Audition for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  And, as the scorpion demonstrated, life here at Hargate was not free of tension. Laura Eisner and Judy Allison were still determinedly cool. In his movement class for graduates, most of the students quizzed him eagerly about the daily details of life as a working actor. O’Connor’s Guide for Actors: Squalor Made Easy. Judy and Laura, though, sat pointedly on the sidelines until the classwork began.

  Fortunately, Lisette seemed happy. She was intrigued with Ophelia—a bright and capable young woman, she had decided, overwhelmed at last by forces beyond her control. She enjoyed teaching her freshman acting classes, too. But Nick had to admit that he was still concerned about her. Important challenges still lay ahead, far more important than coping with the joke scorpion he would show her when they got home. No, Lisette’s enthusiasm alone was not the source of this sense of fun.

  Rob, perhaps? On the TV show two years ago, Nick had enjoyed working with him, although at that time Rob had been in the midst of an unpleasant divorce and suffered from sporadic depressions. Now he seemed full of life again, a good colleague, serious about the show and irreverent about everything else. And he did make a striking first impression. Singling them out as special friends had helped take Lisette out of the category of usurper and into the category of glamorous professional. Nick grinned, remembering the two of them spinning in the lighted circle, an enchanted pair. Quite an entrance. Score one for the pros. And then Hargate had evened the score with their remarkable lights girl. Maybe that was the moment, thought Nick, when things began to be fun, when that young creature had dropped in lightly from above, challenge and laughter in her sunlit grin, and he had realized that he was in the midst of youngsters. Lively, buoyant, eager youngsters. Full of worries, of course, or even anger, like Laura and Judy, but still resilient, ready to try something new, flexing their muscles and minds. Playing games not quite so grim as city games. Most of his New York friends were a little tired. It must be the kids, then. He was enjoying them in classes and rehearsals, enjoying their questions and admiration, enjoying the sensation of this brief stint as a superior being. A clumsy-looking, balding superior being. And it was fun.

  But now it was time to go. “Thanks again, Dean Wagner,” he said. “We appreciated the chance to meet everyone.”

  “Well, we’ve all been looking forward to meeting you.” The star-struck dean was basking in the success of his reception.

  “And thanks for making this whole project possible,” Rob added. “Brian tells me you had to work a small miracle to get this production going.”

  The dean looked pleased. “Well, it did take some doing,” he admitted. “We have a centenary fund that our alumni set up, but there was a little bit of foot-dragging about this project. You have to understand, the alumni are very jittery right now. The campuses keep challenging their values. And the worst is this damn war. Demonstrations and marches and draft card burnings and boys running off to Canada. It’s a terrible time to try to raise money.”

  “It was a terrific selling job,” said Rob. “Thanks for everything.” They shook hands and stepped out onto the snow-dusted gravel of the sweeping driveway.

  A knot of people stood there talking seriously—Grace Halliday and her husband Jon, Cheyenne and Paul, Ellen and Maggie, several graduate actors, and even David Wagner, looking chilly without his topcoat. Rob strode over to throw his arm around Maggie’s shoulders, white and furry in a French rabbit coat. “Maggie, you’re all so solemn, I’m sure you’re in the midst of an important discussion of Spinoza or Buxtehude. But please, take pity on a stranger and tell me where to get dinner.”

  “Dinner! A great idea!” She smiled back. “I knew something was missing from my life!”

  “I’m hungry too,” admitted Jim.

  “Let’s go to a restaurant,” suggested Nick. “All of us.”

  In the general enthusiastic chorus, only David looked hesitant.

  “Come on, David,” urged Rob. “You can’t tell me your parents are ogres now that I’ve met them. They’ll let you come. Go get your coat.” Pleased, David ran back in.

  Rob turned back to Maggie. “You still haven’t told us where.”

  “Somewhere good. We’re all so elegant,” said Nick. Everyone looked good tonight. Rob, of course, and Lisette; Ellen the stage manager, attractive in a soft brown dress; tall Jason the Ghost, almost debonair in his charcoal suit; and Maggie in French boots and a vivid slash of a cardinal-red dress that transformed her lankiness to elegance. Even Cheyenne had on a necktie. The undergraduates, Nick knew, went to this much trouble maybe twice a year. He added, “If you’re penniless students, Lisette and I can subsidize you at five dollars a head. Okay, Lisette?”

