The door opened. Cully put her head round briefly, said “Neck and leg break,” and vanished. Barnaby was close behind. “Good luck, everyone.” Joyce slipped out into the corridor and hugged him. He kissed her cheek. “Good luck, Citizen of Vienna, Maker of the Cakes, and Noises Off.”
“I’ve forgotten where you are.”
“Row C in the middle.”
“I’ll know where not to look, then. Is Cully behaving herself?”
“So far.”
Barnaby found the men’s dressing room charged with emotion. Only Esslyn, wearing the memories of past first nights like invisible gongs, appeared calm. Other actors were laughing insecurely or prowling about or wringing their hands or (in the case of Orsini-Rosenberg) all three at once. Colin called “Beginners: Act One,” and pressed the buzzer. Emperor Joseph shouted, “The bells! The bells!,” and let forth screams of maniacal laughter. Barnaby mumbled, “The best of British,” and withdrew, backing into Harold, who then leaped into the center of the room with a clarion call of ill-reasoned confidence.
“Well, my darlings—I know you’re all going to be superb…
Barnaby melted away. Passing through the wings, he saw Deidre already in position in the prompt corner. In the light from the anglepoise lamp he thought she appeared distressed. Colin stood by her side. Barnaby gave them both the thumbs-up. He spotted Nicholas waiting behind the archway through which he would make his first entrance. The boy’s face looked gray in the dim working light and was pearled with transparent beads of sweat. He bent down, picked up a glass of water, and drank, then he clutched the struts of the archway with shaking hands. Better you than me, mate, thought the chief inspector. He had just made his way to row C and settled next to his daughter when Harold followed, flinging open the pass door to the left of the front row with a quite unnecessary flourish, then turning to face the audience as if expecting a round of applause simply on the grounds of his existence. Then he sat in the center of the row, and the play began.
Things went wrong from the word go, and everyone, as they came off, blamed the lighting. Tim and Avery, now sweating in the box, had been so totally wrapped up in their daringness and so entranced by the fact that they were, at long last, going to do their very own thing, that they had taken no account of the effect a whole new spectrum of light and color might have on the cast. Actors became slow and muddled, as well they might. Even Nicholas, who was prepared for the change, was badly thrown and found it hard to recover. And his first scene, full of four-letter words, nearly brought him to a standstill.
At first the residents of Causton, determined to show that they were as avatit garde as the next man, boldly took this profanity in their stride, but when Mozart said he wanted to lick his wife’s arse, one honest burgher, muttering loudly about “toilet humor,” got up and stomped out, his good lady bringing up the rear. Nicholas hesitated, wondering whether to wait until they had disappeared or carry straight on. His indecision was not helped by hearing Harold clearly call “peasants!” after the departing couple. As Nicholas stumbled again into speech, all the Rabelaisian relish had vanished from his voice. He felt morbidly self-conscious, almost apologetic, as if he had no right to be on a stage at all. He was sharply aware of Kitty, floundering unsupported by his side, proving the truth of Esslyn’s snide predictions. After his first exit, he stood in the wings sick with disappointment, listening to Salieri, word perfect, roll smoothly and woodenly on.
For the first time ever, Nicholas asked himself what the hell a grown man was doing standing drenched in nervous sweat, wearing ludicrous clothes, his face covered with makeup, and a daft wig on his head, waiting to step through a canvas door into a world having only the most tenuous connection with reality.
Act I did not improve. The tape of Salieri’s march of welcome as reworked by Mozart started too soon. Fortunately the lid of the pianoforte hid the fact that Nicholas had not had time to actually reach the keys. At least, he thought as he sat down, I haven’t fallen over my sword.
In the Seraglio scene Kitty, rushing across the stage crying, “Well done, pussy-wussy,” to her Wolfgang, caught her foot in a rug and ended up hanging onto the Emperor’s arm in an effort to remain upright. Franz Joseph laughed and broke up everyone else. Only Esslyn and Nicholas remained in character and straightfaced.
On Barnaby’s right Cully slid slowly downward, her shoulders beneath the black lace trembling slightly, and covered her face with her hands. Three seats in front and to the left, he saw Doris Winstanley glance anxiously at her husband. Harold’s profile was rigid, his lips clamped tightly together. Then a light so brilliant it seemed impossible the stage and four walls could contain it shone. This was accompanied by a stellar explosion of glorious sound from the C Minor Mass, then everything faded to a predawn gray. Esslyn finished his final speech, crammed his mouth with sweetmeats, and strode off.
Barnaby watched Harold propel himself up the aisle two steps at a time, then rose himself and turned to his daughter. “Would you like a drink?”
“Oh, Dad.” She got up slowly. “I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. What’s my eye makeup like?”
“Runny.”
“I’m not surprised. We did a cod panto at the Footlights last year, but it wasn’t a patch on that.” She followed him up the aisle. “It must be some sort of a record when you go to the theater and the best thing onstage is the lighting. Oh … oh …”
“Don’t start gurgling again.”
“I’m not …” She snuffled into her hanky. “Honestly.”
As they drew level with the back row of seats and the exit doors, Barnaby saw Mr. Tibbs. He was leaning forward, holding the back of the seat before him. He looked grubby and abstracted, like a saint at his devotions. Barnaby, who hadn’t seen him for nearly two years, was shocked at his physical deterioration. His skin was like tissue paper and salt white. Blue corded veins pulsed on his forehead. Barnaby greeted him and received a smile of singular sweetness in reply, although he was convinced the old man had no idea who it was that spoke to him. Three young people sitting between Mr. Tibbs and the wall kept saying “Excuse me” very politely, but he did not seem either to hear or to understand, and eventually they climbed over the row of seats in front and got out that way.
The clubroom was packed. Cully dug out a wisp of lace and a mirror from her jet-encrusted reticule, spat in the hanky, and wiped away a runnel of mascara. When Barnaby brought her wine, she nodded across at the lighting box on which Harold was tapping more and more urgently. Then he put his lips to the door jamb and hissed. The door remained closed. Clamping his successful impresario’s smile into position, Harold backed away and moved once more into the center of the room, where Cully caught his arm.
“Wonderful lighting,” she said. “Brilliant. Tell Tim I thought so.”
“There’s … there’s no need for that!” cried Harold, put-putting like a faulty two-stroke. “Tim is simply a technician. No more, no less. I design the lighting for my productions.”
‘‘Oh. Really?” Cully’s tone, though exquisitely polite, positively curdled with disbelief. Barnaby took her arm and hustled her away.