Steve fell downstairs and lost the lead in The Red Mill. I didn’t push him. Honestly.
It was in Nina and Graham’s old house on their ancient, twisting, slippery old staircase. Their house was built in 1600 supposedly, and the staircase was original. Its oak was very hard and slippery as metal. Graham explained to me that they used to cut oak trees and then leave the trunks in very cold running streams for several years to season and harden them. This was certainly the case with that blackened staircase, which showed remarkably little wear for all those feet that had trudged up and down it for centuries.
In addition, the steps curved and turned both at the top and bottom, the bottom step being stone. That especially hard Cornichons stone. Steve hit all of them going down.
Nina had mentioned that she thought there was an angry ghost in the house because a number of people had fallen on the stairs. Both Graham and she warned people. I guess they thought they’d warned Steve often enough when he left the luncheon table and went upstairs to use the bathroom. There was another toilet under the stairs on the ground floor, but he probably imagined it was too much within earshot of the table in the garden. People would hear him if he farted.
We all heard the thumpety-thump-thump-thump on the staircase. Why is it when someone falls the initial reaction is to laugh? Too many Bugs Bunny and Road Runner cartoons? I immediately knew what had happened and leaped up from the table and ran into the house. Steve was my lover, after all.
I had the same feeling I had had once before on Seventh Avenue in New York near Carnegie Hall. A badly crippled man got caught midway across the avenue when the light changed. He ran to get out of the street, spastic limbs flying in all directions, hobbling desperately for the curb. It was both heartrending and hilarious. It was a strange feeling, fighting the laughter through the horror. I felt that same way rushing to Steve, wondering what I’d find and laughing at what I had heard. It wasn’t nice.
Steve was sprawled at the foot of the staircase, one leg in the hall, the other leg caught at an awkward angle against the wall where the staircase turned. He was out. I know you shouldn’t move injured people so I stopped to stare for a moment. Graham was immediately at my elbow, the others mustering behind.
“Those damned stairs,” Graham said. “Let’s move him a little bit just to free his leg. Nina, call the ambulance,” he said over his shoulder. Her voice came from the living room. “I’m doing it.”
Even though Steve couldn’t hear me, I said, “You’re all right. You’re all right. The ambulance is coming.” I couldn’t kneel beside him because of the narrowness of the stairs. I had to hover over him, hanging onto the stair rail.
Even though it was Sunday, Mr. Pillot and his son were at the door in a minute or two with the ambulance. They were in the taxi, ambulance, and hearse business. They knew their business. They had a stretcher on the stone floor of the hall immediately. Mr. Pillot felt Steve’s twisted leg from ankle to crotch. “Pas brisée,” he said. “Not broken.” He crawled over Steve and straddled his head and shoulders while sitting on the step above him. He lifted him up by the shoulders; his son lifted Steve’s legs, and they deposited him on the stretcher, then whisked him into the ambulance.
“I’ll go with him,” I said. My position as official lover seemed to be unquestioned by anyone. I was a little surprised.
Graham said, “I’ll follow in the car so you can get back home.” To the others he said, “Please go finish your lunches. I’ll be back soon.” “Hopital de Blois?” he asked Monsieur Pillot and on being told “Oui” went off in the direction of the old Peugeot sedan parked across the street near the Abbey gates.
I clambered into the back of the ambulance and sat beside Steve. I held his hand. This ought to confirm for the two Messieurs Pillot what is going on at the Abbey, I thought. But then again, maybe not. The French are pretty touchy-feely. Men would hold a good friend’s hand under these circumstances.
Steve was coming to and groaning by the time we arrived at the hospital, about half an hour away in Blois. His leg must have hurt. The hospital orderlies at the emergency ward smartly took the stretcher and whisked Steve away for x-rays. There was no waiting. It was Sunday afternoon. There were no other emergencies in this part of the Loire Valley.
I waited in Steve’s room for him to return from the x-rays. Graham had gone back to Cornichons, saying he would send someone to get me, or Steve and me if that was possible, later. While I was sitting in Steve’s room looking out at the hospital garden and wondering if I was in love with Steve, Toca Sacar walked in.
“I had to come find out how Steve is,” he said. “We start rehearsals for The Red Mill tomorrow.”
I laughed. “You’re all heart, Toca,” I said.
“Well, of course, I’m concerned as to how he is, but we’ve got Kitty Carlisle Hart here and the sets and costumes are done and, come on, aren’t you concerned?”
