I tried to dress in a fashion that matched my temperament. A T-shirt covered with the craters of the moon meant that I was in “creative mode,” and Warwick knew how to handle the anxieties of this “artist at work.”
Through one of the velvet-clad entrances of the room we first encountered was a large theater. The seats, the floor, the walls, and the ceiling were all a dazzling white. A giant scarlet curtain with black trimming was the only splash of color, besides the newly enlisted thespians. How this theater stayed spotless was beyond me.
“Ostentatious or elegant?” I asked although my question was redundant. I liked it.
“White seats, red curtain. It’s like rows of teeth facing a giant tongue, and we’re the bits of food waiting to be flossed.”
“I’ve always wanted to perform on a stage like this,” I confessed.
“Me too,” replied Pedro from the front row of seats.
He turned and smiled at both of us, so Warwick strolled over to chat. It was the polite thing to do. At least that’s what I told myself. Inside, I felt as isolated as an Oscar nominee who didn’t win. Guy crept over. I assured him all was okay, and that there weren’t any real fireworks between my best friend and the writer. Samantha was there as well, although not in the role of director as I’d assumed from our chat at the Pedestal. That honor went to a middle-aged woman named Maudi.
She was an old-world actress from London’s Gaiety Theatre, back in the nineteenth century. She sported an ankle-length hooped dress in pastel blue and stood in front of the stage with her arms gently crossed, as still as a statue. Soon she made her way to a desk to the right of the stage, pulled out the chair, which had a blue parasol hanging from its back, and sat. She then thumbed through a glossy magazine, aptly titled The Stage Door.
I took this action to mean that we were wasting her time, so I sat in the second row. The rest of the cast followed.
“Now, now, fellow performers,” she declared while clapping three times in quick succession. “I trust that you’ve all read the script. Of course I know you have, Pedro.” We all nodded. “Well then, I want you to each give me one word that describes your character.”
I was first, and after careful analysis of Mr. Money, I decided that he was “apprehensive.” Warwick was next, believing his gangster’s moll, Betty, was “caring.” Samantha thought of her loving streetwalker as “devoted.” Pedro described Mr. Death as “calculating,” while Guy saw his henchman persona, Bullet, as “spineless.”
“Now don’t forget, my dears, that one word you’ve each given me is not all that your character is. Everyone is a walking contradiction, and so are the people you are playing. They may face the world with their one characteristic mask, but behind that mask are many complexities. Everyone exhibits subtext!”
We began a reading of the play. I was in my comfort zone. My unrequited passions, my pangs of jealousy, and my confusion over what the heck the Afterlife was about all seemed so distant. As if I was moving on. Of course, I knew this wasn’t true, but for the duration of this line run, I’d be suspended in time from my worries, working toward a goal I had the skills to accomplish. I was back in control.
Warwick sounded like a cartoon hyena on heat as he tried his best falsetto voice to give life to Betty. We all attempted Bronx accents to fit the piece. Then it was time to block the play on stage. Again, I was dumbfounded at how easy it was to remember my moves. By the second run-through, we were all on automatic pilot when it came to stage business.
Crafted between plotlines of wheeling and dealing, Pedro’s Mr. Death meets the kindhearted streetwalker played by Samantha in the first act. They start flirting. Warwick’s Betty has always been loyal, waiting patiently for Mr. Death to make an honest woman of her for years. In the second act, Mr. Death comes clean to Betty.
“You know, Poopsie, I always loved the way your eyes twinkle when there’s a full moon,” says Betty played by Warwick, trying to seductively swing his hips as he enters Mr. Death’s den. “I always look forward to the tiger within you, holding me down and making me a woman!”
I had trouble keeping a straight face at the lame dialogue, but having the words spoken by my best friend added a comedic touch that made it bearable.
“I have a confession to make, Doll,” Mr. Death announces. “I’ve been seeing someone else.” Pedro’s melodramatic arm gestures could have landed a plane.
“Oh baby, don’t kid me.”
“No, darling. I’m not kidding. I’m a cad. A hopeless Casanova. An unfaithful brute.”
Momentary silence as Betty takes in the news. With no verbal response from her, Mr. Death decides to continue his reasoning.
“Darlin’, you’re too good for me. You stay by my side. You support me. You’re there when I need you. What is it you see in me?”
“I see a man who needs love. More than anything else in this world, I see a man who needs love.”
“But you can do better than me. What good is a man who might be in jail, or worse still, dead!”
“Poopsie, even dead, I don’t think I would ever leave you!”
Betty swings herself toward the door, stage right, and exits. At this point of the play, reality hasn’t quite sunk in for the gangster’s girlfriend. Mr. Death pulls out a gun from his drawer, which at this stage we’re not sure will be used to bump Betty off or to eradicate an enemy.
“What was that, my dears?” proclaimed Maudi from the fifth row. Warwick re-entered the stage as Pedro glanced up.
“Warwick, sweetheart, you were fine, but Pedro, Pedro, Pedro!” Maudi’s hands rested on her forehead. “Mr. Death doesn’t just turn off a switch and decide he’s no longer in love with Betty. They have history! Show me the love during next rehearsal.”
A director who believes in broadcasting their notes is always confronting for any actor. Hearing “you’re doing well” or “I like what you’re doing in scene five, but just tone it down a bit as you’re pulling focus,” all within earshot of your fellow cast members is fine. Being told basically that you can’t act is something that should be left for a private sitting.
Pedro looked to the stairs at the side of the stage, took a deep breath, and moved toward them. Warwick grabbed his arm to stop him before comforting him with a lingering hug.
