Reign, page 42
After a few minutes, he heard the clash of instruments die down. Applause followed, and when it ended, the music began again, but this time it was no warm-up, no frenzied assortment of tuning. This time it was music that Abe had heard a quarter century before, sitting in the same room. He had not known Dennis Hamilton then. He had only seen him rehearsing, and never exchanged a word with the boy who seemed to have such a sense of quiet command for a person so young. He had watched the show one time, from the last row of the balcony, during one of the few matinee performances that had not sold out, and even at that great height he had felt the dramatic power of that young man who played the Emperor.
Now, as he heard the music, the years seemed to vanish, and he closed his eyes and remembered what it had been like before all the deaths had come, before he himself had been responsible for one of them, in the days when, though cruel, he was still innocent of blood on his hands.
At last the music ended, the audience applauded, and the music began again. He heard singing now, but where he sat it was greatly overwhelmed by the orchestra. For a while he struggled to make out the words, but could not, and turned back to his book.
The musical numbers passed in quick succession, and Abe thought the applause was as loud and strong as any he had ever heard from this particular hiding place. He recognized some of the songs that had become standards, particularly "Someone Like You," which had been a Barbra Streisand single in 1968, and hummed along with it. He sat there for a long time, trying to read, stopping, listening to the music, trying to read again, dozing off from time to time.
When music woke him up again, he looked at his watch, saw that it was nearly ten o'clock, and thought that the first act must almost be over. He licked his dry lips with a furred tongue, and decided to go get a drink of water. There was a fountain in the green room the musicians used, but there were always some of them in there, and Abe was uncomfortable around them. Part of it was the contrast he felt between their full dress and his own dark green work clothes, and the rest was the cool attitude with which most of them viewed him, as though he were an interloper in the halls of the Muses. No, better to go through the cellar and into the lower level lobby. No one would be there while the show was going on except for maybe some security people, and they knew who he was.
Abe stood up, stretched, heard, very dimly, voices speaking on the stage above him, and walked to the door that opened onto the long corridor that led to the lower lobby. He opened it, stepped through, and flicked on the light switch, illuminating the dank passage through which he would have to walk.
Though Abe had traversed that damp, dirt-floored corridor a thousand times, the shadowy bays whose contents Curt and Evan had catalogued now seemed to Abe like alcoves in some carnival house of horrors from which people dressed as monsters would jump and yell boo, or like tunnels opening into haunted caverns . . .
Yeah, he thought. Haunted.
Harry? He thought the word, then spoke it. "Harry?" Frightened, but needing to know, he stepped onto the dirt floor and closed the door behind him. The voices were still audible, but even more faraway now, as in a dream. And as in a dream Abe began to walk down the corridor, fearing to look to either side or in back of him.
~ * ~
Quentin Margolis stood at the rear of the Venetian Theatre and watched the show. The standing wearied him not at all, for the strength of the performance that Dennis Hamilton was giving gave him strength as well.
Dennis was, Quentin thought, nothing short of wonderful tonight. Every word, every note, every gesture was so unmistakably right that it seemed sacrilege that he had ever done the role any other way. All the tenderness, all the passion, all the boyish exuberance was there, along with subtleties of which youth was not yet capable. And they were not lost on the audience either. The mass seemed to hang on Dennis's every move. Nothing escaped them, because his artistry was such that he did not allow it. It was the most brilliant, yet the most spontaneous performance Quentin had ever seen, the only one in which not a line seemed written or thought out ahead, but rather sprang from the mind of the Emperor Frederick as they all watched, as though the role Dennis Hamilton was creating was creating itself, as though they watched, not artifice, but life.
And then something went wrong.
It was minor, but because of the perfection of Dennis's performance up to that point it stood out all the more rawly, like a sudden slash of blinding white on a dark, brooding Rembrandt. The scene was Act I, Scene 6, where Frederick tells Count Rinehart that he may send troops to assist the peasant revolt against the brutal usurper, King Andrei of Wohlstein. It was intended as the turning point, the first moment in the play that Frederick steps unmistakably into his position as Emperor.
