometimes the mise-en-scène drowns out the cast!”
“So Michael is still hung up on Artaud,” Hilary mused. “But what part are you playing, Harry?”
“Macduff. Will you come and see me, when we open?”
“Probably before that,” she replied. “I may be handling PR for the company.”
“Terrific!” He sipped his drink, then asked whether Hilary had known Godwin long.
“I acted with him a long time ago,” she said, “and occasionally I assisted him while he was directing.”
“I hear he used to be pretty temperamental,” said Harry.
“Oh, yes!” Hilary agreed. “Once he threw the head of our theater department out of a line run-through. Said he made the actors nervous. He stuck a copy of Shaw’s Art of Rehearsal in his hand, told him to read it at home, and ushered him to the door.”
Harry laughed. “He did practically the same thing to Fred Grilis, our producer!”
“Really?” Hilary cocked an eyebrow. “I thought Michael had calmed down somewhat since he got married.”
“Well, he and Grilis have a running feud.”
“I’m surprised,” I observed, “that a director has the contractual clout to stand up to a producer like that.”
Harry shrugged. “There are all sorts of dark rumors about those two, but I don’t want to hear them. As long as they spell my name right in the program and on my checks, that’s all I care.” He drained his glass. “So you used to act?”
Hilary gestured impatiently. “That’s ancient history.”
“Come on, now, I’ll bet you were terrific. What parts have you played?” He held up his hand, forestalling an answer. “No, let me guess. Emily in Our Town. Eadie in Lullaby. Roxane, maybe. Portia. Millamant. Certainly Juliet. Any hits so
far?”
“Two.” She smiled, nodding in mock deference. “So you’re a detective, too. ...”
And so it went. There’s no need to record any more of that conversation, which made me feel increasingly superfluous. Mercifully, Whelan at last stopped talking and waved at someone behind us. Hilary turned, rose, and rushed to greet the Godwins, who had just entered.
I waited until the initial embracing session was finished before joining the party.
The five of us reconvened at a larger table. The first thing Godwin did was to apologize for being late. His wife had been feeling ill, which delayed their start. The cause of her malaise did not show yet, for she was only in the latter part of her second month of pregnancy.
I’d expected Godwin to be somewhat loud and boisterous, remembering the ear-splitting volume he’d used on the telephone, but he must have made the call during a rehearsal break and hadn’t had a chance to adjust downward from concert pitch. Though Whelan unconsciously projected as if he were acting to a thousand-seat house, the director’s voice was rich and low; yet he enunciated cleanly, biting off each syllable so it sounded crisply and vibrantly to my ears.
Godwin was a short man, not much taller than his wife. He was a good height for a character actor. His snow-white hair at first seemed to contradict the smooth youthfulness of his face, but after looking at him for a while, I detected hints of creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Like many performers, he had probably become aware, early in his career, of the toll that repeated applications of aging makeup takes on the skin, and, to correct it, had most likely been laughing and smiling for years without puckering the flesh around his eyes and lips.
His wife, whom Hilary told me was ten years younger, hadn’t escaped the damage of time nearly so well as her mate. From what I’d been told about her, I’d expected Melanie Godwin to be vivacious and youthful, but her gaiety seemed a trifle forced and her smile had an artificial facility not uncommon in the acting profession. Her lovely brown eyes, large and melancholy, were surrounded by crow’s-feet that doggedly creased the makeup that could disguise her age only at a distance; and though her jet-black hair flowed gently about the oval contour of her cheeks and jaw, it could not conceal the incipient frown lines that someday would develop into jowls.
She was devoted to her husband, and as she spoke, she held his hand and occasionally exchanged affectionate glances with him. Whenever she did so, I wondered whether I noted a slight wistfulness in Hilary’s eyes.
Like her husband, Melanie had a trained voice, with a timbre as warm, as intimate as a cello’s. She had an extraordinary range, and there was a rhythm in her manner of expression that reflected years of performing in the iambic mode. The opulent sonority of the Bard had been absorbed into the deepest fibers of her being, and as I listened to her, my own pulse seemed to ebb and flow with the pounding of that immortal tide.
“No,” she declaimed, in answer to a question asked by Hilary, “I cannot hope to play the fiendlike queen. My condition wars with inclination—”
“And,” Hilary took it up, “you stand in pause where you shall first begin, and both neglect?”
“I could hardly neglect this.” Melanie laughed, one hand placed against her stomach. “No, this time out I’ll have to pass up playing Lady Macbeth and settle for a minor role.”
“Remember your Stanislavski,” her husband remarked. “There are no minor roles, only minor people.” He turned to Hilary. “Don’t feel sorry for her. She’s practically directing for me. Picked most of the cast, approved the costume sketches, prepared the promptbook. She’s playing one of the weird sisters, and on top of that, runs so many errands for the stage manager, I’m afraid they’re going to make her join the union. I ask you, Hilary—how the hell do I get her to take things easy?”
“Listen to him,” his wife scoffed. “There’s no reason why I can’t act right up to the day I go into delivery!”
“Won’t you be a trifle conspicuous?” asked Hilary.
“Not in my costume,” she replied. “There’s yards of material. Besides, there might be something fittingly obscene about an obviously knocked-up witch in Macbeth. The gross parody—”
“Yah, yah, yah,” Godwin jeered. “There’s always a justification for being a ham. ...”
