Last Act (23 page)

“I should hope so. Look at that!” They had rounded the bend of the stairs to see the rest of the cast assembled in the lobby. “A Sunday-school outing.”

“Well, there have been three murders, remember. And that flood wasn't exactly funny.”

He snorted with angry laughter. “Awkward to lose a principal now. But, ask me, it's more that they don't want us talking to the press. Telling of the treatment we've had. Confined to the hostel indeed! I shall have a thing or two to say when I do get interviewed.
And
I want my contract changed. Yours should be, too—mind you see it is. This dress rehearsal must be paid as a performance, since they've turned it into a preview without even consulting us. Good morning.” He turned his anger on Josef, who was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. “Have we your gracious permission to proceed?”

“Now you are all here.” Josef was consulting a typed list. “Yes. Thank you for your cooperation, Herr Stern, Miss Paget.” His smile was warm for her. “If you will please to keep with the others, and hurry? I am afraid there is a crowd out there, waiting for you. They got inside this morning; we had some trouble clearing the lobby, and I'm afraid we're not very popular as a result.”

“
Quatsch!
” Stern broke into basic German. “So stupid,” he concluded. “They're only journalists trying to do their job,
Herr—” But Josef had hurried away to marshal the front of the procession. Stern turned angrily to Anne. “What the hell
is
his other name?”

“Do you know,” she told him, “I've never heard it.”

Or Michael's either, she thought, following the rather subdued procession out of the big bronze doors into a soft, spring morning, and the flashing of dozens of cameras. Police had cordoned off the far side of the arcade, but behind them was a milling crowd of journalists and photographers. She turned to Stern. “I don't know about you, but I think I'm glad of some protection. I feel a bit like a Christian sacrifice as it is.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “If you're going to be a star, you've got to learn how to cope.” He threw out his chest, enjoying every moment of it, and took her arm to escort her up the cloister, thus effectively interposing himself between her and the photographers.

The wardrobe mistress, Mrs Riley herself, was awaiting Anne in her dressing-room. “I noticed yesterday that you'd lost some weight,” she said abruptly. “I've had the tunic taken in a little. I'd just like to see … I wish to God we'd had more costume rehearsals.” She was helping Anne out of her fur jacket. “Crazy to have so few. You'll be all right; your tunic's short, but the chorus! And shuffling about in the dark, the way they have to. All the Prince's doing, of course, making me cut costs on their togas. Was it my fault that they crumpled and marked every time they wore them?”

“Of course not.” Anne pulled her own tunic over her head and adjusted its folds. Like the other Romans, she was dressed in white, while the Carthaginians wore deep crimson. It had become obvious, the first time they rehearsed in costume, that the Roman white was going to be a problem, since it showed every mark and crease. As the whole production was planned in terms of contrasting blocks of crimson and white, Mrs Riley's suggestion that she dye the costumes had been met with contumely, and the solution had been to keep dress rehearsals to a dangerous minimum.

“And now look at us.” Mrs Riley went on grumbling as she adjusted Anne's tunic. “Half the world press here this afternoon,
and I bet you one of the Roman matrons falls over her own skirts. Oh well, you're perfect, thank God.” She handed Anne the breastplate and helmet she wore for her first entrance, with Regulus, just home from Carthage. “I took in the straps of the breastplate too,” she said. “Don't lose any more weight, there's a dear, or I'll have to get you a new one, and I'm way over my budget already.
And
all the seats today are complimentary ones, so that will be no help! If you ask me”—she lowered her voice—“Prince Rudolf is off his head. We've not paid a bill for the past two weeks, and all the local ones have come in for the second time. They were to be pacified, the local tradesmen, with first night tickets. Now they've been switched to this afternoon. I do hope they'll make a decent audience for you, Miss Paget. Oh!” She put her hand to her mouth, “I wasn't supposed to say, about the bills—you won't mention it, will you? Only, if there was trouble this afternoon, I wouldn't want you thinking it was your fault.”

“Trouble?”

“There've been some pretty tough letters coming with the final demands.
And
talk downtown—I'm staying in Lissenberg, you know—” She stopped. “I oughtn't to be telling you this.”

“I think you should. But—quickly.”

“A demonstration of some kind. They've put most of the shopkeepers in those side-galleries almost over the stage. If they chose to throw things … unpaid bills, they said, but it might be worse.”

“Oh, my God,” said Anne.

“I
shouldn't
have told you!”

“Oh, yes, you should.” She took the wall telephone off its hook. “
Herr Meyer, bitte
” And then, “Carl, I know you're busy, but could you come to my dressing-room for two minutes? Thanks.” She turned back to Mrs Riley. “And thank
you.
Now, off with you, and I won't say who told me.”

“We
can't
search the audience,” Carl protested.