Franklin Stern, as Rinehart, laughed bitterly and gave his line, "'Oh, of course. And I suppose before too long you'll grant your own people democracy.”
Dennis rose from his chair, clasped his hands behind his back, became Frederick becoming the Emperor Frederick, fixed Stern with a look that would have made lesser actors quail, and began his line — Better rule by the people . . . than rule by a fool, Rinehart! — but did not finish it.
"'Better rule by the people . . . than rule by —'" Dennis choked off, went pale, seemed to sway for a moment, then caught himself on the arm of the chair.
Quentin's breath locked in his throat, and he felt the sweat of fear suddenly moist on his face and chest. "Oh God," he whispered, as he watched Dennis struggle. "Oh dear God, please . . .”
The change was so abrupt that the audience could not help but notice, and in that instant Quentin saw hundreds of heads come together, and heard the static of whispers fill the air of the theatre like an audible cloud.
"Than rule by what, your majesty?" Franklin Stem none too gracefully fed Dennis.
Even from the rear of the auditorium, Quentin could see Dennis press his eyes closed, trying to bring back the character who had seemingly evacuated his body.
"'Than rule by . . . a fool!'"Dennis shouted, the outburst totally out of character. They were words said in desperation by a faltering actor, rather than from the strength and emotion of character, and Quentin 's heart sank. What had been there in all its glory was now lost, although he hoped not irretrievably. He felt like the handler of a prize fighter who was staggering and bloodied, praying he would get through the round and come back to his comer so he could tell him to . . .
What? Keep up his left? Jab? Keep moving? If Dennis was able to get to the intermission through this scene and the song and quintet that followed, what in God's name would Quentin tell him? It was only Dennis, Dennis alone, who could save himself now.
The scene went on, but instead of the Emperor Frederick revealing his soul, it was now Dennis Hamilton who read lines.
~ * ~
And Dennis Hamilton had faltered at the exact moment Abe Kipp had seen the first ghost in the cellar.
He had walked halfway down the dusty corridor when she stepped out of one of the bays, just a few yards away from him. At first he was startled, and his heart pounded hard, but then he saw that it was just a little girl, with empty blue eyes that looked lost, and he thought for a moment that she must have gone to the men's room in the lower level by mistake, then found the door to the tunnel and gone exploring. But as she walked trustingly toward him, as though he was the only one in the world who could help her, he saw that not only her eyes were blue. So was her dress. And her lips.
He knew now that he was seeing the Blue Darling. When she reached out her hand and put it in his, the coldness of it only reinforced his knowledge. Abe felt as though branches of ice had been placed in his hand, and that if he squeezed the fingers they would shatter.
He tried to jerk his hand back, but his fingers stuck to hers as tightly as his lips had stuck to the spout of his grandmother's pump one winter when he had been a boy. But now there was no grandma to come out with a kettle full of warm water to save him. The Blue Darling smiled at him then, and her blue lips cracked and showed teeth as sharp and pointed as icicles, and words came out, words in Harry Ruhl's voice that struck his ears like pellets of cold.
"Payback time, Abe . . ."
The Blue Darling grasped his other hand, lifted him up, impossibly, above her head, and dashed him to the ground. Though he fell less than four feet, the power with which he was hurled splintered bones and bruised muscles, and Abe cried out, and remembered what Billy Potts had said —
come to see a Vaudeville 'n fell offa the balcony . . .
Abe whined and twisted his body around, the pain shooting through him like fire now, not ice, and as he put his hands up to ward her off, he saw his left hand hang limp and knew his wrist was broken even before he felt the pain there.
