The Speculative Short Stories of Barbara Paul, page 21
“For this relief much thanks,” one of them said. “ ‘Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.” The staging was good, and the audience watched attentively as the ghost made its first, mute appearance. LaBoz felt the other actors’ fear as tangibly as if he were one of them. More words, a throbbing in the air. The battlement setting flicked out, and a new scene took its place: a court chamber, with the king and queen and their numerous followers. A brightly lighted, busy scene; LaBoz counted thirty actors on the stage. All holograms—except one: Gil was off to one side, dressed in the black of the mourning prince, his thin face averted from the corrupt celebration of corrupt life going on around him. LaBoz tensed, wanting Gil to do well even though it was only a private entertainment. And Gil did very well, creating a convincing picture of a royal heir cheated out of his throne, a grieving son still shocked by his mother’s hasty remarriage. Gil made only one mistake, inadvertently walking through the hologram of one of the courtiers.
At the end of the scene, Gil paused the projection.
“Interesting,” Kimmel remarked. “Is it just coincidence that you chose a play about the son of a man who died under questionable circumstances? That son was out for revenge.”
Milo said, “Have you cast your guests in the play?
Let’s see now. Shalimar must be Queen Gertrude, Phoebe is Ophelia—” Gil laughed. “No, not at all. I thought it might be entertaining if we all took turns playing the lead role.
Everybody likes to be the star.”
The audience greeted that with three Oh-nos and one Tacky.
“It’s a man’s role,” Phoebe objected.
“Women have played it before,” Gil said. “This way you all get to choose the scene you want to play. We can skip the others.”
“I have no intention of playing that homicidal ma mac Milo announced indignantly.
“He kills five people!”
Gil looked amused. “Well, I could dial out Rosencrantz and Guildenstem. You could play both those roles at once.” The stooges.
“I’ll play,” Shalimar said unexpectedly.
“Truth is. I’ve always had a yen to do that advice-to-the players bit.”
“Excellent!” Gil exclaimed. “Step right up. LaBoz will you run the console now? I want to see this from out front.” Shalimar joined him on the stage, where he fitted the button into her ear that would feed her her lines. Gil handed her a long black cloak to wear over her shimmering green gown and took a seat in the audience.
LaBoz started the scene.
“Speak the speech I pray you as I pronounced it to you,” Shalimar declaimed in a strong contralto that was somehow different from her normal speaking voice, “trippingly on the tongue.” The console had a reverse switch, should a player blow his lines and need to start over. LaBoz didn’t have to touch it. Shalimar performed with such authority that he guessed she was used to speaking in public. Shalimar moved easily through the scene, not at all self-conscious about being on display. At last LaBoz pressed the hold button and joined the applause that greeted the conclusion of the scene.
“Impressive, Shalimar!” Gil’s voice soared over the applause.
“Quite professional. My father would have enjoyed that—he always did like watching the faces people put on when they appear in public.”
She shot him a quick look.
“A dubious compliment at best. Leading up to what?”
He spread his hands.
“Whatever you will. Name it, it’s yours. That’s what you’re used to, aren’t you?”
His voice rose.
“The rest of you don’t know, but we have a V.I.P in our midst. Shalimar is a member of the Andamanese Governing Council—a leader, a politician. A manipulator of lives.” Pause. “Ah, Kimmel—your open and honest face tells me you already knew Shalimar was a national councilwoman. She told you.”
Kimmel mimicked Gil’s own hand-spreading gesture.
“This is something new,” Phoebe remarked to Gil.
“You used to try to disguise your rudeness.” Milo snickered.
But Gil’s attention was back on Shalimar.
“Do we get an encore?”
“I think not.” She handed her stage cape to LaBoz and took her seat.
“How disappointing,” Gil mock-groaned.
“Remember the man we are honoring. You do remember dear old dad, don’t you? The clown who was willing to keep your bed warm, for whenever you felt like using it? Or him.”
Oh-ho from Milo.
Gil ignored him.
“He turned to you for help, Shalimar.
He was at the lowest point of his life and he went looking for you. Why didn’t you help?”
Shalimar took her time answering.
“That was between your father and me, Gil. This is no place to—”
“What better? A stage, an audience—”
“Oh, this is de trap,” Milo moaned. “Honestly, Gil, there’s only so much melodrama one can take in a single evening! If you’re fixated on your father’s sex life, then that’s your problem. But for heaven’s sake, leave the rest of us out of it!”
Gil raised an eyebrow and slowly clapped his hands.
“Ver-y good, Milo. Nothing like a little accusatory Freudianism to discredit me and make yourself look good. But that’s your style, isn’t it? Puff yourself up at the other guy’s expense.”
Milo stood up.
“I want to go home.”
“Not yet,” Gil said curtly.
“Shalimar. When my father returned from the Andamans, he was depressed to the point of being near-suicidal. He walked around in a trank-haze for three weeks. His judgment was off, his reactions were slow—he should never have taken the yawl out. But he wouldn’t have been in a drug stupor if he’d come home in anything like a normal frame of mind. What happened, Shalimar? What did you do to him?” Milo decided he wanted to hear the answer to that one and sat back down.
