We have an hour left to rehearse, Mada says while ignoring the mensch’s shaking all over to root around for his pocketwatch where, in his pocket — and then the press conference, an hour to rest, shower, and eat; we’re back here for soundcheck at — winding it, noon.
Interviews throughout the afternoon, at the sponsoring hotel the Midtown One Season, demoted by three thanks to frost.
Then to Ben, remember, let us do the talking.
All set?
Gelt puts a goy on the boxoffice, why not.
A phalanx of security shall fill the frontrow tonight, retired police and fire will arise to keepsafe the wings. As for the hall without, its lobby’s been hastily whitewashed, overnight, moonlit by unions: a stretch of wall that used to host a vast verdant mural, famous for its artistry forgotten, redone into this pure snowlike swath, obliterating its representation, made to reflect virtuously above the marmoreal floors, polished and shining. The short agitable stage manager spits a mucose hock of morning chaw to the cuspidor at the side of the stagedoor, retreats from his briefing by Mada and Gelt, heading backstage to overlord the Rockettes’ lastminute refittings for long shapeless skirts, modest wigs frayed to frump, setting hems, renegotiating necklines with what he calls upper management that’s probably only his conscience. A rumbling wells, quakes the theater’s vault, diapasonic, shakes draped forms on flutes, flakes goldleaf, rattles mirrorglass foxed in smoke and framed in chrome and cracking: statuesque Eve dropping her marble apple to roll to a doorstop, let in a draft; the sounding not of His stomach, nor that of the grumbling of those waiting out in the weather for their tickets reserved, a kvetch over price, it’s the warmingup of the organ, swelling initially a pillowlike softness, then rising into a dignified pad of a devotional nature, underscoring the fumbling of a handful of His lookalikes, Ben’s bit players, A Pharisee, Sadducee #3…these understudies curtain up and stumbling through staging, which like the streets connecting crosstown and the avenues north and south has been amateurishly blocked, made safe for the public — them klutzy with smashing their irreplaceable props, and persisting, too, in mispronounciating their lines if they don’t just forget them entire.
A night spent on bed’s edge, rawthroated on the lip of the toilet — Ben bowed to gut up what’d been ordered to be the most settling of catering — after a debut that went, He’ll admit, maybe just an encore short of wellreceived, nu, thank you very much despite; and this despite the encouragement, the kudos, kisses and hugs XO again, VSOP the cartons of cigarettes and the chocolate balloons and the flowers they’d brought Him, that bouquet of bouquets composed only of the flowers to which He’s allergic, He thinks though they’re artificial, silled in every shade known to mortification, disaster: yellow, red, pink, deathwhite, paling petals; the clutch of them Mada, Gelt, Hamm, and Him crowded into His turret atop the Great Hall to wait for the morning editions, the mediated response, the silent radio, imageless teevee, any pitch or delivery, for the earliest word of the cheaping bird; Mada calling downstairs to Garden Control every ten minutes with Gelt, too, listening in on the line from the hallway, after any indication, any news breaking late the already broken. Insecure, maybe, hungry for feedback, thirsty for praise. Under the veil, His face an open book: page Doctor Tweiss, then take cover. As wide as any newspaper spread, the next magazine feature or foldout. His ears “are marks of quotation.” His mouth an indiscretion, if still forgivably young.
