The Mechanical Theater (3 page)

Solomon nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“Oh, and here,” he said, holding up his script as he walked along the row of chairs. “You should have this. Perhaps it will help.”

Solomon set the dustpan down and leaned the broom against his shoulder. He took the paper-­clipped pages from the director, spotting a few notes penciled in the margins. “Don’t you need it, sir?”

“I have plenty of copies,” he said. “I want you to have it so you can study Antony’s lines. When you are here, I want you to pay attention to how Mr. Creighton brings him to life. I think he’s the best study for you.”

“But that’s the lead.”

“It is,” he said with a nod. “I’ve written some notes for you in the margins.”

Solomon shook his head. “But sir, I—­”

“Trust me.” Mr. Niles peered over his square spectacles and tapped the edge of the script. “Those are the lines you should be practicing.” He smiled encouragingly and bidding Solomon farewell, turned back toward the main aisle.

Solomon frowned at the script in his hands. “Sir?”

The theater director turned around. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat. “Would it be all right if I stayed here and practiced on my own, at least until you lock up for the night? That is, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Niles smiled broadly and nodded. “Of course. You can use the stage if you think it might help you.”

“Oh—­” A cold lump dropped into the pit of his stomach. He shook his head. “Er—­no. Thank you, but I’ll sit in the back of the theater hall, if that’s all right with you.”

“Very well, my boy,” he said. “Let me know when you leave. I may be here for a while.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Niles nodded and continued to his office.

Solomon glanced over the first page. Mark Antony’s lines were highlighted and the director had written a note at the top.

Our doubts are traitors

And make us lose the good we oft might win

By fearing to attempt.

It was a line from
Measure for Measure
, Solomon recognized. Folding the script in half, he wedged the pages under his arm and gathered his cleaning supplies.

Miss Appleton, Marion, and Damien walked up the carpeted aisle between the sections of seats, and Miss Appleton paused at his row. She smiled at him.

“Are you headed home, Mr. Wade?” she asked.

Marion drifted on ahead with the regality of an Egyptian queen, but Damien lingered behind with a frown, his narrowed eyes glancing between Miss Appleton and Solomon.

Solomon cleared his throat, his neck growing hot under the scrutinizing gaze. He tucked the dustbin under his arm and shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “I have a few things I need to do before I go. Is there something you needed?”

“And why would she ask you if she did?” asked Damien, stepping in and wrapping his arm protectively around her shoulders. “She has me.” He tugged her toward the exit. “Come on, Dahlia. It’s time I take you home.”

She frowned at him, resisting the pull of his grip. “I was just trying to be nice.”

Damien scoffed. “No need to be polite to the likes of him,” he said, gesturing dismissively toward Solomon. “Now come on, before I lose my patience,” he added darkly. He grabbed her arm and jerked her forward before she could say another word.

Solomon stepped forward, thinking to say something, do something, but they soon disappeared through the doors to the foyer, Dahlia dragged out of sight. Solomon curled his fingers into a fist, a fire burning in his chest. She didn’t deserve to be treated like that, to be manhandled and controlled, but there wasn’t anything Solomon could do. Even if he could—­even though he wanted to—­it wasn’t his business. He hardly even knew her.

He carried his supplies to the closet and then returned to the theater hall to practice. The chamber was empty and quiet now that everyone had gone. Rather than take the stage, he sat halfway down the back row of seats, reading his script by the faint light of the gas lamps beneath the eaves of the balcony.

He mumbled Mark Antony’s lines. “
There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d . . . Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth
. . .” He imagined Marion replying as Cleopatra, but the thought stifled the words in his throat. She was so perfect, so graceful on the stage, and he was . . . not.

Solomon sighed heavily and continued to read until the glass door at the theater entrance banged open and footsteps shuffled over the foyer carpet. He lowered his script and glanced at the door nearest him. A moment later Dahlia strode into the theater hall, stopping a few steps down the aisle, her fists clenched and head bowed. He could hear soft sobs amidst her deep breaths. Placing his script on the seat beside him, he stood up, the hinges of his seat creaking beneath him.

Dahlia whipped her head around at the sound, and when she saw him, turned her head away and hastily wiped her eyes.

“Miss Appleton, what’s wrong?” he asked, walking toward her.

