Acts of Love (9 page)

Kent called early the next morning. Luke was at breakfast in a shaded corner of his terrace where two wicker armchairs flanked a low brass chest that held the telephone, a stack of newspapers and his breakfast tray. The terrace was deep and long, paved with brick and wrapping around the corner of the building. Roses climbed its low brick wall, crabapple and plum trees grew in deep wooden tubs, dappling the light that fell on cushioned wrought-iron furniture, and gaillardia, cosmos, campanula and dahlias were massed in terra-cotta pots and planters. The air was still; the city brooded, somnolent in the heat, its skyscraper windows reflecting the sun like sheets of foil flinging back the white light. In the distance, the George Washington Bridge hung in the heavy air beneath wisps of clouds barely visible against the pale sky. Without looking up from his newspaper, Luke reached for the telephone when it rang.

“Luke, the thing is, I don't trust Monte.” Kent's deep voice came in a barrage of syllables. “I have to see you, I mean we have to talk about this and get it settled before Monte gets set in stone, I mean, before he gets used to the idea of changing things or trying them out on us or whatever the hell he was doing with all that shit about making Lena younger. He can't do that every time he gets a bright idea, you know, he can't—”

“He can do it whenever he wants,” Luke said. “We'll all have ideas about the play and we'll talk them out and you'll have to get used to that.”

“ ‘All'? Who's all?”

“Mainly Monte and me and the cast. But you'll find that Fritz has—”

“Fritz?”

“The stage manager. Fritz will have suggestions and so will the props manager and the set designer and just about everyone else who gets a look at rehearsals. Most of them are pretty casual and don't take up much time, but when cast members have ideas about their lines or the ways their characters are shaping up, we take them seriously.”

“Damn it, Luke, plays aren't written by committee! They don't come out of happy little meetings where everybody says, ‘Oh, listen, I've got the
best
idea . . .' and they go off spinning some crap from some childhood trauma or something. Plays are written by playwrights working
alone.
You don't understand that, because you aren't one, but—”

“I've done some writing,” Luke said coldly, “and I work with writers. I know it's tough. But you chose it.”

“Over pumping gas, right. It's what I do, and I'm good at it, but it's my whole life, it's
me,
and if you think I'm going to change
one scene
—what the hell,
one word
—because some half-assed actor thinks he knows better—”

“We'll talk about it at lunch,” Luke said. “Right now I have some calls to make. I'll see you at Monte's office.”

“You're not hanging up on me!”

“I'm going to hang up because I have work to do before we begin casting your play. I said we'd talk about this at lunch; I assume you heard me say that.”

“Yeah, well—”

“You can tell me all your problems then. I'll see you in a little while.” He hung up, and began to pace on the terrace, stretching his muscles.
God save us from geniuses who somehow, miraculously, write a brilliant play but still have a lot of growing up to do, so that on top of everything else, we have to educate them.

The telephone rang and he ignored it, sure that Kent was calling back. But in a moment Martin came to tell him that Monte Gerhart was calling. Luke picked it up, sitting on the edge of his chair. “Luke, it's Monte. I just wanted you to know I've got the perfect Lena; I'm bringing her to the casting session; didn't want to spring her on you, but she's the greatest, Abigail Deming, you know her, wait 'til you hear her, I am
crazy
about her, she absolutely
is
Lena, wait 'til you—”

Luke's frustration, still churning, exploded. “You damn fool, you promised it to her, didn't you?”

“Hey, hold your horses, you didn't hear me say—”

“Did you promise it to her?”

“Christ, what's eating you this morning? Well, not exactly. I said I thought she was perfect and I was sure you'd agree. I guess I shouldn't have done that—”

“You know damn well you shouldn't have done that. We talked about this—remember? We agreed—”

“I know, I know, but, damn it, Luke, I took her to dinner last night and she's got a way with her, you wouldn't think so, a woman that old—”

“You were drinking.”