  “Fine. We just got paid.”

  “Great! I can throw something into the pot too,” said Rob. “Where’s the best food in town?”

  “Chez Pierre?” suggested Grace.

  “Whoopee!” said Jason. And so it was decided.

  Nick and Lisette had come with Rob; their own old car did not like cold weather. Now, as they waited for him to bring it up the driveway, Nick found himself standing next to Maggie. Because he was curious, he asked, “Maggie, with all due regard to Buxtehude, what do you people really talk about here?”

  For an instant, the deep blue eyes that met his were serious. “Vietnam, of course,” she said.

  Chez Pierre turned out to be on the lake road beyond Hargate Heights, a tall old farmhouse converted into a restaurant. “Is this place really French?” Nick asked dubiously.

  “The chef is French,” said Maggie, letting Jason take her white coat into the coatroom. “But the others are only pretending.”

  Rob said, “I always wonder what they’d do in a place like this if some real Frenchman walked in.”

  “Squirm, I imagine,” said Nick. Maggie’s delighted glance flicked from him to Rob, then she stepped forward, graceful in the dark red dress, as the maitre d’ entered through an archway.

  “Bonsoir, messieurs, mesdames,” he said intimidatingly, silencing everyone. “Reservations?”

  “No,” admitted Nick, finding himself with Maggie at the front.

  “How many, please?”

  Maggie turned to Nick with a helpless bewilderment that was so uncharacteristic that he hesitated in confusion. Then, in sudden pleased comprehension, she exclaimed, “Ah, oui! Nous sommes quatorze personnes!” The merry smile challenged Nick.

  “Zat’s right,” he said, responding instinctively with a heavy French accent. “We are fourteen person.”

  “Fourteen. Oui. Yes,” said the maitre d’. He picked up a handful of menus, looked at them nervously, and led the way through the archway.

  “Mon Dieu,” said Jon Halliday, diverted.

  Rob, anticipation in his pleasant features, surveyed the others. “Allons, mes amis, pour la gloire!”

  “Oh, Christ,” muttered Ellen in disgust.

  “Mais non, ma belle Héléne!” Rob’s lean, navy-clad arm slipped around her shoulders, and Rob’s finger touched her surprised lips in gentle admonition. “Soyez gentille.”

  Ellen subsided, and they all followed the maitre d’ and Maggie. Halfway across the room, Maggie stopped abruptly. Lisette, nudging Nick, put on her best French pout, and he realized that Maggie too had shifted nationality subtly. “Mais non,” she was objecting, looking back unhappily at Nick. Her accent was flawless to his inexpert ear. “Je préfère m’asseoir un peu plus près de la fenêtre.”

  She had chosen the most public spot in the restaurant; two rooms full of well-dressed people looked up surreptitiously, intrigued, then looked away politely. Nick was tickled; the maitre d’, turning at Maggie’s voice, was obviously at a loss. Beaming, Nick sprang to his rescue. “Mademoiselle Marguerite, she say we sit zere, by zee—how say you, la fenêtre?”

  “Zee weendow,” contributed Jason, and received an approving grin from Rob.

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” The maitre d’, looking around frantically and seeing the sharpened attention and politely averted g
aze of the other diners, gave in.

  The tables Maggie had chosen were set apart in a little windowed alcove, and once they were seated, the waiters did not seem eager to hover nearby. Rob said quietly, eyes sparkling, “Okay, ground rules. When the waiters are around, speak French if you can, English only with an accent. And let Mademoiselle Marguerite take the lead.”

  “Cheyenne and I don’t speak French at all,” said Paul, worried.

  “The rest of the time English is okay. Paul, you’re in the middle there, that’s the best position for a lookout. Just give a cough whenever anyone is approaching.”

  Grace Halliday said nervously, “Aren’t we going to tell them it’s a joke?”

  “At this point,” said Ellen, with an exasperated glance at Maggie, “it’s kinder not to tell them.”

