“As a matter of fact, old man, they can,” said the technician. “And your excuse is exactly right.”
“Whh—what?”
“Sure. You did muff the first scene or two. The audience reacted to it. And the Maestro reacts to audience reaction—by compensating through shifts in interpretation. It sees the stage as a whole, you included. As far as the Maestro’s concerned, you’re an untaped dud—like the Peltier doll we used in the first run-through. It sends you only the script-tape signals, uninterpreted. Because it’s got no analogue tape on you. Now without an audience, that’d be O.K. But with art audience reaction to go by, it starts compensating, and since it can’t compensate through you, it works on the others.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Bluntly, Thorny, the first scene or two stunk. The audience didn’t like you. The Maestro started compensating by emphasizing other roles—and recharacterizing you, through the others.”
“Recharacterize? How can it do that.”
“Easily, darling,” Jade told him. “When Marka says ‘I hate him; he’s a beast’—for example—she can say it like it’s true, or she can say it like she’s just temporarily furious with Andreyev. And it affects the light in which the audience see you. Other actors affect your role. You know that’s true of the old stage. Well, it’s true of auto-drama, too.”
He stared at them in amazement. “Can’t you stop it? Readjust the Maestro, I mean?”
“Not without clearing the whole thing out of the machine and starting over. The effect is cumulative. The more it compensates, the tougher it gets for you. The tougher it gets for you, the worse you look to the crowd. And the worse you look to the crowd, the more it tries to compensate.”
He stared wildly at the clock. Less than a minute until the first scene of Act II. “What’ll I do?”
“Stick it,” said Jade. “We’ve been on the phone to Smithfield. There’s a programming engineer in town, and he’s on his way over in a heliocab. Then we’ll see.”
“We may be able to nurse it back in tune,” Rick added, “a little at a time—by feeding in a fake set of audience—restlessness factors, and cutting out its feeler circuits out in the crowd. We’ll try, that’s all.”
The light flashed for the beginning of the act.
“Good luck, Thorny.”
“I guess I’ll need it.” Grimly he started toward his entrance.
The thing in the booth was watching him. It watched and measured and judged and found wanting. Maybe, he thought wildly, it even hated him. It watched, it planned, it regulated, and it was wrecking him.
The faces of the dolls, the hands, the voices—belonged to it. The wizard circuitry in the booth rallied them against him. It saw him, undoubtedly, as one of them, but not answering to its pulsing commands. It saw him, perhaps, as a malfunctioning doll, and it tried to correct the effects of his misbehavior. He thought of the old conflict between director and darfstellar, the self-directed actor—and it was the same conflict, aggravated by an electronic director’s inability to understand that such things could be. The darfsteller, the undirectable portrayer whose acting welled from unconscious sources with no external strings—directors were inclined to hate them, even when the portrayal was superb. A mannequin, however, was the perfect schauspieler, the actor that a director could play like an instrument.
It would have been easier for him now had he been a schauspieler, for perhaps he could adapt. But he was Andreyev, his Andreyev, as he had prepared himself for the role. Andreyev was incarnate as an alter anima within him. He had never “played” a role. He had always become the role. And now he could adapt to the needs of the moment on stage only as Andreyev, in and through his identity with Andreyev, and without changing the feel of his portrayal. To attempt it, to try to fall into conformity with what the Maestro was doing, would mean utter confusion. Yet, the machine was forcing him—through the others.
He stood stonily behind his desk, listening coldly to the denials of the prisoner—a revolutionary, an arsonist associated with Piotr’s guerrilla band.
“I tell you, comrade, I had nothing to do with it!” the prisoner shouted. “Nothing!”
“Haven’t you questioned him thoroughly?” Andreyev growled at the lieutenant who guarded the man. “Hasn’t he signed a confession?”
“There was no need, comrade. His accomplice confessed,” protested the lieutenant.
