"You're not hanging up on me!"
"I'm going to hang up because I have work to do before we begin casting your play. I said we'd talk about this at lunch; I assume you heard me say that."
"Yeah, well—"
"You can tell me all your problems then. I'll see you in a little while." He hung up, and began to pace on the terrace, stretching his muscles. God save us from geniuses who somehow, miraculously, write a brilliant play but still have a lot of growing up to do, so that on top of everything else, we have to educate them.
The telephone rang and he ignored it, sure that Kent was calling back. But in a moment Martin came to tell him that Monte Gerhart was calling. Luke picked it up, sitting on the edge of his chair. "Luke, it's Monte. I just wanted you to know I've got the perfect Lena; I'm bringing her to the casting session; didn't want to spring her on you, but she's the greatest, Abigail Deming, you know her, wait 'til you hear her, I am crazy about her, she absolutely is Lena, wait 'til you—"
Luke's frustration, still churning, exploded. "You damn fool, you promised it to her, didn't you?"
52 ~ Judith Michael
"Hey, hold your horses, you didn't hear me say—"
"Did you promise it to her?"
"Christ, what's eating you this morning? Well, not exactly. I said I thought she was perfect and I was sure you'd agree. I guess I shouldn't have done that—"
"You know damn well you shouldn't have done that. We talked about this—remember? We agreed—"
"I know, I know, but, damn it, Luke, I took her to dinner last night and she's got a way with her, you wouldn't think so, a woman that old—"
"You were drinking."
"No, it's not that. You know, she's tough, and she's no beauty, but she's got this way of putting her hand on your arm, just this little touch, and looking straight at you and all of a sudden she's gorgeous and you're melting. I know that sounds crazy, but she really pulls it off and I know she could pull off Lena, too."
"For God's sake. I'll see you at ten." He slammed down the phone and stood at the wall of his terrace, trying to control his anger. Far below, traffic inched through narrow streets on hot asphalt, pedestrians darted between the cars, often walking across two bumpers so close they seemed locked together, and the cacophony of horns rose with angry volume to Luke's celestial terrace, enveloping him in its stridency. Everyone is angry, he thought. He imagined the anxiety of pedestrians, wilting as they hustled to meetings where they were expected to look alert and unwrinkled, and the frustration and rage of drivers beating tattoos on their steering wheels as they moved forward a few infuriating feet at a time, and his anger began to dissolve into humor. It could be worse: instead of dealing with Monte and Kent, I could be driving a cab.
Martin stood in the doorway holding out a sheaf of telephone messages. "None of them seemed urgent, so I didn't interrupt you."
Luke flipped through the slips of paper. "Call Miss Delacorte; tell her I'll pick her up a little after seven for a play and dinner afterward. Tell the Neals no; I never go to costume parties. And this one, from Renaldi, about the sale of the villa ..." He paused. "Tell him to call about midnight New York time; we can talk about the buyer then." He scanned the remaining messages. The last one was from Fritz Palfrey, stage manager for The Magician. "Need to talk to Luke; set designer has peculiar ideas, not workable. Call me."
Acts of L
o V E ~ 53
Suddenly Luke wished himself in his library, sharing the silence with Jessica's letters, far from backstage squabbles and clashing egos, the adolescent storms of Kent Home, the thousands of mediations and decisions that stretched before him. Then he shrugged. What had he told Kent? You chose it. This was his job, it was his life, and it was the only one he wanted. Jessica Fontaine, if he found time for her, was a minor diversion at best.
And he forgot Jessica, and almost everything else, as soon as casting began in a theater Monte had gained permission to use for the day. Luke loved this early part of the production where, for the first time, the lines of the play were spoken aloud, at last taking wing from a typescript and beginning to soar. The theater was as silent and empty as a ghost town, with a single spotlight illuminating the center of the stage, leaving the rest of it, furnished for that evening's play, almost invisible. In the spotlight, the actors stood alone or in pairs, reading parts of scenes, and Luke, sitting in the sixth row, felt a deep sense of comfort. Everything he was, everything he did, was, for this moment and the moments to come, building on each other to that one moment when the stage sprang to life on opening night.
