could have seeped into a marshmallow puddle and oozed under the closed door, but by that time I’d done too much, risked too much. I was so far from my comfort zone, such a stranger to myself, that I heard my own voice as though it came from a distance.
“You can give me exactly what you’d have given my partner, the same time, the same thoughtful answers, the same respect.”
His chin jerked as though I’d yanked it by a string. “Teddy earned it.”
“You and Teddy had three sessions left, three two-hour slots. I’m ready to go.”
“And I’m not.” He stood, tall and whip-thin. Deep gray fabric hugged his chest, a cross between a sweater and a tee, spun from yarn too fine to have anything to do with sheep.
“Jonathan told you to brush me off.”
“Why would you assume that?”
Heat flooded my face. It wasn’t Jonathan he’d yelled at on the phone and now he’d suspect I’d listened at the door, eavesdropped like a housemaid gathering crumbs for a gossip column. I was searching my mind frantically, scrabbling for anything I could offer that might change his mind about working with me, when he slammed the scrapbook shut and said, “Christ, they all want to play Hamlet.”
“‘They have not exactly seen their fathers killed,’” I responded automatically. “‘Nor their mothers in a frame-up to kill,…’”
“‘Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart,…”
“‘… because it is sad like all actors are sad.…’”
“You skipped some lines.”
“I know. That’s because I wanted to ask if you agreed with Sandburg. That all actors are sad?”
“Do you know your Hamlet, too? In addition to your modern verse?” He seemed, if not impressed, amused.
“I can give you a soliloquy or two. But you’ve already played Hamlet. Successfully, too. A Broadway triumph, a Tony nod.”
“I didn’t win.”
“No.”
“Well, then, in my case, you might say they all want to direct Hamlet. ” He moved closer to the windows and stared out at the gray-green sea. “It’s stuck in the back of my brain, a kind of obsession, a kind of itch. I’ve already waited too long to scratch it. If I’d done it when I was younger, I could have mounted a production with some kind of integrity. Now it’s turning into a freak show. I just got off the phone with an ass of an agent who wants me to cast Gina Paris Graham as Ophelia. Can you imagine? Straight from showing her boobs on the cover of Maxim to the classic stage? My God, it was different when I started. It makes me feel old.”
At forty-three, he looked ten years younger, vital, not in any way old.
“They want me to do a hip-hop Hamlet, too cool for words. Add a musical score. Cast rappers and movie stars and throw away the script. Gina Paris Graham!”
He went on in that vein, working himself up to a fine rant, pacing to and fro, waving his hands, and I watched him the way an audience ogles a star, because he demanded it, not with his words but with his presence, his magnetism. Even if I hadn’t studied his parentage or noticed the posters on the walls, it was clear that he’d been born to theatrical royalty. His father, the famous Ralph, had paced the same way, flinging his arms high and low; probably the great Harrison, his storied grandfather, had flaunted similar mannerisms.
“I’m interested in the undercurrents, the subtext. The gossip, the courtiers, scurrying around, currying favor. The liars. Hamlet is surrounded by people he can’t trust.”
He paused and regarded me as though it were high time for me to speak my line.
“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” I said.
“Gertrude and Claudius.”
“The Ghost.”
“Yes, exactly, the whole procrastination foolishness. A ghost, a walking shadow, and it instructs you to do murder, to avenge your father’s death. So why the hell doesn’t he leap into his mother’s bedchamber and kill the usurper then and there, skipping all those soliloquies?”
The long pause demanded
“You can give me exactly what you’d have given my partner, the same time, the same thoughtful answers, the same respect.”
His chin jerked as though I’d yanked it by a string. “Teddy earned it.”
“You and Teddy had three sessions left, three two-hour slots. I’m ready to go.”
“And I’m not.” He stood, tall and whip-thin. Deep gray fabric hugged his chest, a cross between a sweater and a tee, spun from yarn too fine to have anything to do with sheep.
“Jonathan told you to brush me off.”
“Why would you assume that?”
Heat flooded my face. It wasn’t Jonathan he’d yelled at on the phone and now he’d suspect I’d listened at the door, eavesdropped like a housemaid gathering crumbs for a gossip column. I was searching my mind frantically, scrabbling for anything I could offer that might change his mind about working with me, when he slammed the scrapbook shut and said, “Christ, they all want to play Hamlet.”
“‘They have not exactly seen their fathers killed,’” I responded automatically. “‘Nor their mothers in a frame-up to kill,…’”
“‘Nor an Ophelia dying with a dust gagging the heart,…”
“‘… because it is sad like all actors are sad.…’”
“You skipped some lines.”
“I know. That’s because I wanted to ask if you agreed with Sandburg. That all actors are sad?”
“Do you know your Hamlet, too? In addition to your modern verse?” He seemed, if not impressed, amused.
“I can give you a soliloquy or two. But you’ve already played Hamlet. Successfully, too. A Broadway triumph, a Tony nod.”
“I didn’t win.”
“No.”
“Well, then, in my case, you might say they all want to direct Hamlet. ” He moved closer to the windows and stared out at the gray-green sea. “It’s stuck in the back of my brain, a kind of obsession, a kind of itch. I’ve already waited too long to scratch it. If I’d done it when I was younger, I could have mounted a production with some kind of integrity. Now it’s turning into a freak show. I just got off the phone with an ass of an agent who wants me to cast Gina Paris Graham as Ophelia. Can you imagine? Straight from showing her boobs on the cover of Maxim to the classic stage? My God, it was different when I started. It makes me feel old.”
At forty-three, he looked ten years younger, vital, not in any way old.
“They want me to do a hip-hop Hamlet, too cool for words. Add a musical score. Cast rappers and movie stars and throw away the script. Gina Paris Graham!”
He went on in that vein, working himself up to a fine rant, pacing to and fro, waving his hands, and I watched him the way an audience ogles a star, because he demanded it, not with his words but with his presence, his magnetism. Even if I hadn’t studied his parentage or noticed the posters on the walls, it was clear that he’d been born to theatrical royalty. His father, the famous Ralph, had paced the same way, flinging his arms high and low; probably the great Harrison, his storied grandfather, had flaunted similar mannerisms.
“I’m interested in the undercurrents, the subtext. The gossip, the courtiers, scurrying around, currying favor. The liars. Hamlet is surrounded by people he can’t trust.”
He paused and regarded me as though it were high time for me to speak my line.
“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,” I said.
“Gertrude and Claudius.”
“The Ghost.”
“Yes, exactly, the whole procrastination foolishness. A ghost, a walking shadow, and it instructs you to do murder, to avenge your father’s death. So why the hell doesn’t he leap into his mother’s bedchamber and kill the usurper then and there, skipping all those soliloquies?”
The long pause demanded
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