Only it wasn’t supposed to be a protest. The lieutenant made it sound like a monstrous thing to do—to wring another confession, by torture perhaps, from the prisoner, when there was already sufficient evidence to convict. The words were right, but their meaning was wrenched. It should have been a crisp statement of fact: No need, comrade; his accomplice confessed.
Thorny paused, reddening angrily. His next line was, “See that this one confesses, too.” But he wasn’t going to speak it. It would augment the effect of the lieutenant’s tone of shocked protest. He thought rapidly. The lieutenant was a bit-player, and didn’t come back on until the third act. It wouldn’t hurt to jam him.
He glowered at the doll, demanded icily: “And what have you done with the accomplice?”
The Maestro could not invent lines, nor comprehend an ad lib. The Maestro could only interpret a deviation as a malfunction, and try to compensate. The Maestro backed up a line, had the lieutenant repeat his cue.
“I told you—he confessed.”
“Sol” roared Andreyev. “You killed him, eh? Couldn’t survive the questioning, eh? And you killed him.”
Thorny, what are you doing? came Rick’s frantic whisper in his earplug.
“He confessed,” repeated the lieutenant.
“You’re under arrest, Nichol!” Thorny barked. “Report to Major Malin for discipline. Return the prisoner to his cell.” He paused. The Maestro couldn’t go on until he cued it, but now there was no harm in speaking the line. “Now—see that this one confesses, too.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant replied stonily, and started off-stage with the prisoner.
Thorny took glee in killing his exit by calling after him: “And see that he lives through it!”
The Maestro marched them out without looking back, and Thorny was briefly pleased with himself. He caught a glimpse of Jade with her hands clasped over her head, giving him a “the-winnah” signal from concealment. But he couldn’t keep ad libbing his way out of it every time.
Most of all, he dreaded the entrance of Marka, Mela’s doll. The Maestro was playing her up, ennobling her, subtly justifying her treachery, at the expense of Andreyev’s character. He didn’t want to fight back. Marka’s role was too important for tampering, and besides, it would be like slapping at Mela to confuse the performance of her doll.
The curtain dipped. The furniture revolved. The stage became a living room. And the curtain rose again.
He barked: “No more arrests; after curfew, shoot on sight!” at the telephone, and hung up.
When he turned, she stood in the doorway, listening. She shrugged and entered with a casual walk while he watched her in suspicious silence. It was the consummation of her treachery. She had come back to him, but as a spy for Piotr. He suspected her only of infidelity and not of treason. It was a crucial scene, and the Maestro could play her either as a treacherous wench, or a reluctant traitor with Andreyev seeming a brute. He watched her warily.
“Well—hello,” she said petulantly, after walking around the room.
He grunted coldly. She stayed flippant and aloof. So far, it was as it should be. But the vicious argument was yet to come.
She went to a mirror and began straightening her wind-blown hair. She spoke nervously, compulsively, rattling about trivia, concealing her anxiety in his presence after her betrayal. She looked furtive, haggard, somehow more like the real Mela of today; the Maestro’s control of expression was masterful.
“What are you doing here?” he exploded suddenly, interrupting her disjointed spiel.
“I still live here, don’t I
?”
“You got out.”
“Only because you ordered me out.”
“You made it clear you wanted to leave.”
“Liar!”
“Cheat!”
It went on that way for a while; then he began dumping the contents of several drawers into a suitcase. “I live here, and I’m staying,” she raged.
“Suit yourself, comrade.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Moving out, of course.”
The battle continued. Still there was no attempt by the Maestro to revise the scene. Had the trouble been corrected? Had his exchange with the lieutenant somehow affected the machine? Something was different. It was becoming a good scene, his best so far.
She was still raving at him when he started for the door. She stopped in mid-sentence, breathless—then shrieked his name and flung herself down on the sofa, sobbing violently. He stopped. He turned and stood with his fists on his hips staring at her. Gradually, he melted. He put the suitcase down and walked back to stand over her, still gruff and glowering.
Her sobbing subsided. She peered up at him, saw his inability to escape, began to smile. She came up slowly, arms sliding around his neck.