“Me a ham? What about you? Try keeping the great Michael Godwin offstage for ten minutes!” Her tone was bantering, but there was an edge to it that suggested a certain degree of pique.
“Don’t tell me,” Hilary interrupted, staring at Godwin quizzically, “that you’re still playing the leads in most of your productions?”
“Not guilty!” he grinned, shaking his head. “I’m only going to act the part of Banquo.”
“Mister Humility!” Melanie said. “Don’t think he didn’t want to play Macbeth. I had to talk him out of it.” She seemed inclined to say more, but thought better of it and sat back. Godwin stared at her briefly, shrugged, then turned to my employer.
“Anyway, I’d like you to handle the publicity, Hilary. Do you have time to take it on?”
She nodded. “I think so. But why Macbeth?”
“Hm?”
“Harry was telling me you’re doing it like a spectacle show. Isn’t that financially rather risky?”
He spread out his hands, palms up. “Who knows?” he murmured. “Nobody can second-guess in this goofy business. The way Grilis and I figure, Macbeth is short and bloody. It’s full of horror, war, and murder. The language is brutal, and easier to understand than most of Shakespeare. It might be the perfect family show. ...”
“What?” Hilary was aghast.
“That’s Fred Grilis’ line, not mine,” said Godwin, frowning. “But think it over. Every year somebody sends out colossal spectacles like Holiday on Ice or Disney on Parade, and they gross fortunes playing in sports arenas, coliseums, and the like. And what are they? Cotton-candy fluff for preschoolers. But how about the adults? How about high school kids? Think of all those English teachers across America teaching Macbeth every year. If even half of them assign their classes to go to a touring production of—”
Hilary waved her hand, shutting him off. “All right, I get the idea. Grand Guignol for the masses. Classics can be blood-curdling.”
“The Roger Corman approach to Shakespeare,” I remarked. “Who’s playing Macbeth? Vinnie Price?”
“The special effects,” Godwin continued, ignoring the interruption, “are pretty complicated and on a grand scale. This is going to be one Macbeth where the supernatural scenes really reek of evil, for a change. If those witches don’t terrify the audience—”
“And that’s why you need a big place like Felt Forum?” Hilary asked.
“Chiefly because of the physical facilities,” he agreed, “but also because the Forum is part of Madison Square Garden. That carries a connotation of hugeness which we want to underscore. We want the audience to feel it’s coming to an event, not just another play.”
Hilary rested her chin on her hands, staring at Godwin. She was silent for a moment. Then, nodding at him knowingly, she said, “All right, now I know the producer wants to do Macbeth. But you can’t tell me you want to turn Shakespeare into a three-ring circus.” I glanced at Whelan, but he pretended not to recognize his phrase. Which was understandable, since Godwin was his boss.
The director leaned back in his chair, a sardonic smile distorting his lips. “You know me from the old country, eh? All right, I agree—there’s a lot of danger involved in overproducing like we’re doing. We’re liable to drown out the poet with stagecraft. But that’s how the game is structured, Hilary. Without the spectacle hook, Grilis would never have agreed to back the package in the first place. If you want to bring art to the masses, you have to be part genius, part whore.” Putting his hands behind his head, Godwin stared toward the ceiling, a faraway look in his eyes. “I’ve often wondered, though, what leads an interpretive artist to a certain composition at a particular stage in his career. I’ve read Macbeth s
everal times in the past. I’ve played the role once or twice, but until recently, I never had any desire to direct it.”
“I should imagine,” said Hilary, “it’s one of those plateaus that has to be attempted in order to grow as an artist Like a conductor attempting Mahler’s Eighth or a person playing Saint Joan. ...”
He shook his head. “Yes, but not really. Those are pinnacles. Macbeth is the depths. Some people have to pass through night to develop as artists, others are able to go the other way. No one chooses deliberately to sup full of horrors, unless it can’t be avoided.” He rested his chin in his hand. “No, for some reason, I seem to be emotionally ready for Macbeth.”
We all were silent. Around us, people chattered and laughed; glasses clinked and forks rattled metallically against plates. At our table the atmosphere had become curiously subdued, as if the very mention of Macbeth possessed the power to darken the spirit.
Melanie finally attempted to dispel the heavy mood. “Hilary,” she asked, “are you still as fascinated as you used to be in figuring out puzzles?”
“A little,” she understated. “Why?”
“Talk to my husband here. He’s been bragging to me about solving some kind of literary mystery, but he won’t tell me what.”
Godwin made a deprecating gesture. “Hilary wouldn’t be interested, Mel.”
“Interested in what?” Hilary asked.
“Yes, she will,” the other protested. “Anything that’s such a secret you won’t even tell me is—”
“But,” he argued, “you have to be a Macbeth scholar to really care.”
“Care about what?” Hilary persisted.
“Look at him,” said Melanie. “He’s just dying to be coaxed.”
He shrugged offhandedly, as if the matter was not worth discussing, but Hilary regarded him with lips pursed in an amused moue. “She’s right, Mr. Godwin, you never could bring off humility well. Kindly speak up, since you’re obviously dying to tell us about it.”
“Okay,” he said, grinning. “It’s the Third Murderer business.”
