Idea in Stone (20 page)

“It’s called
Empire of Nothing
,” said Stefan, proudly.

“I’ve not heard about that one.”

“You will,” he said, giving a cocky wink as he shook her hand and left. He wondered if that was too much, too brashly North American. Of course, he figured, everyone must think their own show is something special. But how many of those involved spiritual intervention? He wondered if that would make any difference to ticket sales. The company stood little chance of breaking even, since the venue cost more per seat than the ticket price they were asking, plus they had to pay for the cast, the posters and handbills, the accommodations, and—Stefan stopped thinking about it. He’d resigned himself to being broke by the end of the run; there was no point thinking about it now. Things would work out, he figured, because they had to.

~

Stefan approached the bar and looked at the draught taps with the various names on them. Some sported numbers—70, 80—and he had no idea what that meant. The bar maid asked him what he wanted. “What do these numbers mean?” he asked.

“The numbers?” she asked.
Numbas
. Australian. He could count the number of Scottish people he’d met on one hand. “Oh those.”
Thoyse
. “Those refer to the duty that they used to collect on the different kinds of beer.”
Beeya
. “The higher the number, the stronger the beer.

“Oh,” he replied. “I’ll try an eighty.”

“An eighty shilling. Alright.” She took a pint glass and pulled down hard on the draught-tap, as if she were juicing oranges. Something about that, along with the pub’s dark wooden interior, struck him as authentic.

He paid for the pint and walked deeper into the pub. People sat in groups around tables. Smoke rose from some of them like clouds of geothermal steam. Stefan dodged these, and found a stool beside a thin ledge and perched there. He enjoyed watching the people, but had no idea what to do with himself. He sipped his beer, finding it quite similar to the various ‘red’ and ‘dark’ ales sold in Canada. Smoking wasn’t permitted in Canadian bars anymore. Sitting uselessly on the stool, he vaguely understood the urge to smoke, to have something, anything, to do. He paid attention to his drink instead, as if he had some kind of ability to discern anything about the musky liquid.

He’d already tried that evening to find the gay scene. He’d read about a part of town called “The Pink Triangle”, but it eluded him.
More of a Bermuda Triangle
, he thought. He wouldn’t know what to do if he did find it, but hoped that its denizens might recognise him and take him in.
If only,
he wished
, there was something like a Masonic handshake for homos.
He winced, imagining what it might look like.

With no pretext for speaking to anyone, he gave up, finishing his drink then walking back to the hostel to work on his media campaign for the show. He went to his room and lay in bed, trying to come up with something original and clever that would catch the press’ attention. He was distracted by the Japanese man’s constant fiddling with a small, green plastic radio. When he settled on a station, Stefan sat up in bed. The voice he’d heard for so long was no longer in the background. It upstaged the DJ’s voice. It was still disjointed, but bits and pieces came through, louder and clearer than ever before. The sound was comforting, and Stefan soon fell asleep.

~

Stefan shifted his weight in an attempt to get comfortable on his plastic chair in the tiny theatre space. He looked over the programme, a single yellow sheet folded in half, but the house lights went down before he could finish reading it. What he read—the performer’s name, other shows he’d been in, the director and crew—meant nothing to him anyway. Stefan stole a look around at the others in the dark. They all seemed to fit a common demographic profile: male, early thirties but dressed younger, probably gay. Stefan wasn’t surprised, since the show’s poster featured a young man, his shirtless torso sharing equal focus with his rosy young face. The show’s title was written in distressed type beneath the photo:
Dirty Little Hoe
. A sense of guilt flooded over Stefan: he had no idea what the show was about, or any artistic grounds for being here, he just wanted to gawk at the talent. Was he a voyeur? Had it come to the point that he had to pay to see pretty people? The previous night he’d gone to see a musical version of
Titus Andronicus
because of another poster featuring two handsome young male cast members (and a third, a girl, who he supposed was pretty enough). The production featured no one over twenty-three, with liberal applications of white greasepaint to hair when they needed to indicate age. The show gave Stefan nostalgic feelings for his high school drama attempts. But when Titus’ daughter sang a tongueless solo in the third act (topping the second act’s dance number featuring several beheadings), Stefan slipped out of the theatre. But here he was again, following the same questionable instincts into a theatre.