“Sasha… oh, my Sasha—”
The arms were warm, the lips moist, the woman alive in his embrace. For a moment he doubted his senses. She giggled at him and whispered, “You’ll break a rib.”
“Mela—”
“Let go, you fool—the scene!” Then, aloud: “Can I stay, darling?”
“Always,” he said hoarsely.
“And you won’t be jealous again?”
“Never.”
“Or question me every time I’m gone an hour or two?”
“Or sixteen. It was sixteen hours.”
“I’m sorry.” She kissed him. The music rose. The scene ended.
“How did you swing it?” he whispered in the clinch. “And why?”
“They asked me to. Because of the Maestro.” She giggled. “You looked devastated. Hey, you can let go now. The curtain’s down.”
The mobile furniture had begun to rearrange itself. They scurried offstage, side-stepping a couch as it rolled past. Jade was waiting for them.
“Great!” she whispered, taking their hands. “That was just great.”
“Thanks… thanks for sliding me in,” Mela answered.
F“Take it from here out, Mela—the scenes with Thorny, at least.”
“I don’t know,” she muttered. “It’s been so long. Anybody could have ad libbed through that fight scene.”
“You can do it. Rick’ll keen you cued and prompted. The engineer’s here, and they’re fussing around with the Maestro. But it’ll straighten itself out, if you give it a couple more scenes like that to watch.”
The second act had been rescued. The supporting cast was still a hazard, and the Maestro still tried to compensate according to audience reaction during Act I, but with a human Marka, the compensatory attempts had less effect, and the interpretive distortions seemed to diminish slightly. The Maestro was piling up new data as the play continued, and reinterpreting.
“It wasn’t great,” he sighed as they stretched out to relax between acts. “But it was passable.”
“Act Three’ll be better, Thorny,” Mela promised. “We’ll rescue it yet. It’s just too bad about the first act.”
“I wanted it to be tops,” he breathed. “I wanted to give them something to think about, something to remember. But now we’re fighting to rescue it from being a total flop.”
“Wasn’t it always like that? You get steamed up to make history, but then you wind up working like crazy just to keep it passable.”
“Or to keep from ducking flying groceries sometimes.”
She giggled. “Jiggle used to say, ‘I went on like the main dish and came off like the toss salad.’” She paused, then added moodily: “The tough part of it is—you’ve got to aim high just to hit anywhere at all. It can get to be heartbreaking, too-trying for the sublime every time, and just escaping the ridiculous, or the mediocre.”
“No matter how high you aim, you can’t hit escape velocity. Ambition is a trajectory with its impact point in oblivion, no matter how high the throw.”
“Sounds like a quote.”
“It is. From the Satyricon of an ex-Janitor.”
“Thorny—?”
“What?”
“I’m going to be sorry tomorrow—but I am enjoying it tonight-going through it all again I mean. Living it like a pipe dream. It’s no good though. It’s opium.”
He stared at her for a moment in surprise, said nothing. Maybe it was opium for Mela, but she hadn’t started out with a crazy hope that tonight would be the climax and the highpoint of a lifetime on the stage. She was filling in to save the show, and it meant nothing to her in terms of a career she had deliberately abandoned. He, however, had hoped for a great portrayal. It wasn’t great, though. If he worked hard at Act III, it might—as a whole—stand up to his performances of the past. Unless—
“Think anybody in the audience has guessed yet? About us, I mean?”
She shook her head. “Haven’t seen any signs of it,” she murmured drowsily. “People see what they expect to see. But it’ll leak out tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Your scene with the lieutenant. When you ad libbed out of a jam. There’s bound to be a drama critic or maybe a professor out there who read the play ahead of time, and started frowning when you pulled that off. He’ll go home and look up his copy of the script just to make sure, and then the cat’s out.”
“It won’t matter by then.”
She wanted a nap or a drowse, and he fell silent. As he watched her relax, some of his bitter disappointment slipped away. It was good just to be acting again, even for one opiate evening. And maybe it was best that he wasn’t getting what he wanted. He was even ready to admit to a certain insanity in setting out on such a course.
