"And what the fuck do you know about acting?"
"Enough to know that you're as much like Shakespeare as my arse or ass. And," he added, "your breath smells horrible." It did too. Perhaps that was the origin of sodomy: avoiding partner's halitosis. Enderby got away and over to a corner where Mrs Schoenbaum's daughter was leasing her bedroom for half an hour for five dollars. Toplady and the conferrers got up with difficulty from the deep boat of a couch. Toplady cried:
"Stop that row for a minute."
"Okay." Oldfellow had followed Enderby. "You try it, buster, that's all, you just try it."
"I speak English anyway," Enderby said, "and I know the lines."
The hands of Philip had been forcibly removed from the piano keys. Toplady cried: "A few words, friends. You've worked hard. We've all worked hard. Some not so hard as others, but let that pass. Tomorrow we open. Or rather tomorrow you open. My contract as Artistic Director of the Peter Brook Theater was due to end in March. By mutual agreement it ends as of now. Certain elements do not like the way I have been doing things. There's a feeling that I should have concentrated on ordure like Abie's Irish Rose or A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I have not made the Peter Brook Theater a centre of entertainment. It is wrong apparently to take the drama seriously. Until my successor has been chosen things will be in the incapable hands of my sleeping assistant director Jed Tilbury. Bless some of you and fuck others. I go." He went. Some watched him go, others turned to look at this Jed Tilbury, who was the black lad enumerating points, though now no longer, to April Elgar. He cried:
"Hey, man -"
"De party over, I guess," said the grey black retainer. "An a gud ting too," in the manner of Mr Woodhouse.
"More gin," Enderby said. "And then call me a taxi."
"You call you own taxi, man. I don't call no taxis for no one no how."
Toplady's mistress was meanwhile looking for her left shoe and calling: "Gus, Gus, wait for me, Gus." The shoe found, she stopped on her way out to fix hatefilled eyes on Enderby. "It's you," she said. "You brought bad luck, you bastard."
"Not me, kid or baby or whatever it is," Enderby said heavily. "Somebody bigger than me. Leave well alone is what I say. And don't call me bastard."
"Bastard," she said and was off, crying "Gus." Enderby said to the grey black:
"You're a servant. Call me a taxi. But first more gin."
"You not call me servant, man. I ain't no servant."
Mrs Allegramente was now there, saying: "Is he giving trouble, Edwin? Is he being racist?"
"You keep out of this," Enderby said. And then: "Ah, please yourself. Protestant Ulster for ever. God bless King Henry the Eighth." Before going to the hallway to call himself a taxi, he went over to April Elgar and the black now revealed as Jed Tilbury. To him he said: "Congratulations are probably in order." To her: "I'm going back to the hotel. Will you come?"
"Why?" she said with a new pertness.
"Because the party seems to be over and it was a terrible party anyhow and we stay at the same hotel and I'm calling a -"
"Jed'll take me home," she said.
From the tail of his right eye Enderby saw Dick Corcoran as Earl of Essex swill thirstily from an orange juice jug. Very sensible, do him good, all those vitamins. "Right," Enderby said. And then: "A queer sort of time we've had when you come to think about it. Meddling with Shakespeare. All right on the night, though. As they say." He saw now, coming in too late, Bodiman, Pip Wesel and Silversmith, all drunk and leering. The grey black retainer or hired man or whatever he was supposed to be called let out a great wail of distress. "If," Enderby said, "those three start insulting you, let me know."
"Certainly," she said. "I'll call your room and you can come back and hit them or something." She spoke, for some reason, rather like the actress Bette Davis. Enderby knew now that it was far too late to start trying to learn about women. He sighed and said:
"That girl who left just then, the one who plays Queen Elizabeth I gather, says it's all my fault, whatever she means by all. Ah well, I suppose I must go and say good night to our hostess."
"Don't be like that," Jed Tilbury said. "Nothing to be depressed about, man. Ain't the end of the world." He showed many teeth, all his own, and added: "Just what it's not." It was only when a taxi arrived that Enderby realized what he might mean. Ah just died, baby. Well, let them get on with it. The taxi driver was prepared for a long literary conversation with Enderby. He was a young Canadian, down here visiting for the Christmas vacation, then back to Yorke University outside Toronto to resume work on his thesis, to be entitled "Future in the Past". About science fiction.
"Been reading some of it," Enderby said tiredly.
"Only viable literary form we have," said the Canadian. "What did you say your name was?"
"Why are you driving a taxi?" Enderby said instead of replying.
"It's my brother-in-law's cab. He went bowling. Did I imagine it or were there two guys at that place dressed up like Shakespeare?"
"You didn't imagine it."
"And what did you say your name was?"
"Enderby," Enderby said. "The poet," with small hope of being known as such, not that it mattered.
"Right. I thought that was the name. And then when I saw these two guys it kind of rang a bell. Read that thing of yours if you're the guy that wrote it. It was in the Koksoak, hell of a name. About Shakespeare. What you ought to write is sort of SF Shakespeare, know what I mean? About some Martian landing in Elizabethan England and meeting Shakespeare and putting The Power on him. See what I mean?"
"It's the name of a Canadian lake, I think. Not pronounced Cock Soak. Yes yes, I see what you mean. Here we are, I think."
"Yeah." Meaning the Holiday Inn in Terrebasse. "It's an idea anyhow. Although there's this theory that it's us are the Martians. We landed on this planet in prehistoric times and killed off the earthmen. We knew that Mars was dying, see, and saw the fertility of the earth through powerful instruments. Then the earth's lack of oxygen stunted our brains and we had to start all over again. Four dollars fifty."
Enderby had a nightmare and woke from it, impertinently engorged, at something after four. He dreamed that he was forced to act the role of Shakespeare in Actor on His Ass because both leading man and understudy had walked out and there was nobody else who knew the lines. No question of cancelling the performance, too much investment involved, backers insisted that show go on. Enderby as Shakespeare went on stage and opened mouth but no words came out. The audience jeered and somebody threw a missile like a miniature moon. It hit his head and cracked open and covered him with olive oil. The audience roared. Enderby awoke sweating. Thank God it was only a dream, nightmare rather.
11
"I mean, damn it, look at me," Enderby cried supererogatorily, for that was precisely what they were doing. The cast, with two notable exceptions and a nailbiting Jed Tilbury in charge, his colour today like that of a very old elephant, sat around in the greenroom, looking at Enderby. The coffee machine needed repair, and it growled within like a stomach and infrequently, into a plastic yellow bucket, gushed slop. "Why can't somebody else do it, for Christ's sake?"
"Tomorrow night, okay," Jed Tilbury said. "Floyd learning the lines and Shep learning the other lines." He meant a long youth in a lumberjack outfit with a yellow coxcomb and another, older, in jeans and a Monte Carlo Grand Prix tee-shirt. "But there's tonight, man, and it's the opening and you got this British voice and you wrote the goddamned thing. And you'll have a wig and a beard – and, Jesus, you got Ape here to push you through it, and Oldfellow's songs are taped, and, Jesus, you got to do it, man." Enderby looked at the sweating youth, not so blackly cocky as he had been, a lot on the poor bastard's plate. "And it's Ape's show, we know that, she push you through."