She shook her head and pinned her loose curls back into the low bun at her neck. “Nothing,” she said with a feeble smile. She sniffled. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t know why I even came back here.” She shook her head again and turned to leave. “I should be heading home.”

“Miss Appleton,” he said more gently. “What happened? Why are you crying?”

She stopped and inhaled a shaky breath, turning her gaze to the theater stage. As Solomon drew near, he saw that her mascara ran in black lines down her cheeks, and she had chewed the lipstick from the middle of her bottom lip.

“I’m just being a bit emotional,” she said quietly, her voice wavering. “Woman’s curse, you know.” She smiled, but her trembling lip broke through again and she hastily turned her face away.

Solomon stopped a few chairs from the end of the row and stared at her. “Miss Appleton, I have enough sisters to know that’s complete nonsense.” He pressed his lips together. “You can tell me what’s wrong.”

She drew her thin brows together and bit her lip. “No, I can’t.” Slumping into the seat at the end of the row, she pressed her fingers to her temple. “I really can’t.”

Solomon sat down in the adjacent seat but did not press her. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Dahlia lowered her hand, exhaled a shaky breath and gazed at the stage, her brows drawn.

“Would you like me to walk you home?” he asked after a moment.

She wiped her cheeks again and sniffled. Her makeup smeared across her face in gray streaks. “Don’t you have to work?”

“No.” He glanced back at the script balanced precariously on an armrest. “I’m done with work for the night.”

She sucked in a deep breath and smiled more broadly, her lips shaking. “Then I’d like that very much.”

He pressed his lips together and frowned. “Are you sure you’re all right? We can wait a bit longer if you need to.”

The smile wavered. “No, I’m fine,” she said, straightening her coat as she stood. “It’s nothing. Really. Don’t worry about me.”

Solomon suppressed a sigh.

“Shall we go?” she asked. “My mother will be expecting me.”

“Let me grab something first.” He rose from his seat and retrieved the script from where he had left it.

“What’s that?” she asked when he returned.

He folded the pages in half. “Nothing.”

She raised an eyebrow and snatched it out of his hands. She scanned the first page. “A script? This is Mr. Niles’s handwriting.” She looked up. “Where did you get this?”

“He gave it to me.”

She frowned. “But why?”

“To read.” He grabbed the corner of the script, but she didn’t let go. “Can I have it back, please?”

Dahlia narrowed her eyes and glanced down at the pages. “He’s highlighted Antony’s lines.” She tugged the script away from him again and arched an eyebrow. “
If it be love indeed, tell me how much
.” She glanced up at Solomon and nudged his fingers with the script. “Tell me, dear Antony . . .
If it be love indeed, tell me how much
.”

Solomon swallowed and peered over the top of the page, reading the line upside down
.
“
Th-­There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d
.”

Her half smile brightened and the shadows of sadness faded from her face. She read the next line. “
I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved
.”

“
Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth
.”

Dahlia lowered the script and searched Solomon’s eyes. “Are you one of Damien’s understudies? I thought—­”

“No, I just—­” He scratched behind his ear. “Mr. Niles wants me to practice. He says if I do, if I study Mr. Creighton on the stage, I might be good enough to win a part in the next production. I’m not any good now, but with practice . . .” He trailed off with a shrug. “Maybe I can be.”

She handed the script back to him. “Were you practicing just now, before I arrived?”

Solomon nodded.

“Well, you certainly can’t practice by yourself.” She gathered to her full height and straightened her coat. “You need someone to practice with.”

He shook his head, the heat rising in his face. “No, I couldn’t—­”

“Nonsense. I’ll help you.”

He frowned. “You?”

“Of course,” she said. “Besides, I need someone to help me practice my lines outside of scheduled sessions. My mother’s too blind to read with me. It would be nice to practice with someone who can actually read the other parts.” She smiled broadly, revealing the gap in her teeth. “If that all right with you, I mean. If you’d rather not . . .”

“No, I would, but—­”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me. Deal?”

“What about Mr. Creighton?”

Her smile faded and she bit her lip. “It—­It’ll be fine.” She nodded hurriedly. “Yes. It’s just practicing, just work.” She lowered her voice and stared at the stage. “It’s none of his business anyway, is it?” Her chin trembled.

“Miss Appleton?”

