Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  “So, as long as you’re interested in hanging out with me, I can’t say I’ll always treat you well. But, I can say there will always be room for you with me.”

  “I think I’ll take what I can get.” Ingram went to the other side of the counter. He began putting leftovers into containers.

  Chris finished his meal and together they washed and dried the dishes, pots, pans, and utensils. They worked in silence, but found a rhythm in their tasks. He’d washed dishes at these sinks with a lot of men over the decades. Those men sought to push their memories into that moment, but Chris pushed back. He wanted this moment to be his and Ingram’s. He owed the boy at least that.

  Fourteen

  Chris tossed his head back and released a throaty guffaw of laughter. “Frank, you’re a riot.”

  “You don’t need to be an asshole about it.” Frank stopped drying the glass in his hands. “Do you want me to make you a martini or a Long Island iced tea?”

  “No. The fact that you’d offer is plenty. You came highly recommended.” Chris sipped coffee. “How about wearing a dress? Are you opposed to that?”

  “Why the hell do you think I agreed to come work at Tamburlaine?” Frank made a quick flip of his wrist, as if he were working a fan.

  “Excellent. Well, we’re going to be making lots of changes over the next few months. New shows. Adding wait staff. Bringing in our own theater company. Reopening the restaurant. It’s going to be a large staff. And, I’m hoping to find someone to run them.”

  “Well, let’s see how you and I get along. Two middle-aged queens in one hen house.”

  “Frank, I like you, despite your mixed metaphor, or whatever that was. We both know I’m old enough…well, I’m much older than you. So, play nice, but not too nice.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And, the hours?”

  “Tamburlaine is open from four to four six days; all but Monday. My plan is to hire a second bartender very soon and then create a swing. Four to midnight and eight to four, or something like that. And, if business goes the way we expect, we’ll quickly add two more behind the bars.”

  “Bars?” Frank looked up from his prep work.

  “There’s a service bar for the dining room and showroom. That hasn’t been opened in ages. But, it’s there.” Chris pushed his coffee cup toward the bar rail and Frank, without missing a beat, refilled it.

  The two men passed some time in silence. Frank prepping, Chris reading the daily papers. Tamburlaine remained quiet for nearly two hours.

  “Why do you open so early?” Frank gestured to the empty room. “It can’t be for the crowds?”

  “Watch yourself. We open at four because the club has always opened at four. We close at four, well, sometimes we close early.” Chris slid off the stool, walked over to the small stage, flipped the switches, the lights came up, and the mirror ball started to spin. He sat at the piano and played a soft, romantic ballad, “They Say It’s Wonderful,” from Annie Get Your Gun.

  He sang to himself: “They say that falling in love is wonderful, wonderful.” He segued into “Moonshine Lullaby.” “There’s a little still…”

  Frank came over to the stage, stepped up, and placed a bourbon, neat, and a bottle of water on the piano. “You play wonderfully.”

  “Thank you. I studied for many years. And, I’ve performed in this club nightly for decades.” Chris continued to play, one tune blending seamlessly into another. “Rusty played piano in her mother’s bordello. She did a great bit about that, playing tunes related to how fast the Johns fucked. I need to find that.”

  Frank returned to the bar and Chris traveled in a Rusty Warren time bubble until Ingram burst through the door.

  “I’m in. I got it.” He waved a roll of papers in the air. When he saw Frank, he stopped short. “Where’s Chris?”

  Frank pointed toward the stage.

  Ingram rushed over. “He hired me. I have a Broadway contract.”

  “Oh, my boy, that’s wonderful.” Chris played “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  “Thank you. Thank you.” Ingram bowed deep. “I’m so fucking excited.”

  “So, what now?”

  “Well, the cast is meeting here, tonight, at eight to celebrate. I told them I’d whip up some snacks.”

  “Well, get to whipping,” said Chris. He watched Ingram skip into the kitchen, pleased that the boy had his dream. Yet, when he turned to the piano, the tunes he played all sounded melancholy.

