An Idol for Others (23 page)

Walter kept it an exercise in technique, trying to pump passion into a scene that had been written for chilling irony, making a statement out of a question mark. Greg was a naturally reticent actor. Walter had to explore him to find the spring of passion.

“This isn’t the way I see it at all,” Greg said petulantly at one point.

“Don’t worry. We’ll run through it once more and then try some other things.” They walked through it again. “OK. Keep all that in mind and let’s just talk it–for each other.”

They moved about the stage and conversed together about love and betrayal and renunciation in Johnny Bainbridge’s words. The fact that they were speaking into each other’s eyes gave a new intensity to Greg’s interpretation. At one moment he put a hand on Walter’s shoulder. It was an actor’s gesture, but Walter felt a sexual current in it. The slight shock it caused him was followed by the sudden realization that he was at last using the ambivalent communication system he had been holding in reserve. Men and women, boys and girls–he could guide them to express the truth, his truth, whatever it was, which he could imagine emerging only in some dramatic situation. He wasn’t attracted to Greg. He had black Irish good looks but was probably hairy. In back his trousers fell in an almost straight line from belt to heels. Walter knew he had been married once and was about to get married again. Still, he might have a hidden twist that could be exploited.

They came to the long pause Walter had suggested before the curtain line. Greg’s eyes searched his; Walter’s met them encouragingly. Greg barely breathed the final words with an upward inflection, like the question that was implied in the whole play.

“Great,” Walter burst out. “Great, kiddo. If you can put it all together somehow, you’ll have them cheering in the aisles.” He hugged him and could feel that Greg liked it. “That’s enough for tonight. Let’s go have a drink somewhere before the sun comes up.”

They found a nearly deserted bar and settled into a booth. Walter deployed all his powers of seduction. He flattered the actor, he laughed at his jokes, he let his eyes linger admiringly in Greg’s. All the exhaustion of the last few days had vanished. He was excited, not by his quarry but by the potentialities of the situation.

“I’m a bad influence,” he said after they had both had several drinks. “I should’ve sent you to bed hours ago.”

“It’s been a big evening. How about if I go back to your place with you and get a couple hours’ sleep?”

“We probably better break it up. We’re apt to keep each other awake all night.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Hey, I didn’t mean any queer stuff. You know that, don’t you? I’m not queer, for God’s sake.” His speech was getting heavy with drink.

“Of course not,” Walter said lightly.

They parted in the street, and Walter went on his way with a revitalized spring in his step. Later the same day, back at the theater for rehearsals, he pursued his conquest of Greg. An odd relationship was developing between them, hunter and hunted. Walter stalked him. Greg shied from him with fear and fascination. Walter felt himself breaking through layer after layer of reserve as he wore him down. He didn’t quite know what he expected to happen; he suspected only that in Greg’s state of tension and fatigue, an unfamiliar sexual goad might prove explosive. He wanted to throw him off-balance so that his full emotional range would be exposed.

He encouraged him to play the last scene in the high-pitched, theatrical way they had worked out the night before and geared the other actors into it. It brought Johnny and Clara running.

“What in hell does Boland think he’s doing?” Johnny demanded at the end of the morning run-through. “If he’s going to play it like this, I’d better add a line about his just having escaped from a nut house.”

Walter chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s only an experiment. Greg’s a good actor. He can’t play against the grain like that for long. Something’s gonna give.”

Clara was more vehement. “I never thought he’d be the new Olivier, but I didn’t think you’d let him ruin the play.”

“He won’t. I think I’m on to something. If it doesn’t work by the end of the week, I’ll put everything back the way it was.”

Greg’s performance at the night’s preview frequently made Walter flinch, but it was breaking out of the mold of charm in which it had been set. He caught reverberations of the real feeling he had evoked when they had worked alone together. There was no slump in audience interest, and the curtain fell to more robust applause than they had had so far. He went backstage radiating confidence and encountered an air of bewilderment. The actors were gratified by their reception but doubtless were wondering what they had done to deserve it. He told everybody they were great and asked Greg to stay again. Wearing him down physically was part of his plan.