Guy met my eyes. I shrugged it off. Inside, however, jealousy was subtly brewing in my subtext. What did this Pedro guy have that I didn’t? It definitely wasn’t dick size!
But I had no claims on Warwick, and Pedro was just a fleeting incident. There was no reason to dislike him. However, to my delight, the writer continued portraying his head mobster role with the sort of playacting associated with silent cinema.
Warwick and I learned more about our new associates during breaks. Over tea and biscuits, we both asked Maudi where in the Limelight Quarter she lived.
“No, my dears, I live in the Grand Sector,” she told us. “Some refer to it as the Merchant Ivory Quarter, or at least, those from well after my time.”
“Maudi, I think Warwick and I are going to enjoy our little exchanges,” I said. “Afternoon tea at our place is definitely on the agenda.”
“I’m always up for afternoon tea, but I think a gin and tonic would make me feel more at home.”
She was an inspiration for my task ahead, and someone I was looking forward to knowing better.
During a scene between Mr. Death and his mistress, Guy explained that different visitors lived in various settings. He’d been brought up at the Carnival of Lost Souls, and let us in on an intriguing fact about his pseudo-parent, Auntie Jem.
“She was a very good fortune-teller. She was always there to give me advice on what was about to happen and how I should handle it, but I always felt that she was intruding. I couldn’t skip classes, run away from home, or tell tales. I was too scared to touch myself as a teenager. Imagine the images in her crystal ball!”
“You would have steamed the glass, I’m sure,” I added. “So there’s the Limelight Quarter, the Carnival of Lost Souls, and the Grand Sector. Is that it?”
“There are plenty more, and I’m sure you’ll have fun discovering them,” continued Guy with the enthusiasm of a travel agent. “I think you’d both enjoy the ancient sectors. They don’t dress the way they used to in their time, but when they do, the party begins! Pan’s flute declares that it’s festival time, so you borrow a toga to join their adaptation of the game Twister. But just remember to leave when they bring in the goats, no matter how smashed you are.”
Warwick smiled at me, while our angel buddy shared the joys of historic rituals. I stepped closer to my friend and placed my hands on his shoulders. He didn’t move away. I massaged him gently as he asked the next question.
“What can you tell us about Samantha?” We discreetly observed the lady in question.
“She loves her clothes. To be honest, that’s all I know. Maudi just stepped down from the new arrivals committee a couple of weeks ago, and Samantha answered our ad. I only met her then.”
We watched her shimmy, swoon, and seduce as her amorous alter ego.
* * *
Rehearsals continued throughout the day before I felt the shift in my universe. There are moments in life where you look back and wonder what would have happened if you had acted differently. Like the time my flatmate’s girlfriend believed her object of desire had a bladder problem, just because I kept pouring a glass of yellow-tinted water on his sheets. What would have happened had I owned up? Would he still have that unfortunate nickname? You only regret the things you didn’t do.
One of those moments was about to present itself. My ego was stroked severely when Maudi suggested Pedro and I swap roles. Maybe it was Pedro’s lack of controlled dominance during a crucial scene that sparked this director’s decision. Mr. Money, the opportunist played by me, confronts Pedro’s character, Mr. Death, for the eighth time.
“I don’t think I even play second best in your estimation at controlling this town.”
“You’re being paranoid,” Mr. Death replies, even though he knows Mr. Money is right. “Why, you’re my number one protégée.”
Mr. Money pauses and holds back his anger at what he knows is untrue. He gives Mr. Death a filthy look. In a dismissive tone, Mr. Death asks Mr. Money to leave, as they have nothing more to discuss. Mr. Money refuses. Mr. Death pulls out a gun. Bullet, played by Guy, does the same.
“Are you immune to requests?” asks the underworld leader.
“Don’t you believe in loyalty?” asks Money through clenched teeth.
“Don’t you believe in respect?” replies Death.
“Only on my own terms.”
“Then we have a mutual agreement.”
They both pull their triggers, but it is Death who falls. From the director’s chair, this was the writer’s swan song.
Maudi stood up, strolled to the front of the stage, and delivered her thoughts in moderate tones.
“I’ve had a change of heart. I think for the purpose of good theater, Allan and Pedro should swap roles.”
The moment of silence that followed felt like an eternity. The proverbial pin could have been dropped. Pedro turned to glare at her so fast, his neck cracked. I was still processing the news.
“Why?” demanded Pedro.
“I think you would have more fun in the role of Mr. Money,” replied Maudi.
For a moment, Pedro seemed contained, but he started pacing like an amateur hit man about to make his first kill. He stopped in his tracks to glare at Maudi. His body grew as rigid as an ironing board.
“This has nothing to do with my sense of fun!” he yelled. “You think I’m hopeless!”
“No, but when I look at you, I see you more as a Mr. Money than a Mr. Death.”
“How can Allan play Mr. Death? He wasn’t alive in that decade!”
“Sweetheart, actors have played Greek tragedies and Shakespeare without a time machine to help them research.”
“But it’s my play!”
“And as the playwright, you should be interested in doing what’s best for your play.”
Pedro was struck dumb. He stormed off the stage toward the exit, smashing a water jug to the floor. Samantha and Guy leaped out of range of the flying shards. With wet trouser legs, the angry actor left the theater. To my horror, my best friend and confidant followed him. I would have expected Samantha to placate Pedro, as she knew him better. Even Guy would be an obvious choice.
I stood on stage staring at the exit. I felt like a child being punished, watching his favorite toy being confiscated. Warwick had marched through the velvet curtain to console the one person who was now my natural enemy.