“No, it's not that. You know, she's tough, and she's no beauty, but she's got this way of putting her hand on your arm, just this little touch, and looking straight at you and all of a sudden she's gorgeous and you're melting. I know that sounds crazy, but she really pulls it off and I know she could pull off Lena, too.”

“For God's sake. I'll see you at ten.” He slammed down the phone and stood at the wall of his terrace, trying to control his anger. Far below, traffic inched through narrow streets on hot asphalt, pedestrians darted between the cars, often walking across two bumpers so close they seemed locked together, and the cacophony of horns rose with angry volume to Luke's celestial terrace, enveloping him in its stridency. Everyone is angry, he thought. He imagined the anxiety of pedestrians, wilting as they hustled to meetings where they were expected to look alert and unwrinkled, and the frustration and rage of drivers beating tattoos on their steering wheels as they moved forward a few infuriating feet at a time, and his anger began to dissolve into humor.
It could be worse: instead of dealing with Monte and Kent, I could be driving a cab.

Martin stood in the doorway holding out a sheaf of telephone messages. “None of them seemed urgent, so I didn't interrupt you.”

Luke flipped through the slips of paper. “Call Miss Delacorte; tell her I'll pick her up a little after seven for a play and dinner afterward. Tell the Neals no; I never go to costume parties. And this one, from Renaldi, about the sale of the villa . . .” He paused. “Tell him to call about midnight New York time; we can talk about the buyer then.” He scanned the remaining messages. The last one was from Fritz Palfrey, stage manager for
The Magician.
“Need to talk to Luke; set designer has peculiar ideas, not workable. Call me.”

Suddenly Luke wished himself in his library, sharing the silence with Jessica's letters, far from backstage squabbles and clashing egos, the adolescent storms of Kent Home, the thousands of mediations and decisions that stretched before him. Then he shrugged. What had he told Kent?
You chose it.
This was his job, it was his life, and it was the only one he wanted. Jessica Fontaine, if he found time for her, was a minor diversion at best.

And he forgot Jessica, and almost everything else, as soon as casting began in a theater Monte had gained permission to use for the day. Luke loved this early part of the production where, for the first time, the lines of the play were spoken aloud, at last taking wing from a typescript and beginning to soar. The theater was as silent and empty as a ghost town, with a single spotlight illuminating the center of the stage, leaving the rest of it, furnished for that evening's play, almost invisible. In the spotlight, the actors stood alone or in pairs, reading parts of scenes, and Luke, sitting in the sixth row, felt a deep sense of comfort. Everything he was, everything he did, was, for this moment and the moments to come, building on each other to that one moment when the stage sprang to life on opening night.

“God,” Kent breathed, sitting with the others, “God, listen to them!”

Luke barely heard him. Monte Gerhart was on his left, Tommy Webb, the casting director, on his right. In the wings, Fritz Palfrey, a few stagehands, and the technical director sat on stools, watching. In the back of the theater, the house manager slipped in and took a seat on the aisle of the last row.

Luke glanced at the script in his lap, then looked at Abigail Deming, standing in the center of the stage, reading Lena's farewell speech to her grandson Daniel. She was small but held herself well; her gestures were controlled; her face, as pale and wrinkled as old linen, was not as expressive as Luke would have liked, but her voice was strong, with clear modulations. She was a good actress, not in a league with Constance Bernhardt, but better than most and she had fifty years of experience . . . and a reputation for being a terror if she did not approve of the way things were going. Which was why Luke had not called her to read for the part.

But as she read now, he knew she was good. The other actors, and Tommy Webb, sitting beside him, all knew it, too, and when she finished her speech and Daniel spoke the last line of the play, Luke heard Kent let out a long breath. “It's like I've died and gone to heaven.”

“What do you think?” Luke asked Tommy Webb.

“Dynamite. Both of them, Abby and what's-his-name. Cort Hastings.
Cort.
Where do they get these names? I'd heard he doesn't get good 'til after a month of rehearsals, but he sounds pretty good right now.”

Luke turned to Monte. “She's very good. Tommy and I think both of them will be fine.”

