Audition for Murder

by P. M. Carlson

  But she waited till Maggie came in a little later, humming, and demanded, “Maggie, you aren’t getting really serious about Rob, are you?”

  “What’s the matter, eldest oyster? You think you’re the only person in the world who likes actors?”

  “Come on, Maggie. Don’t mock.”

  Maggie was smiling a little. “Okay, Ellen. Look. Super secret.” She had a thin gold chain around her neck, under her shirt. She pulled it out. There was a gold ring on it, with a little diamond.

  “Maggie!”

  “Secret. Okay? He’s afraid the dean would freak out.”

  “Well, he probably would.” Glad, and worried still, Ellen watched her drop the ring back between her breasts. “Maggie, what’s he really like?”

  “Bright and funny and thoughtful and loving. And complicated. And gloriously unboring. The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!” She bounced exuberantly into her bed and looked owlishly at Ellen. “Sound familiar?”

  Ellen grinned grudgingly. “Yeah. Sounds like Jim.”

  Fourteen

  “House to half.”

  Ellen sat alone in the dark, perched on her stool. The carefully framed light that fell on her book was the only light in the wings. The murmuring and rustling of the audience slackened as the lights dropped.

  “Warning, Sound three, Electric one, two, three.”

  She spoke quietly into the headset. The stage was lit at a low level, the bulky ramparts edged with faint light, the new cyc a deep gray-blue. The music, a rumbling ominous piece, moved to its conclusion.

  “Electric one. Go.”

  The houselights blacked out, and the stage darkened as the music ended. The audience grew silent. There was an almost noiseless flurry of actors moving in the darkness.

  “Electric two, go. Sound three, go.”

  Three muffled shots sounded as low lights came up again on the darkened castle. A spotlight above Ellen’s head and to her left picked out Horatio’s profile as he stood by the stage-right rampart, wrapped in his cloak and looking left as some soldiers rolled a cannon across and off left.

  “Electric three, go.”

  The ramparts above grew faintly brighter as a man toiled up toward the highest level and, sensing the sentinel nearby, cried, “Who’s there?”

  “Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself.”

  Hamlet was underway again.

  It was difficult to believe that this was already the last performance, the tenth time through. It had been a success, even from Dean Wagner’s point of view. Perhaps impressed by the play, perhaps by the sight of the naked auditorium filled with folding chairs, the visiting alumni had responded to the special theatre-fund drive with great generosity. Brian and the dean had not tried very hard to dispel the illusion that the age of the equipment was somehow to blame for the damage, and so even the unglamorous maintenance fund received support. And Judy, who was keeping careful accounts of the show expenditures for Cheyenne, reported that they would come out a little ahead despite the water damage.

  “Electric four, go.”

  A blue follow spot from low in the left wings shot up to catch the ghost stalking across the highest level of the rampart. The three others, panicking, pushed Horatio to the front to speak to him.

  Jim was damn good, thought Ellen with vicarious conceit. She had watched him ignore her through dress rehearsals and opening night with a new, fond tolerance. And once the show had been successfully launched, he’d had time for her. Almost too much time.

  “Warning, Electric forty-nine, forty-nine A.”

  Ellen remembered working out this cue at the cue-to-cue technical rehearsal Sunday, the first time the actors had worked with the lights. It had not gone badly for a show with over a hundred light cues, and they had worked their way fairly smoothly all the way to Cue sixty-one, just before the solitary act break. Rob had been standing onstage, patiently waiting for Brian to decide how rapidly the lights behind should fade for his soliloquy, “’Tis now the very witching time of night.”

  “Let’s try a five-count,” Brian had said.

  “Right,” said Maggie. They tried it.

  But Brian hadn’t liked that. “Fade’s okay. But he needs more light,” he said. “Can you get another instrument in there? On the side?”

  Rob, stoically, had pulled out his broad dagger and was inspecting it; for the moment, he knew, he was not Hamlet, not Rob, but merely an object that reflected light.