She sucked in a sharp breath and looked at him, her dark eyes glimmering with tears. She sniffled and nodded again. “Yes. It’ll be fine.” She fiddled with her hair, tucking a few loose strands behind her ear. “Now, I don’t have time to practice tonight, but we could start tomorrow, if you like.”

“Tomorrow is good for me,” he said.

Dahlia inhaled deeply and nodded once more. “Good.” She forced a shaky smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Mr. Wade,” she said, getting to her feet.

“Don’t you still want me to walk you home?”

Her smile faltered. “No. That’s all right.”

Solomon. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She exhaled slowly, wiping her cheeks. “It wouldn’t do for someone to see me with you,” she said quietly. “It’s probably best I go alone.” The way she said the word ‘someone’ made it perfectly clear to Solomon who she meant. “Besides,” she said more brightly. “I am perfectly capable of walking home on my own.” She stood then and raised her chin, her eyes still bright with unshed tears. A shaky smile graced her lips. “But thank you for the offer. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

CHAPTER THREE

A
t theater practice the following evening, Dahlia was talkative and cheerful again. She laughed easily when someone made a joke and happily conversed with Miss Lachance when they weren’t on stage, and on the stage, she delivered her lines with ease.

“
Good your Highness, patience
,” demanded Dahlia, her voice shrill amidst the whimpering departure of the messenger, a quivering boy.

“
In praising Antony, I have dispraised Caesar
,” said Marion, lifting her hand to her brow.

Dahlia nodded solemnly. “
Many times, madam.
”

“
I am paid for it now
,” she despaired, reciting her next lines with near melodramatic torment. Then she spun around, her motions weighted with desperation, and faced Mr. Brogan, the curly-­haired chap who played Alexas.

“Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him

Report the feature of Octavia, her years,

Her inclination, let him not leave out

The color of her hair. Bring me word quickly.”

Mr. Brogan nodded and bowed deeply before leaving the stage at Mr. Niles’s command, and the actors went on until the director called the end of the scene.

“
Exeunt
,” he finished. He tucked his script under his arm and gave a brief applause. “Another night well done, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll reconvene tomorrow.”

As the actors and actresses gathered their things and left the front rows of the theater seats, Solomon swept his way to the opposite aisle and collected the meager specks of dirt into the dustpan. As he returned to the supply closet in the foyer, the others treaded across the plush carpet and pushed through the theater entrance, dispersing through the streets of the second quadrant. Dahlia lagged behind, lingering near Mr. Niles’s office.

Damien jerked the collar of his coat up and combed his hair back with his palm, glaring at Dahlia. “Are you coming or not?”

Solomon busied himself with putting his cleaning supplies away.

“I need to speak with Mr. Niles about something,” said Dahlia.

Damien groaned. “Will it take long?”

“It might.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Then find your own way home.” He turned on his heel and pushed through the door, leaving Dahlia alone in the foyer.

She closed her eyes and sighed, the tension leaving her shoulders.

Solomon shut the closet door and locked it. Pocketing the key, he peered around the edge of the wall and looked out the glass doors to Delaney Road, but he didn’t see Damien, only the snowless cobblestone street and jets of steam shooting from the vents along the curbs.

“Do you really need to speak with Mr. Niles?” he asked Dahlia.

She glanced at him, smiling nervously. “No, but we should probably let him know we’ll be here for a while. We don’t want to get locked in when he leaves.” She raised her hand to the office door and knocked.

“Come in,” said Mr. Niles.

Dahlia cracked the door and stuck her head through. “Evening, sir. I wanted to let you know Mr. Wade and I are still here. I was going to help him practice, and vice versa.”

“Is that so?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good. I just have some paperwork to do. Let me know when you leave, or I’ll come find you when it’s time to lock up. I shouldn’t be more than an hour, but—­well, you never know.”

“We’ll be on the stage, if that’s all right.”

“That’s fine, Miss Appleton.”

She closed the door, crossed over to Solomon, and grabbed him by the arm. “Come on, to the stage with you. Let’s see what you can do.”

A cold settled in the pit of his stomach, and he stopped in the doorway to the theater hall. “Do we
have
to practice on the stage? I mean I’m not really . . .”

Dahlia silenced him with a look, propping her hand on her hip. “Being an actor is being on the stage, Mr. Wade. There’s no better place to practice. Besides, the theater is empty now. Only me and you, and no one else to see.” She walked a few steps down the aisle toward the stage and waved him forward. “Come on, then.”

