Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  Nigel went pale. “What are you going to do with the company?”

  “I haven’t decided, yet. What I do know is that I’ll be asking the board for your removal as CEO. I’ve spoken to the police about Norton. He’ll be in the system as soon as they find him.”

  “What have you done? You don’t know this boy, what he’s capable of.”

  Chris turned and walked down the aisle, leaving Nigel where he stood. The theater’s orchestra, now empty of patrons, offered a red glow from soft light reflecting off the seats, walls, and rich carpet. He knew he looked good in this light and took his time walking to the back of the room.

  An usher, a young woman, very skinny, smiled at him. She moved forward and pressed her hand to his. “I’m a huge fan,” she said with a seductively, husky voice. She was a boy.

  “Me, too.” Chris checked his hand for patches or poison as he walked out the door. All looked good. He raised that hand and a cab pulled up. “Tamburlaine.”

  “Chris!”

  He turned. Jericho stood near the open cab door.

  “You’re leaving? Without saying anything?”

  “I…”

  “You’re not coming to the party? The opening night party. Ingram will be hurt if you don’t come. It’s down the street, at Sardis.”

  Chris took a twenty from his pocket. He handed it toward the driver who waved it away.

  “No harm, no foul,” said the grizzly old man. “You can buy me a drink next time I’m in your club.”

  “Of course.” Chris pocketed the money. He took Jericho’s hand and stepped out of the cab. The two men stood for a long moment. They were alone on the busy street, looking deep into the other’s eyes. Breaking the silence, Chris said: “Very nice show. I like the updates.”

  “You hated it.” Jericho broke their eye contact. He turned away.

  Chris touched his upper arm. “No, Jerry, I didn’t hate it. The cast sounded amazing. I’m so pleased you spent the time with them. The harmonies were wonderful. There wasn’t any of that horrible chaos that often happens during this show.”

  Jericho turned back and faced him. “Thank you.” After a pause,

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing—”

  “There is. And, I’m sorry. I was hurt. You’d taken something from me I wanted, just like before. Just like Jimmy and the club.”

  “I didn’t take anything. Not then and not now.” Chris firmly stood, feeling his feet plant and body square. “We both know you couldn’t have done it.” He raised a hand to stave off Jericho’s protest. “You couldn’t have, wouldn’t have buried them all. Stayed behind to buy all of them.” Chris took a deep breath. “I’m tired of this.”

  He ignored what Chris had said. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s cold. Come with me.” Jericho took his elbow, but Chris didn’t budge. “Chris, come with me for a moment.” He smiled through glistening eyes.

  They walked down the side alley, into the theater, around several quick turns. Jericho unlocked a door and they were inside an office.

  “I didn’t want to have this conversation in public. Sit.”

  Chris sat in a chair and watched as Jericho took out two glasses and a half-empty bottle of bourbon. He poured the brown liquid, tossed off his own, and refilled his glass. Chris sipped.

  “What I wanted to say…what I meant to say…”

  Chris opened his mouth to speak.

  In a harsh, reprimanding tone, Jericho said: “No, let me do this.” He cast his eyes to the floor. Quieter, “Sorry. You do something to me, Christopher Marlowe. You always have. I have been in love with you my whole life. I worry about what you think or what you might think. I…”

  “Jerry, I love you, too. But—”

  “It’s not that I want to be with you. I know you’re happy with Elmer. I know we’d never be a successful couple. That’s not what I’m saying. Wait.” He drank off more bourbon. “When Nancy Ann decided to leave me and work for you, I was hurt in the same way as when you chose Jimmy over me.”

  “But, I didn’t choose Jimmy. You left me. You left the club. No one heard from you again. We tried to find you when Jimmy was sick and you were having success and you never returned our calls. I didn’t choose you over someone else. I couldn’t choose. You gave me no options.” Chris sipped his drink. There was no urgency for him any longer. He was speaking to a spoiled, selfish, petulant child. And, he wasn’t this child’s mother. “Jerry, you do know that Nancy Ann is Jimmy’s niece, right?”

  “Jimmy’s what? They’re related?”

  Chris smiled. “You are Peter Pan, aren’t you? Yes, they are related. When you introduced her to Tamburlaine, you introduced her to an uncle she never knew. You invited her into our inner circle. You did that.”

  “I would never have…”

  “But, you did.”

  They both drank for a moment. Jericho added more to both their glasses and they drank some more. All the time, they looked at each other, speaking through their eyes and hearts instead of their mouths.

  Finally, because he had to say it; after all these many years it needed to be said aloud. “You have always been in love with Jimmy. It was Jimmy you wanted then and Jimmy you want now. When he died it scared the hell out of you. Yes, that could have been you. When so many of our generation died, and the generations around us, it could have been you. But, you didn’t come to care with us, to mourn with us. You avoided it all. Well, Jimmy is dead. We burned him to ash and dumped that ash into the Hudson. I kept his club going because he asked me to—so there’d be somewhere for the others who needed to be buried. I’ve put in my time. I’ve paid the price. Those were my choices. I did that because I wanted to. But, you.” Chris wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He pointed his index finger at Jericho. “You no longer get to hold his death over me. I didn’t kill him; I only helped him die. And, I kept his legacy going until someone showed up. He knew one of his family would show up. He thought it would be one of the boys, but it turned out to be Nancy Ann.”

