Commedia della Morte (22 page)

“And you’re determined that we should pursue her?”

“Yes, Photine, I am, and I will do so.” He saw her dismay before she could conceal it. “You needn’t come with me if you would prefer not to.”

She stared at him, her whole attention on his dark, compelling eyes in the papier-mâché skull-mask. “I’ve said I would help you find her, and I will.”

From the far side of the stage, they heard the jangling sound of a tambourine, a signal to the mimes to return to the wagons to prepare for the performance.

“I’ll have to finish dressing in a few minutes,” said Photine.

Da San-Germain smiled his encouragement, but realized she could not see it. “You will do well, Photine. Your actors are all rehearsed in their parts. You will succeed.”

She gave a nervous shrug and got to her feet. “Start playing five minutes before the play begins. Remember, no merry songs.”

“I’ll keep to the dirges and laments,” he promised. “I know the ones you prefer.”

She was about to walk away, but stopped. “Have you seen our poet today?”

“Not since early this morning,” he answered. “He seemed to be preoccupied.”

“About what?” It was impossible to tell what she was seeking in that simple question.

“I have no idea. He said nothing to me.” He did not add that Theron seemed to be annoyed with him, though he wondered if he should mention it.

“Well, I trust he’ll be here for the play. It is his work, for the most part, and we will need to discuss the audience reaction when the performance is over; there are changes that we must have.” She waved to him once, then went off toward her wagon, her step dragging as if she carried a great weight on her shoulders. She paused to make a quick perusal of the people at the front of the wagons, then went on, a bit more energetically.

Da San-Germain watched her go, wishing he could think of some way to cheer her, but he had seen her perform many times and realized that her current state of anxiety was part of her means of making ready. He gave his attention to his cimbalom once more, testing the strings with the tips of his fingers to make sure they were holding their pitch. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aloys close the heavy, fringed curtains across the front of the platform and begin setting up the hard stage bed with its garlands of paper flowers, and the small table for the first scene of their play.

Feo came around behind the wagon, saying, “I’m looking for Enee—have you—”

“—seen him? Not recently,” da San-Germain told him. “Nor have I seen Theron in the last two hours. Other than that, everything seems ready.”

“Well, that’s one fewer Corpse for the final march, and one less Lackey for Photine in her scene. The poet, though, he ought to be here, so he can see how the play is received, but I guess it isn’t entirely necessary.” He shook his head. “That boy, he’s another matter altogether—he is determined to get into trouble. He is intent on putting his mother in a difficult position, and to test whether she will stand by him.”

“That he is,” da San-Germain agreed, surprised at the acuity of Feo’s understanding. “And she is aware of it,” he added, then selected the harder hammers for the cimbalom; they were made of wood and looked like long-handled shallow spoons. “It’s almost time to start the music. What do you think of the crowd?”

“I don’t know. It looks a little small to me, but I’m new to all this,” said Feo, a rascally smile brightening his face, “and this is the first real performance I’m seeing, so I have no way to judge.” He ducked his head. “That mask is … unnerving.”

“You’ve seen it before,” said da San-Germain, surprised by the observation.

“I know. It must be the occasion. This isn’t practice anymore, is it?” He stepped away from da San-Germain, taking up his place on the platform beside the curtain-pull for this side of the stage.

Da San-Germain shook his head. “No. No more practice,” he said, and began to play on the cimbalom, hammering the strings lightly at first, drawing out a plaintive folksong from the instrument. At first few of the people gathered in front of the two wagons paid any attention, but as the sound grew louder, more of the audience listened, caught by the haunting tune. They became quiet, and moved closer to the stage, and da San-Germain began another song, this one from his homeland, a somber kind of march that prepared the audience for something disturbing.

Suddenly Lothaire, in his Corpse costume, stepped through the curtains and bowed to the assembled spectators; da San-Germain’s instrument went silent.

First Corpse: How often have we had to see

Death displayed as liberty?

Heads offered up as proof of right

Or proof of law, or proof of spite:

The living find cause for this display

Though fear it may reach them one day.