The stage lights came up, with a spotlight focused on a garden hoe. Cacophonous music played over loudspeakers, and a voice chanted poetry Stefan couldn’t understand. A young man walked onstage, naked. He wasn’t as handsome as he appeared on the poster, and his skinniness made him look too young to be appearing this way in public.

The young man stepped on the garden hoe and took a fake hit in the face. He yelled at the hoe, then embraced it, sang a lullaby to it, and waltzed with it. After a few minutes, Stefan found the young man’s nudity normal, factory equipment, no more sexual than seeing himself in the mirror after a shower.
Is that the point?
he wondered. He wasn’t sure. After another twenty-five minutes of disjointed poetry and movement, he was no closer to an answer. He was intrigued, and enjoyed questioning his own thoughts and reactions—a separate show in his head—but walked out into the afternoon light afterward with no idea what the show’s creators had intended. He lingered around the theatre, hoping to ‘accidentally’ encounter the young performer. He tried to imagine flirty lines (“Oh, you rake!”) to distinguish himself as fascinating and unique, but gave up when his guilt about theatre-as-porn returned. He walked back to the hostel to pack his bags, spending fifteen minutes locked in the bathroom, fantasising about being a garden implement.

~

Stefan held up a card that he’d labelled in fat magic marker “The Raccoon Players”. One by one, the cast members walked into the baggage area and smiled when they saw him. Chris was first, towing a fuzzy blue suitcase with Dalmatian spots on it. He dropped the handle and moved in slow-motion toward Stefan as if running to his lover across a field. Stefan smiled and hugged him.

Charlene pulled a very big suitcase, likely containing a few things for herself and lots more for everyone else, prepared for any possible contingency. Any cuts, scrapes, or pains during rehearsal were usually remedied by her pulling something, magician-like, from her purse.

Thom carried a Guatemalan print sack over his shoulder and pulled Serena’s expensive black leather suitcase while she walked on ahead. Behind them, Maria politely listened to Norman, tugging on her baby blue suitcase while he struggled with his old tweed one. Stefan wasn’t sure in this circumstance whom he should help, but everyone reached him before he could decide. They all hugged him, except Serena, who kissed him on the cheeks, and Norman, who shook Stefan’s hand between both of his. Stefan was glad to see them.
 

“Okay,” he said, addressing them, we’ll get the airport bus back to city centre, then get settled into the hotel.”

“We need to do an Italian,” said Serena.

“An—?”

“Italian,” said Thom. “Everyone says their lines really fast, without any emotion or movement.”

“Right,” confirmed Serena, “since it’s been two weeks and we need to make sure
everyone—”
she nodded her head at Norman—“knows their lines.” The gesture wasn’t lost on him, or any of the other company members, who were all too familiar with his endless calls of “Line!” during rehearsals.

“Why don’t we do an Italian tonight after supper?” suggested Charlene. Stefan wanted to kiss her. She had a way of defusing these power struggles as they formed. She never undermined Stefan’s authority, but he knew the cast relied on her to maintain order. He had no problems with that.

“Right,” said Stefan, “so that’s the plan.” He led them out of the airport to the glass walkway where the bus stopped. “Just wait until you see this city.”

~

“Then let them tear the—” bellowed Norman. Then he went silent, and looked up toward the lighting grid. He shook his head. “Line!” he called.

The other actors, onstage and off, sighed. Serena, who’d been in the scene with him, dropped out of character with an audible ‘tsk’ sound, and stomped off to her dressing room. “Take five!” called Stefan. He walked down the theatre aisle to the stage. “Norman, can I talk to you for a second?”

