The Spellbinder by Iris Johansen Page B

longer. She slammed the refrigerator door shut. “Dammit, Brody, this is stupid.” She marched across the room toward him. “And I hate stupidity more than almost anything in the world. Particularly when it’s hurting someone I care about. This has got to stop.” She dropped to her knees beside him. “Now,
talk
to me.”
    His lips were twitching as he tried to smother a smile. “Do you have a violent aversion to chairs? You seem to be constantly on your knees in front of me.”
    She made a face. “Which should be very good for your ego.” Her smile faded. “You’re not going to distract me, you know. Now, tell me why you are like this. It has something to do with your work. Right?”
    “Very perceptive of you.”
    “Not really. Your work is the only thing that’s really important to you. I would be very stupid if I didn’t connect the two.”
    “You make me sound completely one-dimensional.”
    “Oh no.” Her eyes were glowing softly as she gazed up at him. “You have so many facets. You’re like a wonderful kaleidoscope, changing with every movement to form new patterns, yet always returning to what you truly are. Right now something is blocking you, but we can fix that.”
    “Can we?” He looked down at her in bemusement.
    She nodded. “Talk to me. That’s all you have to do. We’ll take care of it together.”
    “It’s not that simple, Sacha.”
    “Yes, it is.” She scooted a few inches closer and rested her arms on his knees. “Something went wrong tonight?”
    “No more than usual.”
    “How many curtain calls?”
    “Nine.”
    “Then you were a great success. What’s the problem?”
    “I wasn’t a success,” he burst out with barely leashed violence. “I’m terrible in this role. I can’t sing and I ham up every soliloquy. All I have is presence, and a decent pair of legs in tights.”
    She started to laugh then stopped as she saw his face. He was perfectly sincere, and she had an idea the problem was more far-reaching than his few words indicated. “The critics don’t seem to agree with you.”
    “Subjective. I know my own capabilities.”
    “Do you?” Her brow wrinkled in a thoughtful frown. “How did you feel about your performance in
Hamlet
last year?”
    He laughed harshly. “Tolerable. At least I didn’t have to make an ass of myself singing.”
    Only tolerable. Yet the critics and public had hailed him as the greatest Hamlet of the generation. “I see.” She
was
beginning to understand. “Then you think you failed?”
    “I always fail.” His jaw tightened and his teeth clenched. “I try so damn hard, but it’s never what it should be. I don’t see why they can’t see it. Someday …”
    “Someday they’ll find you out. The critics and the public will realize you’re not what they thought. They’ll know you fooled them.”
    He nodded.
    She shook her head. “No, Brody. They’ll never realize how you cheated them. Not in the next century.”
    “They will. I know—”
    “Listen, Brody.” Her hands closed on his knees, her expression intent. “What did you think of Peter O’Toole’s performance in
Becket
?”
    “Mesmerizing.”
    “And Delacroix’s painting
Liberty Leading the People
?”
    “Magnificent.”
    “And the way Shakespeare constructed
Macbeth
?”
    “Sacha, what the hell has this to do with anything?” he asked impatiently.
    “I’m trying to make a point. Don’t you see? I bet if you asked O’Toole or Delacroix or Shakespeare, they would have said that they had failed too. It’sthe tragedy of the creators of this world that their final work of art
never
fulfills the vision of what they think it should be. That doesn’t mean their accomplishment isn’t great or special. Yes, you have presence. You’re a real spellbinder, but you’re more than that. You’re a great actor. You give us all memories that we’ll cherish forever. You may never be satisfied with what you give us, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be satisfied,