is their spare time.’ He is meanwhile saluting people across the aisle. ‘Of course, there’s an Equity cast as well.’
On the flyer the play is called The Heart Of Europe.
On the outside, one may scrounge a newspaper now and then, from a bin. Back at the pad there was only the Spanish daily taken by the bar. Angel, clearing my trash, had noted my lack. A sports fan, he picked up his copies from park benches. ‘I could bring you.’ I had declined. Politics was a clock I could do without. It pretends to take you inside of what will be happening to you anyway, willy-nilly. Or nevertheless.
‘What flames?’ I ask. ‘Which particular ones?’
By his sad shrug he knows my lack. ‘No dialogue. Dance drama, sort of. Mime. Now and then some fife-and-drum.’
‘I see.’ Like at a rally. Nobody really has to say what everybody’s already for. On the flyer’s cast-listing I see there are no heroes or heroines either. Just a long column of names, a rag-bag of all the world—or maybe just the city’s boroughs. And all identified only by their props, as in Coffin, Carousel, Three Men and A Steeple, Drum Corps, Hospital Ward, Green Table, File Room—Secret Police, Kitchen Crew, Business Office, and even a simple: Wall. Sometimes there is a doubling up. The six Coffins are also the Carousel. Orphans and Widows are also Anniversary Ball.
‘Crowd’s the real hero, see?’ Alphonse says. ‘This play comes straight out of the velvet revolution.’
I know better than to show myself the fool again by asking which one that was. Still—I think to myself—I know dirty-sweaty-more about crowds than this fairy tale.
‘So it did.’ A tall, stocky man looms over us. ‘And already out-of-date. Hi, Phonsie. Hear you’re working in this too. Aren’t we the lucky stiffs. Or are we?’
‘Keep on saying. This is my friend Carol.’
‘Hi, Carol. I’m Wall.’
When I sneak a look at the flyer, which lists Wall as played by Martyn Brice—who is also listed as one of the two under Adapted by— both laugh. ‘Good part,’ Wall says. ‘I gave myself it. I’m in the whole last scene—I don’t speak, but make the best prime noises trying. To get people to pull me down. Klas—that’s our mad director—wanted me to shave my noggin as well, but I said, “Not if I’m to sprout flowers at the end.” Where I do fall apart, all on my own. Breaks people up.’
‘Like.… Bottom—’ I say, without thinking.
Alphonse turns to look at me. Surely he knows who Bottom is? Though he’d said he never played Shakespeare. ‘In—you know.…’ I can hear my brain creak, almost. The words come slowly. ‘Midsummer Night’s.…’
‘Dream.’ Wall has a good low baritone. I can imagine the noises it might make. Hollow, as such a wall would be. Yet there.
‘I suffer from memory loss,’ I say.
‘Do you now. Mine’s a silly harpist. Always at the cadenzas.’ He has a nice smile, the kind that can accept the flat statements which some persons can’t avoid making. And offering one of his own.
I am grateful. ‘You’re right not to shave your head. Noggin.’
‘Except maybe for God,’ Alphonse says. ‘Like at the monks’ school I went to. And got kicked out of. Thank God.’
‘The Jesuits? You never let on.’ But it figures. And where he and I had been, who shared?
Now he’s cocking an ear, away from us. An intercom is on, low and constant. Until now I hadn’t noticed. What does register with me is still up for grabs. I see Alphonse knows. He pats my shoulder. ‘It calls us by number, the cast is so huge.’
‘And changes daily,’ the tall guy says. He’s older than us, but not by much. Forty maybe? The sandy thatch he won’t shave has gray in it. ‘They run it off a computer. Even in a big scene everybody knows his place.’
‘Forty-eight—’ Alphonse says. ‘Is that me?’ He slips a stub from his breast-pocket. The shirt is the one I brought him. ‘No.’ He doesn’t say what number he is. I
On the flyer the play is called The Heart Of Europe.
On the outside, one may scrounge a newspaper now and then, from a bin. Back at the pad there was only the Spanish daily taken by the bar. Angel, clearing my trash, had noted my lack. A sports fan, he picked up his copies from park benches. ‘I could bring you.’ I had declined. Politics was a clock I could do without. It pretends to take you inside of what will be happening to you anyway, willy-nilly. Or nevertheless.
‘What flames?’ I ask. ‘Which particular ones?’
By his sad shrug he knows my lack. ‘No dialogue. Dance drama, sort of. Mime. Now and then some fife-and-drum.’
‘I see.’ Like at a rally. Nobody really has to say what everybody’s already for. On the flyer’s cast-listing I see there are no heroes or heroines either. Just a long column of names, a rag-bag of all the world—or maybe just the city’s boroughs. And all identified only by their props, as in Coffin, Carousel, Three Men and A Steeple, Drum Corps, Hospital Ward, Green Table, File Room—Secret Police, Kitchen Crew, Business Office, and even a simple: Wall. Sometimes there is a doubling up. The six Coffins are also the Carousel. Orphans and Widows are also Anniversary Ball.
‘Crowd’s the real hero, see?’ Alphonse says. ‘This play comes straight out of the velvet revolution.’
I know better than to show myself the fool again by asking which one that was. Still—I think to myself—I know dirty-sweaty-more about crowds than this fairy tale.
‘So it did.’ A tall, stocky man looms over us. ‘And already out-of-date. Hi, Phonsie. Hear you’re working in this too. Aren’t we the lucky stiffs. Or are we?’
‘Keep on saying. This is my friend Carol.’
‘Hi, Carol. I’m Wall.’
When I sneak a look at the flyer, which lists Wall as played by Martyn Brice—who is also listed as one of the two under Adapted by— both laugh. ‘Good part,’ Wall says. ‘I gave myself it. I’m in the whole last scene—I don’t speak, but make the best prime noises trying. To get people to pull me down. Klas—that’s our mad director—wanted me to shave my noggin as well, but I said, “Not if I’m to sprout flowers at the end.” Where I do fall apart, all on my own. Breaks people up.’
‘Like.… Bottom—’ I say, without thinking.
Alphonse turns to look at me. Surely he knows who Bottom is? Though he’d said he never played Shakespeare. ‘In—you know.…’ I can hear my brain creak, almost. The words come slowly. ‘Midsummer Night’s.…’
‘Dream.’ Wall has a good low baritone. I can imagine the noises it might make. Hollow, as such a wall would be. Yet there.
‘I suffer from memory loss,’ I say.
‘Do you now. Mine’s a silly harpist. Always at the cadenzas.’ He has a nice smile, the kind that can accept the flat statements which some persons can’t avoid making. And offering one of his own.
I am grateful. ‘You’re right not to shave your head. Noggin.’
‘Except maybe for God,’ Alphonse says. ‘Like at the monks’ school I went to. And got kicked out of. Thank God.’
‘The Jesuits? You never let on.’ But it figures. And where he and I had been, who shared?
Now he’s cocking an ear, away from us. An intercom is on, low and constant. Until now I hadn’t noticed. What does register with me is still up for grabs. I see Alphonse knows. He pats my shoulder. ‘It calls us by number, the cast is so huge.’
‘And changes daily,’ the tall guy says. He’s older than us, but not by much. Forty maybe? The sandy thatch he won’t shave has gray in it. ‘They run it off a computer. Even in a big scene everybody knows his place.’
‘Forty-eight—’ Alphonse says. ‘Is that me?’ He slips a stub from his breast-pocket. The shirt is the one I brought him. ‘No.’ He doesn’t say what number he is. I
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