Sicken and So Die Read online

  The sitar music continued as the cast froze into a tableau, facing out front, chilling the audience with the blankness of their stares. Alexandru Radulescu had wanted this moment to echo his sketchy understanding of Noh Theatre, and only the vigilance of the Asphodel accountant had stopped him from commissioning traditional Japanese wooden masks for the entire cast.

  While his fellow-actors stayed immobile, Orsino then stepped forward and, with his staff, struck the stage three times (a convention borrowed from classical French theatre). He then intoned:

  ‘If music be the food of love, play on:’

  ‘On, on, on, on . . .’

  the rest of the rigid cast echoed in unison, their words tapering off to silence.

  ‘Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting.

  The appetite may sicken, and so die.’

  ‘Die, die, die, die . . .’ came the dwindling echo.

  ‘That strain again!’

  ‘Again, again, again, again . . .’

  ‘It had a dying fall.’

  ‘Fall, fall, fall, fall.’

  ‘O!’

  ‘It came o ‘er my ear like the sweet sound

  That breathes upon a bank of violets.

  Stealing and giving odour.’

  ‘Odour, odour, odour, odour . . .’ This time the echo was as soft as breath.

  ‘Enough! no more.’

  Suddenly Orsino slammed his staff down on to the ground. All of the cast, except for the Duke and Curio, scattered off to the sides of the stage with the exaggerated, flickering movements of silent film.

  The Indian musician let out a long lamenting twang from his sitar, and Orsino was left to continue his speech in relatively traditional manner until Alexandru Radulescu’s next theatrical sensation.

  The effect was undeniably dramatic, but it had nothing to do with Twelfth Night.

  Charles’s position within the production was tense and difficult. Sir Toby Belch was a part he’d longed to play all his life, and he was now at the ideal . . . erm, maturity . . . to do it justice. He wouldn’t get another crack at it. And he didn’t want this chance buggered up by a director with no sensitivity to Shakespeare.

  John B. Murgatroyd and he had prepared tactics over various long sessions in the pub. Basically, they both intended to play their parts as they had been playing them under Gavin Scholes’ direction – and, in their view, as Shakespeare intended them to be played.

  So, though they listened politely to Alexandru’s suggestions, and even went through the motions of trying out his new ideas, after a couple of runs at a scene they would revert to doing it exactly the way they had before. This did not make for a good atmosphere between the two actors and their Director.

  A typical moment of conflict occurred when they were rehearsing Act Two, Scene Three. Maria, having described her plans to dupe Malvolio, has just exited, leaving Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek united in admiration for her ingenuity. The following lines then ensue:

  SIR TOBY: Good night, Penthesilea.

  SIR ANDREW: Before me, she’s a good wench.

  SIR TOBY: She’s a beagle, true bred, and one that adores me . . . what o’ that? [HE SIGHS.]

  SIR ANDREW: I was adored once, too. [HE SIGHS ALSO.]

  SIR TOBY: Let’s to bed, knight.

  Charles and John B. ran through the lines as they had rehearsed them under Gavin. Alexandru Radulescu, his little body contorted into a knot of concentration, watched intently. As soon as Charles had said his “‘Let’s to bed, knight,”’ the director waved his hands in the air.

  ‘OK, OK, we stop. There is a lot here. It is a very good moment this, I think.’

  ‘Certainly is,’ Charles agreed. For him it was the most poignant moment in the play, one of the many in Twelfth Night where farce is suddenly shaded with melancholy. He loved the wistfulness with which John B. Murgatroyd played his “‘I was adored once too,” and was pleased with the way he, as Sir Toby, put his arm around the ineffectual knight’s shoulder and led him off. It was a brief instance of closeness between the two characters; for a second Sir Toby suspended his cynical campaign of exploitation and showed Sir Andrew a flash of human sympathy.

  That was not, however, how Alexandru Radulescu saw the exchange. ‘Yes, very good,’ he repeated, looking down at his script. ‘As ever, Shakespeare tells us everything. It is all in the text, if only you look hard enough.’