The little girl was gone, fled back, Abe thought, to whatever cold hell she came from, and he sobbed and tried to stand up, but his left leg would not hold him, sliding out from under him whenever he tried to put any weight on it. Blubbering, he began to scuttle down the corridor back toward the stage, pushing with his right leg, dragging himself with his right arm. He had gone only a few feet when he heard laughter, deep and booming, from above. It was a voice he had never heard before, and it could almost have come from the stage above and ahead.
Abe automatically looked up, and his neck and spine throbbed with the agony. Directly above him he saw, clinging from one arm to the top of one of the stanchions that made up the bays, a huge creature that looked more like an ape than a man. What he could see of its hair was blond and clotted with blood. Half of its face was a gray-red ruin, but the half that was left grinned down with splintered teeth. Its free arm held a hundred-pound sandbag such as had not been used in the Venetian Theatre for many years. It held it right above Abe Kipp's upturned face.
"Payback time, Abe . . ." said the Big Swede with Harry Ruhl's soft and gentle voice, and dropped the sandbag.
Abe threw his body to the side with all the power left in him, so that even ripped muscles helped shriekingly to drag him away from the plummeting weight.
The bag hit him in the back of the right shoulder, crushing every bone it contacted, and driving sharp splinters into Abe's right lung, although his heart was not pierced. He tried to scream, but the spray of blood from his windpipe choked his mouth, and he could only lay and pant for breath.
"Harry," at last he bubbled through his blood. "Harry, please . . ."
Then he felt what seemed like fingers of fire grasp his crushed shoulder and turn him over. The pain was too great to be voiced, and he kept it inside him, letting it scream within. It kept screaming when he opened his eyes and saw Mad Mary bending over him, an open noose in her clawed hand, her white hair shading her face like a filthy, tattered veil. It was only when she put her head back that he saw the face, and then, in the split second before he lost his sanity, burned to a crisp by the fires in her bulging eyes, he remembered —
she's the only one who can really scare ya t'death . . .
Abe Kipp didn't see her put the noose around his neck, didn't see her haul on the other end of the rope until he stood on the dirt floor, only his toes against the dust, barely felt himself slowly strangling. He didn't see Mad Mary whisper "Payback time, Abe . . ." in Harry Ruhl's voice, didn't see Mad Mary melt into Harry just as he looked when they found him dead, but now holding his imitation Swiss Army knife. He didn't hear Harry whisper the words one last time, or make the first cut. He felt the knife go in, but to Abe, nearly dead, it felt like a warm finger across his flesh, it felt good, because everything else was growing so cold . . .
And he didn't see, as he hung from the rope and his life finally leaked away, Harry Ruhl's face change into a face he would have recognized as only Dennis Hamilton's.
"Not bad for a pussy boy," the face said, and smiled. "Was it, Abe?"
Scene 10
"I just felt . . . like I was lost somehow," Dennis said.
He, Quentin, and Ann were in his dressing room at intermission. Quentin had placed a guard at the door with orders to allow no one else to enter or even knock.
"Yes, but you recovered," Quentin said. "The quintet . . . the quintet was good."
"It wasn't good, Quent. It was passable. Which was more than I can say for my scene with Kelly." Dennis shook his head and drank half a glass of water. "It was like I was sleepwalking through it."
"But you recovered," Quentin said again. "You got through it, you got your head together, and you got back into the role. Jesus, Dennis, up till then it was brilliant, you know it was, wasn't it, Ann?"
Ann nodded. "Yes. It was perfect."
"Now you just stay here and you rest. You've got twenty minutes. Rest for as long as you need — we can hold the curtain a little longer — and use the rest of the time to work yourself back into that role. Come on, Dennis, be the Emperor again."
Dennis smiled. Ann thought it looked forced. "I will," he said. "I will, Quent. Leave me alone with Ann for a minute, will you?"
"Of course." He gave Dennis a gentle embrace, as though he were afraid he might hurt him. "Do it, my friend. You go out there and do it."
