The audience began to laugh. There was scattered applause in the hall. Kelly, spurred on, bumped into Jill Packwood, then turned to the audience and winked. It was incredible. Kelly was behaving like a lunatic. It had all been so beautiful, and now everything on stage was going mad. A serious drama was being turned into a farce, and the audience, shaken by the change, was laughing like a herd of fools.
Have they no pity for their friends? Laurence was appalled. It was all Kelly's fault. He would see to him, in the dressing room between the acts. He ran out to the lobby, collapsed in a fit of coughing, recovered, then ran around to the stage door. He pounded on it. The damn thing was locked. Thank God, he thought, they're near the end of the act. He couldn't hear the lines anymore; they were submerged in the cruel laughter of the house. He pounded on the door again. Finally Derik opened up.
"What's happening, Larry? I don't understand."
"Horrible, horrible." Laurence could hardly speak. "It's Kelly. He's gone berserk. He's making a shambles of the play."
He pushed Derik aside and ran into the wings, catching the final moments of the act. All the lines were correct as far as that went, but the tone had gone cheap, turning them to rubbish in the actors' mouths. Finally the curtain was drawn, and a great surge of applause erupted from the house. Laurence covered his face and ran off to the dressing room to prepare for the showdown he knew must come.
As he waited for the cast, he tried hard to clear his head. The Winslow Boy was finished now, could never be redeemed. But perhaps out of the shambles of the evening he could reestablish his control. He would put it to the membership, in the few minutes between the acts. They could decide, right then, where their interests lay-with the American hack and his stale jokes or with Laurence Luscombe, who'd taught them how to act.
He was still glowering when they came in, but something in their manner put him on his guard. Instead of pouncing on Kelly, Jill Packwood and Jack Whyte were patting him on the back.
"Now look here," said Laurence. "These antics have got to stop. I don't know why you started, but you've ruined half the play."
"Ha!" said Kelly. "Don't know why we started! In case you didn't notice people were walking out."
"There weren't any walkouts. It was Inspector Ouazzani, called away by the police."
"Oh, come off it, Luscombe. The play's a bomb. There was someone snoring in the first row."
"Who was snoring? Just tell me who he was!"
"That old coot Bainbridge," said Whyte. "We could all hear him from the stage."
"Then ignore him, pretend he isn't there. You've got to go back and do it right."
"Damn," said Kelly, "we were making jackasses of ourselves. A few laughs is what this play needs."
"Joe's right," said Jill. "The audience is lapping it up."
"We'll really give it to them in the next act, honey. Let's all try for collisions at the drawing room door."
"Now listen!" shouted Laurence, red in the face. "I'm the director, and I'm laying down the law."
"Oh, hell, Luscombe, we're only having fun. It's a rotten play. Everyone knows it now."
"It's serious-"
"My ass! It's nothing but a crock of shit. You're standing there all cozy in the back, but our asses are on the line. This is my first time on stage in Tangier, and I don't need a bad review. You always wanted me to play Winslow like a fart. Well, I refuse! Your corny West End stuff doesn't go down with me. Your trouble, Luscombe, is that you've been out of it too long. That audience wants to laugh; I say give them what they want."
"I'm with you, Joe," said Whyte.
"Me too, Joe." It was Jessamyn Drear.
Derik Law stuck in his head. "They're filtering back from the lobby, Larry. It's a two-minute call."
But Laurence didn't hear him. He was glaring at Kelly's eyes. "You're doing this because you want to destroy TP. Admit it! That's your game!"
"Oh, puff-" Kelly blew a smoke ring, then stubbed out his cigarette in a cold cream jar. "I say let's take a vote. TP's democratic, right?"
"Of course TP's democratic, but you don't vote between the acts. I chose the play. I directed it. It's got to be done my way."
"Listen, dear old hack-"
"Don't you dare call me hack, you swine!"
Derik Law bobbed in again. "One minute. Everyone in the wings."
"All right. Now stop it, both of you." It was Jill Packwood waving her arms. "We can't settle this now. I'm for a compromise. I say let each actor make his choice. Those who want to do it Larry's way, fine, go ahead. And the ones who want can follow Joe."
"I'll go along with that, sweetheart." Kelly turned and started toward the stage.
"But that won't work," Laurence yelled. "It won't work, I tell you. You can't compromise on acting style."
Jack Whyte turned, came to him, patted him on the back. "Oh, come on, Larry. Get off your high horse. The audience loves it. Who the hell really cares?"
Through the second half he burned with humiliation, quivered with impotence and rage. The whole cast set out to ridicule the play, and at one point, when Kelly turned to the audience and said "Ridiculous, isn't it?" after his most moving speech, Laurence withdrew to the lobby in a fit of coughing and despair. Even there he couldn't escape-the ruined lines came to him only slightly muffled by the walls, and the titters of the audience, the occasional roars, left him unconsoled.
He left before the end, but even outside in the cool, windless night the thunderous final applause only amplified his shame. Drawn by instinct, he went back for the curtain calls and was shocked by the truth of what Whyte had said: Tangier did love it, did prefer the farce. It was sickening, but there it was. When the applause began to die and the curtains were drawn, Peter Barclay rose to his feet and began another round. The rest of the house followed him, the way the town always did, and so the clapping went on and on.
Finally, when the people streamed out, Laurence listened to their gaiety and suffered even more. Robin Scott gave him a pleasant nod-the review, he was saying, would be good. And Barclay, about to enter Camilla Weltonwhist's Rolls, caught his eye for a moment and smiled. Ouazzani's girlfriend wandered off, followed at a distance by Peter Zvegintzov. Then everyone else drove off, to the consulates or apartments in the town.
Usually on an opening night Laurence would head over to Heidi's Bar to receive congratulations and a few free drinks from friends. But he had no taste for that tonight, couldn't imagine what he'd say. Though the production had been successful, the success did not belong to him. So he left, making his way by the sulfurous street lamps, down the road that led through Dradeb.
He walked everywhere, didn't own a car, couldn't have afforded the petrol if he did. Every day he walked to town to shop and take his daily shower at the flat of Derik Law. People were kind-if they passed him on the road they'd pull over and offer him a lift. But this night the Mountain crowd had rushed off to Barclay's house, and the others went home a different way.
At seventy-five he was still strong, though at times he could feel his energy fade. The drama of the night, all the tension and despair, had suddenly made him feel old. As he walked slowly, watching out for mad stray dogs, he began to dread the coming summer and its heat. How much longer would he be able to make this walk, which was taking so much out of him tonight? Trouble was there was no alternative-he couldn't take taxis, could barely live on his income as it was. He had an inheritance from an aunt, twelve hundred a year, but prices were going up, and the pound seemed to fall lower every day.