Reign (51 page)

~ * ~

On Monday the rest of the cast had rehearsed in Dennis's absence, and now that he had returned, they still rehearsed in his absence. Dennis was there, they all felt, in body only.

He grew paler and thinner as the days passed. Those who had lunch with him saw him eat, but could see no trace of the nourishment in his flesh. Even his singing voice, that wonder of regularity whose lack of failure had never caused him to miss a performance, was growing weak. The notes were always there and on pitch without cracking, but their fullness had diminished to heard shadows of what they had been. Kelly and the others who shared scenes with him tried desperately to draw the Emperor of old out of him, but with no success. They worked around him.

Many of them had rehearsed shows like this before, star vehicles for music theatres in which the lead, usually a TV celebrity, came in for the final run-through, and was represented in early rehearsals by an assistant stage manager who carried the book, read the lines lifelessly, and walked through the movements like a trained zombie. It was little better than acting with a puppet. Only in this case the puppet was a performer who had won two Tony Awards and the applause and respect of the theatre world.

Ann Deems did what she could for Dennis. She encouraged him, admonished him, seldom left his side, lived with him, made love to him, and loved him. His reciprocating love, she thought, seemed the only real thing about him anymore.

When she met him at the studio at the end of the day's rehearsal, he showed more life than he did at any other time. Still, she thought

"He's dying, John. I really think he is."

Steinberg quickly looked up from the papers they had been about to go over, as if surprised at the unexpected comment. "They said he was all right at the hospital.”

“But he seems so weak, and getting weaker."

"I know. But too, I know Dennis. I've known him for a much longer period of time than you, my dear, despite your recent relationship. And there were times he was absolutely
dreadful
in rehearsals — disinterested, bored, lifeless —"

"But ever as bad as this?"

Steinberg sat back in his chair, folded his hands upon his generous lap, and looked up at the ceiling, as if his memory dwelt there. "No," he said. "I'll concede that. No. But the situation . . . all the deaths, the loss." He sighed. "Robin . . . Whitney . . . Donna . . .”

Steinberg sighed, and Ann knew that he was remembering the woman who had worked with him for so many years. Their own relationship had improved considerably in the past month, and she thought that Steinberg might be trying to turn her into a replacement for Donna.

Steinberg jerked his head down. "He'll change once he gets on a stage. And when he finally has an audience . . . well, you'll see. We'll have the old Dennis back again. We'll have the Emperor, by God." A shiver ran through her at the intensity of his grin. "But enough of this. I can only say don't worry about him. You're good for him, Ann. He needs you. And he'll be all right. Now our job is to make sure that the evening of the performance is everything that he wants it to be."

She nodded. "I'm sorry. Sometimes it just gets to me. I worry that he won't . . . have it."

"He'll have it. And we'll have one hell of an audience. I've got the donations to date here. At $5000 a seat, we'll be filling the Venetian Theatre to capacity.”

“John, that's incredible!"

"Not so incredible when you think about it. Only about half of these names are our prior investors. The others are all from news services, magazines, television stations . . . both Geraldo and Sally will be there."

The truth hit her then. "My God, because of what happened . . . and —“

“Because of what might happen again, yes, you're right. The vultures are out in force, hoping for a show beyond the show."

"You can't let them, John."

"I can't stop them, Ann. Their money is as good as anyone else's. But understand, nothing will happen beyond the show. Backstage will be filled with cast and crew, and we will have security people
en masse
. There will be no opportunity for what happened to Tommy
Werton
. These news hounds will see a musical, nothing more. And the publicity this will bring the project is something that no money can buy. I confess I hadn't thought of that angle when Dennis said he wanted to do Empire again."

"But it seems so ghoulish . . .”

"What's ghoulish about playing
A Private Empire
? Some people may have a morbid reason for coming, but that's their problem. They'll soon learn that if they want to see
Grand
Guignol
, they had best go to Paris. They won't see it here. No, Ann, the only thing they will see on that stage is the, shall I say, transformation of Dennis Hamilton." Steinberg's eyes got very small, and he leaned across the desk toward her. "Why is he doing it, Ann? He hasn't told me."

"Maybe he thought you were right about it, and changed his mind."

"It's not that. It happened after Evan had his attack. Why does he want to do it? What good does he think it will do?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

"I won't do that. I have never . . . pried into his affairs. He's told me much without my asking, and I don't want that to change."

"Maybe he thinks," Ann said slowly, "that this is something you'd have trouble accepting."

"Perhaps I would. But I would try."

"I'm sorry, John. Just know that he believes that it's for the best. And I believe it too. If it works, if what's supposed to happen happens, it will change things. End things."

"The killings."

She paused. Had she said too much? John was such a materialist, how could he believe in the reality of the Emperor?

"Is he trying to . . . draw this person out?"

"In a way," she said. "Or maybe drive him away."

"If what Chief Munro thinks is true, that could be very dangerous.”

“It could be more dangerous for Dennis to do nothing."

"Ann, I want to know —"

"
John
," she said, interrupting him, "please. I can't tell you
any more
." And she did not.

~ * ~

In the middle of the last week in New York, Sybil Creed dropped in to the rehearsal. By now, the chorus was working together with the principals, and Quentin was directing Act II, Scene 7, the last scene, in which the Emperor Frederick, having slain
Kronstein
in a duel, speaks to his people, telling them that if he is killed leading his army against
Wohlstein
to restore the usurped King Fritz to the throne, the people of
Waldmont
should be his heirs and rule through a democracy.

