Idea in Stone (22 page)

Stefan stopped in his tracks.

“What?” asked Tamara.

“Nothing. Sorry, I haven’t seen your script. But you don’t need it. You’re fine.” He started to back down the hall. “Everyone loves you, you’ll be great. Break a leg. Excuse me.” He ran toward the ‘Way Out’ sign at the end of the hall. The door hissed shut as he reached it. He shoved it open and looked out into the cobbled alleyway.

A dark figure scurried down the alley, wearing a long cloak and a wide-brimmed hat. Cold water shot through Stefan’s veins, but he ran after the figure without hesitating:
No one is going to mess with my show.
The creature looked over its shoulder, and Stefan got a glimpse of the armful of scripts and the call-book binder he carried. Stefan sprinted after the thing, who seemed unable to move quickly. Within a few sprinting steps, Stefan reached him, and grabbed his coat with both hands. The unseasonably thick wool was greasy to his touch, but he had enough of a grip to spin the figure around and pin him against a brick wall, directly under a swath of sunlight. The man dropped the stolen goods, and his face, mostly obscured by a large scarf, twisted back and forth in the light. His eyes squeezed shut. Stefan stared at his skin, which was as colourless as newspaper. That paper, though, bore faint marks like hasty algebra problems scratched into the margins of a maths textbook in pencil then erased. The problems shifted as Stefan looked at them, the scratchings seeming to solve themselves.

The scratchman pushed back against Stefan, hurling Stefan into the opposite wall, and ran away empty-handed.
 

~

Stefan gave flowers to each of the cast members along with a personalised note, thanking them for their work on the show. Then he left them to do their preparations for the opening.

Though he knew he wasn’t allowed up there, he felt compelled to climb the ladder to the catwalk over the stage. He sat beside the pin-rail, where the show’s backdrops were tied with thick ropes. He dangled his legs over the ledge and sighed. From time to time, he had moments of wondering where he was, how he’d got there. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the crinkled strips of tape, between which were the tiny letters that spelled out “Edinburgh”.

Stefan looked up from his hands and saw his father sitting beside him. His body jumped reflexively with fright, but his father’s smile soon calmed him down.

“Hi, Dad,” said Stefan.

Robert nodded his hello.

“So here we are, opening night.”

Robert’s smile broadened, and he nodded again.

“It was touch-and-go there for a bit,” said Stefan, “but I have a funny feeling that this is going to work.” He turned to his father. “This show is going to do something, isn’t it? And the Matholics don’t want it to happen.”

Robert tried to speak, but couldn’t. His look implied that what Stefan said was only partly correct.

“What do they think is going to happen?”

Robert pointed at the letters in Stefan’s hand, then made a gesture with his hands like a magician causing something to disappear. Stefan was confused.

He heard the sound of someone climbing up the metal rungs to the catwalk. Brian, the technician, poked his head up. “Hey there, Stefan,” he said. “What are you doing up here.”

“I was just—” he looked to his side, not surprised that his father was gone. “I was just chilling out before the show.”

“You shouldn’t really be up here.”

“No problem,” said Stefan, getting to his feet. He and Brian awkwardly traded places on the narrow catwalk, and Stefan started down the ladder. “I’ve got to go eat and get changed before the show anyway. Hey, break a leg, man.” He climbed away, embarrassed at his attempt at macho-buddy talk with the burly stagehand.

“Yeah, you, too,” replied Brian from above.

~

Stefan curled and uncurled the programme in his hands, then looked at it briefly, but was all too aware of every detail he’d approved. He stuck the programme under his leg and adjusted his tie. All afternoon, the cast had wandered up and down the Royal Mile, the cobbled main street of the Old Town, giving out complimentary tickets in their costumes amid throngs of other actors, mimes, fire-eaters, and vendors who competed for the tourists’ attention. He guessed they had a crowd of a hundred people, which made him happy.

The house lights dimmed, and the pre-show music started. He imagined the cast backstage, scrunched his eyes shut, and wished them luck. Stefan could faintly see the set once his eyes adjusted to the dark. He sat on his hands to keep them from shaking. His mouth was dry and sour.

The stage lights came up on the row-housing, then the front door, and the rest of the world disappeared.

The lemon colour of morning light suffused everything. Heck Folward left the house that morning, the same as he’d done each day since securing a job at the factory. He didn’t know this week would mark the end of the world as he knew it.

Monday was an average day. He worked to maintain the machine, and had even received a commendation from the area leader, Arto Hanstardath. He walked home at the end of his shift, stopping to read the headlines at the newsstand on the corner: everything was fine. His best friend, Seth Weevlin, called on him in the evening, and they went out to shoot pool. Seth was a company man, working high above the streets in an office. Both of their jobs were important in different ways, so they couldn’t afford to be out late.

Tuesday, Heck hurt his hand at work, and met Truna Instred, the nurse who treated him, and risked taking him to the abandoned warehouse where the underground met. There they showed him what the machine he maintained actually did, and warned him of the coming war.

Their machine-city required their endless work to maintain. He knew this, and had accepted it as a good, worthwhile occupation, since in return the machine provided everything they needed. But no one had ever told him of the unspeakable cruelties the machine did in order to bestow that providence. And no one had ever told him that there were other machines.

And now his machine was going to war with the others…

The house lights came up for the intermission. Stefan sat still for a minute, dazed, as did everyone else in the theatre before gradually coming to an awareness of their surroundings. He felt as if he’d been dreaming of his mother and father in a fairytale, only it seemed so real.