They went through the scene repeatedly as they had the night before, but Walter wasn’t interested in interpretation now. He interrupted constantly, he cajoled, he harassed, he seduced with praise. Greg looked at him like a beaten dog that wanted only a pat on the head from its master. Walter stayed close to him and provoked physical contact and felt the sexual current growing stronger. As tension mounted between them, he made greater demands on Greg’s vocal resources; and hostility flared in him. For a moment, he thought Greg might hit him. He called a halt finally and took him out again for drinks.

“If it’s going to go on like this,” Greg said after they had had a few, “we might as well live together until opening night.”

Walter knew it might not have been intended, but it came across as a rather wistful proposition. “It’s an idea, but we’d probably end by killing each other?’ Walter went into reverse. He dropped his seductive wiles and became listless and weary. “Come on. Drink up. We better get away from each other for a few hours.” There was hurt and reproach and puzzlement in Greg’s eyes when they parted.

The next day Greg approached him repeatedly on one pretext or another. Walter adopted a calculatedly curt manner. It was his turn to be wooed, and he made it clear it would have to be done from the stage. “We’ll have a talk after I’ve seen your performance tonight,” he said.

The curtain hadn’t been up long before Walter felt like letting an exultant shout. All the play had filled out and come alive at last. Greg was playing with a new blaze of energy and bravado. The listless preview audience was caught and held. There was an excited babble in the lobby during the intermission. For the first time Walter allowed himself to wonder if they might have a hit. Everything continued to go beautifully, although he could see that nerves were beginning to tell on Greg.

As he started into the last scene, Walter knew a crucial moment was coming up. He froze to attention and gripped the rail in the back of the house. Greg had discarded all the histrionics they had worked out together and returned to Walter’s original muted interpretation but was underpinning it with tense, agonized longing. His voice and body were gripped by a paroxysm of repressed revolt. It was a daring approach and utterly right, but required iron control. Walter sensed Greg’s slipping. He held his breath, wondering if he would make it to the end. His timing grew erratic. He stumbled over his lines. Walter was able to breathe again as he reached the final pause before the curtain line. Greg turned to face the audience. Its silence was dense with expectation. The pause stretched to infinity, and still he held the house in his grip. His mouth opened. Walter prayed for deliverance. No words came. His eyes went blank and staring, the spell was broken, and he sank to his knees, a man collapsing in public. The curtain dropped like a knife and didn’t rise. Walter raced for the backstage pass door, leaving the audience in a tumult of confusion from which arose a scattering of applause.

He found Greg stretched out flat on the stage, his eyes closed, surrounded by the cast. He pushed people aside and bent over him. “Come on, kiddo,” he said gently. “Everything’s perfect now.”

Greg let out a howl and began to writhe about the floor.

“Leave him alone.” Clara spoke from behind him. “He’s not worth bothering about.”

He glanced back at her and gave her a warning look. He took hold of Greg’s arm and started to pull him up. Greg’s body contracted, and he rolled away and staggered up and headed for the wings. Walter caught up with him and put an arm around him. He let his body go against him. “Sweet dreams, everybody,” Walter called over his shoulder. “Rehearsal as usual in the morning.”

He dragged Greg to his dressing room and eased him into a chair. He slumped over the dressing table and began to beat it with his fists. Jars and tubes danced and rattled on its surface.

“Get out of here, goddamn it,” he shouted. “I’ve had enough. Let Holloway play the part. I’m through.”

“Don’t be a fool, kiddo. You’re going to bring the house down on opening nights.”

“I won’t be there, I tell you.” He continued to beat on the table. “Play the part yourself. You’ve hounded me and hounded me until I don’t know what I’m doing. You goddamned son of a bitch. Get out of here.” He suddenly lifted his head and froze as if he had heard a voice calling him. He delivered the curtain line in a roar of full-throated despair, completing his performance. Walter felt his scalp tingling, electrified. Greg hung his head over his fists and spoke in a strangled voice. “That’s the way I was going to do it. Then everything stopped. I thought you might not like it. I couldn’t–” He slid forward, scattering makeup across the table, and burst into loud, harsh sobs.