“Agreed. Thanks, Luke; I thought you'd be so mad at me you'd dump her. But she is good, isn't she? Tough inside, but when she looks at you . . . well, you know what I mean.”

“So now we need the girl,” Tommy said. “I've got two of them here; I like them both. One might be too beautiful: distracting, you know? When do you want them, Luke?”

“After lunch. All right with you, Monte? Kent?” When they nodded, he said to Tommy, “What about the three small parts?”

“I've picked 'em, tentatively. Videotapes for you in my office.”

“After we do the girl. Between three and four, I'd say. Fritz wants to talk to me about the set design. Do you know anything about that?”

“He doesn't like Marilyn Marks; he thinks she's too far out. He likes stages that look like your great-grandmother's living room, the one nobody ever goes into. What can I say? He's a great stage manager and he's a pain in the ass.”

Luke chuckled. “I'll see him after I look at the videos. I'm going to talk to Abby and Cort, and then go to lunch. Two o'clock back here?”

“Right.”

A small group stood at the side of the stage, talking in low voices, and Luke joined them. “Fritz, I'll buy you a drink this afternoon. Meet me at Orso; I should be there by five. Abby, Cort, that was very fine. We think it's going to be a pleasure working with you.”

Abigail nodded with satisfaction. “I'm looking forward to it.”

Amused, Luke heard the note of grandeur in her voice—royalty condescending to work with him—but he said only, “We all are. It's an exciting play.”

Cort nodded vigorously. “I like this guy, Daniel, and I had a grandmother like Lena who I was crazy about.”

“Who's the girl?” Abigail asked.

“We'll know after lunch. The three of you—”

“I should be part of that casting, Luke; she has her most important scenes with me.”

“The hell she does,” Cort said. “I mean, this is a love story, right? Lena's a big part of it, but audiences come to see love stories, and this girl—Martha, right?—Martha and I've got a couple of truly steamy scenes. So I'm the one who ought to help choose her.”

“Tommy and I do the casting,” Luke said easily, “though we're always interested in your ideas. Now, I want the first run-through day after tomorrow, ten o'clock; Fritz has the address of the rehearsal space. Bring questions, ideas, suggestions, whatever you think of. The playwright's vision is what we're here for, but I want your input, too, all the way along.” He kissed Abby on both cheeks. “You're going to be a magnificent Lena. Cort, you're going to be a fine Daniel. And we're going to have a terrific production.”

Cort nodded. “I've got some ideas about Daniel, you know; I really know what he's all about.”

“Write them down. We'll go over all of them.”

“Oh, let's start now,” Abigail said energetically. “Why wait?” She put her arm through Cort's and reached for Luke. “Let's have lunch. We can talk and talk for hours.”

“Tommy and I have more readings this afternoon, and I'm having lunch with our playwright. Both of you should get my phone and fax numbers from Fritz and get in touch with me anytime you have a question or an idea, a suggestion, a problem, anything. If I'm not at home, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. From now on, we're a family; we don't stand on ceremony. Okay, I have to go; I'll see you in a couple of days.”

He turned to the audience. “Kent?”

Kent came out of his trance and followed Luke through the wings and along a corridor to a steel door that led to an alley and from there to a small, unobtrusive restaurant a block away with an anchor suspended above the door.

They sat in a booth with high partitions for privacy. The booths and the wood floor were dark, and paintings of the sea hung on the dark walls, each in its own circle of light. Kent scanned the menu and ordered what seemed to Luke to be three meals. Looking up, Kent saw his bemused expression. “Growing boy,” he said, grinning, and when Luke had ordered, he sat back and sighed. “No problems, Luke. I don't know what we have to talk about. I'm a happy man.”

“Put it in writing,” Luke said, “so I can remind you of it a month from now.”

“Nope, it's going to be rosy all the way, I can tell. They're going to make my play
live.
I mean, you heard them—they need a few little things that I'll clue them in on, you know, emphasis, gestures, things like that—but we're practically ready for opening night. God, they're so good!”