  They discussed the menu, then Paul Rigo coughed, and the waiter arrived for their order. Nick, projecting his voice professionally, ordered for them in expertly mauled English. The waiter accepted it humbly. Everyone kept a straight face until he left, and Rob, his cigarette drooping Gallic-style from the corner of his mouth, said, “How zee mighty are fallen!”

  “We should sell this idea to Candid Camera,” suggested Jason.

  Lisette, sitting across from Nick, was looking down the table at Maggie. “Are you a French major?” she asked with interest.

  “No. I have a double major. English and math.”

  “Our Mag can do anything.” Jason patted her possessively on the back.

  Judy was watching Paul hand the breadbasket to Cheyenne next to him. “Our Superwoman,” she said, not completely kindly.

  Rob pinned Judy in his bright blue gaze. “Excellence is often unwelcome and difficult to forgive,” he said. There was a flicker of anger in Judy’s face. Cheyenne, who had passed bread on to Lisette, stopped buttering his roll and looked thoughtfully at Rob.

  “Yes,” he said, the brusque voice unexpected, as it always was. “Especially when we are excellent ourselves.”

  There was an odd silence, somehow centered now on Lisette instead of Maggie. Lisette herself broke it, saying gently, “Here, Grace. Have some bread,” as she passed on the basket.

  “It’s lucky that theatre people are all aiming at the same goal, or we might hurt each other,” said Rob generally, looking around the table. “But I’ve never known any professionals who couldn’t subordinate their own feelings for the good of the show.” His gaze stopped again at Judy, who reddened, and he didn’t see the slight tightening around Lisette’s mouth. Nick decided it was time to lighten the atmosphere.

  “Remember Harmon, Rob?” he asked. “The guy who played your father in that soap?”

  Rob abandoned his lesson in theatre ethics and acquiesced with remembered delight. “Oh, God! Old Harmon! Talk about subordinating his own feelings!”

  Paul Rigo coughed.

  “Le pauvre Monsieur Harmon,” continued Rob smoothly. “Ah! Voici la bonne soupe!”

  Maggie chattered gaily to the stammering waiters as the soup was served, supported occasionally by Rob and Nick and the others who’d studied French. Even Ellen, at Maggie’s end of the table, was joining in, encouraged by her roommate’s amusement. But when the waiter left it was Grace who said eagerly, “Et le pauvre Monsieur Harmon?”

  “He was a miser,” explained Rob. “And Nick and I were always out of quarters for the soft-drink machines.”

  “Especially when we discovered his weak point,” added Nick.

  “And what was that?”

  “We’ll illustrate. Rob, you play Rob, and I’ll play Harmon.” Nick’s friendly face aged before them, jowls puffing, chin receding. Grace and Ellen laughed in delight. He coughed self-importantly.

  “Harmon, old friend,” said Rob, eager, wide-eyed, “do you have four quarters for a dollar? I’m all out.” He held out a dollar bill hopefully.

  “Certainly, my boy.” Nick fished carefully into his coin purse and counted out four quarters. He took the bill from Rob and then, methodically, counted the four quarters into Rob’s hand. “There you are, son.”

  “Thanks, Harmon.” Rob’s hand closed on the quarters and then opened again as, in afterthought, he held them out in plain view to check. “Thanks a lot!”

  Everyone laughed. There were now five quarters. The old man stared, amazed and horrified.

  Rob said, “The only trouble was that our sleight-of-hand was too good; he quit making change for us. We had to go thirsty.”

  The conversation continued in friendly reminiscence about shows and people they had known, broken occasionally by French interludes when courses were cleared and brought. The food was much better than Nick had expected to find this far from the city. A college town had its points. Its well-traveled population could appreciate and support a few decent restaurants, while it retained many of the pleasures of the country. And all underlaid by the singing spirit of youth trying out its wings.

  And Vietnam, of course, Maggie had said. He looked around the table, at David Wagner next to him, listening attentively to Rob; at Paul Rigo; at quiet, sensitive Jim Greer; at Jason, whose long finger was lazily tracing the drape of Maggie’s red sleeve. He wished them well with all his heart. Maggie and Ellen, Judy and Laura too, whose affections were bound up with their classmates and who, he knew from experience, might well suffer even more in the end.