  “I heard you gave her the painting.”

  Was that contempt? Jealousy? “I did. And, she doesn’t know it yet, but Tamburlaine belongs to her, too. It’s what he wanted, what Jimmy wanted.”

  “But, Chris!”

  “Our contract, the Tamburlaine Players, that’s still ours.” Chris finished his drink. Jericho reached to fill it again, but Chris shook his head. “No, I think I’ve had enough. Have you said all you wanted to say? Are we finished?”

  “Finished? That’s melodramatic.”

  How could he not smile at the charming man sitting before him? “I meant this conversation. Is this conversation finished?”

  “If you’d like.” Jericho stood and offered his hand to help Chris. “I’m sorry. I don’t think that’s enough; it doesn’t feel like enough.”

  Chris stood, centered his body, touched Jericho’s cheek. “You’re a sweet man, Jerry.”

  Jericho stepped in and kissed Chris on the lips. Not a romantic kiss, although for a moment it felt like it might be a Hollywood ending. Instead, something changed during the approach and the two simply kissed. They held their lips together for a bit, but it was friendship, not romance that kiss sealed.

  Fifty-two

  He’d always loved Sardis, with its round banquette tables, heavy draperies, and, of course, the famous caricatures. Jericho held the door for him to enter. Chris stopped at the bar.

  “The party is in the main room.” Jericho tugged at Chris’ sleeve.

  “I’m not ready for that. And, I think you should enter on your own. We aren’t a couple. Go, take your bow.”

  “You’re sure? I’m happy to escort you inside.”

  “Go.” Chris watched the handsome, tuxedo-clad man walk through the red draped archway where applause greeted him. Chris turned to the bar, took
up the one empty seat, and ordered a bottle of water.

  In that room, with its clatter of voices and silver and crystal and walls covered with colorful pictures was Ingram, and probably Nigel. Chris thought he might sneak away, just slip out. He’d never be missed by them.

  “What did you think of the show?” asked the man sitting next to him at the bar.

  “Hmm?” Chris turned a bit toward someone he didn’t know making conversation.

  “The show. You came in with The Great Jericho Taylor so I assume you saw the show.”

  “I did see it.” Chris drank some water. “I think the music and singing were wonderful.” He almost added “I really enjoyed it,” but he hadn’t enjoyed it and didn’t want to lie. Instead, he said: “And, you?”

  “Well, I have to love it. My granddaughter is in it.” He held up his glass in a cheers sort of motion before downing his drink, placing the glass on the bar, and pointing toward it for the bartender to see. “Can I get you another?” He looked toward the water bottle. “Another?”

  “I would love a bourbon.” Chris made a cheers motion with his water bottle.

  Once the drinks were poured, they raised them silently and clinked them together.

  “You look so familiar,” said the man.

  “I have a club downtown. Tam—”

  “Tamburlaine!” He looked around and then laughed a nervous laugh. “Oh, I remember it well. Jerry and I were dancers back then, together.”

  Chris tried to place this man. He turned and squared off with him.

  “You don’t remember me?” The man smiled and drank. “It was a long time ago. Sam Samuel.”

  Chris wracked his brain, running images of the past quickly through his mind. “Sam?” More images, more stalling. He drank bourbon. A switch flipped. “Sam! You and Jerry.” Now he had it. “The boy who got Jericho the tour. I remember. And, you’ve got a daughter in this show?”

  “Granddaughter. Well, that’s a very long story. Aren’t they all long stories?”

  Another one who Chris wished he’d never see again. Another person who had brought him grief in the past and now had drudged up that memory, that pain. He tossed off the last of his drink.

  “Another round,” Sam said to the bartender.

  “No.” Chris stood. His legs weak, he almost fell, but caught himself. “I have to go.”

  Before he could take another step, Ingram sidled up beside him. “Chris! Why don’t you come inside? There’s food and champagne in there. I’m so glad you came. Did you like the show? Does it compare to the others you’ve seen?”

  “Breathe, dear boy.” Chris, bolstered his balance by hugging Ingram. “You were wonderful.” He pressed his cheek to Ingram’s, breathed deep of his youth and cologne over sweat smell, made a kissing sound. He flashed on their first night together. He was sad they’d never had sex, but, thinking of Sam sitting there, glad too that that wasn’t a memory for them, either. Chris released the boy.

  “You’ve met Sam. He said he knew you.”

  “Yes. Another man who has a sordid past that I play a role in.”

  Sam and Ingram both chuckled at Chris’ joke.

  Chris smiled at the boy. “Like Nigel. How did he end up next to me?”

  “Who? Oh, he’s the father of my roommate. Norton couldn’t come tonight; he asked if I minded if he passed the ticket on. I told you, I hadn’t planned on asking anyone.”

  “I thought you said you gave it to another actor for their boyfriend?”

  “I did, but they gave the ticket back because he couldn’t come tonight. What does it matter who you sat next to?”

