The Mechanical Theater

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

S
olomon Wade turned his collar up against the frosty December wind and rushed across the square toward the streets of the second quadrant. The clock tower read just shy of twenty minutes to seven—­he still had time.

He strode up Brancaster, his hurried steps echoing off the cobblestone path. Ahead, the narrow street opened to Delaney, half a block from Le Theatre Mecanique. Solomon quickened his pace and squeezed between a parked rickshaw and a tower of crates stacked against the brick wall. His jacket snagged the edge of one of the boxes as he slipped past, and the crate crashed to the cobblestones. The wood panels cracked and buckled, littering straw packaging and loose gears onto the slick pavement.

Solomon staggered a few steps and glimpsed inside the rickshaw garage to his right. The broad doors hung open, revealing several rickshaws in various states of disrepair. Steam engine pistons were strewn about, leaning against empty cylinders and heavily greased gear trains. He didn’t see a mechanic.

He glanced toward Delaney, the whitewashed faces of its shops and hotels in sight. He guessed he had fifteen minutes before auditions closed. Still enough time.

He bent and collected the loose gears and linkages, placing them atop one of the other crates, acutely aware of the passage of time—­every second ticking nearer to the top of the hour was another second wasted. Finally, he scooped the last gear from the cobblestones and swept the straw packaging back into the broken crate.

A man appeared at the garage doors, wiping his hands on a grease-­stained cloth. “I thought I heard someone knock into this mess.” He gestured to the crates and pocketed the rag. “I thank you for cleaning it up, though you certainly didn’t have to. My assistant should have moved the boxes this morning. It’s his mess to clean, not yours.”

Solomon set the broken crate against the wall and straightened, wiping his palms on his trousers. “That’s all right. I don’t mind.”

The man appraised Solomon. “You know, while you’re here . . . You look like a strong enough lad.” He jabbed a thumb toward the crates. “Want to move these boxes into the shop for me? I’ll pay you a fair penny.”

Solomon peered up the street and frowned, knowing he was losing precious minutes standing here, but if the man would pay . . . He glanced at the mechanic. “How much?”

“Eh . . .” The man smoothed his thinning black hair and inspected the stack of crates. “Half a shilling per?”

Solomon gaped at the man. “Half a shilling
each
?”

“Aye.”

He quickly counted the crates—­five, at half a shilling per. He lifted his hat and ran his hand through his sooty hair. That was a full day’s wages in the boilers. He sighed heavily, aware that the clock was against him, but he couldn’t turn the offer down. He needed every penny he could earn. “I’ll do it right away, sir.”

“There’s a good lad. Bring them in over here, by this shelf.”

Solomon slipped out of his coat, and the cold winter wind pierced through his thin shirt and bit at his skin. He hung the coat over a door handle and rubbed some warmth back into his arms before lifting the first crate. Emblems from mainland manufacturers marked each side of the wooden boxes, stamped with postage tags and customs labels from various ports across England and Wales. He worked as fast as he could, hoping to finish before the clock struck the hour, but as he hefted the next to last crate into his arms, the bell tower tolled. He glanced toward Delaney’s whitewashed buildings and sighed, a knot in his chest. He had missed the auditions.

The final chime echoed through the city as he brought in the last of the crates, and as he slid the box onto the bottom shelf, the garage owner fetched some coins from his pocket. Solomon stood and wiped the sweat from his brow, a frown on his face as the mechanic placed the three coins into his hand. “There you are,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder with a grin. “If you’re ever looking for some hard labor, keep me in mind. I could use a lad like you around here.” He offered his hand. “Roderick Allen.”

Solomon pocketed the money and grabbed his coat. “I’ll remember it, sir.” He stuffed his arms through the sleeves and shook the man’s hand. “Solomon Wade.”