  “That will never do for a party.” Frank placed a fresh glass of bourbon within Chris’ reach. “You’ll need to pep it up for the happy little boys and girls.”

  “Make sure there’s a case of champagne chilled. The young people will bring their energy and I shall feed off of them like the old vamp that I am.”

  “I hear’s ya, boss.” Frank patted Chris’ shoulder and made his way to the bar.

  Fifteen

  “Chris, are you okay? What are you doing in here?” Ingram moved close to Chris who sat on the stool in the kitchen. “And, drinking water. You must be ill,” he chided.

  “Oh, it was a bit raucous. I guess I truly am getting old. But, your friend playing is very good.”

  Ingram sat on the other stool. “The Piano Player from the show? It’s his first time as musical director for Jericho. He’s very excited. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. Stop worrying about me and go enjoy the party.”

  The boy stood and grabbed a tray of rumaki. “Come join us.”

  Chris waved Ingram off. He sipped more water. Something inside him didn’t feel right, felt soft or weak or…for a moment, he worried that he’d been poisoned again, but that had come on quickly. Perhaps a little flu, or simply old age. He finished the bottle and tossed it toward the garbage can. He missed, but left it for someone else to pick up. He slid off the stool and went out to the party. But, instead of joining in the jubilation, he took up his spot at the end of the bar. Frank provided him a bourbon before his ass adjusted to the Naugahyde.

  “Mr. Marlowe.”

  Chris turned to his right to find one of the women from Jerry’s entourage standing next to him. He couldn’t remember her name, but she’d tended bar. “Sally Jo?”

  “Close. Nancy Ann.”

  “Well, you’re sweet. I wasn’t anywhere in the neighborhood.” Chris patted her hand.

  “I just wanted to say that I truly love your club. When I walked in here the other night, it was like coming home.” Nancy Ann placed her free hand atop of Chris’.

  “Well, you’re much too young to know Tamburlaine as home. But, it was built for people like us.”

  “Like us?”

  “Smart. Sophisticated. Outside the every day. The trendsetters.”

  “Oh, I’m hardly a trendsetter.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Frank interrupted with perfect timing.

  “Corona, no fruit.”

  “Careful, darlin’. If you talk like that, you’ll offend some old queen.” Frank indicated Chris with a wink.

  “Just get the girl her beer and keep your commentary to yourself,” said Chris. “He thinks he’s funny.”

  “All you old guys do,” she said, this time adding her own wink to the mix.

  “I’m wounded.” Chris held his hands over his heart. “Fatally wounded.”

  They laughed together.

  “No, I mean it, Mr. Marlowe.”

  “Please, call me Chris. I mean, if you’re going to suck up to me, you may as well do it in a familiar sort of way.”

  “Now, I’m embarrassed.”

  He touched her arm. “No need. No need.”

  “I can’t explain it. The energy. The history. It does feel like I’m meant to be here. I feel like I know every inch of this place. I dreamt of an office with a secret lock and a dusty modern painting. I drea
mt of running through a hidden, caged catwalk. I dreamt of shoveling coal in an old boiler in the basement.”

  Chris’ breath caught. “Well, you’ve just described several of the Tamburlaine’s secrets.” He slid off the stool and picked up his drink. He placed his free hand into the crook of Nancy Ann’s arm and led her down the hallway, past the restrooms, through the private door into the back hall, and to the office door with the secret lock. He opened that door, hit the light, and ushered her breathless into the space. “Picasso.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Nancy Ann moved as close as she could to the dusty painting. “It’s just like the dream.”

  “The coal boiler has long been converted. First to oil and then to natural gas. No more stoking. And, I’m too old to show you up to the catwalk, but that exists, too.”

  “Do you believe in reincarnation, Mr. Mar…Chris?”

  “I do, indeed. I believe it’s why so many of us gay men enjoy wearing women’s clothing. We’ve been women and enjoy the flounce and drama. But, I could be wrong.”

  For a long moment they took in the painting.

  “How could you let it get so dusty? Oh, sorry.”