“About the show? No,” I said. “Get real, Toca. We’re in the Loire Valley in a local theater festival. Must the show go on? We could substitute An Evening with Toca Sacar and you could tell your Tallulah Bankhead stories.”
“What a good idea,” Toca said.
As it turned out, Steve was covered in bruises but had only broken a small bone in his foot. The doctor said it would heal perfectly, but he would have to wear a cast. I told Steve, “Perhaps you could do this show sitting down. Or in a wheelchair. You’re an American tourist in the show. We could pretend you’ve just been injured.”
“Or I could always be behind a bush,” Steve said. “Or maybe wear a long dress that covers my foot.” We both laughed, and I hugged him lying there in that hospital bed. The phone rang. It was Graham. I gave him the story on Steve and added, “I’m going to stay here overnight.” Steve looked at me surprised as I went on. “There is another bed in the room. I’m not going to squeeze in with Steve.” I looked at him. “Actually I am,” I said. Graham laughed.
The nurses understood perfectly and had no problem with my sleeping in the other bed. I told them Steve was my brother. “Et les deux si beau,” the older nurse said to the younger one as they left the room. “And both so handsome.”
Steve looked at me as I stood beside his bed. I slid my hand under the sheet. Those little shorty hospital nighties have their advantages.
“What would you like to do?” I said.
“Watch TV?” he said. “I’m supposed to be injured.”
“It doesn’t feel like you’re injured very seriously,” I said.
“I think I could use some massage therapy,” Steve said.
“Would you like to give someone a hot beef injection?” I said.
“I’m the one who is supposed to be sick,” he said. “Not you.”
“I just thought it might take your mind off your foot,” I said.
“Would you dare to get naked with the nurses running up and down the corridors? They might throw the door open at any moment.”
“Oh, look,” I said. “There’s Vaseline and latex gloves right here in the corner on the nightstand.”
“Handy,” Steve said, reaching out for me as I stood beside his bed with my clothes off. I said, “You can keep your nightie on. Just stay right there. We don’t have to crank the bed up or down or anything.”
“How about turning off the lights?” Steve said.
“Quelle bonne idée,” I said, doing so and then throwing the sheet off Steve and climbing up on his bed to straddle him.
Just as the doctor was releasing Steve the next morning and I was about to call a taxi, Toca came striding in. “It’s all set,” he said.
“Don’t tell me I am going to take over Steve’s role. I really can’t sing that whole show adequately,” I said.
“Oh, we all know that,” Toca said. “No, I called Cranston Muller last night and he’s coming over immediately with his new protégé, E. L. Losada. A handsome young Latin-American with perfect English and a great singing voice. We’re saved. And Cranston is going to direct the show, too. Kitty will be the artistic director. It’s perfect.”
I wasn’t quite sure how I felt. I had sort of imagined I would have to do the lead, however badly. And I sort of imagined I would have had success with it, voice or no voice. And how did Steve feel? He looked relieved. Maybe he was thinking it would free up some time so he could be fucked by Graham again. What a cunt you are, I told myself.
E. L. Losada turned out to be quite okay. Younger than me. Maybe 22 or 23, although coming off as more mature on stage. Dark hair, lots of it. Lots. Kind of a monobrow look and a craggy nose. He wasn’t a pretty boy, but very much a romantic lead. Sort of a young Laurence Olivier. And a great voice. Much better than either Steve or me. Not exactly hot but potentially great. He arrived Wednesday from Paris with Cranston Muller. We had dinner that evening at the hotel with him, Toca, and legendary Cranston. Cranston was so tan you couldn’t really tell what he looked like. Gray eyes, gray hair, not overweight, very pleasant, well-mannered, soft-spoken but there was something of a paid killer about him. Toca was all fluttery and thrilled that Cranston was there. I thought, Well, it is his festival. It shouldn’t be so surprising that he has appeared for it.
At dinner Cranston said he was lucky to have the time to come to Cornichons for the rehearsal period as he was scheduled to go to California to direct a remake of Giant. Angelina Jolie was signed for the Elizabeth Taylor role and Brad Pitt for the Paul Newman part. The James Dean character wasn’t cast yet.
E. L. was very tired so they went right up to their rooms at the hotel after dinner. I noticed that they had separate rooms, so E. L. evidently hadn’t landed that James Dean part yet.