Solomon’s shoulders tensed, but he followed her into the theater and up to the stage. She climbed the steps to the left of the platform and took up position on one of many markers drawn on the brass surface. The electric limelights along the edge of the stage highlighted her blonde curls with a phosphorescent glow, and the stage lights along the rafters kindled stars in her eyes.

From the top of the stairs, Solomon saw a sliver of the mechanics beneath the stage—­cams, pistons, gear trains, and a complicated pattern of twisting pipes. The platform was built of five sections: the foreground, middle ground, and background, each made of thousands of tiny square mechanical panels, and the two strips of solid floor between, where all the standing markers had been placed.

“Are you coming?” asked Dahlia.

Solomon glanced out toward the empty theater seats, dark in contrast to the brilliance of the stage. His audience was nothing more than silent shadows, but his imagination gave faces to them, the theater hall packed with quiet critics, their lidless eyes watching, waiting for him to make a mistake. He curled his hand into a fist to stop it from shaking. A pressure weighed on his chest, and his insides twisted sickeningly. Blood fled from his hands and feet, leaving his fingers and toes dead and cold. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his breath unsteady.

“Are you all right?” asked Dahlia quietly. Her heels clicked on the brass stage as she approached, and she gently laid a hand on his arm.

He glanced up at her and managed a slight shake of his head.

Without another word, she took his arm and led him down the stairs and into a seat. The shadows of the ghostly audience faded, and he was able to breathe again. He raised a shaking hand to his forehead. His fingers were like ice.

“Blimey.” She plopped down into the seat next to him. “I’ve never seen it so bad.”

Solomon swallowed. He still had the faint feeling he was going to be sick. “S-­Seen what?” he croaked.

“Stage fright.” She frowned, and a fine line appeared between her brows. She glanced at the stage. “Usually it only happens to actors when there’s
actually
an audience watching, but you—­” She bit her lip and turned her gaze back to Solomon, eyebrows arched high above her dark lashes. “You seem like you’re afraid of the stage itself.”

He only nodded in reply, his jaw clenched so tight he couldn’t speak without fear of being sick. Without invitation, Dahlia removed the script from his shaking fingers and closed her hands over his. Her steady fingers gave warmth back to his clammy skin, and after a moment his stomach settled and his hands stopped shaking.

“Better now?” she asked.

Hesitantly, he nodded.

She withdrew her comforting touch, resting her hands atop the scripts lying in her lap. “See? You’re all right.” She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and stared at the stage. “Obviously, we’ll have to start small with you, slowly work you toward being able to take the stage until it doesn’t bother you anymore.”

Solomon shook his head. “I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, don’t fret, Mr. Wade.” Dahlia smiled encouragingly. “It’ll get better. It always does; though it may take a little longer with you.” She patted his knee and stood. “It’s only a little fear. Nothing we can’t manage. If Mr. Niles thinks you can be an actor on that stage, then so do I.”

Solomon stared at the scripts in her hands. “He’s wrong. I’m not fit to be an actor. It was stupid of me to think I could—­” He closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

“I won’t hear that,” she said smartly.

“But—­”

“Mr. Wade, do you think you’re the only person who ever wanted to give up when something turned out more difficult than expected?” She leaned against the back of the seat behind her and crossed her arms, holding the scripts tight to her chest. “We all have doubts. We all fear failure. I know I do.”

Solomon glanced up at her. “But you don’t have a reason to. You’re a talented actress. Anyone can see that. But me . . . I can’t even stand on the stage without choking up.” He stared at the stairs to the left of the stage and sighed. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Maybe not.” She uncrossed her arms and touched his shoulder. “But I do know if you’re determined enough, you won’t let it keep you from trying again.” She smiled warmly. “Don’t give up, Mr. Wade. Give up, and everyone who doubted you will win.”

“And if the person who doubts me the most is me?”

Dahlia drew back and placed one hand on her hip. “Then you ignore yourself and listen to me instead.” She offered her hand. “Help me prove you wrong.”

He glanced at her open palm. “You really think I can do it?”

“I do.” She reached forward and took him by the elbow. “Now get up.” She pulled him to his feet. “We need to find a place to practice.”

T
hey ended up backstage in a room filled with the leftovers of previous productions. Between the dozens of costumes hanging on racks and the many props leaning against the walls, the remaining floor space was hardly larger than the supply closet in the foyer. But it was enough for Solomon and Dahlia to practice.