When the speech was over and a five was called, Sybil walked up to Dennis, who smiled and dutifully kissed her cheek. He had not seen her since the night of Tommy
Werton's
death, as she had been in Europe for several months running an acting seminar.

"That was shit, son," were the first words out of her mouth. Dennis gave a small laugh. "And that laugh," she went on, "should be called self-deprecating, because if I've ever seen an actor with a reason to deprecate himself, it's you today."

"Do you want to continue to lambast me here in front of my cast," Dennis said, "or would you rather take me outside to the woodshed?"

"How long is your break?"

"Only five, but they're doing a scene I'm not in."

"Fine," said Sybil. "Take me out for a drink. After seeing the garbage you were just spewing, I need one."

"All right," Dennis said, taking his jacket from the back of a chair and waving to Curt to let him know he was leaving. "But please don't hesitate to tell me what you really think."

Sybil's sharp line of a mouth curled. "Very good. Was that irony? God knows there was more spark in it than in that watery speech you just gave." She offered her arm, Dennis took it, and they walked out.

When they were comfortably settled in a booth at Joe Allen's, with drinks in front of them, Sybil took Dennis's right hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "I heard about you," she said, "but I didn't believe it. You're the talk of Broadway, Dennis dear. The only performer living whose talent has not only deserted him, but has apparently sued for alimony as well. Rumor has it that you've had to sign over half your brain cells. True?"

"What does it look like?"

"It looks like you're some goddamned apprentice at the worst non-Equity dinner theatre in South Dakota, for Christ's sake. What is the
matter
with you? Did you forget how to fool the nice people?"

He shrugged. "Did I ever know?"

"Of course you knew, don't be fatuous. You could never fool me, but you fooled the others well enough. And I hate to see a charlatan lose his skill. You may have to actually learn to
act
, Dennis." She threw back half her drink and shuddered. "Now that I've bawled you out for no longer being able to do what I always felt you shouldn't anyway, let me tell you how sorry I am over everything that's happened. You have had a hill full of crosses to bear." She put back her head and looked down the long bridge of her nose at him. "I assume that's what's been the cause of this . . . performing debacle?"

"In a way."

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"Try to . . . find it again. The performance."

"And where might you be looking? Outside? All around? In the movies? Under cabbage leaves?"

He shook his head. "Inside."

"Inside. Will wonders never cease." She shook her head in mock amazement, then plunged it toward him like a hawk attacking a vole. "Well, you'd damn well better find it, my friend. Because you are no more than an object of pity right now. You've got how long till the big night?"

"A little over two weeks."

"I'd recommend some sessions, but I don't think you'll have time. So perhaps you wouldn't mind if I gave you some advice?"

"Sybil, at this point I'd take acting advice from
Vanna
White."

"Oh, thank you so much for the compliment."

"You know what I mean. I've always admired your work, even when I haven't agreed with the principles behind it."

"Meaning that you do now?"

His only reaction was a shrug.

"It's hard for an old dog to learn new tricks, isn't it, Dennis? But I'll tell you what I think, and you can take it for what it's worth. Maybe it'll help you. Maybe you'll decide that you
do
want to try being a tree and letting your branches blow in the fucking wind." She took another sip of her drink. "I've said it before and I'll say it again. All your life you've been afraid to drop the mask and confront yourself. You've worked with technique alone, and in that way you've protected yourself from the truth — both bad and good — about Dennis Hamilton. Your emotions have been only constructed artifice, and it's only when you confront your
true
emotions, emotions expressed
sincerely
, that you will give a truly great performance. Working with a series of constructs, as you've been doing for your entire career, is
not
the way to bring real life to a character."

Dennis began to laugh. It started out slow and soft and gentle, then increased in volume and became a series of rattling bursts that filled the room. His eyes squeezed shut and tears emerged from their inner corners. The attack slowly diminished to weak, panting sobs, and he waved his hands in the air feebly in apology.

"Well," Sybil said in a voice as chilled and dry as her martini, "I'm glad you still find my beliefs so amusing."

"It's . . . I'm sorry, it's not that, Sybil, I just . . . things have been stranger than you can imagine, and . . .”He paused. There was no way he could tell her the truth. "I'm sorry. Really. I won't laugh again."

"Do," she said, getting stiffly to her feet. "At least it's an emotion, and it's real." She spat her curtain line, "And that's more than I've seen from
you
in
years
," and left him sitting alone.

God damn it
, he thought.
She was so close in one way, so far in another
. Despite what Sybil said, it was precisely the strength of his dramatic constructions that had brought his character to life, and to a hateful, violent life at that. But she was right in that it was only by the strength of his own emotions, at least those he still had left, that he would bring those he had lost to the Emperor back again.

And make his soul complete.

That night, after his calamitous discussion with Sybil Creed, Dennis had a variant of the Actor's Nightmare. He was standing on the stage of the Venetian Theatre, dressed in the full regalia of the Emperor Frederick. Richard Reynolds, the actor who played the role of the Peasant Leader in the 1966 production of
A Private Empire
, was with him on stage. Dennis knew that he had just pardoned the man from being a spy and made him a retainer, for Richard said:

— Would to God
my
Emperor were as decent as you. I'll serve you well, majesty. My life for yours —