Nicholas barely had time to smile back before his companion went on. Poor old David, thought Nicholas, watching Salieri’s valet sidling across the boards with that constipated cringe that afflicts people who loathe acting and are coaxed onto a stage. Fortunately the valet was a nonspeaking part. The only time David had been given a line to say containing seven words, he had managed to deliver them in a different order every night of the run without repeating himself once.
“David…” Nicholas heard from the stalls. “Try not to walk as if you’ve got a duck up your knickers. Get off and come on again.”
Blushing, the boy complied. On reentering, he strode manfully to his position only to hear the Venticelli sniggering behind his back.
“My God—it’s the frog footman.”
“No, it’s not. It’s Dandini.”
“You’re both wrong,” mouthed Esslyn in a Restoration aside. “It’s the fairy Quasimodo.”
“For heaven’s sake, get on with it!” cried Harold. “I’m putting on a play here, not running a bear garden.” He sat back in his seat, and the rehearsals rolled on. Amadeus was not an easy play, but Harold had never been one to shirk a challenge to his directorial skills, and the fact that it had a large cast and thirty-one scenes did not deter him. Six keen fifth-formers from the local comprehensive had been recruited to help onstage management, and Harold watched them now drifting vaguely on and off the set with an exasperated expression on his face. It was all very well for Peter Shaffer to suggest that their constant coming and going should by a pleasant paradox of theater be rendered invisible. He wasn’t lumbered with a crew of sleepwalking zombies who didn’t know their stage right from a 97 bus. And Esslyn, who was onstage throughout and could have been a great help, was worse than useless. Years ago, Harold had made the mistake of saying that when he was in the business, no actor of any standing would demean himself by touching either stick or stone during a performance. All that was strictly stage management. Since then their leading man had steadfastly refused to handle anything but personal props.
“Deidre,” shouted Harold. “Speed this lot up. The set changes are taking twice as long as the bloody play.”
“If he’d read the author’s notes,” murmured Nicholas to Deidre, who had been testing a pile of newly stacked furniture in the wings for rockability and was now back in the prompt corner, “he’d know you’re supposed to carry on acting through the changes.”
“Oh, you won’t find Harold bothering with boring old things like author’s notes,” said Deidre, as near to malice as Nicholas had ever heard her. “He has his own ideas. I hate this scene, don’t you?”
Nicholas, poised for his entrance, nodded briefly. The reason they both disliked The Abduction from the Seraglio was the lighting. Futilely, when Harold had asked for crimson gels, Tim had attempted one of his rare arguments. In reply, speaking very slowly as if to an idiot child, Harold explained his motivation.
“It’s all about a seraglio. Right?”
“So far.”
“Which is another word for a brothel—right?”
Tim murmured, “Wrong,” but could have saved his breath.
“Which is another word for a red-light house. Ergo … surely I don’t have to further spell it out? I know it’s theatrical, Tim, but that’s the kind of producer I am. Bold effects are my forte. If what you want is wishy-washy naturalism, you should stay at home and watch the telly.”
Nicholas was always glad when the scene was finished. He felt as if he were swimming in blood. He came offstage dissatisfied with his performance and irritated with himself. Avery’s secret was nagging at his mind. He wondered what on earth it could be. Probably some piddling thing. Nowhere near as scandalously interesting as Nicholas’s own secret. He wished they’d either told him at once or not mentioned it at all. Perhaps he could persuade them to cough it up at the intermission.
Pausing only to give David Smy a very insinuating moue and a nudge in the ribs, Nicholas returned to the dressing room. Next time Colin came up from the paint shop, David approached his father and asked him if he thought Nicholas could possibly be gay.
Three rehearsals later, the difficulties with the razor had still not been sorted out. When the moment arrived to wield it and David stood deferentially by holding his tray with the water, wooden bowl of shaving soap, and towel, the action ground to a halt. Esslyn moved downstage and stared challengingly at row C. The Everards, lizard lids aflicker, capered behind. Tim and Avery, sensing a possible fracas, left the lighting box, and the stage staff gathered round. Harold rose and, with an air of quite awesome capability, took the stage.
“Well, my darlings,” he cried as he mounted the steps, “we have a wide-open situation here, and I’m offering it to the floor before I sound off with any of my own suggestions, which, I need hardly say, are myriad.” Silence. “Never let it be said that I’m not open to new ideas from whatever direction they may arise.” The silence took on an incredulous, slightly stunned quality, as if someone had thwacked it with a baseball bat. “Nicholas? You seem to be on the verge of suggestive thought.”
“He always is,” said Avery.
“Well…” said Nicholas, “I was wondering if it might not look very exciting done with Salieri’s back to the audience. An expansive movement”—he leaped to his feet to demonstrate—“like so—”
“I don’t believe this,” retorted Esslyn. “Is there nothing you wouldn’t do to sabotage my performance? Do you really think you could persuade me to play the most exciting moment of my entire career facing upstage?”
“What career?”
“Of course, everyone knows you’re jealous—”
“Me? Jealous? Of you?” The smidgen of truth in this assertion caused Nicholas to splutter like fat in a pan. “Hah!”
“I should climb back into your swamp, Nicholas,” snickered a Venticelli. “Before you have yet another brilliant wheeze.”
“Yes,” agreed his twin. “Back to the Grimpen Mire with you.”
“It’ll be a funny old day,” snapped Nicholas, “when I take any notice of a pair of bloody bookends.”
“Now, now,” beamed Harold. He adored displays of temperament by his actors, fatuously believing them to be sign of genuine talent. “Actually, Esslyn, you know it might look quite effective—”
“Forget it, Harold.”
Everyone sat up. Confrontation between the CADS director and his leading man was unheard of. Harold directed Esslyn. Esslyn went his own way. Harold ignored this intransigence. It had been ever thus. Now, every eye was on Harold to see what he would do. And he was worth watching. Various emotions chased over his rubicund features. Amazement, disgust, rage, then finally (after a great struggle), compliance.
“Obviously,” he said, presaging the frankly incredible, “I would never force an actor to do something that was totally alien to his way of working. It would simply look wooden and unconvincing.” Then, quickly: “Does anyone else have any ideas?”
“What happened about those bag things,” asked Rosa, “that we talked about earlier on?”
“They didn’t work. Or rather,” continued Harold, evening the score, “Esslyn couldn’t make them work.”
“You don’t pull off a trick like that the first time,” retorted Esslyn. “You have to practice, which I could hardly do with you yelling ‘Molto costoso ’ in my face every time I asked for another.”
“Then you’ll have to mime streaming with blood,” said Rosa, smiling sweetly. “I’m sure if anyone can do it, you can.”
“Ouch!” said Kitty, exchanging a rueful, collusive glance with her husband. It was a complicated glance, and managed to suggest not only that Rosa was jealous of her husband’s present happiness but also that she was not quite right in the head. The assistant director cleared her throat.