The Rehearsal (27 page)

“I value your opinion completely,” the unmasked boy said, leaning in close, and in that instant Stanley remembered the golden
boy, greased and glittering like an artificial dish sprayed with lacquer to be photographed for a cuisine magazine. The golden
boy had gleamed, and this boy was gleaming now.

Stanley swallowed and felt a bitter injustice in his throat. He recalled a vision of himself, in the Head of Movement’s office,
pushing away tears as he shouted in complaint. Even now he felt a flicker of self-congratulation that he had responded to
the Theater of Cruelty exercise in that violent way. Why hadn’t the Head of Movement been impressed, then? Why hadn’t the
tutor relaxed into a rare and sudden intimacy, inspired by Stanley’s fragile openness to confess a vulnerability of his own?
Why this boy, Stanley thought, this smooth-faced unmasked boy who was no better or worse than the rest of them?

“It’s funny,” the Head of Movement was saying now, “in many ways you’ve really… well. Woken me up, I suppose.”

“My growth is projected on to him… it is
found in him
,” the unmasked boy quoted, and through his secret sliver Stanley saw both of them smile.

“Shared or double birth,” the Head of Movement said. “Not the instruction of a pupil but utter opening to another person.”
He was silent a moment, and then he added, “Well remembered.”

They sat there and looked at their shoes, enjoying the shallow silence of the room. Behind the cold discolored flank of the
sewing machine, Stanley watched and felt bitter. He waited two long hours, with cramp in both knees and a terrible hunger
gnawing at his insides, until the boy and the Head of Movement finally ended their conversation and left the room.

“Let’s improvise it,” one of the first-year boys suggested. “Let’s start with what we had last week and see where that goes.
I really liked what was happening with the two characters together, both of them saying things that the other doesn’t really
hear, like neither of them is fully present for the other.”

“We’ll just start rolling,” one of the girls said. “First Mr. Saladin and then the girl, rotating like that. Anyone can get
up at any time. Anyone can play either of them, doesn’t matter who. We’ll just try and keep the scene moving and see what
happens.”

“We’ll get a real dialogue going.”

“That’s right.”

There was a brief pause as everyone digested the formula and swiftly began to prepare what they would later say. Then one
of the boys got to his feet. He transformed into a different person as he stood up, a man rising like a phoenix out of the
pallid, ashy
figure that had been the boy. Once he was standing, hands on hips and his jaw thrust back and his bare feet apart
and solid on the floor, nobody doubted who he had become.

The man said, “When the girls spoke of it, they said
all the way
, as if the process was a passage, a voyage, some sort of ritual first crossing of a dimly charted sea. Victoria said those
words to me—
all the way
. She asked a question. She asked, Do you want to go all the way with me? as if her departure were already scheduled, her
moorings already cast, and I could simply choose to board and join her, to sail away with her and disappear.
All the way
, she said. Every inch of it. Every inch of that windblown ocean-salted bucking rolling passage. Every inch.”

He sat down. There was the briefest of pauses again, and then Stanley stood up. He stood with his weight on one leg like a
girl, one arm crossed over his chest and holding his hip, the other gesticulating with a crooked elbow and a flat palm.

“He took a long time to answer the question,” Stanley said. “At first he gave this little shout of a laugh and gathered me
up into him and kissed my crown. Sometimes when he kissed me he’d make this keening sound in the back of his throat, like
a puppy almost, some kind of ghostly underwater voicing of some deep-felt feeling, right inside. Once he burrowed his head
into the pilled blue wool of my armpit and moaned out loud and he said, I just feel so blessed, Victoria. I feel so incredibly,
incredibly blessed. We were sitting there on the cream leather sofa in his living room and I said, Do you want to go all the
way with me? and he said, Oh, you precious, precious little girl. Not yet. Not just yet. Let’s just enjoy the innocence for
a moment, before it dissolves and we can never have it back again. Let’s just take this moment to enjoy how much is still
to come.”

Stanley sat down. All around him the students were stern and glassy. They had only half-listened to his performance, all of
them preoccupied already with the inward rehearsal of what they would say when they got up in front of the rest, and how
they
would contrive to make the words seem spontaneous and unrehearsed and pure.

