Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  Joyfully impressed by this strong woman in the distorted frame, Chris said, “Frank, show Matilda the way to the kitchen.”

  Frank came around the bar and led her toward the dining room. Her feet made a ker-swish-thump as she moved. Chris strained to hear if the two spoke, but heard no words.

  “I don’t like her one bit. Who will want to eat her food? After seeing her, no one will have an appetite.” Frank verily hissed the words when he returned.

  “Ah, Francis, my friend. We are all deformed. Some on the inside, some outside. But, everyone who finds their way to Tamburlaine is welcomed. They may not be invited to stay long, but all are at least welcomed when they arrive.”

  As the next hour passed, a few patrons came in, had a drink, and left—more early evening traffic than they’d been experiencing, so Chris was pleased that these commuters, or whoever they were, stopped in. Along with the arrival of drinking strangers, lovely aromas wafted out of the kitchen, intoxicating on so many levels. Chris’ mouth watered in anticipation.

  Matilda reappeared. “Your dinner is ready, Mr. Marlowe. Where shall I serve you? In the darkened dining room? Here at your place at the bar?”

  “The kitchen, please.” Chris slid off his stool and followed Matilda’s ker-thumped movements to the kitchen. She held the door for him. He moved to the counter, taking up his stool there. She quickly, but expertly plated a beautiful chicken pot pie—pastry from scratch, perfectly cooked, tender veggies, and a perfect, thick gravy.

  Chris dug into the food. No gourmet, still he loved good food, and she’d prepared a tasty, hearty meal.

  Next up, a delicate apple cake, dusted with powdered sugar, and a strong cup of coffee. Both were excellent and Chris was pleased.

  Finally, he spoke. “And, what would be our cost of this meal?”

  “About four and a half.”

  “Markup?” Chris asked.

  “Anywhere from twenty to thirty dollars, depending on your goals.”

  “My goals?”

  “Well, if you want the place packed every night with a regular crowd, both nightly diners and those attending shows, then you’ll want to come in around twenty dollars per person. It’s an incredibly reasonable price. And, if you wanted, we could easily offer a three course, prix fixe that included house wine and coffee for twenty-five dollars.”

  “How many solid main courses do you have?”

  “About eighty.”

  It pleased Chris that Matilda had not only a head for cooking, but understood the business end of the restaurant, too.

  “How many staff would you require?”

  “If we go prix fixe, initially, a sous chef, two cooks, plus an extra prep, a dishwasher, and three waiters. Once we hit a hundred covers, I’d want another waiter and an expediter, at least for the weekends.”

  “You’re hired if you want the job, Matilda. I like you. I like what I’ve tasted. And, I know you can run the hell out of a kitchen. Write down your expected salary and perks and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

  “Just like that, Mr. Marlowe?” She smiled crookedly.

  “Just like that.” He liked that she called him Mr. Marlowe. It felt right. “When can we begin opening for dinner?”

  “Can I hire who I want?”

  “For the kitchen staff, yes. I want approval for the waiters.” Chris once again found himself drawn into Matilda’s beautiful, doe-like eyes—less Bambi and more Bambi’s mom; knowing of the world.

  “Two or three days. There’s food orders and a few other things.”

  “Take care of the staff. Make an initial list of what you require and we’ll get it taken care of. There’s an office for the executive chef, but it’s downstairs. We can set up an office for you up here and you can begin dealing with all the details.”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Marlowe. But, I’ll work from the office downstairs.

  “Actually, I can be a raging bitch. But, I appreciate your kind words and sucking up.”

  Matilda tossed her head back like it was hinged, and laughed heartily, grotesquely.

  Eighteen

  Chris heard him, but didn’t call back.

  “Chris!” Ingram shouted again from the kitchen

  He explored the racks and crates filled with paintings on the second floor. Lots of Pop Art from the ’60s. A few Abstract Impressionists from earlier in the century. Two Impressionists. A small Dutch Master. He’d inherited most, added a few. Some gifts from friends. Some he’d purchased at auctions and estate sales. It was a way to dump cash into something that, while traceable, wasn’t such a big deal in the 1970s. A Johns or Pollack back then went for a song. Now, investors, collectors, and museums were willing to sing arias for them.