  “We’ve got the Horatio special,” said Maggie’s voice in the headset. The light from the side joined the others, adding shine to Rob’s hair and bouncing from the dagger to hit the curtain. “God!” said Maggie on an indrawn breath.

  Brian was saying, “That’s better. Try that. Five-count.”

  The lights behind Rob faded out slowly, leaving only the front and side lights as he gave the soliloquy; then Ellen said, “Electric sixty-two, go,” and they too blacked out. The act was over.

  “Brian?” said Maggie’s voice.

  “Yeah, that’s fine, set it.”

  “I want to do Cue forty-nine again.”

  “But we’ve set that already!”

  “No, I want you to see this. Ellen, are you there?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Put Rob on.”

  Ellen called Rob over and handed him her headset. He listened intently a moment, then asked, “Where should I be?” and then, “Full front? No, probably three-quarters front, facing left,” and finally, “Gotcha, celestial and most beautified!”

  He grinned at the headset’s reply and handed it back to Ellen. She put it on in time to hear Brian say plaintively, “Okay, we’ll try it, but it better be good, Maggie.”

  “Ellen?” Maggie was all business.

  “Yeah?”

  “Act Three, Scene One, after Cue forty-eight. Call Claudius and Polonius.”

  The lights went up onstage. Paul’s crew reset the scene, and Nick and Chester, patiently, came out to take up their positions. They began their lines, Ellen gave the warning for Electric forty-nine, and Nick and Chester disappeared behind the curtain to eavesdrop. Ellen said, “Electric forty-nine, go.” The stage lights blacked out; and this time, instead of the front areas remaining lit as Ellen remembered, they went dark too. Only the Horatio special from the side came up. Rob was standing further forward than Jim did, so the light came from a little behind him, turning his pale hair into a gleaming corona and flashing from the broad shining dagger. His face was in shadow.

  “To be, or not to be, that is the question.” The familiar words were transformed, magical, in the dark. As he said the next few lines, he turned the dagger slowly; and suddenly, chillingly, his face was illuminated by the reflected light of the dagger. As the speech went on the other lights came up, imperceptibly slowly, so that by the end they were ready to move into the scene with Ophelia as before.

  “Hey, Maggie!” said Brian’s voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re right. Set that.”

  “Okay. Thought you’d like it.”

  “Rob?” Brian called from the house, headset off.

  “Yes?”

  “Great effect. Tomorrow hold the dagger reflection until you get to ‘and by opposing end them.’”

  “Right.”

  And now, as they went through it for the last time, Ellen felt again the power of the moment. As the lights fell for the end of the scene, the audience rustled a little, shifting on the folding chairs, coughing occasionally; but when the special came up on the golden head and silver dagger, shining in the dark, they checked, suddenly silent. Rob’s pleasant voice, thoughtful, aching, gave the familiar lines; then his gentle grieving face was revealed in the awful reflected light of the blade. A silent shiver ran through the attentive, motionless audience. Ellen felt humble, and ferociously proud, that she was part of this show too. Whatever mysterious thing they were doing was the most worthwhile thing there was. Nick was right, and Cheyenne, and Paul. And Lisette, who, Ellen suspect
ed, had risked real danger for the sake of her art.

  And Jim.

  “Electric eighty-five. Go.”

  The lights rose again. Then Lisette, delicate yet strong in her pale sacking costume, came on for the mad scene. This had been the most controversial scene, for both playgoers and reviewers. Dean Wagner, at first shocked but then pleasantly titillated, had taken to bringing important alumni backstage every night to introduce them to Lisette, to show them that she was really sweet and innocent in real life, not a lascivious bawd.

  The reviews, too, had been mixed. Everyone’s favorite had appeared before Friday’s show, when Rob strode into the greenroom waving a New York weekly newspaper.

  “Margaret Mary Ryan,” he had announced, “they love you in the Big Apple.”