  Actually, you don’t have to look that hard, thought Charles. Usually the meaning in Shakespeare’s lines is limpidly self-evident. Still, he was relieved that the director was finally recognising the pre-eminence of the actual words.

  ‘Now, obviously,’ Alexandru went on, ‘there are references here to the past, things that have happened before the play starts.’

  ‘Yes,’ Charles agreed.

  ‘Sir Andrew talking about having been “adored once too” John B. contributed.

  ‘. . . and,’ the director concluded triumphantly, ‘an unequivocal confirmation of the homosexual relationship between the two knights.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘What!’

  Alexandru became excited as he expounded his textual analysis. ‘You see, they talk about Maria. Sir Toby says she’s “one that adores me – what of that?” In other words, he is saying, “She fancies me, but what of that? Since I’m gay, she’s wasting her time.”’

  ‘No, he is not saying that. He’s praising her.’

  ‘Praising her? How do you get that? What does he describe Maria as? A “beagle”. This is not very flattering, I think. He is saying she is very ugly. He is saying she is a dog.’

  “‘Dog” didn’t have that meaning at the time Shakespeare was –’ But the director was too preoccupied even to hear counter-argument. Then Sir Andrew, all pathetic-like, reminds Sir Toby that they used to have a thing going. “‘I was adored once too,” he says – doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he does, but he’s not referring to Sir Toby.’

  ‘Oh no? Then why is it that Toby’s next line having been reminded that he’s been neglecting Sir Andrew emotionally is: “Let’s to bed, knight.” I mean, how overt do you want this to be? “Let’s to bed, knight” – you can’t have a less ambiguous sexual proposition than that, can you?’

  ‘Yes, of course you –’

  ‘No, come on. What did you used to say, back in the days when you were seducing women, eh?’ Charles rather resented that implication. ‘If you said “let’s to bed”, or “let’s go to bed”, it meant “I want to screw you” – yes?’

  ‘Look –’

  ‘Yes or no? Did it mean “I want to screw you” or not?’

  ‘Well, yes, in that context it probably did, but –’

  ‘See!’ The director spoke with the satisfaction of an ontologist into whose sitting room God has just walked.

  ‘But, Alexandru, that is not what it means in this context. Such an idea makes nonsense of the relationship between Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. They’re talking about Maria and what a great woman she is. What they’re saying is in total admiration of her.’

  ‘I think not. Look at the text, Charles. That is what you must always do when you are dealing with the work of a great genius like Shakespeare – look at the text.’

  That’s rich, coming from you.

  ‘And when we look at the text, what do we see? “Good night, Penthesilea.” Who is this “Penthesilea”, by the way?’

  ‘Penthesilea,’ said Charles patiently, ‘was the Queen of the Amazons. Hence, any forceful or effective woman. Sir Toby describes Maria by that name as a tribute to the skill with which she has set up the plan to fool Malvolio.’

  He looked up, anticipating apology in the Director’s face, but instead saw glee. Wagging a triumphant finger, Alexandru shouted, ‘You see, you see, that proves it! You’ve said it out of your own mouth! “Amazon” means “any forceful or effective woman”. In other words, a dominant woman. In other words, the dominant mother whose sexuality so frightened the son that, in self-protect
ion, he became homosexual.’

  ‘That is psychological claptrap. Apart from anything else, it’s been proved that there’s no connection between –’

  ‘What is more,’ Alexandru rolled on with satisfaction, ‘Amazon often means lesbian. Hmm, I think maybe we are also getting the key to Maria’s character here . . .’

  He looked thoughtfully across to Tottie Roundwood. To Charles’s annoyance, she didn’t immediately point out what balls this all was. She looked pleased, even honoured, to be sharing the wisdom of the guru.

  ‘OK.’ Alexandru clapped his hands. ‘Let’s run through the lines again, bearing in mind what we now know.’

  ‘We don’t know anything we didn’t know before,’ Charles protested.