Walter watched him for a moment, exulting. There would be no more reticence now. He had succeeded in unleashing a torrent of emotion. He was sure that Greg, as any good actor, should, had been observing himself even during his wildest outbursts. He was adding a new register to his equipment that Walter would be able to tap at will. He moved in over him and began to stroke his head and neck and shoulders. He was glad that he could handle a man lovingly. “Everything’s fine now, kiddo. There’s nothing more to worry about,” he soothed him.

Greg’s sobs slowly subsided. He lifted his head slightly and swayed it back and forth and managed to speak. “Why did you do this to me? Why do you want to destroy me?” He dropped his head again as he was shaken by a fresh outburst of sobbing.

Walter gripped his shoulders and waited. When he was quieter, he pulled him up against him. “Destroy you? Don’t you realize what you did tonight? You were magnificent. If those damn fools backstage had brought the curtain down slowly, you’d have had a standing ovation. You didn’t need the last line. All you need is to get a final grip on it, and you’ll be the sensation of the season.”

He dropped his head back against Walter’s abdomen and shook it slowly. “No, I’m through. You don’t expect me to work again tonight?”

“Of course not. We’ve got plenty of time. You’ll get it set tomorrow.”

“I suppose you hate me. Why did you pull back today? I thought we were in this together?”

“We are. I just wanted to give you a chance to work it out on your own. Boy, did you ever. I couldn’t have done that for you.” He reached over and stuck his fingers into a pot of cold cream and dabbed it on Greg’s face and rubbed it into his makeup. Greg’s body was shaken by a long shuddering sigh, and he opened his eyes. “You mean it? It was really good?”

Their eyes met in the mirror. “It was more than good. It was great. Better than anything I ever hoped for.”

Greg’s breath caught, and silent tears spilled from his eyes. Walter reached for a stained towel and began to remove the mess from his face. Greg was his instrument; he had mastered him. Handling him and ministering to him aroused him agreeably. “There. That’s most of it.” He wiped his hands and tossed the towel back onto the dressing table and rested his hands on Greg’s shoulders. “How about it? Are you ready to change and get out of here?”

Greg’s hands shot up and gripped Walter’s. “Oh, Christ, Walter. I’m sorry. You’ll stay with me tonight, won’t you? You’ve got to. I’m scared to death. I’ve never been so close to cracking up. I know you can get me through it.”

“You’re damn right I will. Come back to my place. I’ll give you a drink and put you to bed, and we’ll get a decent night’s sleep.”

“You know I’m not after you, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it much matters.” He laughed and stepped closer and moved his crotch against Greg’s shoulder. “You feel what’s happening there? So what? We’ve created something together. Thinking about what a fabulous performance you’re going to give makes me a little hard for some reason. I don’t care if you know it.”

He took him home and opened the foldout bed and put the bedclothes on it and told Greg to get into it while he mixed them drinks. He brought the drinks back and stretched out on top of the covers and reassured him at greater length about the insignificance of the night’s disaster. He was determined to untangle his nerves and restore his confidence so that the breakdown would be forgotten in the morning. Greg dissolved into tears once more and clutched his hand. It was evident that a further step was required. Walter took his clothes off and got into bed and gathered him into his arms. He kissed his eyes until the weeping stopped. The sexual encounter was brief, quickly terminated by Greg’s orgasm. After that, they slept.

It marked the end of Walter’s creative involvement in the production. The next day he began to grasp at thoughts that had nothing to do with the production. He remembered hearing Clara and David’s discussing the allocation of first-night seats, and it occurred to him that Fay was probably back in the city. When he had the opportunity, he dropped a nickel in the phone backstage and called her number and gave his name. In a moment she was greeting him with friendly warmth. She had been back in town less than a week and was looking forward to the opening night.

“I was just going over arrangements for the party. You won’t be a flop, will you, darling? I do want the party to be gay.”

“What party is that?”

“The first-night party. We’re giving it. Didn’t Clara tell you?”

“Oh, maybe she did. I haven’t listened to anything anybody’s said for weeks.”