"God," Kent breathed, sitting with the others, "God, listen to them!"
Luke barely heard him. Monte Gerhart was on his left, Tommy Webb, the casting director, on his right. In the wings, Fritz Palfrey, a few stagehands, and the technical director sat on stools, watching. In the back of the theater, the house manager slipped in and took a seat on the aisle of the last row.
Luke glanced at the script in his lap, then looked at Abigail Deming, standing in the center of the stage, reading Lena's farewell speech to her grandson Daniel. She was small but held herself well; her gestures were controlled; her face, as pale and wrinkled as old linen, was not as expressive as Luke would have liked, but her voice was strong, with clear modulations. She was a good actress, not in a league with Constance Bernhardt, but better than most and she had fifty years of experience . . . and a reputation for being a terror if she did not approve of the way things were going. Which was why Luke had not called her to read for the part.
But as she read now, he knew she was good. The other actors, and Tommy Webb, sitting beside him, all knew it, too, and when she finished her speech and Daniel spoke the last line of the play, Luke heard Kent let out a long breath. "It's like I've died and gone to heaven."
"What do you think?" Luke asked Tommy Webb.
"Dynamite. Both of them, Abby and what's-his-name. Cort Hastings.
54 ~ Judith Michael
Cort. Where do they get these names? I'd heard he doesn't get good 'til after a month of rehearsals, but he sounds pretty good right now."
Luke turned to Monte. "She's very good. Tommy and I think both of them will be fine."
"Agreed. Thanks, Luke; I thought you'd be so mad at me you'd dump her. But she is good, isn't she.'^ Tough inside, but when she looks at you ... well, you know what I mean."
"So now we need the girl," Tommy said. "I've got two of them here; I like them both. One might be too beautiful: distracting, you know? When do you want them, Luke?"
"After lunch. All right with you, Monte? Kent?" When they nodded, he said to Tommy, "What about the three small parts?"
"I've picked 'em, tentatively. Videotapes for you in my office."
"After we do the girl. Between three and four, I'd say. Fritz wants to talk to me about the set design. Do you know anything about that?"
"He doesn't like Marilyn Marks; he thinks she's too far out. He likes stages that look like your great-grandmother's living room, the one nobody ever goes into. What can I say? He's a great stage manager and he's a pain in the ass."
Luke chuckled. "I'll see him after I look at the videos. I'm going to talk to Abby and Cort, and then go to lunch. Two o'clock back here?"
"Right."
A small group stood at the side of the stage, talking in low voices, and Luke joined them. "Fritz, I'll buy you a drink this afternoon. Meet me at Orso; I should be there by five. Abby, Cort, that was very fine. We think it's going to be a pleasure working with you."
Abigail nodded with satisfaction. "I'm looking forward to it."
Amused, Luke heard the note of grandeur in her voice—royalty condescending to work with him—but he said only, "We all are. It's an exciting play."
Cort nodded vigorously. "I like this guy, Daniel, and I had a grandmother like Lena who I was crazy about."
"Who's the girl?" Abigail asked.
"We'll know after lunch. The three of you—"
"I should be part of that casting, L
uke; she has her most important scenes with me."
"The hell she does," Cort said. "I mean, this is a love story, right?
Lena's a big part of it, but audiences come to see love stories, and this girl—Martha, right?—Martha and I've got a couple of truly steamy scenes. So I'm the one who ought to help choose her."
"Tommy and I do the casting," Luke said easily, "though we're always interested in your ideas. Now, I want the first run-through day after tomorrow, ten o'clock; Fritz has the address of the rehearsal space. Bring questions, ideas, suggestions, whatever you think of. The playwright's vision is what we're here for, bilt I want your input, too, all the way along." He kissed Abby on both cheeks. "You're going to be a magnificent Lena. Cort, you're going to be a fine Daniel. And we're going to have a terrific production."
Cort nodded. "I've got some ideas about Daniel, you know; I really know what he's all about."
"Write them down. We'll go over all of them."
"Oh, let's start now," Abigail said energetically. "Why wait?" She put her arm through Cort's and reached for Luke. "Let's have lunch. We can talk and talk for hours."