  “Chris? Your keys and wrap are here. Where are you?”

  He followed Ingram’s movement below by the creak of floorboards as the boy wandered the loft. He came to the stairs and called up: “Hello?”

  “I’ll be right down.” The first step creaked. Chris bolted to the top of the stairs. “I’ve told you,” he said with an overtly polite tone. “You’re never to come up here.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Ingram stepped to the floor. “How was your day?” he called.

  “Fine.” Chris came down the stairs, wiping his hands on his slacks. “And yours? Didn’t you work your number today?”

  “No, we worked ‘On the Willows.’ I’m gonna get a beer. Want something?”

  “Beer is fine.” Chris followed the boy, enjoying his peach of an ass as it shifted in the kid’s tight jeans. “I love that number. That, and ‘Day by Day.’ Those are my favorites. I like ‘All for the Best,’ too, but I prefer the ballads.”

  “You took the night off?” Ingram handed Chris an opened beer.

  “Well, we’re still closed on Mondays and I had some things to do here. I wanted a night out of the club.” He sat at the table. “Are you hungry? Should we order food?”

  Ingram pointed to a pizza box on the counter.

  “Clever boy,” said Chris.

  “Do you want some?” Ingram opened the box and took out a large pepperoni slice. It bent in half and grease began to drip off of it.

  “No, I’ll wait till it cools just a bit more.”

  “Okay.” Ingram creased the slice, wrapped paper napkin around the crust end, and took a large bite of the pie.

  Watching young men eat made Chris feel the way he knew Whitman must have felt watching the boys swim in the Hudson. Something about the style and finesse most of them put into eating a slice, everyone had their own way of dealing with the bend, of dealing with the grease, or not. Nothing screamed New York City like a big slice. And, nothing screamed guy like eating pizza.

  “So, what do you have upstairs? Stray boys like me who have died and gone to bones, perhaps? Or some old wedding dress that you like to put on when you’re alone and then play the piano? Or maybe your dead mother?”

  “You watch too much late-night TV.” Chris took a long sip of beer. He always reached this point. He wanted to share the collection, show it to someone. But, whenever he’d done that in the past, a piece or two would go missing and it was a pain in the ass dealing with the thefts. He just stopped showing it off. It was his collection and his alone. Every four to six weeks, he’d go up and dust. That was it. Occasionally, when he required an infusion of cash, he’d sell one. In the old days, when he had an influx of cash, he’d buy one. Sometimes, he’d buy back the ones he’d sold. Depended. There were still over a hundred paintings on the second floor of the building. Yes, it was the wrong place for them. It wasn’t climate controlled and there was too much dust. But, they were his and there was no way he’d put them in some hermetically sealed vault never to see them again.

  “Chris? Where did you go?”

  “Sorry. I’ve been a little spacy today. There are so many changes and new people. Oh, wha
t do you think of Matilda? Have you sampled her food?”

  Ingram hesitated.

  “I know you wanted the position, but with your show and your Broadway career, I thought it better to hire someone who wanted to be a chef.”

  “No, I really am okay with it. Well, mostly.” He smiled, reached for another slice, and then closed the lid. “I love her food. Her flavor combinations are really nice. I like her comfort food twist. I think the prices are a bit low, but I understand that, too. I just…”

  “What?” Chris finished his beer and tossed the bottle into the trash bin.

  Ingram got two fresh beers. “You should recycle.” He opened a bottle and handed it to Chris. “It’s not the menu I would have planned.”

  “Well, we’re not finished and there will be daily specials based on what’s fresh that day.” Chris caught himself. He would not defend his choice of Matilda for head chef. She was amazing and wonderfully strange. He liked everything about her.

  “So, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” Ingram played with the pizza’s crust.

  “Okay.” Again Chris drank, wondering if he’d be switching to bourbon early.