“I’m sorry” said the actor, following Stefan to the quiet of the fire exit.

“Mister Wallace, far be it from me to comment on your process as an actor. But it’s been three days since you arrived, and we’ve been doing Italians every day. And that line, every time we get to that line... Frankly, I’m starting to get worried, and I think it might be shaking the other cast members’ confidence.” The truth was that each of them had spoken to Stefan, but until now he’d hoped the situation would remedy itself.

“Don’t worry, my boy, it will be there on the night.”

“Mister Wallace, this
is
the night. The public dress rehearsal is in a couple of hours. You can’t—”

“Mark my words, boy, public performance is the true test of an actor. And I shall pass that test.”

“Okay,” said Stefan, exasperated. He wondered how Helen could have recommended the man, but he had no alternative at this point but to hope he would make good on his promise. “Just see what you can do to help out the others.” Stefan knew this would get him.

“Yes, the company. I will do my best to prove the stuff that makes a real actor.”

“Thank you,” said Stefan, going back into the theatre, jumping onto the stage, and heading off into the wings, toward the dressing rooms. He had to speak to Serena, but dreaded it.

Thom sat cross-legged on a table in the hallway, his eyes closed, breathing. “What are you doing?” asked Stefan. Thom’s rituals varied from moment to moment, and Stefan found something compelling about them. If Thom ever had a real supernatural experience, he would be much better suited to handling it than Stefan was.

“I’m trying to channel your father, to get insight into my character.”

“Oh God,” said Stefan, “don’t do that.”

Thom opened his eyes. “Why?”

“Because he might actually show up, and then all hell will break loose.”

“Has that ever happened?”

Stefan rubbed his face. “I’ll tell you about it some other time. For now, just don’t put out any—” he wiggled his fingers in the air “—signals.” He moved down the hall to the women’s dressing room, taking a deep breath before knocking on the door.

Maria answered. “Hi,” she said, opening the door a crack.

“Hi,” said Stefan. “Mind if I come in?”

“Well, I’m wearing my...
costume
,” she replied, holding a hand over her chest as she opened the door further. “I just feel, I mean, I’m not sure if—”

“If it’s right for me to see you like this? Maria, I’m not going to make a pass at you.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that it’s different when I’m in character. But when I’m just me, I feel funny being dressed like this.” She laughed at herself, and covered her face with her hand. “You must think I’m really silly.”

“No,” said Stefan. “Well, I mean, I don’t get the things you believe in, but I respect your beliefs. I know it can’t be easy to always do what you feel is right, living in a—well, let’s face it, a modern world where these things don’t fit so well.”

“But they’re not irrelevant, if that’s what you’re saying. They’re more necessary than ever, because we don’t believe in
anything
, so there’s no central vision for our society to gather around. How can we progress when we can’t even agree on what progress is? How can we protect what’s most important about us when we don’t even respect it ourselves? I think that’s exactly what your father’s play is about.”

Stefan stared at her.

“‘Bible Girl’, right? That’s how you thought of me. I must be really simple, right?”

“Well, uh, I have to admit—”

“It’s alright. I’m used to it. But there’s more to me than you give me credit for.”

“Apparently.” He felt embarrassed, but decided to respond to the level of honesty she’d established. “Okay, but here we are in this incredible place, and the last two nights you haven’t come with us when we’ve gone out. Do you really think your creator would put you into this world just to ignore it and hide in a hotel room?”

She closed the dressing room door behind her, and stepped out into the hall. They both knew Serena was steaming at her makeup mirror, but there was something more: Maria didn’t want to be overheard.

“I’ve never been away from home before on my own. I’ve always travelled with my parents. I’m twenty-two. I know that’s not normal. So this is a bit shocking. I still believe what I believe, but—” She leaned close to him and whispered. “I think I like Thom.”

“I like him, too. He’s a bit weird, but he’s a good guy.”