“Now,” she said. “Which scene would you like to practice first?”

Solomon stared at his script. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

“Well, you need to have enthusiasm for it. If you try to practice a scene you don’t care for, then you won’t put on your best performance. That’s a good way to get discouraged.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“From
Antony and Cleopatra
?” She pursed her lips and glanced over the racks of costumes. “Perhaps it is tragic of me, but the final scene, when Cleopatra takes her life.” She narrowed her eyes. “No. Rather, the scene before, the death of Antony.” She straightened, raised her chin high, and recited Cleopatra’s lament for Antony, giving the words such breath and life.

“Noblest of men, woo’t die?

Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide

In this dull world, which in thy absence is

No better than a sty? O, see, my women,

The crown o’ the earth doth melt. My lord!

O, wither’d is the garland of the war,

The soldier’s pole is fall’n; young boys and girls

Are even now with men; the odds is gone,

And there is nothing left remarkable

Beneath the visiting moon.”

When she finished, Dahlia sighed with a smile, her eyes alight with the passion of the stage, and then bit her lip, the smile still showing through.

Solomon slipped his hat from his head and placed it on top of a treasure chest. “You know,
you
could be Cleopatra instead of Miss Kozlowski.”

Dahlia’s cheeks flushed deep red and she dropped her gaze to the floor. She shook her head, tossing her blonde curls around her face. “No, I couldn’t. Marion is—­” She bit her lip. “Marion is so much
more
than I am. She is a queen upon the stage. And I—­I am not.”

“You were a queen just then.”

She twisted a lock of hair around her finger, barely concealing a smile. “That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Wade, but Marion will always be a better actress than me. That is the fact of the matter.” She smiled meekly. “Perhaps someday I’ll lead a production, but that day is far away. I don’t have the talent to compete with Marion—­or Damien, for that matter.”

“I’ve watched you,” said Solomon, “and I think you do. You’re much better than you give yourself credit for.”

She tucked a curl behind her ear, hiding a small smile, then lifted her script and flipped through the pages. She cleared her throat. “So, do you know which scene you would like to practice?”

Solomon didn’t look at his pages. “Will you be Cleopatra?”

Dahlia raised her eyes. “And you Antony?”

“I can be Antony,” he said quietly. “For you.”

A small smile crept onto her lips, and she raised her chin. “Then I can be your Queen of Egypt.” She flipped through the script. “What scene?”

“If it’s your favorite, then we’ll do Antony’s death.”

She nodded and flipped toward the end of the script. “Do you mind if we start in the previous scene, right after his failed suicide? I think doing them together will help you get into character.”

“That’s fine,” he said.

“All right, then. It’s page thirty-­two. Start right after line one-­thirty, at
Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides.
”

Solomon skimmed through the script until he found the right line. He cleared his throat, feeling his nerves intensify, constricting his chest. He closed his eyes and exhaled a leveled breath. He wasn’t on the stage. Another deep breath. He was just practicing. He wasn’t even in front of an audience.

“Are you all right?” asked Dahlia. “Is it your nerves again?”

“No. I’m fine,” he said quietly.

He was with a friend.

Solomon cleared his throat again and read:

“B-­Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides;

’Tis the—­the last ser­vice that I shall—­that I shall command you.”

“Have a little more confidence,” said Dahlia. “It’s only you and me, remember? Be a little more dramatic with his lines, if you can, and your performance will be even better.”

He nodded, and she carried on with the next lines from the script before prompting him to continue.

Solomon cleared his throat. “
Nay, good my fellows—­
” he said louder and with more gusto. He glanced at Dahlia, and she nodded enthusiastically. He continued, reading carefully over each line so that he did not stumble.

“—­do not please sharp fate

To g-­grace it with your sorrows. B-­Bid that welcome

Which comes to punish us, and we punish it

Seeming to—­”

“You’re reading,” said Dahlia sternly. “Remember, you
are
Mark Antony. You aren’t reading a play. You are giving Mark Antony another breath of life.” She raised her chin. “Like this . . .” She then recited the same lines with breathless passion, delivering Antony’s sorrow and regret with every syllable that she spoke, finishing with a pleased smile. “They’re more than words,” she added with an encouraging nod. “Remember that.”