Perfection and immolation. Now that the perfection wasn’t possible, the whole scheme looked like a sick fanatic’s nightmare, and he was ashamed. Why had he done it—given in to what he had always been only a petulant fantasy, a childish dream? The wish, plus the opportunity, plus the impulse, in a framework of bitterness and in a time of personal transition—it had been enough to bring the crazy yearning out of its cortical wrinkle and start him acting on a dream. A child’s dream.
And then the momentum had carried him along. The juggled tapes, the loaded gun, the dirty trick on Jade—and now fighting to keep the show from dying. He had gone down to the river and climbed up on the bridge rail and looked down at the black and swirling tide—and finally climbed down again because the wind would spoil his swan dive.
He shivered. It scared him a little, to know he could lose himself so easily. What had the years done to him, or what had he done to himself?
He had kept his integrity maybe, but what good was integrity in a vacuum? He had the soul of an actor, and he’d hung onto it when the others were selling theirs, but the years had wiped out the market and he was stuck with it. He had stood firm on principle, and the years had melted the cold glacier of reality from under the principle; still, he stood on it, while the reality ran on down to the sea. He had dedicated himself to the living stage, and carefully tended its grave, awaiting the resurrection.
Old ham, he thought, you’ve been flickering into mad warps and staggering into dimensions of infrasanity. You took unreality by the hand and led her gallantly through peril and confusion and finally married her before you noticed that she was dead. Now the only decent thing to do was bury her, but her interment would do nothing to get him back through the peril and confusion and on the road again. He’d have to hike. Maybe it was too late to do anything with the rest of a lifetime. But there was only one way to find out. And the first step was to put some mileage between himself and the stage.
If a little black box took over my job, Rick had said, I’d go to work making little black boxes.
Thorny realized with a slight start that the technician had meant it. Mela had done it, in a sense. So had Jade. Especially Jade. But that wasn’t the answer for him, not now. He’d hung around too long mourning the dead, and he needed a clean, sharp break. Tomorrow he’d fade out of sight, move away, pretend he was twenty-one again, and start groping for something to do with a lifetime. How to keep eating until he found it—that would be the pressing problem. Unskilled laborers were hard to find these days, but so were unskilled jobs. Selling his acting talent for commercial purposes would work only if he could find a commercial purpose he could believe in and live for, since his talent was not the surface talent of a schauspieler. It would be a grueling search, for he had never bothered to believe in anything but theater.
Mela stirred suddenly. “Did I hear somebody call me?” she muttered. “This racket—I” She sat up to look around.
He grunted doubtfully. “How long till curtain?” he asked.
She arose suddenly and said, “Jade’s waving me over. See you in the act, Thorny.”
He watched Mela hurry away, he glanced across the floor at Jade who waited for her in the midst of a small conference, he felt a guilty twinge. He’d cost them money, trouble, and nervous sweat, and maybe the performance endangered the run of the show. It was a rotten thing to do, and he was sorry, but it couldn’t be undone, and the only possible compensation was to deliver a best—possible Act III and then get out. Fast. Before Jade found him out and organized a lynch mob.
After staring absently at the small conference for a few moments, he closed his eyes and drowsed again.
Suddenly he opened them. Something about the conference group—something peculiar. He sat up and frowned at them again. Jade, Mela, Rick, and Feria, and three strangers. Nothing peculiar about that. Except… let’s see… the thin one with the scholarly look—that would be the programming engineer, probably. The beefy, healthy fellow with the dark business suit and the wandering glance—Thorny couldn’t place him—he looked out of place backstage. The third one seemed familiar somehow, but he, too, looked out of place—a chubby little man with no necktie and a fat cigar, he seemed more interested in the backstage rush than in the proceedings of the group. The beefy gent kept asking him questions, and he muttered brief answers around his cigar while watching the stagehands’ parade.
Dark Benediction Page 36