He went to the lobby to listen in on what people had to say. Many were quiet, a few talked excitedly, saying they’d never experienced anything like it, and the remainder compared notes, as if trying to confirm that they’d been watching the same show. When the lights in the lobby flashed to signal the end of intermission, everyone quickly headed back into the theatre, including Stefan, although he already knew the show as well as anyone.

…Truna discovered Arto there, leaning against a piece of machinery. “Father, it’s over. They’re tearing the city apart.”

The man slid to the floor and spat blood as he spoke. “Then let them tear the city apart.”

Heck found them, and looked at Arto, on the ground. “We have killed the old God,” he said, “and our attempt to build a new one has failed. We have created a Moloch, and it is devouring us.”

“What will you do now?” Arto asked them. “You, who have never made a true decision in your lives? How will you eat?”

“We will eat things now that are not poison to us,” said Truna.

“How will you fill your days?”

“We will fill our days with each other. We will no longer be insane. We will wear our names, instead of the insignia of the machine. We will tear the machine from our city!”

The lovers left the man and walked out into the street, where a new day was breaking. They kissed, as an explosion sounded deep in the city. “The world belongs to us,” said Heck.

Stefan found himself on his feet as the house lights came up, his fist in the air. He shook his head and watched as the curtain-call song played and the audience cheered. As the actors came onstage, the roar of the crowd intensified to a pitch that the theatre could not contain. The audience members whistled and hollered their gratitude. Some stamped their feet or banged on the theatre seats. A chant started in the crowd: “The world belongs to us”. It grew in intensity, as others took it up. Soon, the whole theatre boomed with the sound of their voices. The audience members burst out into the street, where they rioted until dawn.

The next day’s headlines, which the cast read together in the hotel, talked about the show and the resulting commotion, trying to piece it together from the descriptions of those who’d been there. By the time the cast went to the theatre that night, the show was sold out. Half a dozen police stood in front of the theatre in their fluorescent yellow jackets, along with a policeman and a policewoman on horseback. The show was even more powerful the second time, and the crowd of two hundred and fifty soon got away from the police and wreaked havoc on the town, though none of the local businesses suffered damage. By the end of the show’s first week, businesses reported that staff members were staying away inexplicably. At first there was concern about a mass illness, but soon the effect was traced back to a Fringe Festival show called
Empire of Nothing
. Articles appeared in the more conservative papers, accusing the show of being an anarchistic, dangerous, proletariat rant. But any suggestion that it should be closed met with suspicion, and served only to boost ticket sales. Groups camped out in the grassy fields of The Meadows after the shows, carrying on the spirit, and local radio stations played Rick’s song every hour. Stefan asked Charlene to make some rapid phone calls to Rick, and the band was soon receiving residuals for the airplay. The disk jockeys expressed surprise and not a small amount of joy that the song shoved the latest tone-deaf boy-star from the charts.

~

“Fifteen minutes to—oh my God.” Stefan stopped in his tracks, gawking at the sight of Maria and Thom intertwined against the dressing room table. He pointed at the door. “I, um—Fifteen minutes.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Maria. Thom slapped her on the backside.

Stefan went to the lighting booth. “Closing night, eh?”

“Can you believe it?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. He unfolded and folded a letter in his hands. “Could you have everyone assemble onstage just before curtains-up, please? There’s something I need to talk to everyone about.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” said Stefan, heading for the stage. Ten minutes later, he was surrounded by the cast. “So this is our last show. It’s been quite a ride, and I think it’s going to be a long time before the ruckus dies down from what we’ve presented here. I know my dad is—would be—proud of how you’ve brought his ideas to life, and the difference you’ve made. There are some people who don’t like it, but then, they don’t want you to do a lot of things that might be in your best interest and not theirs. I imagine closing a show is always a mixed bag of feelings for actors, but I want you to consider that it might not be over yet. I have here a letter from a gentleman who’s seen the show three times, and—well, he’s made an offer on it. He would like the company to tour the show through Spain immediately following the run here. I said I couldn’t give him an answer until I’d talked to all of you. You don’t have to give me a definite answer this minute, but I was wondering who might be interested in continuing on.”

Chris, Thom, Maria, and Tamara’s hands flew instantly into the air. Norman looked pensive for a moment, and raised his hand. Charlene nodded, and raised her hand. Stefan basked in the feeling of company between them all, some in street clothes, some half-dressed and half made-up.

“So what should I tell him?”

“Yes!” they cheered.

He smiled and put the letter into his pocket. “I’ll tell him tonight when he comes to the show. But for now, don’t think about that. Make our closing night here in Edinburgh the best show yet. Break a leg!”

~

The doors of the airport entrance slid open, and Stefan ran in. He’d overslept, despite having told the rest of the cast in the early hours after their closing night party to make sure they were on time. He saw Chris first, who wore big Sophia Loren sunglasses and sat on his fuzzy blue suitcase with Tamara, who’d adopted him, or whom he’d adopted—it was hard to tell. Thom leaned on his bag, hiding under a baseball cap, with Maria tucked under his arm. Charlene, somehow, stood composed, and un-hung-over beside them. Norman looked like a garden gnome that was about to fall over. Stefan stood apart from them, laughing at the sight of them all.

“Okay, everyone,” instructed Charlene, “we should head to the gate.”

“Stef, where are your bags?” asked Maria.

“I’m not going,” he said. They protested, surprised. “This is where I’m supposed to be,” he insisted. No one could deny that his work as the show’s director was finished, and that Charlene could handle any issues that came up. He hugged them one by one, even Norman, and they each said their goodbyes to him. He watched as they passed through the security gate and out of sight.

He headed out to the parking lot to catch a bus back to the city.

Eleven

City of Stone and Green