  ‘No? So what are you saying? Are you saying that there is no attraction between Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek? Are you flying in the face of William Shakespeare’s text?’

  ‘No, I am not. I am saying there is affection between them, and this is the moment in the play where that affection is most overtly expressed – but that is all!’

  Alexandru Radulescu’s mouth pursed in annoyance. ‘It is very difficult, you know, for a director to direct when his actors will not take direction.’

  ‘I’ll take direction as well as the next actor,’ said Charles with dignity. ‘But not when I think what’s suggested is destroying the sense of the whole play.’

  The black eyes sizzled up at him. ‘It is not impossible for this production to be recast,’ the director hissed.

  ‘Oh yes, it is,’ said a cool unemotional voice. Thank God, thought Charles, that the Asphodel accountant was once again monitoring rehearsals. ‘Budget doesn’t allow it. Sorry, Alex, you work with the cast you’ve been given. They’re all contracted, so, except in case of illness or accident, they all do the full four months – OK?’

  Charles Paris met the stare of Alexandru’s ferocious black eyes and could see the rich variety of illnesses and accidents they were wishing on him.

  Chapter Eight

  CHARLES was annoyed. For many reasons. Not least among them was that Alexandru Radulescu was efficient. All the arguments Charles wanted to bring forward – that this endless mastication of the text and addition of gratuitous business slowed down the whole production process – were defused by the fact that the schedule was well up to time. Considering his late start on the production – and the amount of new stuff he was bringing into it – Alexandru Radulescu was showing himself to be a very well-organised Director.

  Even, Charles Paris was forced grudgingly to admit, a rather good Director. Not for this show, of course, not for Twelfth Night. Nor in fact for any show where the text was important. But for the presentation of spectacle, of individual theatrical moments independent of a play’s overall structure or the internal logic of characters, Radulescu came up with the goods. This guy should be directing musicals, thought Charles sourly. It wouldn’t matter there.

  But still his major source of annoyance was the way the director imposed interpretation on the text. In the second week of rehearsal, Alexandru became obsessed with the sexual ambiguity of Viola and Sebastian.

  ‘They express, you see, the male/female duality that is inherent in all of us. They look identical, and yet one is male and the other female. Yet, at the same time, both are attracted to their own sex. And both can inspire attraction in their own sex. I feel this is something we need to explore.’

  Charles had become very wary of the Director’s use of the word ‘explore’. It invariably led to the discovery of something that had never been there in the first place. But there was no dissent from either the two characters who were being discussed, or from anyone watching the rehearsal. The three who seemed always to be on hand, Tottie Roundwood, Benzo Ritter and Talya Northcott, nodded enthusiastically at Alexandru’s latest suggestion. Presumably they all paid such rapt attention because they hoped to pick up from the Romanian’s table crumbs of genius that might help their theatrical development. Such an idea seemed to Charles excusable in the naive youngsters; Tottie, he would have thought, was old enough to know better.

  ‘Now,’ the director announced. ‘I think it will help enormously if Viola and Sebastian play some of each other’s scenes –’

  ‘What!’ Sally Luther was very quick to pounce on this idea. Was Alexandru suggesting that they share out the scenes between them? She had come a long way on the path-of her rebuilt career to get the part of Viola. A leading part. She wasn’t about to sacrifice any of the character’s preciously won lines. Sebastian was an important, but minor, character in the play – even when he was being played by the star of ITV’s Air-Sea Rescue.

  The star in question, Russ Lavery, was, unsurprisingly, much more intrigued by the suggestion. ‘I think it could be good, Alex. Exploring the duality of the other character could give us a new dimension on how we play our own parts.’

  ‘Yes, that is my idea.’

  ‘I can’t see why you’re not keen, Sally,’ said Russ ingenuously.

  She ignored him, but demanded suspiciously, ‘Alex, what are we talking about here – testing this out as a kind of rehearsal method or actually playing some of each other’s scenes in performance?’