"Tommy and I have more readings this afternoon, and I'm having lunch with our playwright. Both of you should get my phone and fax numbers from Fritz and get in touch with me anytime you have a question or an idea, a suggestion, a problem, anything. If I'm not at home, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. From now on, we're a family; we don't stand on ceremony. Okay, I have to go; I'll see you in a couple of days."
He turned to the audience. "Kent?"
Kent came out of his trance and followed Luke through the wings and along a corridor to a steel door that led to an alley and from there to a small, unobtrusive restaurant a block away with an anchor suspended above the door.
They sat in a booth with high partitions for privacy. The booths and the wood floor were dark, and paintings of the sea hung on the dark walls, each in its own circle of light. Kent scanned the menu and ordered what seemed to Luke to be three meals. Looking up, Kent saw his bemused expression. "Growing boy," he said, grinning, and when Luke had ordered, he sat back and sighed. "No problems, Luke. I don't know what we have to talk about. I'm a happy man."
"Put it in writing," Luke said, "so I can remind you of it a month from now."
56 ~ Judith Michael
"Nope, it's going to be rosy all the way, I can tell. They're going to make my play live. I mean, you heard them^—they need a few little things that I'll clue them in on, you know, emphasis, gestures, things like that—but we're practically ready for opening night. God, they're so good!"
Luke gazed at him. "Why are you so sure they'll sound like that on opening night?"
He reared back as the waiter brought salads and bread. "Of course that's how they'll sound! I mean, after I give them some clues. But I'll tell you, Luke, it was pretty close to perfect."
"I don't think so."
Kent's eyes narrowed. "You're telling me I don't know my own play?"
"Absolutely, from your perspective. But not from the audience's, and not from mine, and I'm the director." He pushed his salad aside and folded his arms on the table. "Do you know what a director does, Kent?"
"For Christ's sake, Luke, everybody knows—"
"Let me tell you how I direct a play. First of all, you wrote that script from somewhere inside you, and a lot of the time you looked at your words and wondered where they came from, how that phrase happened to come out just that—"
"How the hell do you know that?"
"It's possible that I know a lot more than you give me credit for. So there you are, with a script that came from inside you, your subconscious or whatever you want to call it. My job is to find the deepest meanings in it, the richest dimensions of character, angles you may not even be aware of, and reveal them to the audience through the actors. Everything the actors do has meaning, and one of my jobs is to help them find the details that make every part of this play—every bit of dialogue or wave of the hand or lifting a glass, whatever it is—have a special meaning that illuminates the special meaning of the play. That's how we reach the audience. A director in Chicago calls it rock 'n' roll theater because every production should be heightened and explosive and as aware of the audience as a rock 'n' roll band is. I mostly agree with that. Otherwise we might as well be putting on plays for ourselves in small dark rooms."
Kent was staring at him. "I don't know any directors who sound like you."
"Good. Just remember that the goal of all this is to make your story wonderfully alive, and to realize as much of your vision as we can. We'll
Acts of L
o V E ~ 57
discuss and argue and get passionate about our ideas—the more passionate the better the production will be—and you'll be in the thick of it. And that's the way it should be, as long as you see yourself as part of a collaboration, not the Lord sending us a tablet that we're supposed to accept with religious devotion."
"I never said I was God."
"I think I recall you talking about perfection."
After a moment Kent laughed. "Well, yeah, but, you know, I mean I went over it like fifty or a hundred times, editing and rewriting, and by the time I sent it to you it was— Well, I mean, I thought it was pretty good."
"It's terrific. Eat your lunch. We have to get back."
They walked into the theater just as Tommy Webb was looking around for them. A young woman stood on stage with Cort Hastings and Abigail Deming. "Okay, Tommy," Luke said, and the three on stage began to read as he and Kent reached the row where Tommy and Monte sat.
They listened to two women read, then called back the first, and asked her to read Martha's long monologue in the second act. She stood stiffly on the stage and read carefully, as if measuring each word. As she went on, her pace picked up and became smoother and she began to move about the stage, matching her actions to her words. Better, Luke thought. Still not right, but we can work with her. And physically she's right for Martha.