How often have we had to mourn

For those whose fault was being born?

Yet soon or late, the end must come

And all of life be then the sum

Of days, and be they few or many,

Laden with years, or hardly any,

Welcome or dreaded, all the same,

In obscurity or fame:

Thus these scenes will surely show

That in triumph or in woe

None may stay the fatal hour,

Nor withstand its mortal power.

No king, no beggar, no cadet

Can change the time once it is set.

For soon or late, Death comes for all,

And all that lives is in its thrall.

So take what solace that you may

From what we show to you today.

He bowed again, and stepped back as the curtains were pulled open; the curtain on the right side of the stage concealed his exit even as it revealed the boudoir of a courtesan of the old school, in the person of Olympe Lacet, wearing a sacque-backed negligee, a white wig, and elaborate make-up with patches by the corner of her mouth and above her right eyebrow; she was surrounded by paste jewels and paper flowers. She sat on the end of the bed, reading a note from an admirer. The first scene of the play had begun.

Tereson, in the character of Olympe’s maid, came in with a lavish bouquet of white roses made of paper, and presented this to Olympe with a flourish, announcing that a caller was waiting, offering an elaborate description of the man and what he could provide, emphasizing her comments with exuberant gestures, her lithe movements more like dance than mime. Olympe appeared to listen with an air of satisfaction while she admired her bracelets and rings, and when Tereson had finished her catalogue of the new client, asked that he be sent up. Tereson bowed and departed to the right; Olympe picked up a hand-mirror and primped. In a short while, Hariot entered, resplendent in garments twenty years out of fashion, holding on to a tall cane. His face was aged with paint and there were marks on his cheeks and nose that suggested the client suffered from carnal diseases. He bowed and kissed Olympe’s hands, exclaiming on her beauty all the while. She heard him out with an air of boredom, then patted the bed beside her.

The audience chuckled, anticipating what would happen next.

Da San-Germain began to strike a single string, softly but steadily.

Tereson staggered onto the stage, announcing another visitor, but with a demeanor of horror, and before she could conclude her description, she fell as Lothaire entered and pulled her into the fold of his winding-sheet.

The audience gasped, and a murmur passed through the crowd, and then a few of their number moved a little nearer to the stage, aware that they were seeing something unfamiliar. The easy excitement that had possessed the audience changed to attentive curiosity. A pair of older women left the gathering, shaking their heads in shock and disapproval.

On the bed, Hariot and Olympe went still, and then, as the First Corpse approached them, they rose and began to follow Lothaire and Tereson, marching across the stage like a procession of automatons to the grim notes from the cimbalom. A moment later, the curtains closed and Olympe reached for her skull half-mask, and tied it on as she stepped out through the opening in the curtains.

Second Corpse: I, who lived for gaiety and vice,

Am now but food for worms and cold as ice.

She went on while behind the curtain the scene was changed as quickly as possible, to the garden for Cleante’s and Desiree’s dialogue where Pascal and Sibelle would argue the merits of eloping.

Photine slipped in beside da San-Germain, now fully dressed and made up for her scene that was the next-to-the-last in the play. “I wish we didn’t need these speeches to cover the change of scene, but it can’t be helped.” She laid her hand on his arm. “How are they taking it?” she whispered while Olympe continued to recite her couplets.

“They seem to be interested,” da San-Germain said softly, continuing his steady beat on the single note.

“Have you seen anyone from the Tribunal watching?”

“Not that I’ve recognized, but that doesn’t mean that some of the audience isn’t from the Tribunal.”

Sibelle hurried onto the stage, her costume rustling. Pascal was behind her, putting on his tricorn hat. “How much more time?” he mouthed to Photine.

She held up four fingers, meaning two couplets to go. “I’ll leave you,” she breathed into da San-Germain’s ear before she slipped away.

Feo went to pull open his side of the curtain.