  “Well, one of the guys in the show, he moved in with his boyfriend, so his roommate has an empty room; I can afford it on my new salary.”

  Chris breathed deeply, relieved. “Yes, take it. Take the room. You like the guy? You’ll get along okay? It’s in Manhattan and not Queens?”

  “Yes, it’s in the city. Way up. Inwood.”

  “Last stop on the A-train. But, you have a lovely park up there.” Chris smiled at the kid.

  “You know it?”

  “Baby, I know everything there is to know about this city.”

  “Well, he wants me to move in right away. Wednesday is the first.” Ingram cast his eyes down and away from Chris.

  “How much do you need?” He felt as he had many times, more like a mother than a daddy.

  “Two grand. Two months’ rent and a security deposit. I’ve got fifteen hundred, so I only need another five and I could pay you back in a few weeks. A month tops. Or, I could work it off in your kitchen?”

  “I like that idea, an advance on salary for you to work as a line cook. So long as it’s okay with Matilda.” Chris reached into his pocket and counted off ten hundred-dollar bills.

  “You carry money like that around with you?”

  Chris ignored Ingram’s emotion. “You never know when you’re going to want to buy something pretty for yourself.” He held out the cash toward Ingram. “Take it.”

  The boy took the money and shoved it deep into his jeans’ pocket.

  “Are you sure it’s enough?”

  “Plenty. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate you and what you’ve done for me.” Tears sprung into his eyes.

  “Oh, my boy. You’re lovely and handsome and I’m glad I could once again do my part for the theater community. Someday, maybe someday soon, when a kid needs a place to crash for a bit, you can repay me by offering him your futon.”

  Chris pointed at the pizza box and Ingram moved it over to the table. The two of them ate and talked more about Godspell and the changes at Tamburlaine. They’d have one more night together, but it was obvious that they’d never have sex. Chris let out a sigh, blamed it on memories of a guy he knew from the original Broadway cast. He pointed to the Godspell Playbill on the wall. He let tonight’s boy go on talking.

  Once again, he felt just a little too old for the everyday stuff of life.

  Nineteen

  Matilda tasted something and tossed the used spoon into a metal bin. “You’re early.”

  “I know.” Chris closed the door to the alley and took in the energy of the busy kitchen. “Who are all these people?”

  “Your kitchen staff.” Matilda smiled warmly at him from those wonderful brown eyes.

  “It’s nice that we’re busy again.” He stepped in a few feet, but remained on the edge of the bustle.

  “We’ve got bookings for sixty covers tonight.” She added salt to the pot and stirred the contents. “People are loving the prix fixe menu.”

  “I like that everything is fresh every night. That makes me happy.” He turned and walked away.

  The dining room tables were set with fresh white linen cloths and napkins, polished silver, and clear crystal glasses. The fixtures were clean. With lit candles, the room shimmered. The old hardwood floors shined.

  Chris walked down the hallway. He turned the knob this way and that and his office door popped open. This room had received some much-needed attention, too. Even the women in the Picasso gave an impression of being joyous and happy. He sat at his desk and explored the stack of invoices. He turned on the computer, opened the bank account, and set up payments to be sent to the vendors. After all the years he’d avoided computers and electronics, in just a few weeks of harassment by his staff, he was an expert at the Internet, email, and online bill pay, not to mention, free porn videos.

  The showroom was full every evening. They would officially launch the Tamburlaine Players in three nights. Even the dining room was breaking even. He bowed his head before the painting on the wall and prayed to Picasso that this new venture would be a success.

  Chris logged off the computer and closed the roll-top desk. He checked his makeup in the mirror near the door and ran a finger along the lipstick line to clean it up a touch. He rubbed his hands together and then cracked his knuckles before heading out and locking the door.

  Chris took up his usual spot and Frank placed a cup of coffee before him. A new bartender drew a draught beer from the restored taps.

  “Here you go, boss.”

  “Thanks.” He sipped coffee. There were patrons at the bar and seated at the tables near the stage. He wasn’t due to go on for close to an hour. “What are they doing here so early?”