Shalimar’s eyes were wide.
“You’re blaming me for your father’s death?” “You contributed. What went wrong? He went to the Andamans with such high hopes.”
“High hopes,” she repeated.
“He came to me hoping for a lifeline. He was already close to a breakdown. Just one business reversal too many. It finally got to him.” She slid a quick sideways glance at Kimmel. “He came to the Andamans wanting me to make everything right for him. I couldn’t do it. He asked for too much.”
“You couldn’t?” Gil asked.
“Or wouldn’t?”
“Probably couldn’t,” Kimmel interposed.
“Your father could be a demanding SOB.” Shalimar said, “Gil, I hadn’t seen your father for two years. Then he showed up unannounced, expecting me to put my own life on hold to—well, I did what I could, but obviously it wasn’t enough. I’m sorry. He and I were close once. But I didn’t create your father’s problems.” “You merely aggravated them. He came to you looking for relief from pain, and you sent him away with more pain.”
Milo abruptly began singing.
“Happy death day to you… happy death day to you…”
“Shut up, Milo,” Phoebe snapped.
“Gil, stop this.
Stop it right now.”
Gil blew her a sardonic kiss.
“We’re just getting started.”
Shalimar and Kimmel consulted briefly, stood up.
“We’re leaving.”
“How? No funicular for another hour. And you wouldn’t want to miss Milo’s sterling performance, would you?”
Milo was back on his feet.
“What?”
“Your turn, Milo. Time to put yourself on the line. You can’t just lie back and pass judgment all your life, you know.”
“Who says I can’t? I refuse to take part in this puerile exhibition. The whole thing’s absurd.”
“Which scene do you prefer?” Gil went on as if the other man hadn’t spoken. “Would you like me to choose for you? How about the get-theetoa-nunnery scene? You can cavort with Ophelia.”
“You might as well do it, Milo,” Phoebe said with a sigh.
“He’s not going to stop this until he’s ready.”
Milo was pondering.
“One scene? And then you’ll stop badgering me?”
“One scene,” Gil promised.
“In that case, I must have a proper costume. That black thing you wrapped around Shalimar just won’t do.”
Gil nodded.
“There’s a costume room backstage”
“Hurry it up, will you?” Kimmel said in disgust as he and Shalimar sat back down.
“Keerist.”
“He’s mad, you know,” Milo whispered to LaBoz
“Utterly mad.”
LaBoz opened the door to the costume room and watched as Milo selected a broad-brimmed hat with a white plume, hip boots, and a buckle-on sword.
“Don’t forget a cape,” LaBoz said dryly.
“Oh—right.” Milo chose a Dracula cape, black velvet with scarlet silk lining.
“Eyepatch?”
Milo considered.
“No, I don’t want to overdo.”
His musketeer appearance brought a burst of laughter from the four in the audience.
“Soft you now—the fair Ophelia!” Milo bellowed, demanding silence.
The scene had barely gotten underway when it became clear that Gil had pulled a fast one. The holo production he’d chosen presented the nunnery scene as blatant in its sexual teasing. The button in Milo’s ear was giving him stage directions as well as lines: Grasp your codpiece with both hands. As a result Milo moved through the scene with a perpetually startled look on his face. His surprise also kept him a consistent few beats behind the set tempo of the scene. Ophelia would react to unsaid lines; then Milo would lunge for her only to find she’d already crossed to the other side of the stage. Not once were hero and heroine in sync. By the end of the scene, Milo was so frustrated that he pulled his sword and ran Ophelia through. With tears in his eyes from laughing, LaBoz almost missed the cut-off at the end of the scene. Milo tore off his costume and stormed back to his seat in the small auditorium.
“For this comic relief, much thanks,” Shalimar said, still laughing.
“So glad you were amused,” Milo said through clenched teeth.
Gil stood up.
“Thank you, Milo. That was exactly the break in tension we needed. And,” he faced the others, “I take full credit. I chose the man and the scene. How else could it have worked out? Did you expect him to do it right?”
“Oh, Gil,” Phoebe said in irritation.
“Milo doesn’t do things at all,” Gil plowed on. “Milo talks. He talks and talks and talks. But if it’s action you want, you’d better look elsewhere. He can’t be counted on to act even when he sees a man drowning right before his eyes.”
All the color had drained out of Milo’s face.
“Gil… don’t. You know I can’t swim.”
“You could have slipped on a scuba mask and tied a line around your middle. Hell, you could have yelled for help—you weren’t that far from shore.
What were you doing on my father’s yawl in the first place?”
“Well, I ran into him at the Yacht Club and he invited me aboard”
“You wangled an invitation. My father barely knew you. He was so tranked up he didn’t know what he was doing. Was he easy to take advantage of, Milo? And perhaps it was easy to give him a little shove? Over the side of the boat, maybe?”
“Gill” LaBoz heard the shock in his own voice. He jumped down from the stage.
“Do you know what you just said?”
The others were staring.
“You’re accusing Milo of murder?” Shalimar asked incredulously.
Phoebe was on her feet. “Gil, that’s dumb. Milo’s no killer. Why would he want to kill your father?”