  Grace, across the table, was regarding him solemnly, and Nick realized he had not been masking his thoughts. He smiled at her guiltily, and she turned hastily away to talk to Lisette, her hands playing distractedly with Lisette’s dessert plate. Rob leaned back in his end seat, eyeing Nick lazily.

  “More wine, Uncle?” he asked, smiling.

  Nick pushed his glass toward the offered bottle. “Uncle?”

  “Uncle Claudius. Also, you were looking very avuncular.”

  “Felt that way, I guess. I was thinking about the war.”

  Rob refilled his own glass with a reproachful look at Nick. “That doesn’t bear thinking about.” Unasked, he refilled David’s glass and Grace’s, and glanced briefly at Lisette’s, full and untouched.

  “You know someone over there?” Nick asked sympathetically.

  “Drafted last month,” said Rob. “Just a kid with a bit part in my last show. It seems so unfair.”

  “It’s really changed life at the university,” said Jon Halliday.

  “Yes, I’m sure. All the protests.”

  “There’s also the problem of grades,” said Grace. “You can’t really fail anyone anymore, for fear that your mark is the one that will send him to Vietnam.”

  “Is there any way to find out?” asked Rob. “I mean, suppose there’s some lazy, terrible actor in my class. How do I know if he’s on the verge of flunking out, or if he’s actually brilliant in everything else and it won’t make any difference?”

  “Well, that’s the problem, you see,” said Grace. “You’re supposed to stay objective.”

  “But it’s also bad to encourage people who shouldn’t be acting,” said Nick. ‘’It’s a poor enough life when you know you belong. Still, I agree with Rob. I don’t want to be the one who sends someone to the front lines.”

  “At least you don’t have to have qualms about flunking women,” said Laura bitterly. Nick’s mild gaze turned to her.

  “Not the same kind. Not qualms about having her sent to war. But there are always other worries with something as amorphous as acting. Are my methods helping or hurting people? I’m a good teacher, but maybe not to every single actor.”

  “I’ve been curious about that,” said Jon Halliday. Grace’s husband was square-shouldered, athletic, with a streak of gray at his temples. “How can you teach acting? I can understand Grace’s part of it, because speech comes in units. You can analyze it and describe it. But acting isn’t like that, is it?”

  “No. It’s a tough problem.” Nick drank some wine.

  “It’s a serious question,” insisted Jon. “Where do you start?”

  “I start with
myself. I’m an actor. Well, okay, the Queen of England hasn’t knighted me or anything.”

  “Yet,” said Grace. Lisette smiled at her.

  “But it’s not all self-delusion,” Nick continued. “People pay me to do it. This very institution has made me an artist-in-residence. So it’s official, we’ll assume I’m an actor. Next question: how did I become one?”

  “Right,” said Jon.

  “And I’m afraid the answer is guesswork. We can list the basic equipment. A voice. Two legs, two arms, a head. Hair, as you can see, is not necessary.” Rob and Lisette were listening, amused. “What have I done with this equipment? Lots of vocal exercises. Lots of hard physical training. Learning where every little muscle is, what it does, how to control it. Narcissistic hours in front of a mirror. Constant analysis of how I feel, what makes me feel that way, what I do when I feel that way.”

  “So it is analytical.”

  “Except that you can’t equate an isolated emotion with an isolated set of movements, of course, because feelings don’t come isolated, and movements are parts of whole people. But it helps to store up the pieces. And I add in lots of reading, all the plays I can get, and novels and poetry too. Paintings, sculpture, music, dance. Real people, businessmen and lifeguards and old men on park benches. Saving up images, sights and sounds and smells and tastes.”

  “I see,” said Jon.

  “All of that is just step one. Piano tuning. Getting the instrument properly adjusted. Making myself into an acting machine.

  “And what’s step two?”

  Nick shrugged. “I don’t know. All I can teach is step one.”

  Rob and Lisette were nodding in agreement. Jon said, “So step two is inspiration, creativity, and so forth. The important things, but you can’t teach them.”

  “Do you know anyone who teaches them, in any field?”