and sucking his teeth until Joyce had secured Baby Mozart. Then the manuscript paper was not in its place on the props table. Or the quill pen. Or Kitty’s shawl. Deidre apologized and swore they had been there at the start of rehearsal. Salieri’s wheelchair jammed, and gold railings, not quite dry, imprinted themselves on the emperor Joseph’s white satin suit.
But the most dramatic, alarming, and ultimately hilarious contretemps was that the trestle table holding the bulk of the audience for the first night of The Magic Flute collapsed. It was piled high with sausage-chewing, pipe smoking Viennese rabble. Belching, joshing, pushing each other about, and generally overacting, all this to the loud accompaniment of rustic accents. These were mainly “Zummerset,” but one conscientious burgher who had really done his homework kept shouting, “Gott in Himmel!”
Then, as the glorious “Heil sei euch Geweihten” soared above their heads, the trestle creaked, groaned, and gave way, tumbling the by now hysterical peasantry into a large heap in the center of the stage. Everyone except Harold thought this wondrously droll. Even Esslyn jeered with cold delicacy into his lace cuff. Harold rose from his seat and smoldered at them all.
“I suppose you think that’s funny?”
“Funniest thing since the Black Death,” replied Boris.
“Right,” said his director. “Colin. ” A helpful soul repeated the cry, as did someone in the wings followed by someone in the dressing rooms, then finally a faint echo was heard under the boards of the stage.
“Good grief,” grumbled Harold as he stomped down yet again, “it’s like waiting for the star witness at the Old Bailey.”
Colin arrived with a woodshaving curt on his shoulder as if to designate rank, a hammer in his hand, and his usual air of a man dragged away from serious work to attend to the whims of playful children.
“You knew how many people this table had to hold. I thought you said you were going to reinforce it.”
“I did reinforce it. I nailed a wooden block in each corner where the struts go in. I’ll show you.” Colin picked his way over the still-supine actors, lifted the table, then said, “Stone me. Some silly sod’s taken them out again.”
“Ohhh, God!” Harold glared at his actors, one or two of whom were still weeping quietly. “You have no right to be in a theater, any of you. You’re not fit to sweep the stage. Better make some more, Colin. Now, please, let us get on.”
He was walking back to his seat when Clive Everard, hardly bothering to lower his voice, said, “That man couldn’t direct his piss down an open manhole.”
Harold stopped, turned, and replied forcefully into the shocked silence, “I hope you don’t see yourself appearing in my next production, Clive.”
“Well … I did rather fancy Telyegin… .”
“Well,” repeated Harold, “I suggest you start fancying yourself in an entirely different company. Preferably on an entirely different planet. Now, I want to get to the end of the play with—no—more—interruptions.”
And they just about did. But by this time nerves were in shreds. Umbrage had been given and taken and returned again with interest. More props had erred and strayed in their ways like lost sheep. The scenery had learned the wisdom of insecurity, and at least one door left the set almost as smartly as the actor who had just pulled it to behind him. As the final great funeral chords of music died away, actors gathered onstage, drifting into despondent clumps. Harold, after making one grand gesture of despair, flinging his arms above his head like an imperial bookmaker, joined them.
“There’s no point in giving notes,” he said. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” This admission, the first such that had ever passed his lips, seemed to shake Harold as much as his companions. “You’re all as bad as one another, and a disgrace to the business.” Then he left, striding out into the
But the most dramatic, alarming, and ultimately hilarious contretemps was that the trestle table holding the bulk of the audience for the first night of The Magic Flute collapsed. It was piled high with sausage-chewing, pipe smoking Viennese rabble. Belching, joshing, pushing each other about, and generally overacting, all this to the loud accompaniment of rustic accents. These were mainly “Zummerset,” but one conscientious burgher who had really done his homework kept shouting, “Gott in Himmel!”
Then, as the glorious “Heil sei euch Geweihten” soared above their heads, the trestle creaked, groaned, and gave way, tumbling the by now hysterical peasantry into a large heap in the center of the stage. Everyone except Harold thought this wondrously droll. Even Esslyn jeered with cold delicacy into his lace cuff. Harold rose from his seat and smoldered at them all.
“I suppose you think that’s funny?”
“Funniest thing since the Black Death,” replied Boris.
“Right,” said his director. “Colin. ” A helpful soul repeated the cry, as did someone in the wings followed by someone in the dressing rooms, then finally a faint echo was heard under the boards of the stage.
“Good grief,” grumbled Harold as he stomped down yet again, “it’s like waiting for the star witness at the Old Bailey.”
Colin arrived with a woodshaving curt on his shoulder as if to designate rank, a hammer in his hand, and his usual air of a man dragged away from serious work to attend to the whims of playful children.
“You knew how many people this table had to hold. I thought you said you were going to reinforce it.”
“I did reinforce it. I nailed a wooden block in each corner where the struts go in. I’ll show you.” Colin picked his way over the still-supine actors, lifted the table, then said, “Stone me. Some silly sod’s taken them out again.”
“Ohhh, God!” Harold glared at his actors, one or two of whom were still weeping quietly. “You have no right to be in a theater, any of you. You’re not fit to sweep the stage. Better make some more, Colin. Now, please, let us get on.”
He was walking back to his seat when Clive Everard, hardly bothering to lower his voice, said, “That man couldn’t direct his piss down an open manhole.”
Harold stopped, turned, and replied forcefully into the shocked silence, “I hope you don’t see yourself appearing in my next production, Clive.”
“Well … I did rather fancy Telyegin… .”
“Well,” repeated Harold, “I suggest you start fancying yourself in an entirely different company. Preferably on an entirely different planet. Now, I want to get to the end of the play with—no—more—interruptions.”
And they just about did. But by this time nerves were in shreds. Umbrage had been given and taken and returned again with interest. More props had erred and strayed in their ways like lost sheep. The scenery had learned the wisdom of insecurity, and at least one door left the set almost as smartly as the actor who had just pulled it to behind him. As the final great funeral chords of music died away, actors gathered onstage, drifting into despondent clumps. Harold, after making one grand gesture of despair, flinging his arms above his head like an imperial bookmaker, joined them.
“There’s no point in giving notes,” he said. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” This admission, the first such that had ever passed his lips, seemed to shake Harold as much as his companions. “You’re all as bad as one another, and a disgrace to the business.” Then he left, striding out into the
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