His earnings jingling heavily in his pocket, he bid Mr. Allen farewell and left the garage, once again turning up his collar against the chill wind. Inside the garage, Mr. Allen pressed a switch on the wall and activated the mechanism that powered the doors. A bell rang and a gear train grated, slowly drawing the garage doors shut. Solomon waved goodbye once more, and Mr. Allen returned the gesture before the double doors shut with a resounding clunk.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Solomon shoved his hands into his coat pockets and headed back toward home. Auditions at the theater were over; he’d missed his chance. Next auditions weren’t likely to be for another six months. He sighed and walked listlessly down the narrow street, but then after only a few steps beyond the garage doors, he stopped and raised his eyes to the smoggy haze over the city, wondering if maybe it wasn’t too late. It was only a few minutes past seven. Maybe there was still time.

He slipped his hands out of his pockets and hurried back up the street toward Delaney, skidding to a halt at the corner. Le Theatre Mecanique loomed ahead; its prominent facade claimed the entire block, a stretch of dark brick and ornately carved wood amidst the austere whitewashed plaster of the second quadrant shops and hotels.

The theater marquee still bore the title and the names of the actors of the previous production—­
The Pirates of Penzance—­
and months-­old advertisements plastered the billboards on either side of the main entries. When a play was on, the theater was the gem of Delaney Road, all lights and music and bright, colorful posters. Now, the only illumination on the theater’s dark face was a faint flicker of gaslight through the left entrance, like a single pale eye watching him.

The clock above the ticket box read ten minutes past the hour. With luck, they might still let him audition.

Solomon stumbled through the street traffic, dodging sputtering rickshaws and top-­hatted, coat-­tailed gentlemen. Shoulders bumped him and dresses sashayed and slithered against his trousers, the hems snagging on his boots. He mumbled apologies to no one in particular. A few ­people stared down their upturned noses at him, disgust written on their faces at the sight of his frayed, soot-­stained jacket. He merely apologized again and pushed his way through the rest of the shoppers until he stood on the footpath at the theater doors. A wooden sign hung from the other side of the glass:
OPEN
AUDITIONS, DECEMBER
6TH, UNTIL 7 O’CLOC
K IN THE EVENING.

Solomon pushed through the glass doors—­unlocked, thankfully. His heart beat erratically as he walked across the plush carpet toward the theater director’s office. Then the sound of a young woman’s voice drifted to him from the theater hall, the dramatic allure of her words drawing him away from the office door. He wandered to the open doors and glimpsed inside.

The fabled mechanical stage rose at the front of the vast hall, looming over the orchestral trench where the musical automatons played the instrumental accompaniment to the actors’ performances. It was empty now, the automated orchestra absent from their posts. A thick red curtain hid the background panels from view, and the mechanical plates upon the stage remained unmoving, the platform a plain, flat surface.

Standing onstage was Marion Kozlowski, the starlet of Le Theatre Mecanique. Solomon knew her face from the many posters and playbills advertising the last three productions at the theater. Up on the stage, she seemed to him the perfect portrait of what a leading actress should be. She stood with her shoulders back and chin high, the tilt of her face catching the light softly on her cheekbones. She gestured with unerring poise and grace, her robust voice and dramatic flair commanding nothing but the utmost attention. She moved across the stage in a way that made Solomon believe that if he took his eyes off her for even a moment, he would miss something important, something life-­changing, and he could easily understand why she was the actress who audiences from all over the world came to see.

Solomon watched as she delivered her lines to a male actor opposite her.

“Perchance! Nay, and most like:

You must not stay here longer, your dismission

Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.

Where’s Fulvia’s process? Caesar’s I would say? Both?”

Someone touched Solomon’s shoulder. “Can I help you?”

He jumped and turned around, slipping his hat from his head. A tall, lanky man with a firm jaw stood before him, examining him with an arched eyebrow and a sagging frown. His hair was faded blond and his eyes a cold blue behind square glasses.

“Er—­yes. I—­” Solomon cleared his throat and pointed back to the sign on the door with his thumb. “Sorry, I’m looking for the theater director, Mr. Niles.”

The man adjusted his glasses on his nose. “You’ve found him, then.”

