And I can’t afford to run a car. My father’s— He can’t be left alone. I have to pay someone to sit with him on theater evenings. …”
“Oh, I see.” What he did see—a sudden yawning abyss of loneliness, creative imagination starved of expression, and stifled, unrealized dreams—made him deeply, ashamedly embarrassed. He felt as if he were with one of those awful people who, uninvited, hitch up their clothes and show you their operation scar. Aware of the unfairness of this comparison and the banality of his next remark, Nicholas mumbled, “Bad luck, Deidre,” and retreated to the stage. Here, more for the sake of bridging an awkward moment than anything else, he picked up the parcel. “Someone sending Harold a bomb?”
“Heavily disguised as a book.” Nicholas eased the brown paper lightly Scotch-taped folds and attempted to peer inside.
“Don’t do that,” called Deidre. “He’ll say someone’s been trying to open it. And he’s bound to blame me.”
But Harold seemed to notice nothing untoward about his parcel. He arrived rather later than usual and was changing into his monogrammed directing slippers when Deidre gave him the book. There had been a time when Harold had always removed his footwear during rehearsals, explaining that only by doing so could he arrive at the true spirit of the play. Then he had seen a television interview with a famous American director during which the great man had stated that people who took off their shoes to direct were pretentious pseuds. Harold, naturally, did not agree, but just in case other members of the same company had also been viewing, he covered up his feet forthwith. As he took the parcel, Rosa, noticing, called out, “Oohh, look … Harold’s got a prezzie.” And everyone gathered around.
The “prezzie” proved to be a bit of a letdown. Nothing unusual or exciting. Nothing to do with Harold’s only real passion in life. It was a cookbook. Floyd on Fish. Harold gazed at it blankly. Someone asked who it was from. He spun the pages, turned the book upside down, and shook it. No card.
“Isn’t there something written inside?” nudged an Everard. Harold turned the first few pages and shook his head. “How extraordinary. ”
“Why on earth should anyone send you a recipe book?” asked Rosa. “You’re not interested in cooking, are you?” Harold shook his head.
“Well, if you’re going to start,” said Avery, “I shouldn’t start with that. The man’s basically unsound.”
“Gosh, you are a snob,” said Nicholas.
“Right, young Bradley. That’s the last time you sit down at my table.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean it, Avery—honestly.” Half-frantic, half-laughing, Nicholas continued, “ Please . I’m sorry …”
“I shall think of it,” said Harold, “as a gift from an unknown admirer. And now we must get on. Chop-chop, everyone …”
He put the parcel inside his hat. The momentary warmth that its appearance had engendered (it had been years since anyone had given him a present) had vanished. In its place was a faint unease. What a peculiar thing for anyone to do. Spend all that money on a book, then send it anonymously to someone for whom it could be of no interest whatever. Ah, well, thought Harold, he certainly didn’t have time to ponder on the mystery at the moment. The mystery of the theater—that was his business. That was what he had to kindle. And plays did not produce themselves.
“Right, my darlings,” he cried, “from the top. And please … lots and lots of verismo. Nicholas, you remember— Where is Nicholas?”
Mozart stepped out from the wings, “Here I am, Harold. ”
“Don’t forget the note I gave you on Monday. Resonances. Okay? That’s what I want—plenty of resonances. You’re looking blank.”
“Sorry, Harold?”
“You know the meaning of the word ‘resonances,’ I assume?”
“Um… Don Quixote’s horse, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, God!” cried Harold. “I’m surrounded by
“Oh, I see.” What he did see—a sudden yawning abyss of loneliness, creative imagination starved of expression, and stifled, unrealized dreams—made him deeply, ashamedly embarrassed. He felt as if he were with one of those awful people who, uninvited, hitch up their clothes and show you their operation scar. Aware of the unfairness of this comparison and the banality of his next remark, Nicholas mumbled, “Bad luck, Deidre,” and retreated to the stage. Here, more for the sake of bridging an awkward moment than anything else, he picked up the parcel. “Someone sending Harold a bomb?”
“Heavily disguised as a book.” Nicholas eased the brown paper lightly Scotch-taped folds and attempted to peer inside.
“Don’t do that,” called Deidre. “He’ll say someone’s been trying to open it. And he’s bound to blame me.”
But Harold seemed to notice nothing untoward about his parcel. He arrived rather later than usual and was changing into his monogrammed directing slippers when Deidre gave him the book. There had been a time when Harold had always removed his footwear during rehearsals, explaining that only by doing so could he arrive at the true spirit of the play. Then he had seen a television interview with a famous American director during which the great man had stated that people who took off their shoes to direct were pretentious pseuds. Harold, naturally, did not agree, but just in case other members of the same company had also been viewing, he covered up his feet forthwith. As he took the parcel, Rosa, noticing, called out, “Oohh, look … Harold’s got a prezzie.” And everyone gathered around.
The “prezzie” proved to be a bit of a letdown. Nothing unusual or exciting. Nothing to do with Harold’s only real passion in life. It was a cookbook. Floyd on Fish. Harold gazed at it blankly. Someone asked who it was from. He spun the pages, turned the book upside down, and shook it. No card.
“Isn’t there something written inside?” nudged an Everard. Harold turned the first few pages and shook his head. “How extraordinary. ”
“Why on earth should anyone send you a recipe book?” asked Rosa. “You’re not interested in cooking, are you?” Harold shook his head.
“Well, if you’re going to start,” said Avery, “I shouldn’t start with that. The man’s basically unsound.”
“Gosh, you are a snob,” said Nicholas.
“Right, young Bradley. That’s the last time you sit down at my table.”
“Oh! I didn’t mean it, Avery—honestly.” Half-frantic, half-laughing, Nicholas continued, “ Please . I’m sorry …”
“I shall think of it,” said Harold, “as a gift from an unknown admirer. And now we must get on. Chop-chop, everyone …”
He put the parcel inside his hat. The momentary warmth that its appearance had engendered (it had been years since anyone had given him a present) had vanished. In its place was a faint unease. What a peculiar thing for anyone to do. Spend all that money on a book, then send it anonymously to someone for whom it could be of no interest whatever. Ah, well, thought Harold, he certainly didn’t have time to ponder on the mystery at the moment. The mystery of the theater—that was his business. That was what he had to kindle. And plays did not produce themselves.
“Right, my darlings,” he cried, “from the top. And please … lots and lots of verismo. Nicholas, you remember— Where is Nicholas?”
Mozart stepped out from the wings, “Here I am, Harold. ”
“Don’t forget the note I gave you on Monday. Resonances. Okay? That’s what I want—plenty of resonances. You’re looking blank.”
“Sorry, Harold?”
“You know the meaning of the word ‘resonances,’ I assume?”
“Um… Don Quixote’s horse, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, God!” cried Harold. “I’m surrounded by
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