Gil shrugged.
“Paid to?” Everyone started talking at once—everyone except Milo. He sat there pale and shaken, speechless for the first time in his life.
“Look at him, Gil,” LaBoz urged.
“You’ve done him a terrible injustice.”
Gil stood in front of the stage and spread his arms.
“Intermission. Bar’s behind the last row.” He led the way. The others exchanged a look, shrugged, and followed.
All but Milo, who sat slumped in his seat.
“Gil must be losing his mind,” Phoebe said to LaBoz low.
“Does he really think his father was murdered?”
LaBoz took a long swallow of his drink. “If he does, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I can’t convince myself he really means it. At least, not the part about Milo.”
“I know.” Just then, Phoebe saw Gil approaching; without a word she turned her back and walked away.
“Good thing I wasn’t hoping for reconciliation,” Gil said wryly.
“LaBoz do you mind being stuck backstage with the console? I do need to watch from out front.”
“I don’t mind that,” LaBoz said, “but I’m not too happy with the direction things are taking.”
Phoebe was sitting with Milo, trying to cheer him up.
“I hope you’re familiar with the laws governing false accusation,” Shalimar said to Gil as she drifted back to her seat.
“I didn’t accuse,” Gil answered her.
“I suggested.”
A grunt came from the bar, where Kimmel was helping himself.
“No, accusation is up front and straightforward. Innuendo is more your style. Just like your father.”
“He accused you,” Gil pointed out.
“Fraud and grand theft.” “Because he knew I was on the point of bringing charges against him. Anyway, we settled that one out of court.”
“Why don’t you tell us what was going on?”
Kimmel laughed humorlessly. “Justify myself to you? No, thank you. I see you inherited your father’s arrogance along with everything else.”
A look of sadness passed over Gil’s face.
“You really did hate him, didn’t you? It wasn’t just business—it was personal between you two. Why? I know he wasn’t perfect, but he was a good man, Kimmel. You speak of him as if he were a monster. And you must know he was nothing of the kind.”
Kimmel studied the face of his old foe’s son for a long time.
“Some men are one thing at home, another in business. That’s the most I can say.” Gil nodded, recognizing the remark as the closest Kimmel could come to conceding the point. “Since you won’t enlighten us in one area, how about entertaining us in another? Take the stage. Show us a thing or two.”
One corner of Kimmel’s mouth turned up.
“That’s so transparent a ploy that I think I’ll let you get away with it. All right, I’ll be your next guinea pig. Do your damndest.”
Gil smiled.
“Pick your scene.”
The older man thought a minute.
“I think it’s called the closet scene. The one where our hero has it out with his mother.”
“How very Oedipal,” murmured Milo, beginning to recover.
LaBoz helped Kimmel into costume.
“Why did you choose that scene?”
The other man grinned.
“It was the only one I could remember.”
Oddly, he threw himself into the performance like an enthusiastic amateur: “Now, Mother, what’s the matter?” The scene was a long one, building in intensity. Kimmel was clearly out of his element, so he took the pragmatic approach of a man used to problem solving as a strategy for living. LaBoz watched fascinated as Kimmel worked at getting the rhythm right, at pitching his voice to the best level for that size auditorium. At using his body language to best effect. The man was teaching himself acting. By scene’s end he was still the amateur—but a less awkward one, now at least adequate as a performer. When Kimmel pantomimed dragging Polonius’s hologram corpse off the stage, LaBoz could almost believe it was happening.
The others were equally impressed.
“You missed your calling,” Shalimar said dryly.
“Or did you?”
Kimmel stood watching Gil, waiting.
“I’ve just understood something,” the younger man said.
“He was afraid of you… my father was afraid of you. If you take that kind of concentration into everything you do, then he had reason to be. Did you work that hard at stealing Ferrence from him?” Ferrence Transportation. A company that Operated short-distance air shuttles between major cities, a steady but unspectacular earner.
“He had the same chance at a takeover as I did,” Kimmel said with a shrug. “He spent eleven years acquiring Ferrence stock-a little here, a little there. Eleven years, Kimmel. And you came along and stole it right out from under his nose. I don’t know how you did it and I don’t even care. But, Kimmel, you took something my father wanted only because he wanted it.”
“Bullshit.”
“Is it? You’d never dabbled in transportation before and you haven’t expanded since. The one thing that made Ferrence attractive was my father’s interest in it. You sent my father into a depression he never recovered from, and you did it out of spite. Just spite.
Nothing else.”
Kimmel made a sound of exasperation. “Your sainted father played dirty himself often enough.” He waved toward the stage. “Where do you think the money for your expensive toys came from? Probably from some company he stole from me.”
“So the two of you just kept sticking it to each other.”
The other man showed his teeth.
“As often and as hard as we could.”
Now it was Gil’s turn to sound exasperated. “Wouldn’t it have solved a helluva lot of problems if you’d just formed a partnership?”
Kimmel threw his head back and laughed in open delight.
“My God, I didn’t know they still made ‘em that naive! Don’t you understand, you young idiot? It was what kept both of us going.” He snorted.
