A knock rattled my door and I jumped out of my skin.
"It's me, Gary," the voice of my driver who'd left me less than ten minutes ago called through the open transom. Only it sounded more like, "Ees me, Gahr-ree."
I opened the door a tiny crack and peeked. Gary offered me a small white bakery bag.
"Arabic cookies. For you. Ees very goot."
"Oh, thank you." I reached out and accepted the bag. "That's sweet of you." I gave him the unencouraging smile for door-to-door magazine salesmen.
"I make dem," he said, planting his large brown foreign student sandals closer to my threshold.
"You made the cookies?" I peeked into the bag.
He nodded. "Middle Eastern Bakery in Hedingham. My job." He said something in Arabic, and then translated for himself, smiling, his white teeth contrasting with his swarthy skin. He could be a young Omar Sharif except for the accent. "You going to the pub?" he asked.
"Not yet." I backed away. "I'll see you later," I said as his face fell. "Good-bye." I waved, closing the door, listening as the muffled creak of his footsteps faded.
When I was sure he was gone, I walked over to the pub alone.
From the steps of my residence hall I enjoyed a perfect view of the town below: a double row of antique limestone buildings situated parallel to the river. Double-decker buses tottered up the hill, and tourists, my future audiences, wandered among faded pastel shop doors. An unfamiliar chill sparked the air, and clouds clogged the sky. The pub, a whitewashed two-story stucco building with multiple chimneys and abundant creeper, stood between the main street and the river. A charming shingle on the street announced: "The Grey Hare." Flaming carriage lanterns, smaller than those on Texas McMansions, flanked the door illuminating a hand-lettered sign proclaiming, "Literature Live Staff Night." That would be me, I thought proudly. Inside, a horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room, its pewter countertop patched and polished. Behind, a sign on the mirror proclaimed "Bloody Mary Bar Every Sunday" with a price I couldn't yet convert in my head.
Searching among the bare boards, wooden panels, and high-backed settles, I sought a familiar face, all the while scanning name tags for the dreaded Miss Banks. A stuffed rabbit collection crowded a shelf behind the bar, illustrating the pub's name: the Grey Hare. On the wall next to me hung a familiar portrait of an old man in a powdered wig, labeled "Dr. Johnson." Below, someone had handwritten, "The Grey Hair." Several other gray-hair portraits hung around the bar. I ordered a glass of ale, proud to be there, surprised that no one was in costume. How silly to think of finding a Janeite in a pub.
Some guys next to me at the bar spoke to each other in erudite phrases like "the origins of informality." One struck me as a grad student, having mentioned his thesis; the other couldn't have been over nineteen. Their conversation flowed around me until I cleared my throat rather conspicuously and asked what they were talking about. They said, "incorporeal hereditament" as if I should have understood from context. When I asked what that was, they said, "intangible rights that are inheritable."
"Oh, that." I sipped my ale thoughtfully and imagined myself in an improv exercise. During a break in their dialogue, I mentioned Lockley's interesting theory on the roots of incorporeal hereditament in The Approach of Modernity, title and author invented by me. I made sure to turn away before they could ask to borrow my copy. But as I turned, I found myself looking into the eyes of a short, dark man in wire-rim glasses. His name tag said Omar.
"Are you new here?" he asked, obviously Arabic like Gary, dark hair, dark skin, no trace of the Middle East in his accent, but maybe a hint of New Jersey. I felt drawn to his open face, his diminutive size, and his generous regard. "I overheard you talking with those friendly guys," he said. I warmed to the sarcasm in his voice. "What are you doing here?" he asked. He raised his glass, pausing midway to his mouth waiting for my response.
"I'm an actress," I said. "And you?"
"I'm an English teacher," Omar said. "I help prepare the scripts and teach a writing workshop."
"The scripts?" I asked. Maybe he knew what part I would play.
"I adapt Austen's novels for Literature Live," Omar said, emitting a titter of insider animation.
"Which novel is your favorite?" I asked.
Omar sipped from his mug. "Personally, I don't have one," he said, his jaws locked, making his remark sound especially snooty. Surely, he was gay.
"Really?" I said.
"I'm with Mark Twain, I'd like to dig Jane Austen up and hit her over the head with her own shinbone." Omar stole a sideways glance, then turned to me and whispered, "Austen's work doesn't adapt well or easily."
"Why?"
"Well, because"—Omar assumed a serious expression, a teacher explaining to a student—"when you adapt Austen's novels for stage, you lose the interiority, the sparkling narrative if you will, which, in my opinion, leaves us with nothing but a dreadful romance. Think of the films." Omar leaned toward me again. "Shaw's my field of study."
I nodded.
Omar invited me to join him at a table in the back where the noise level and general animation increased. Unfortunately, no one in the large group wore a name tag. Omar raised his voice to seize the group's attention. "I would like to introduce a fellow actress"—he put his hand on my arm and read my name tag—"Lily Berry."
They all looked at me expecting something, so—I waved. Then a man with a beautiful smile stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Damn glad to meet you," he said. "Name's Hamlet." Hair randomly bleached, buttons on his plaid shirt misaligned, his smile so contagious I wanted to laugh at whatever he was saying whether I could hear it over the din or not. Hamlet's eyes locked with mine even as his arm rose in a professional flourish, indicating the man on his right, "Allow me to present Veal Cutlet." Hamlet's other arm extended like a conductor calling on the brass, toward the couple at the end of the table. "Country Ribs, there." A tall, lanky man nodded at me gravely. "And his little Pork Chop." The woman turned to her partner, selected a finger, and began gnawing.
I enjoyed the joke and his lovely British accent until Hamlet's mischievous eyes met mine, expecting me to reciprocate in kind. "And you are?" he said, and I knew I was supposed to be some sort of meat. No time to unwind the jet-lag gauze straitjacketing my brain, I smiled. "I'm still Lily Berry," I said, adding, like a beauty contestant with a Southern drawl, "From the great state of Texas," applying specific gusto to the word great. I couldn't read the expression on Hamlet's face. Fearing he might expose me for a fraud, the suspense was unbearable. I looked to Omar for a cue but he had started a conversation with someone else. Hamlet raised his arm again and I flinched like a needy dog expecting to be hit. To my utter astonishment he opened his mouth and began singing to me. Conversations halted and heads turned as his rich baritone filled the pub; even the people in the front looked to see what was happening.
"Oh I wish I wa-as in the land of cotton," he sang, pausing to savor the full effect of the longing he expressed. Some began singing harmony. "Old times there are not forgotten." He took my hands in his as if this were a love song. "Look away, look away, look away Dixie land." He immediately segued into "The Yellow Rose of Texas," but mixed it up with "Yankee Doodle." Omar winked, as if Hamlet serenading me were normal behavior. The bartenders looked mildly pleased, as if this sort of thing happened when you associated with actors. But I felt myself on fire because, as an actress, I would be expected to improvise something original, soon.