Solomon raised his eyebrows and offered his hand. “Solomon Wade, sir. Nice to meet you.” He quickly shook the director’s hand and scratched behind his ear. “I—­er—­I know I’m late for auditions, but I hoped maybe you still had something available.” He swallowed. “For the play.”

“Ah.” The director’s frown deepened. “I’m afraid all the parts have been filled. We had quite a turnout, you see.”

“Oh.” Solomon slouched his shoulders, trying to remember the names for the different roles beneath the title characters. He glanced at Mr. Niles’s narrow face and frowned. “What about understudies, or second understudies? I’ll take anything you got.”

The director pressed his lips into a fine line, and the wrinkles along his sagging mouth deepened. “I’m sorry, but you should have come earlier. We have all the actors we need, even for the understudies. You’ll just have to audition again next production.”

Solomon wrung his hat in his hands and flecks of caked-­on soot rained on the carpet. “There must be something available. Anything. An understudy for a minor or even a nonspeaking part.
Something
. You don’t even have to pay me. Just, please . . . I want this. I—­” He swallowed. “I
need
this.”

The director adjusted his glasses and examined him more closely. His gray-­blue eyes narrowed and he tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “Well . . .” he said, arching his brows. “We start callbacks tomorrow. Something might open up.”

“Does that mean I can audition?”

The director shrugged. “If you still want to.”

Solomon nodded hurriedly. “I do, sir.”

Mr. Niles gestured to the office door behind him. “To my office, then.” He crossed the red plush carpet, Solomon close behind. “Now we won’t know until the end of the week if there is a role open for you,” he said, opening the office door. “We usually give the actors a few days to respond before we decide on alternates, but it wouldn’t hurt to have your information on file—­should I deem your audition acceptable, of course.”

Solomon stepped into the office, and Mr. Niles closed the door behind them. “I have an audition sheet here, a soliloquy from the opening of
Richard III.
It should do
.
” He plucked a sheet of paper off his desk and handed it to Solomon. “Start from the beginning.”

Solomon glanced down at the paper. He knew this play, though as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t Shakespeare’s best.

“Well, go on,” said the director, sitting back in his leather chair.

Solomon nodded and cleared his throat a few times, trying to settle his nerves. Closing his eyes a moment, he exhaled a deep breath and then read the lines.

“N-­Now is the winter of our d-­discontent

Made g-­glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that—­”

He stumbled over the next word.

“—­that lour’d upon our house

In the deep b-­bosom of the ocean buried.”

“A little louder,” said Mr. Niles. He breathed deeply and raised his chin, gesturing his arms wide. “Project your voice to the audience. You want them to be able to hear you
and
understand you.” He waved his hand. “Continue.”

“N-­Now are our brows b-­bound with victorious wreaths;

Our b-­bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed—­”

“Stop.” Mr. Niles sighed. “That’s enough.”

Solomon lowered the sheet of paper and stared at the man, his breath trapped somewhere between his fast-­beating heart and uneasy stomach.

The director removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Can I ask you something?”

Solomon nodded.

He inspected his glasses in the dim electric light and then fitted the wires back over his ears. “Why are you here?”

He frowned. “Sorry?”

Mr. Niles gestured to the room. “Why do you want a part in the play? Why do you want to audition?”

Solomon scratched the back of his head, catching soot under his fingernails. He dropped his hand and flicked the grit away. “I—­it’s just—­” He swallowed. “I want to act.”

Mr. Niles leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “But
why
?”

“Because it’s what I want to do,” he said, feeling the back of his neck grow hot. “Do I have to have a reason beyond that?”

The man’s eyes narrowed behind his square glasses. “Most ­people come to me wanting the lead part in my plays, wanting to become an actor here so they can work their way to London. Most of them tell me they’ve dreamed of being like the actor or actress they saw once in a play when they were a child, that they’ve come to every production since before they could walk. And some come to me wanting excitement, adventure, a break from their parents and their dull, ordinary lives. So, tell me, why are
you
here? Why do you want to act?”

Solomon licked his lips and squeezed his hand into a fist, crumpling the sheet of paper Mr. Niles had given him. “Not for any of those reasons, sir.”