  “Really? Let me see!” Maggie flew to his side and peered at the paper. The three New York agents, after mighty efforts on all fronts, had managed to convince a solitary critic from the city to accept free travel and accommodations to go upstate to review this centenary Hamlet. The result was finally out.

  “Hey, look at that!” Maggie was beaming. “‘Lighting, by M. M. Ryan, gave a fresh look to familiar scenes.’ Whoopee!”

  The others in the greenroom crowded around. Rob had brought two copies, and several clumps of people jostled for position to read the review. They tossed each other phrases: “A Hamlet for the sixties, focusing on the implications for the entire nation”; “Rob Jenner’s Hamlet is humorous as well as melancholy, determined as well as hesitant, skillful as well as vulnerable”; “Nicholas O’Connor’s strong and interesting Claudius, a skilled statesman with a foul underside of murder and lechery”; “One of the high points was Lisette O’Connor’s beautifully conceived Ophelia, adorable when sane and intensely moving when mad”; “Competent performances by Jason Vandervere as the Ghost, David Wagner as Laertes, and Grace Halliday as Gertrude”; “Jim Greer brought an unusual warmth and definition to the often thankless role of Hamlet’s friend”; “Evocative, flexible setting.”

  Nick grinned at Rob. “Too bad we close in two days. In New York a notice like this would extend the run.”

  “Won’t hurt the old portfolio in any case.”

  It was a pleasant change from the local reviews. The Jefferson newspaper had praised the production, but devoted most of the space to a plot summary and an account of the centenary. The student paper had been negative—its young reviewer had found the play too long, the Ghost and Hamlet’s hesitation unbelievable, but did praise Ophelia, the Gravedigger, and the climactic swordplay. “Well,” said Rob kindly, “old Will put those scenes in for the groundling mentality.”

  The other two critiques had been in Buffalo papers. One complained about the traditional production, wondering why some of the innovations introduced by Guthrie or others had not been followed, and only grudgingly admitted that the actors were competent. The other deemed the production too innovative, mentioning “distracting lighting” and “an uncomfortably explicit mad scene” as drawbacks to a potentially brilliant production.

  So the New York review delighted them. The professionals and the graduate students knew that a favorable notice from even a small New York City weekly looked better in their files than a rave from Buffalo or Jefferson. The undergraduates could wave it at their friends as proof of the incompetence of the student reviews. And it was pleasant to find that someone had noticed their efforts to emphasize Hamlet’s role in the state, the broader implications of this particular family’s tragedy.

  “Warning, Electric one-oh-four.”

  “Hamlet, thou art slain./ In thee there is not half an hour of life./The treacherous instrument is in thy hand/ Unbated and envenomed.” David, falling, touched Rob’s calf in supplication. “Lo, here I lie,/Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poisoned./I can no more. The King, the King’s to blame.”

  “The point envenomed too?” cried Rob. “Then, venom, to thy work!” He lunged for Nick, who leaped off the throne platform. The courtiers shifted. Like a lion tamer, Rob stalked him around the stage, thrusting twice and missing, and finally leaping down on him from the platform, running the sword through. The courtiers gasped and fell back.

  “O, yet defend me, friends!” pleaded Nick. “I am but hurt!” He pulled himself onto the platform next to Grace’s still, white form and turned to face Rob, who had snatched up the poisoned cup and now leaped up next to him, forcing the cup to his lips.

  “Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane,/ Drink off this potion!”

  Nick stumbled back, weakly, and grasped the red curtain behind him; then, as Rob backed away, still watching him, Nick fell forward, the red curtain ripping from its supports above to reveal the one behind, a steely Fortinbras blue. The red fabric billowed from the King’s suddenly stilled hand, spilling crimson across the stage.

  “Electric one-oh-four. Go.”

  The long slow fade to the end began.

  That curtain effect had taken Paul long enough, Ellen thought. Cheyenne had suggested it; but Paul was the one who, on top of everything else, had to get a new blue curtain, and attach the painted red one with strips of Velcro, exactly enough so that it would stay up when necessary, and rip off when necessary. Hours of Paul’s life had gone into those few seconds on the stage.