One of the girls got up. Like any girl who tries to play a grown man, her performance was disproportionate and slightly embarrassing.
She let her voice deepen and placed her feet wide apart and assumed a manner that was overly earnest and gruff. She raised
her chin and said, “Could it have been one of the others, if this girl had never dared? Could it just as easily have been
the girl to her right or left, another saxophonist in the front row of the jazz band, some girl whose breasts were smaller,
whose gaze was sharper, whose fingernails were squatter, maybe, and poorer in shape, whose jersey was coming unraveled at
the hem? All of them have smiled at me, looked hard at me, laughed with me. When we won our section at the high school jazz
festival, some of them even hugged me. Would it have been different, with one of them?”

Another girl got up as this Mr. Saladin was returning to her seat on the floor. The new girl spread her hands and said, “It’s
funny to think that I never saw him wake up. I never rolled over to see him still sleeping, never saw his eyelids waxed and
still in the pale morning light, never burrowed down into the sweet hot breath of the bed and felt him stir and lift his heavy
sleepy arms to let me in. We had no mornings-after. We had no nights, no long uninterrupted nights where we could sleep and
sleep and sleep. We had no silence. We never breakfasted together. We never swam together, shopped together, walked to the
cinema together; I never called him at work to check when he was due to come home; I never pegged his laundry on the line.
I never knew his mother or his nephews or his life.

“All these are adult things, and they’re all things I never had with him. People say, now, that I was a child wrongfully thrust
into an adult’s role. People call it an adult relationship, illicit and untimely and premature. In fact it was the opposite.
It was Mr. Saladin who had the adolescent relationship, all backseat
whispers and doorway fumbles and getting home before
midnight, waiting for the parents to go to sleep or leave the house, sending messages in code and on the sly. I didn’t play
the adult. Mr. Saladin played the child.”

Opening night drew nearer and nearer. Without a central script, the devised performance did not seem to be approaching any
kind of finished state, but merely began blooming and swelling in odd places, like an ancient wrinkled party balloon that
was being forcibly refilled with breath. Tempers in the group ran high, and fractures began to form around the strongest personalities
as the dissatisfied students met in whispering mutinous pairs in doorways around the Institute.

“Andy strutting around in that costume like that makes me
sick
,” was how the whispers ran. “Thinks he’s God’s gift to the stage. Every time he walks past I want to stick out a leg and
trip him up.”

“Do you know how hard it is to act in a scene with Oliver if Esther’s around? Today she was practically humping his leg.”

“If Felix clears his throat like that one more time I swear I am going to clock him.”

“What is this show, like a two-hour tribute to one guy? Why does Sam get so much stage time? It’s not like he’s the cream
of the crop or anything.”

The real risk was that these dissatisfied students, the whisperers, angry at the comparative insignificance of their parts
and sick of the officious prodding from the others in the group, might want so much to disassociate themselves from the performance
that on opening night they might intentionally act poorly, calling deliberate attention, through their ham acting, to the
distance between the actor and the role. This became a tacit
threat; it hung in the air around them, and the actors became
wary and mistrusting, hugging their costumes tighter to their chests as if they were trying to hold the fractured shell of
their ego in one place with the force of their hands.

Leaving the Institute after a rehearsal one day, Stanley bundled his bag of take-home props under his arm and threw his head
back for a moment to enjoy the pale afternoon sun. He had left quietly, through the backstage area and out the players’ door
into the alley, slipping away from his scowling, shadow-eyed classmates who were still arguing as they stacked the chairs
away and cleared the rehearsal room for the next morning.

He rounded the corner into the northern quadrangle and to his surprise came face to face with the girl who had appeared so
oddly and suddenly in the wings of the auditorium stage, the wide-eyed schoolgirl who had collided with him in the velvet
black. He stalled a moment as he recognized her, again recalling the brief and breathy impact in the dark, the girl gasping
and stricken and looking down at him in mute apology as he fell.

When his scene was over he had returned to the wings to seek her out, but she had disappeared.