  “No, you’re right to judge. I hadn’t been in this room for ten years. Not until a few days ago. Forgotten. All of Tamburlaine was slipping away from me. But, now, it feels like there’s a resurgence underway.”

  “Chris, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course.” He waited for her to continue.

  “I’ve worked exclusively for Jericho for a long, long time. But, I feel it so strongly. I really would like to be your full-time gal here. I want to run your theater company. I know you’re going into business with Jericho and it might not be possible, but I just know I’m supposed to be here for you, for Tamburlaine.”

  “Well, I’m open to that. We need a company manager and a stage manager. Jerry and I talked about having one person wear both hats for a while, until we start making some money. You know his style and you have some deep connection to Tamburlaine. I think it would be great. But, Jerry needs to not only agree, he must be okay with it, too. We can’t begin a partnership with bad blood between us.”

  “So, you’d support it? Support me coming on full-time?”

  “I will if it’s okay with Jerry.”

  Nancy Ann hugged Chris tight. “I just know this is all going to work out perfectly.”

  Sixteen

  Tamburlaine buzz built. Additional bartenders and wait staff were hired. Queens in heels slung drinks and sang songs while Chris or The Piano Player entertained from the barroom stage. Crowds filled the place, drinking heavily from ten to two.

  Nancy Ann directed daily rehearsals of the new company, unknown, hungry boys and girls. Chris had difficulty believing they were all actually over twenty-one—a requirement to work there.

  Money once again flowed into the club. Not a cascade. Not enough to cover all the expenses, but a comfortable trickle.

  “Chris?” Frank asked.

  He didn’t stop reading the Times. “What?”

  “They want you in the theater.” Frank replaced the ancient black phone in its cradle.

  “Damn. Take a look at seventeen down.” Chris slid off his stool and headed for the showroom, his head a jumble of crossword answers and ideas about the restaurant. They’d all been talking about it. Should it be fancy and expensive or comfy and affordable? There weren’t any high-end restaurants in what remained of the neighborhood—just the deli and Salvatore’s—so Chris was leaning toward comfortable. He pulled open the door into the theater. The showroom had been steam cleaned—seats and carpet like new. The room had been painted, returned once more to its gaudy rococo style. The Chagall-esque mural along the right aisle restored and enhanced.

  “Chris, I wanted you to hear this,” said Nancy Ann, looking roughneck in khaki pants, combat boots, and tit-hugging white T-shirt. She gave an indication to The Piano Player, who rolled off a chord, and the ensemble sang a tight, a cappella rendition of the spiritual “Great Day.”

  Chris slunk into a front row chair, transported to his youth, to a high school in Ohio where a choir director there included at least one Negro Spiritual in every concert. “Great Day” had been one of Chris’ all-time favorite songs. As he listened to this group of talented people fill the theater with their strong voices, tears welled and spilled from his eyes.

  “What is it, Chris? Are you okay?” Nancy Ann jumped from the stage. The company spilled to the edge of the wooden platform.

  “Oh, just being overly sentimental. That song takes me to a special time in my life. I had a wonderful choir conductor who encouraged me to be myself, to follow my dreams.” Chris felt the tears spill from his eyes. “Such a gift. Thank you for such a gift.”

  The company didn’t move or speak for a long moment.

  “So, you like the sound?” Nancy Ann breathed in, but didn’t release it, swelling her breasts outward.

  “Can I hear it again?” Chris asked, straightening himself in the chair. The velvet on the arm rests felt soft under his hands.

  The group sang the song again. Chris listened intently, his eyes closed so as not to be distracted by the handsome men.

  “Tenors, strengthen your line. Breathe deep, from the diaphragm. Don’t be lazy. You’re getting lost.” As Chris spoke, a tenor voice came out stronger from the group. A second voice matched the first. Balance and strength by the end of the piece. “So, we’re doing a spiritual review now? I think it’s in poor taste to do spirituals when so many of you are white.” He liked having a mix of races and sexes. Diversity brought strength to any group.