  ‘Oh, only as a rehearsal method,’ the director reassured her. But the pensive expression on his face added an unspoken gloss: ‘For the time being . . .’

  And, to Charles’s annoyance, the idea did work rather well. Russ Lavery sat in on rehearsals for Viola’s scenes and every now and then took over for a run. Sally Luther did the same on Sebastian’s scenes. It was a gimmick, but it enriched both performances. Their speech patterns and body language grew more alike. The concept that in Illyria the twins could be mistaken for each other became less fanciful.

  And, again to Charles’s annoyance, the experiment was somehow fitted in without putting the rest of the production behind schedule. Much as he would have liked to dismiss Alexandru Radulescu as a time-wasting poseur, he couldn’t.

  It was an afternoon rehearsal in the third week. Outside the rain fell, matching Charles’s mood. The first week’s atmosphere of excitement had dissipated. Perhaps it would have gone anyway by this stage of the production, but Charles couldn’t help feeling wistful for the days when Gavin Scholes had been in charge.

  What upset him was being out on a limb. While he had never been one of those actors who can see nothing outside the show he’s currently working on, Charles Paris had always been a popular member of the companies he was in. Not one of the most boisterous ones, a bit quiet sometimes, possibly even a loner, but one of the team. What Alexandru Radulescu had achieved was to make him unpopular.

  The trouble was that the rest of the cast had been charmed by the Director, colonised, subsumed. They had begun to share Alexandru Radulescu’s self-belief. They thought his ideas were good. They thought Twelfth Night would be a better production for its Director-transplant.

  Even Sally Luther, once she had been assured none of her lines were at risk, had started to get excited about the changes.

  Only Charles Paris and John B. Murgatroyd held out for the old ways, and John B.’s allegiance was definitely wavering. Charles knew the attitude he’d taken wasn’t doing his image in the company any good. It showed his age, his inflexibility. He would overhear cast members talking about how exciting it was to ‘get a different perspective on a classic, rather than just relying on old-fashioned storytelling.’ Then he would look away to avoid their gaze of mild contempt at someone who still valued ‘old-fashioned storytelling’.

  He also knew that ultimately his intransigence wasn’t helping his cause. Although Alexandru Radulescu’s directorial method relied on a cataclysmic clash of styles, the one style that would stick out like a sore thumb amidst all the innovation would be the traditional. And Charles was giving a very deliberately traditional performance.

  He couldn’t see quite how the problem would resolve itself. Come the performance, Charles Paris would look as if he were in an entirely
different play from the rest of the cast. The fact that he still felt confident he’d be in Twelfth Night, while the rest were in something else entirely, would not lessen the incongruity.

  For many of the younger members of the cast, this was their first Shakespeare, anyway. Actors like Benzo Ritter and Talya Northcott felt no obligation to preserve anything, because they weren’t aware that anything needed preserving. So long as Alexandru Radulescu gave each a few individual moments of flashy theatricality, then everything was fine by them.

  So what should Charles do – knuckle under, sacrifice his pride, give a performance as Sir Toby Belch that he knew to be totally wrong, and support Alexandru Radulescu’s conspiracy to upstage Shakespeare?

  Something of that order might have to happen eventually, but Charles Paris was determined to resist the moment as long as possible.

  He was also feeling low about Frances. There had been no more direct confrontations, she had been polite – even pleasant – to him, but he got the feeling she was counting the days till he’d be off to Great Wensham and out of her hair.

  Perhaps he was being paranoid about that. What was undeniably true was that she hadn’t yet readmitted him to her bed.

  Off the main hall where they rehearsed there was a little scullery which the company called the ‘Green Room’. The name was appropriate. It had the same atmosphere as backstage, the same coffee jars and cups and spoons, the same sugar spills and biscuit tins.

  Usually there was also the same assemblage of actors and actresses, sprawled over chairs sipping coffee, perched against tables bitching about their agents, hunched over crosswords, books or knitting. But the room was unoccupied when Charles Paris went in there that afternoon.