“There was somebody watching,” he had said later to the boy Felix, as in their dressing rooms they wiggled out of their costumes
and returned their wigs to the faceless polystyrene heads that lined the top of the dresser. “From the wings. She must have
come in by the players’ door. I guess it was open.”

“Did you tell her to get out?” Felix said, not really interested. He was unlacing his bodice aggressively, and Stanley heard
the worn and dirty laces rip.

“She disappeared,” Stanley said, watching as Felix saw his mistake and swore under his breath. “I guess it’s just weird when
people watch from the wings and we don’t know it. It’s like an unfair advantage. If someone had crept in through the foyer
and was watching in the stalls I wouldn’t have cared.”

Isolde was sitting on the slat bench underneath the ginkgo
tree. She was wearing her Abbey Grange school uniform, and was
swinging her legs slightly as she flicked the pages of a dog-eared novel, curving her body over the book with her hair falling
free about her face. As he approached he saw more clearly now how pretty she was, with full cheeks and a pouting mouth and
a slender upturned nose that she was stroking absently with one finger as she read. As Stanley neared her she looked up and
gave a puzzled start as she recognized him.

“It’s you,” Stanley said. “From the wings.”

“Oh, yeah,” the girl said, and drew her lower lip underneath her front teeth. She looked up at him uncertainly, like a puppy
waiting to be admonished.

“You made me miss my cue,” Stanley said, and then they both blushed at his rudeness.

“Sorry,” Isolde said. “I heard the drum and I just followed the sound. I guess I just wandered in.”

There was a little pause.

“It was only a rehearsal,” Stanley said at last. She nodded politely and pressed her lips together in a kind of apologetic
smile. Stanley pointed at her music case to change the subject. “What do you play?”

“Alto saxophone,” Isolde said. “My teacher’s studio is up there.”

“She must be rich, to afford a studio here,” Stanley said. “The rent is insane. I know because the Drama Institute were going
to buy out way more of these buildings than they actually did, but it was too expensive.” He was growing hot with embarrassment
now, the unease spreading like a scarlet ink-stain over his chest and into the stippled hollow of his throat. He knew that
it would be visible above the open collar of his shirt, spreading up to his chin like an old-fashioned ruff. He wished he
had not sought this girl out, that he had walked past her without speaking, maybe even given her a calm and cryptic nod.

“I don’t know if she’s rich,” Isolde said.

“Are you any good?” Stanley asked.

As soon as he said it he felt ashamed at having asked such an unanswerable question of this round-faced, blinking girl. He
hoped she would not ask him the same question back. But Isolde only said, “I’m sitting Grade Eight,” and shrugged to show
that the question didn’t much matter to her anyway.

“I hear you guys sometimes,” Stanley said. “Well, probably not you specifically, but the music travels down to where we are.”

“Yeah, I hear you guys sometimes too,” Isolde said, inexplicably blushing now too. “Mostly drums and shouting.”

“And screaming probably,” Stanley said, trying to make a joke out of it, but Isolde just smiled and said, “No, I’ve never
heard screaming.”

“Okay,” said Stanley, flapping his arms. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.” He had meant it to sound aloof, but instead
it sounded expectant, as if he were anticipating another chance meeting. He looked away from her to show he didn’t care, out
over the cobbles at the pigeons and the banked rim of litter framing the courtyard with a little crust of silver and white.

“Okay,” Isolde said, giving him a curious look. She made no move to take up her novel again, and followed him with her eyes
as he stumbled away from her and across the quad, the bag of props slipping from under his arm.

“Stanley,” the Head of Acting said, “I want you to become your father.”

Stanley nodded tentatively. He was standing with his legs slightly apart and his hands behind his back. All the other students
were sitting on the floor and looking up at him, hugging their knees tight against their ribs.

“This is a question-and-answer session,” the Head of Acting said, smoothing the page in front of him calmly with the flat
of his hand. He was sitting at a desk to one side, his legs crossed at the knee, one bare white foot rotating slowly to relax
the ankle joint. “We are going to start asking questions of you, addressing you directly as if you really are your father.
I want you to stay in character for the next half hour. If you don’t know the real answer to any questions asked of you, then
make them up. Don’t worry if you have to lie, just don’t break character.”