The play progressed steadily, the scenes moving along, some of them touching but most of them amusing enough to evoke laughter from the audience. Da San-Germain continued to play music and to sound the single note—moving up the scale by half a step with the end of each scene. By the time Photine appeared as the Queen in the final scene, the audience was beginning to relish the appearance of the Corpses, and to find their abrupt intrusions mordantly funny; the shock the First Corpse had occasioned at the beginning had given way to ironic anticipation.

The Queen ordered her Favorite to undertake a voyage to the New World, to claim lands not already gobbled up by England and Spain, and carve out for her a simple, earthly paradise. She rhapsodized on the magnificence and tranquillity that she would find there, and the happiness that had so long eluded her. The Favorite offered lavish promises and the vow that he would rather die than fail in his appointed task—a pronouncement that drew a cynical giggle from some of the spectators—and departed with a flourish. The Queen, left alone, debated with herself about her responsibilities and the power she would not be able to keep in the idyll she sought, and wondered which was more acceptable for her. Her Minister of State arrived to tell her of enemies massing on her borders and the need to send the army into the field to stop them. She told the Minister of State to summon her Generals, and when two had arrived, the Corpses came, too, now increased in number to five.

At this, the audience applauded, and a few tossed coins onto the stage. The last round of couplets roused more enthusiasm, and as the curtains closed and the troupe readied themselves for their curtain-call, two of the Corpses went out into the audience to collect more coins. Da San-Germain played a morose little march while the actors acknowledged the clapping and cheers of the crowd, and by the time the Corpses returned with their boxes of coins, the people were beginning to drift away from the wagons.

“Keep the curtains closed for ten minutes,” Photine ordered Aloys and Feo. “We won’t take this down until the audience is gone.”

“As you like,” said Aloys. “I’ll have a cup of wine while I wait, if it suits you.” His manner indicated that he cared little for what she thought.

“Just don’t go far,” Photine told him as she came up to da San-Germain, who had removed his mask. “You did very well.”

“Thank you,” he said as he finished unwinding his shroud. “I gather you’re pleased with the way the performance went? The people were pleased, I thought, once they realized it was not usual commedia.” He put the cimbalom hammers back in their case.

“Overall, I believe we succeeded. But I need to talk to Heurer about some of those couplets—they sound so labored. We need more ease in phrasing.” She looked about as if expecting to find Theron waiting nearby.

“I haven’t seen him,” said da San-Germain. “Like Enee, he has not made an appearance.”

“That’s most … inconvenient,” said Photine. “I will have to have a talk with him about the between-scene couplets—they’re too much like doggerel. We need something more inspired, less heavy-handed, more in keeping with the rest of the play.” She caught sight of Valence and signaled to him, saying over her shoulder to da San-Germain, “We’ll meet later. I do want to spend a time with you privately. Tonight, perhaps, if that will suit you. Just now I have others to attend to.”

Da San-Germain watched her go, then put his cimbalom back in its case, placed it in the driving-well of the nearer wagon, and donned a short pelisse of light-weight wool. He handed his mask to Roger as he made for the door of the Cheval d’Argent. “Has the take been counted yet?”

“No, not yet,” said Roger, hanging the mask on a peg with the initials
S-G
written in chalk above it. “I saw Theron return during the last scene of the play. He’s probably in his quarters or the taproom.”

“I’ll try the taproom first,” said da San-Germain, and nodded to Roger before he moved toward the door to the inn.

“He seemed surly when he went in,” Roger called after him in Byzantine Greek.

Da San-Germain gestured an acknowledgment. He was surprised to realize that he was feeling a bit tired, for he did not think he had exerted himself a great deal playing, but he had done little else to account for his fatigue. He took a minute to consider this development, and decided that he, like the actors, had been caught up in the demands of the performance, investing his music with the added stimulation the audience provided. For a second he recalled Giorgianna singing Scarlatti’s music, a century ago, and the vigor that marked her performance, and the weariness that set in when the opera was done. He paused on the threshold of the taproom, which seemed dim after the brightness of the square; light was harder on his eyes than darkness, and in a moment, he could make out the entire room without difficulty.