  And, beaming, he had said enthusiastically to Ellen, “Doesn’t it look great?”

  The audience tonight, silent, gripped, seemed to think so too.

  “Electric one-oh-seven, go.”

  Fortinbras was speaking as the special lights on him began to fade slowly. “Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this/Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss./Go, bid the soldiers shoot.”

  Hamlet’s limp body was removed gently from Horatio’s arms, and the soldiers carefully began to carry him off. Horatio stood slowly and pulled his cloak about him as the stage darkened.

  “Electric one-oh-eight, go. Sound nine, go.”

  The Horatio special spotlight above Ellen’s head picked out Horatio’s profile as he stood by the stage right wagon, wrapped in his cloak and looking left, watching the soldiers carry off his friend. Three muffled shots rang out.

  “Electric one-oh-nine, go.”

  The stage grew black.

  There was a long silence, then the explosive surge of applause from hundreds of moved and grateful people. Ellen found that there were tears running down her cheeks.

  “Call. Go,” she said calmly, if a bit huskily.

  The lights brightened, and the actors, smiling, ran on to form a line. Courtiers and ladies and soldiers, then Players and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the First Player and Osric. And then the larger roles—David, Jason, Jim. The applause was louder now. Someone out there was yelling approval. And Chester and Grace and Nick and Lisette. More yells and bravos. And finally Rob, to a general clamor. He bowed, and reached back for the others, and they all bowed, and bowed again. Ellen gave them one more bow.

  “Call down. Go. House up. Go.”

  The stage blacked out, and the auditorium lights brightened. The applause faded into the muttering of hundreds of conversations, the scraping and shuffling of hundreds of people moving slowly to the aisles and outdoors.

  It was over.

  Forever.

  They collected afterward in the greenroom, filled with the bittersweet elation of a difficult and strenuous job well done. Brian congratulated them and then left to pick up Deborah and bring her to the cast party at the Oasis. Rob stuck his head in and said not to wait for him, he’d see them at the party. Dean Wagner came down, smiled at his son briefly, and told him not to be too late as David started upstairs to change. Then the dean headed straight for Lisette to introduce her to tonight’s batch of important alumni. She stood smiling in her rough-textured cream costume, holding her bouquet tightly and answering questions patiently. Many of the other actors changed quickly and joined Ellen and the others in the greenroom. Finally, proudly, the dean gave her a little peck on the cheek and left. She started across the g
reenroom and toward the stairs, then paused where Nick was sitting, her gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “Are we all going to the Oasis?” she asked.

  “Right. Back room. We’ll leave when we’re sure everyone has a ride,” said Judy.

  “It’ll take me a few minutes. Nicky, wait for me.”

  He turned his head to kiss the hand on his shoulder. “Sure,” he said. She ran up the stairs.

  Cheyenne came down past her and looked around the greenroom. “Maggie around?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen her yet,” said Ellen. “She’ll probably be along.” Paul wasn’t here yet either, or David, but he probably had to go home. Tim came in and sat down.

  “It’s great weather tonight,” he said.

  “I don’t care. My mission is indoors, at the Oasis, getting pissed,” said Jason with determination. There was a chorus of agreement from the undergraduates.

  After a few minutes’ chatter, Grace said, “Shouldn’t we let them know we’re coming? I told Jon I’d meet him there.”

  “Good idea,” said Judy. “I’m not sure how long they’ll hold the room. Grace, you and I can go on over. Maybe Paul and the others will be here soon.”

  “I think I saw Maggie and Rob driving off when I was in the parking lot just now,” said Tim. “They may be there already.”

  “Or somewhere. He said he’d be late,” muttered Jason sadly.

  “Well, Grace and I can go on ahead,” said Judy. “Cheyenne, I’ve got the account book finished in the car. I’ll give it to you at the Oasis, okay?”