When the hotel opened in the 1950s, what was now the theater had been a noisy bingo hall by day and a supper club by night, where up-and-coming comedians, dancers, crooners, and magicians had entertained ladies in strapless satin dresses and gentlemen in suits as they drank champagne and smoked cigarettes. Today, it was in use as a rehearsal room as Simon Dyer got the new season under way.
“All right, everybody. Quiet please. Places.”
Simon walked onto the stage. In his early fifties, tall and trim with curly grey hair, he looked the part of a central casting theater director. It wasn’t so much the beige trousers, blue shirt, and boating shoes. It was the yellow sweater draped over his shoulders and tied around his neck, not to mention the glasses on top of his head. But the real giveaway was the script in his left hand.
“All right,” he repeated, raising his right hand to get the actors’ attention. “This morning we’re starting our Romeo and Juliet read through at the beginning. Act one, scene one. And I don’t want you to just go through the motions—I want to see some real acting here. Pay attention to the words. Listen to the way they sound. Think about what they mean. Put your heart into it. This is where you start to become your character.”
He stepped off the stage, took a seat in the front row, threw one leg over the other, and stretched his arm along the back of the chair beside him. The actors, dressed in jeans and casual sweatshirts, exchanged words with one another as they took their places.
“We’ll skip the prologue and start with the entrance of Sampson and Gregory. Right. Transport me to old Verona. Off you go.” Simon eased himself back in his chair as the action began.
The young men playing the friends of Romeo swaggered their way around the stage, speaking their lines of easy, risqué banter for a few minutes to prepare the way for the entrance of Brian Prentice, who was appearing in this play in the relatively minor role of Romeo’s father, Lord Montague.
Every year, the Catskills Shakespeare Theater Company managed to bring in a second-rate, almost but not quite down-on-his-luck British actor that most American theatergoers had never heard of. The accent was right, and it was hoped that the casting of an actor “direct from London’s West End” would boost sales and add a certain cachet of English authenticity to the productions. And this year, Brian Prentice was that actor.
The acting world is a small one, and Simon Dyer was well aware of Prentice’s reputation, both good and bad. Great things had been predicted for him in the early stages of his career, although he hadn’t been expected to come into his own until he’d matured into the meaty, king-sized Shakespearean roles. Now that he had reached the right age, his reputation for drinking threatened to eclipse everything he’d worked so hard for. Producers and directors weren’t as tolerant of heavy drinking as they had been a generation or two earlier.
Simon had given him fair warning a couple of nights ago, and he hoped Prentice had taken his words to heart. He leaned forward slightly in anticipation of Prentice’s entrance.
On cue, Prentice entered stage left, leaning just a little too heavily on the arm of the actress playing Lady Montague. And then he spoke.
“Thou villain, Capulet. Hold me, let me go.”
Simon groaned inwardly. Oh, God. Here we go. He can’t even get his entrance line right. He’d left out the word “not.” He was meant to say, “Hold me not, let me go.”
Simon rose slightly, ready to stop the action, but decided to let it play out for a few more minutes and settled back. Prentice spoke another couple of lines and then gazed off into the wings while the actor playing the prince delivered a rather long speech almost word perfect. Simon was impressed. And then everyone except Prentice and two other actors exited the stage. It was Prentice’s turn to speak next, but he missed his cue as he continued to look off into the wings, frowning.
“Brian.” Simon brought his attention back to the stage.
“Sorry,” muttered Prentice. Then, seeming to refocus, he carried on: “Many a morning hath he there been seen, with tears augmenting . . .” His voice trailed off. “Sorry,” he repeated. “Not quite with it this morning.” He looked down at Simon in his front-row seat. “Can we take a break? I need a break.”
Simon looked at his watch. Just past eleven. “Of course.” He stood up and addressed the actors on stage. “Can you ask the others to join you?” When the rest of the actors required for this rehearsal had shuffled back on stage, Simon told them they were taking a twenty-minute break and they should be back and ready to go again at eleven thirty sharp.
Wanting a quiet word with Prentice, Simon walked along the front of the stage, mounted the steps that led to the wings, and searched the backstage area. Prentice was nowhere to be seen.