When they were alone, Ann looked into Dennis's eyes and saw the tenor there. "He's back," Dennis said, his voice shaking.
"I know."
"I felt him. I felt him draw strength from me like he was ripping out pieces of my flesh." Dennis's lips drew back, his teeth clenched, and he began to shudder as tears came to his eyes. "I thought he was gone. I really did. I thought and I prayed so hard that he was gone."
"But he's not," Ann said firmly, refusing to break down as well. She wanted to.
She wanted to run sobbing out the stage door and get into a car and just keep driving into the night until she was as far away from the Venetian Theatre as she could possibly be.
But that meant that she would have to flee Dennis Hamilton too, and she would not, could not do that.
"He's still here, Dennis. And you came back thinking that he would still be here. If he was, if you had known it right away, you would have stayed just the same. You would have stayed and fought him." She put a hand on his arm to give him strength. "That's why we came back — to fight him. He let us think he was already beat, and we let down our guard. We wanted to believe he was dead — or dying. And he wanted us to believe it too. We played right into his hands. That was our mistake.
"But he's not infallible, Dennis. As powerful as he is, he's got a plan of some kind. And if he's got a plan, we can ruin it. We just have to figure out how."
Dennis peered into the mirror, as if trying to find the secret in the lineaments of his own, and the Emperor's, face. "I have to be strong." he said slowly. "Even when he tries to draw strength from me, I have to . . . to feel so much that it doesn't diminish me. I have to be stronger than he is. That's the only way I'll be rid of him. The only way to get back what I need . . . is to take it back." He looked away from his face now, and into hers. "And I will. I will, Ann."
She put her arms around his neck and drew him to her. "I know you will, Dennis. I believe you." She held him for a time, then drew back and looked at him. His expression was firm, the tears were gone. "Forget the audience," she told him. "Forget everything else but you and him. And me," she added. "Remember how much I love you. I'll be here, backstage, whenever you need me."
~ * ~
And backstage the word was passed from mouth to mouth —"Dennis is slipping. Be ready to carry him." The performers consulted their scripts as they drank their intermission coffee or smoked their cigarettes, going over their lines with the Emperor, trying to figure out ways to save the scene, steer the dialogue to the required end, should Dennis forget or "go up" on his lines to them.
Wallace Drummond felt most affected of all. His final scene, the climactic duel with the Emperor, was the final scene of the show, and Drummond, shaken from the feeble caliber of the work Dennis had evinced in the first act finale quintet with him, pored over his lines, trying to prepare himself for any eventuality. His usual levity was nowhere in evidence as he discarded his set of sides and buried his head in a full script, trying to memorize those few of Dennis's lines that did not cue his own. When the five minute bell rang, he jumped, then relaxed. His first scene was with Lise and Kruger, so at least that would go well. And there were six long scenes before he and Dennis appeared on stage together. Six scenes were surely enough for Dennis to reclaim his lost character, he thought, and did a few minutes of deep breathing exercises to relax him. Only this time, they did not work.
Out in the lobby, the air was filled with the kind of chatter that goes on, not at theatrical intermissions, but in air terminals after plane crashes. Talk was subdued but animated, and there were lines of reporters seven deep for the two phone booths situated on the stairway to the lower lobby. Several television personalities had gone outside to join their remote crews and report on the first act. A bespectacled blonde with a talk show out of L.A. made a particularly pithy comment — "The last scene has been like watching a beautiful train derail."
Cissy Morrison had clutched Evan's hand tightly when Dennis had gone up on his line, and they had come into the lobby with a pall hanging over them. Evan felt more sympathy for his father than he ever had before. The look of sudden terror on the man's face convinced Evan that his father was finally feeling what Evan had felt, seeing what he had seen — the true face of the audience, that snarling mob with one pair of hungry eyes, yearning to see failure in whatever form it might present itself. He prayed his father could survive the knowledge of twenty-five years of self-delusion revealed in one night.