  “Don’t want to miss the show tonight. By seven or eight there’s a line at the door. Last night, more than a hundred people were turned away.”

  “Well, keep pouring drinks down ’em.” Chris rotated a ring on his finger, one of the many he wore that evening, bangles and bobbles that clinked and sparkled, some real, some glass.

  “Should we turn the lights on for you?” Frank asked.

  “No, I’m going to have another word with Matilda.” He slid off the stool and headed to the kitchen. He had the girls there make him a plate of that evening’s entrée, Yankee Pot Roast with potatoes and carrots. He ate half the food before him while sitting on his stool at the counter. He watched them work. Each of the kitchen crew displayed some physical malady. None seemed slowed by their awkwardly formed hand or strangely turned wrist. They communicated quietly, as if theirs were a private language. The waiters, some in drag, some in extreme makeup, came in and had dinner; the same food he ate; the meal they’d be serving. Chris liked that he was feeding them a hearty and wholesome meal.

  Finished with his food, he returned to the barroom and had the boys turn on the lights. He stepped on stage to a smattering of applause. It felt good, even that half-hearted attempt at welcome.

  “Good evening,” he began, sitting at the piano and playing an arpeggio from the lowest keys to the highest. “I’m Christopher Marlowe. Not the dead poet, but the pickled drag queen.” A few chuckles. He launched into a gaudy, Liberace-esque piano performance. While he played, one of the cute waiter boys brought up a lit candelabra to great applause from the audience.

  His eyes adjusted to the lighting, Chris noticed a group of older faces watching him. These weren’t the youngsters who had been filling the club the past week or so. No, these were his peers, the survivors. Chris knew in his heart that if those assembled shared names and stories that many of them had probably slept together, pissed each other off, gotten stoned together, and been in love with each other at some point in their journey. And, if it weren�
�t those sitting there, it was with others, just like them, that they all remembered.

  Was this how it was going to be? Chris wondered. He played “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries,” an old song from Rusty Warren’s repertoire. The audience sang along and approved. He let his mind wander. It felt like he’d entered a time warp. Less drugs, more booze. Fewer sincere laughs from him, but the audience played along. Just like the old days, when he could enjoy an entire exploration of a series of rambling topics while still performing his act. Song after song, joke after joke, Rusty’s material blended with his own gay twisted innuendo, just rolling out of him while his mind wandered somewhere else. Was this what dementia felt like, being in two places at once and not knowing reality from reality.

  A waiter brought him more bourbon. Another waiter, in drag, sang “The Boy Next Door,” an old Joyce Breach torch song. Great applause. Reminder to tip the wait staff, they were the entertainment. A reminder that dinner was available. A reminder that tickets were on sale for The Tamburlaine Players. Another song, another joke, another reminder.

  And, so the evening passed. So the days passed. The numbers grew. The lines on the street brought press and media attention. The food received rave reviews. The Tamburlaine Players, directed by The Great Jericho Taylor, anticipated.

  Twenty

  “Thank you for walking me home, kind sir.” Chris reached into his pocket for the key to the metal door.

  “I’m not done talking yet. Want to invite me in for a nightcap?” Jericho Taylor held his hand politely at Chris’ elbow.

  “Sure, what the hell.” Chris turned the key and pulled hard on the door. It creaked open.

  “All these years and it’s still the same door?”

  “If it ain’t broke—”

  A scramble of sudden footsteps and a flash of light broke up the comfort of the familiar darkness.

  Glass shattered nearby.

  “Faggots!”

  “Cock suckers!”

  Chris and Jericho turned just as a bottle sailed toward them. Chris reacted first, pushed Jericho into the alley, but he got clocked in the head by the bottle. A second and then a third bottle accosted at him. The next one that arrived flamed. Chris raised an arm to cover his face. The bottle hit the wall and fire burst all around him—igniting liquid from the shattered bottles. He could feel the pain of the heat burning the skin on his feet and ankles, the smell of gasoline and smoke filled his nose.