Me and Orson Welles by Robert Kaplow Page A

handkerchief.
    â€œMy Aunt Minnie.”
    His hands were shaking as he tried to light a Kool. “The whole week you’re gonna need?” he asked. Then he cleared his throat and spat into his handkerchief.
    â€œWe have to sit shiva.”
    â€œNaturally. Naturally. But (sneeze) I’ll tell you something, Richie, it kind of leaves me in the lurch, doesn’t it?”
    â€œIf you like, Mr. Goldberg, I can get my friend Phil Stefan to do it; he’s completely square, and he’d be glad to pick up the extra jack.”
    â€œCould you do that for me, Richie? (Volcanic sneeze) Oh, Jesus, that one got all over you, didn’t it?”
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    More madness. Another train, and I made it downtown by one o’clock. Welles had told me to be at the theatre by noon. I ran all the way to the Mercury— steering northeast with every green light; horns honking; people yelling.
    I came whipping down 41st Street, and I pulled back the metal gate of the stage door, entering where the insiders did.
    The theatre smelled like rotten fish. People were waving away the noxious fumes, and two large electric fans were aimed at the back theatre wall in an effort to dry the horrible-smelling paint.
    But it looked terrific—the entire back brick wall was painted blood red.
    Muriel Brassler, the dark-haired beauty who played Portia, was complaining to Welles about the lights. “These are all wrong for me, Orson. I cannot work with these.”
    â€œThey look fine,” said Welles, who was trying to block his scene with her and work out the lighting cues at the same time.
    â€œOrson, I never heard of lights with no color in them. Where are the gels?” She was dressed in her pale blue gown; Welles wore his black military overcoat.
    â€œMuriel, let’s worry about the gels later,” he said.
    She picked up a large manila envelope. “Barrymore Pink is the only color that effectively highlights the natural tonalities of my skin.” Then she removed from the envelope some plates of colored glass. “Believe me, I know what works for me.”
    Welles stared at her in disbelief. “She packs her own gels.”
    â€œI have one scene, Orson. Allow me my one scene? Jeannie! Please put these in, dear?”
    The lighting assistant came out from the wings.
    â€œDo whatever she says,” said Welles hopelessly. “I just don’t want to hear any more about tonalities. Can we at least block this scene? Can we make some progress here? All right, I’m reading the letter downstage right.” He assumed his slightly professorial Brutus voice. “ ‘But ’tis a common proof that lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, whereto the climber upwards turns his face. But when he once attains the upmost round—’ ”
    â€œIs that where you’re going to be standing?” asked Muriel. Her hand was on her hip.
    â€œYes, my dear. Would you like to redirect the play? Maybe we can bathe the entire audience in Barrymore Pink.”
    â€œI have a two-page scene, Orson. Two effing pages.”
    â€œWhat, in the depths of your ignorance, do you want me to do?”
    â€œI am simply worried that the difference in our height—”
    â€œYour height! I swear to God, Muriel, if you mention your height to me one more time I’m cutting this scene. Your height is fine! Nobody thinks you’re too tall except you.”
    â€œI look like some kind of effing giant next to you! People are going to laugh.”
    â€œNobody is going to laugh. Nobody is even going to be looking at you.”
    â€œThere, you see! Nobody’s going to be looking at me!”
    â€œYou are deeply disturbed. Look. Nobody is going to be looking at you because they’ll be listening to you—transported by the poetry. That’s the magic of this play, not the goddamn-son-of-a-bitch Barrymore—”
    â€œAll I want,” she said with her