  “No, of course it doesn’t matter.” Chris realized Ingram knew nothing about what was happening with the Folgates, or, perhaps he actually was a great actor. Chris now believed the former to be the truth; Ingram knew nothing. “I’m going to slip out. I’m glad I got to see you, but I’m not feeling... I thought I’d stop by the club, make sure everything is going well, and then head home.”

  “No, you have to come in. You just have to.” Ingram stepped closer to Chris again. “I wouldn’t have gotten this job if you hadn’t called Jericho. I owe you my life.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic. You got the job because you’re talented.”

  Even in the soft light, Chris could see the flush that rose on Ingram’s face.

  “Now,” said Chris, “go back inside. You should be with your friends. You should have your picture taken. You should enjoy this moment and remember it.” Chris again pressed his cheek to Ingram’s, kissed him softly. For some reason, he felt he’d never see this boy again.

  Without another word to Ingram or Sam, Chris steered out of Sardis, back into the mid-town streets. He hailed a cab. He got in, but before he said “Tamburlaine,” he felt exhausted. So, he gave his home address instead and sank back into the depths of the cab, drunk, overwhelmed with emotions, and pushing the past as far out of his head as he could.

  Fifty-three

  First, clogged traffic. Next, sirens. Now, fire trucks. The sound deafening. The cab could go no further.

  Chris paid the fare. He walked, smelling smoke. Hearing shouts he couldn’t understand. He walked faster, heels clacking on the pavement.

  The corner blazed. His corner. Tamburlaine.

  Rushing forward, wanting to get there, a policeman grabbed Chris, stopped him, using his whole body as a block.

  “I have to get there. It’s my club,” Chris wailed over the cop’s shoulder. “I’m the owner. Is anyone hurt? What’s happened?”

  “Miss. I can’t let you pass. It’s too dangerous.” As the policeman said those words an explosion rocked the ground under their feet. He shifted from blocking Chris, to holding him up.

  In front of him, flames roared out of the broken front window. Firemen blasted water at the building from several directions.

  “When did it start?” Chris asked. He clung to the policeman as his stomach sank into his knees.

  “About an hour ago.”

  Chris moved to the street and leaned against the hood of a parked car. He watched the men work to put out the blaze. People watched from a half-block distance, he assumed some had been inside. Little Shop of Horrors would have just been letting out. Hundreds of people would have been in the hallway, the bar, the showroom, finishing dinner.

  “Chris? Is that you? Oh, thank, God.” Frank rushed at him, his face and white shirt covered in soot, a gash on his forehead dripped blood.

  “Frank! You’re hurt. What’s happened? How did this start?”

  Frank hugged tight to Chris. “Oh, Mommy.” As he held him, he said into Chris’ ear: “A brick burst through the big window. I was over the bar quick. Two guys were sitting right there. They got cut up. I was helping them up and away, toward the bar, when three flaming bottles came fast through the window. They crashed on the floor and flames were everywhere. It was chaos.”

  Chris moved his lips, tried to push air through them: “Were people hurt?”

  “Yes.” Frank began to sob.

  “Who? How many?”

  Frank shook and sobbed. Through tears and gasps for breath he said: “I did my best to get people out. It was chaos. I pushed and shoved as many as I could through the front door and on to the street. Flames everywhere. People on fire. Drinks spilled adding more fuel.”

  “Oh my God.” He held Frank, let him cry.

  “The piano and stage went up in slow motion. The Piano Player, he got out, I didn’t see him. That wall blazed; that took it into the theater, I’m sure. People were running and screaming and shoving and pushing and falling into the gasoline fueled flames. Everything smelled of gasoline.”

  “Was Liz there? In her spot?” He felt guilty not asking about Liz first. Liz in her corner keeping an eye on things.

  “She was there. I don’t know what happened to her. I remembe
r bringing her a coffee just before the show let out. Just before the brick came through the window. But, I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “Think! Think!”

  “I’m sorry, Mommy. I don’t know what happened to her. I don’t remember anything about her after the brick. It was chaos in there.”

  “We need to get someone to look at your temple.” Chris touched the cop’s arm. “Are there paramedics? He’s hurt.”

  “There,” he pointed to some flashing lights. “You really are the owner?”

  “Yes.”

  Chris helped Frank toward the flashing red and blue lights the policeman indicated. Once paramedics started helping Frank, Chris walked down the sidewalk: people were covered in black, burnt clothes, stark white bandages. He studied their faces, looking for cast members, staff, but everyone looked the same, with soot-stained faces and stunned, wide eyes. No one paid any attention to him. All around lights flashed, rivers of water rushed through the street, sirens blared. None of those on the street were Liz.

  Closer to the club, he scanned the crowd watching the fire; he looked for Liz’s big tits sticking out, but he didn’t see them, didn’t see her. “Liz!” he shouted; sirens and other shouts drowned him out.

  Someone grabbed his arm. “You can’t go any further. You’ll have to go around. Chris? Chris! Oh, thank God you’re okay.”

  He didn’t register who spoke. He stopped walking. He looked down and there stood Matilda. Chris crushed the malformed woman to him, tight and close. She smelled of grease and chicken and smoke and gasoline. “You’re okay. You got out.”