  “Just a warm-up, boss. Just working on harmony and line.” Nancy Ann used an unapologetic, teacherly tone.

  “What else do you have for me?” Chris scanned the bright faces assembled before him.

  “Well, we’ve begun working out numbers from three different shows: Dames at Sea, Nunsense, and Side by Side. It’s Jericho’s plan to alternate weeks. One week with a musical, one week with a straight play, and so on. The company is learning six shows.”

  “At one time?” His mouth dropped open. “Who learns six shows at once?”

  “The Tamburlaine Players,” said The Piano Player.

  “Fine, what numbers can you do for me?” Chris reached toward a top pocket that he didn’t have for a pack of cigarettes that weren’t there.

  With no warning or explanation, The Piano Player launched into “Nunsense is Habit Forming.” Six kids, three boys and three girls, positioned themselves on stage and sang the song with a bit of unpolished choreography. The number ended, and he played “Here’s to the Ladies Who Lunch,” for a man he hadn’t noticed before who did an amazing rendition that would put Elaine Stritch to shame. Next up, “Dames at Sea.” Most of the kids sang.

  “Want us to continue?” Nancy Ann asked.

  “No, just keep working. You’re doing an amazing job and the company is wonderful.” Chris stood to leave; after a few steps up the aisle, he turned back. “If any of you want to try out your numbers this evening in front of an audience, let me know and I’ll bring you up on stage.” He turned again and began walking out of the theater, the company applauded and then chattered among themselves.

  Chris stepped out into the dining room. He sat down at one of the tables and allowed the tears to flow. This was happening. Magic. Hearing a few numbers by this newly formed ensemble that already worked offered more hope to Chris than he’d felt in ages. Again the tears. He reached for a handkerchief, realizing he hadn’t carried one for eons. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his blouse. Magic had begun. Time to move forward. And, for the first time he could remember, he felt in the moment with the movement.

  Seventeen

  Tamburlaine unlocked its doors for the evening. The company scattered from all places visible to the public, Frank prepped, slicing lemons and l
imes into their respective plastic bins.

  Chris worked his crossword puzzle. 27 down: Mixologist. No big guns tonight, just light makeup, his own hair, well-coiffured, and a comfortable, breezy blouse. Just an evening of piano, songs, and jokes for whomever might arrive. Chris wrote “bartender” in the space. He thought about Benny. What had happened to him? The thought surfaced again that Benny had to be the one who poisoned him caused shudders to run down Chris’ spine.

  The opened front door brought in a brilliant shaft of sunlight, the last of the afternoon before the sun dropped lower behind the empty buildings of the neighborhood. A slight frame silhouetted in the doorway, emerged from the light, and reintroduced darkness behind it.

  “I’m Matilda,” the small shadow announced to the room.

  “Hello,” said Frank. “What can I do for you?”

  “Jericho Taylor sent me. Said I should talk to Chris Marlowe,” she said, her voice strong, broad, bigger than the woman it came from.

  “I’m Marlowe.” Chris didn’t move.

  The figure approached. As Chris’s eyes readjusted to the restored shadowy light of Tamburlaine, he enjoyed the person standing before him. Slightly deformed, perhaps malformed might be a better word, Matilda stood about five feet tall. She bent at an odd angle from the waist, one of her feet awkwardly turned out. Her arms, each a different length, dangled at her sides. In the hands at the end of those arms, she held canvas bags overflowing with greens and vegetables. Nothing about her appeared symmetrical, unless you looked square into her eyes. She had the most beautiful, silken brown eyes Chris had ever seen.

  “Good evening. Jericho has sent me here to cook for you. He has told me you are considering reopening your kitchen to the public and you will soon embark on a search for the perfect chef to bring an affordable, but interesting menu to Tamburlaine. I have arrived here this evening to offer my services. I understand that you will want to give me a trial. You will, of course, want to sample my flavors. So, if you’ll be so kind as to have a member of your staff point me toward your kitchen, I shall prepare your dinner.”