I knew that behind the curtain was the access door to the loge, and beyond that was the upper side-corridor used by the audience as they found their way to their seats. I dived across the loge, snatched the curtains back then pushed the door open. I half-fell out into the corridor. This was a windowless part of the theatre building and Jayr and I never normally switched on lights along the corridor. I swung the torch in both directions, trying to see whatever it was that had intruded on me like that.
Of course, I saw nothing.
Shaken, nervous, a little frightened, I went swiftly down to find Jayr, who was working on the computer terminal in the office.
I said nothing, but collapsed into one of the spare chairs along the wall. I could not suppress a shudder, and I exhaled sharply.
‘Was it a silent ghost or a noisy one?’ said Jayr, without looking across at me. ‘Does it moan, dress in ancient gowns, carry its own head, make a breathing noise, clank long chains, or does it just hover?’
‘You don’t believe me, do you? There’s something out there. I’ve seen it twice now! It’s really bloody terrifying.’
I was regarding my forearms, bare because I always worked with my sleeves rolled up. All the hairs were standing on end.
‘Remember . . . this is a theatre. Everything that happens in a theatre is real!’
With the last word, Jayr turned in his chair, lowered his head like a hunting animal, and made a snarling noise, baring his teeth.
At the end of that day, walking back to my room along the usual streets, I caught sight of my bearded assailant. His tense, hunched way of walking was distinctive, and the moment I noticed him I was on my guard. I held back, watched him for a few moments until I was certain he could not see me.
He was ahead of me, striding along in the same direction and did not turn back to look. It was certainly him but because the weather had improved so much he was of course no longer wrapped up against the cold. On the contrary, he was wearing rather large and loose beach shorts, bright blue, and a yellow shirt that flapped behind him as he walked.
Just the sight of him made me nervous, so I stood quietly by the side of the road, half concealed by a shop canopy, until the man had turned off the main drag, entering a side street at the other end.
The tech crew finally turned up. As soon as they had settled in their lodgings, and familiarized themselves with the facilities in the theatre, my working life changed. All the routine chores around the theatre — cleaning, checking, aligning and repairing — were taken over by others. I was impressed by the professionalism of the crew: four men and three women, who in just two days had the theatre prepared and technically rehearsed in time for the opening night.
That first week’s bill was one of mixed variety turns. As the acts started to arrive at the theatre, roughly at the same time as the tech people, I was eager and curious to see them. The Teater Sjøkaptein was quickly being transformed from a cold, ill-lit and above all empty building into a place where a large number of people worked, bringing all the noise, companionship, squabbles, minor emergencies and sense of purpose that surrounds any group of people existing closely together.
Backstage, the building echoed with the noise of last-minute scenery building, lights being focused and calibrated, of tabs being raised and lowered, instructions shouted down from the balcony, and so on. Three musicians appeared, to provide the accompaniment. Meanwhile the front-of-house manager was hiring a temporary assistant to help with cleaning and preparing the auditorium, selling tickets and refreshments, and organized emergency medical cover for each performance. I was entranced by the sense of busy purpose, but my own working role was almost eliminated by these new people.
On our opening night I watched much of the show from the wings, but I soon wished I had not. The acts were of the most basic and unimaginative kind, the sort of live entertainment I had no idea was still being performed in theatres. The show was compered by a middle-aged comedian who specialized in off-colour jokes, which were offensive mainly for being so unoriginal and therefore unfunny. The acts he introduced included a juggler, an operetta duo, a ventriloquist, a trick cyclist, a soprano, and a troupe of dancing girls. By the end of the show I realized I was staying on only because of these dancers. I thought one of them was rather pretty and seemed to be encouraging me with several smiles flashed in my direction, although when I tried to speak to her she cut me dead.
After that first evening I wasted no more time watching these acts, and was puzzled but rather relieved by how much the audiences seemed to enjoy them.
We were expecting the Lord to arrive halfway through this first week. The morning of the day we were expecting him — we had had to make a space for him in our already crowded vehicle park behind the building — I was sitting with Jayr in the office. He was entering the week’s takings and expenses into the computer, while I sat idly by, rather enjoying the quietness.
A matinée performance was due that afternoon, but for the time being our temporary solitude was almost like those last days of winter.
‘Have you been seeing your ghost again, Hike?’ Jayr suddenly said, without turning away from the computer monitor.
‘Not since the last time.’
‘Are you sure?’
I had long wished I had concealed my earlier reactions from Jayr, as he had been teasing me repeatedly about my sightings of the ghost.
I stayed silent.
‘I thought you might have noticed what’s behind you,’ Jayr said. ‘That’s all.’
Of course I turned to see, and to my surprise and (for an instant) horror, that impassive mask-like face was right beside me, lurking behind my shoulder. I could not help it: I leapt to my feet, startled, turning to get a better look.
‘Hike, this is Mr Commis, our star turn the week after next.’
Standing next to my chair was the slight figure of a man dressed in a mime costume. He was clad from head to foot in some kind of soft, black, non-reflective fabric, hugging his skin. Only his face was clearly visible, and that was because it had been painted a brilliant, almost dazzling white. Every facial feature had been covered into blended invisibility, with stylized cartoons drawn in their places: he wore quizzically inverted eyebrows, a down-turned mouth, two painted black spots for his nose. Even his eyelids had been painted, so that when he blinked two stylized bright-blue eyes seemed to replace his real ones.
‘Commis, this is my deputy Hike Tommas.’
The mime leapt into action. With an exaggerated motion he swept a non-existent hat from his head, swirled it elaborately, then crossed it in front of his chest as he bowed. When he straightened he momentarily spun the invisible hat on an extended forefinger, then threw it up in the air, waggled his head from side to side as the hat curled through the air, and with a sudden diving motion managed to get it to land on the crown of his head. Smiling, he bowed again.
‘Er, good morning,’ I said inadequately. Commis the mime smiled briefly, then turned away and with an agile motion jumped backwards on to the surface of a spare desk, and crossed his legs.
A moment later he began to eat an imaginary banana, peeling it slowly with precise movements, then pulling away the pithy strings that attached to the side of the fruity flesh. He ate it with great attention, chewing thoughtfully. When he had finished he licked each of his fingers, then tossed the peel away so that it landed somewhere on the office floor.
He raised a buttock, mimed a long fart, then wafted away the smell with an apologetic look on his face.
A little later he sharpened an invisible pencil, puffed on the loose shavings from the pointed end to blow them away, then used it to evacuate wax from his ear.