Suddenly he saw Jessica playing Laura in The Glass Menagerie. That had been fifteen years ago, but he remembered every detail of her performance: an actress of extraordinary grace and beauty turning herself into a plain, crippled, painfully shy young girl. And she'd transform herself into Martha, he thought. I wish she were here. She'd give Martha more depth than even Kent could imagine.
But Jessica was not here and he focused on the young woman on stage. Her name was Rachel Ilsberg and he knew they could work with her. He looked at Tommy, who nodded, and then at Monte. "Yeah, she's okay," Monte said.
"She's really Martha," Kent added.
"Well, not yet," Tommy murmured. "But she'll be fine. Not too beautiful. Tall, but not too tall for Cort. Good carriage. Nice voice."
Luke looked at his watch. "Tommy, let's look at those videos tomorrow; it's almost five and I have to see Fritz. And would you talk to Rachel.? Tell her how impressed we are, that we're—"
58 ~ Judith Michael
"Excited and eager to begin," Tommy finished. "And a run-through day afi:er tomorrow. I'll have contracts for everybody by then. Ten o'clock for the videos.?"
"Can you make it nine.''"
"Nine? Well, sure. Just don't make a habit of it. Okay with you, Kent.''"
"Sure. God, I've finished my run in the park by nine o'clock; that's halfway to noon."
Luke turned to the stage where Rachel stood. "Thank you. We liked it very much. Tommy will talk to you about it." He went to the side aisle and up the five steps that led to the stage, then ducked into the wings and made his way to the stage door. Outside, he blinked in the sunlight. Daylight. We forget what it loo/{s lH^e.
Fritz Palfrey was standing beside a table in the window of Orso, waiting. "I'm having wine, something red. You.?" rme.
He waved to the waitress. "Luke, listen, I know she's hot right now, but listen, I can't work with her."
"You're talking about Marilyn Marks?"
"Who else.? Look, I've got a grandmother just like Le
na, she's in her eighties and I know what kind of apartment she likes and this set Marilyn designed, it's not a grandmother's apartment."
"You mean it's not your grandmother's," Luke said gently.
"Grandmothers in their eighties like things normal and ... sort of dull. Not dramatic. I l^now what Lena is like, Luke, believe me. She's just like my grandmother."
And that's one of the brilliant aspects of Kent's play; everyone sees Lena as his or her grandmother. But no play is a true mirror of real life; theater compresses and exaggerates real life to create its own universe. And Fritz ^nows that.
The waitress brought their wine and Fritz held his up to the light. "Nice color. So what do you think.?"
"Have you seen Marilyn's final drawings.?"
"How could I.? She's only done preliminaries. I want to head her off at the pass."
"Let's not do that. I don't pass judgement until I see drawings and a-model."
"Luke, I can't work with that set."
"Let's wait until we see the model." He pushed back his chair. "We'll meet with Marilyn and props and costumes next week—Thursday or
CTS of LOVE ~ 59
Friday around three—let me know what works for everybody. And Fritz." He put his hand on Fritz's shoulder. "I appreciate your ideas. You're the best stage manager in the business and I promise you we'll work together on this."
"Right, well, we'll see what happens. You didn't finish your wine."
"I'm going to a friend's dress rehearsal tonight; I have to stay awake."
He made his way through the late-afternoon crowds to Fifth Avenue, and turned uptown, feeling the slight coolness of shade trees when he came to the cobblestone walk along the low brick wall bordering Central Park. He dodged Rollerbladers and women pushing strollers and tried to find a steady pace between people coming to a halt for passionate debate, lovers walking in step and making way for no one, crowds leafing through used books stacked on folding tables, and children chasing an errant whiffle ball. Finally he crossed to the other side of the street, close to the buildings, where there were no crowds. By the time he reached his building he was perspiring and frustrated—he never had enough time out of doors and when he did it seemed, lately, that it was usually uncomfortable—and he bypassed his library to go straight to his bedroom, where he stripped and stepped into his shower.
Acts of Love Page 7