“Why not? Remember the peace conference, Carl. I don't think you can
not!
”

“Oh, routine, of course. Metal detectors. Naturally that's
been laid on. But—that won't spot rotten eggs or soft tomatoes— or unpaid bills, for the matter of that.”

“I could wring Prince Rudolf's neck,” said Anne.

“Yes, but it's a bit late in the day.” He glanced anxiously around as if he thought the dressing-room might be bugged— and, really, Anne thought, by now anything seemed possible.

“When do I get paid?” she asked. So far, it had not been important that the advance promised under her contract had not been forthcoming. Now, suddenly, it was.

Carl looked at her with something approaching dislike. “That's just what Herr Stern has been asking,” he told her. “
And
he wants extra for today.”

“Well, dear Carl, of course. Look, we need Michael. He knows everyone in Lissenberg, doesn't he? Would be able to get in touch with the angriest of the tradesmen? The ones who might really demonstrate.”

“I suppose so. But what could he tell them?”

“That I care so much for Lissenberg, and”—she smiled at him—” for Beethoven, that I would like their bills to be paid before I get anything.”

“But, Anne—”

“No buts.” What an amazing advantage it was to have only six months to live. Perhaps she would die in less comfort as a result of what she was doing, but what comfort is there, anyway, about dying? “I mean it, Carl. Now, please, go and get working on it. I will not have this opera, and the peace conference, wrecked on Prince Rudolf's idiotic meanness.” Suddenly furious, she remembered that vast bouquet he had sent her. “He doesn't deserve to rule,” she said. Her telephone rang and she picked the receiver off its hook. “Yes?”

“All cast onstage, Miss Paget. And”—anxiously—” is Herr Meyer there, perhaps?”

“Yes. We'll be right there.” She heard the audible sigh of relief and thought: we're all tense to breaking point. “You must do it, Carl. Straight after the costume call.”

“But Annchen, can you afford it?”

“I must. Anyway, think what a difference the success or failure of this opera will make to me. Carl, I've made up my mind.
You'll do it?”

“Oh, yes, I'll do it, and God bless you.” But he looked miserable. “I only wish I could afford …”

“Nonsense.” She suddenly thought how oddly they had played this scene. Usually, when they were together, he made some pretence—she never felt it as more than that—at being devoted to her. This time he had entirely forgotten to do so. She reached out impusively and took his hand. “Dear Carl, you're a good friend to me. Now, how about this costume call?”

It went better than she had feared. She suspected, correctly, as it turned out, that Mrs Riley had taken a couple of inches off the chorus' togas without consulting anyone, and this made a great difference when it came to climbing the shelving flights of steps that rose from each side of the main stage. Carl had simplified their movements as much as possible at Friday's rehearsal, when he had announced they would stay onstage throughout the opera, but from time to time either crimson Carthaginians or white Romans had to come down the steps to make a dramatic background for a scene between contrasting soloists, and then get back into position as the stage was blacked out. He took them through these movements now and it all went smoothly. At last, satisfied, he looked at his watch.

“Time to go and rest,” he said. “A light lunch is being served in the hostel at one. I do beg you will all go straight back there and stay. Herr Winkler has made a particular point of this. His men have all they can cope with on their hands already. I believe he has had to beg even more help from the Italians. So, if you will very kindly go back down the arcade in a body as you came, it will be a help to everyone.”

There were a few grumbles, but when they did emerge,
en masse,
the good sense of the arrangement was obvious. The green meadow that lay between the two wings of the opera complex was now black with people. The crowd had been concentrating on the arrivals of conference delegates at the hotel, but it changed direction when the cast appeared under the great portico of the opera house, and surged forward across trampled grass to give them a friendly cheer. The morning's foot policemen had been replaced by mounted ones, who seemed to be on amicable terms
with the crowd. It was a pleasant scene, in the kind spring sunshine, with here and there a family contentedly picnicking beside the stream that ran down the middle of the valley.

“If it's like this now, what about later on!” grumbled Adolf Stern. “Ask me, this place is about as badly designed as you could get. Lunatic that we have to come outside at all between the hostel and the opera house.”

“I suppose no one expected such crowds.” Anne was thinking of the sinister corridor that ran under the buildings. Would they be reduced to using it? She very much hoped not. Not after that flood.

She felt a coward, but had her lunch sent up to her room, hoping against reason that Michael might telephone, to wish her luck, to say he understood, to explain … Absurd hope. He was doubtless fully occupied trying to pacify the angry tradesmen of Lissenberg. What a fool Prince Rudolf was, she thought, settling herself on her bed, to put so much work into his project and then risk it all for a few unpaid bills.

And yet the morning crowd had seemed cheerful and friendly enough. So did the still thicker one that greeted them when they emerged after lunch to go up for the long, careful business of costume and makeup. There was no room now for picnickers; the crowd was packed solid, standing, on either side of the stream. Anne turned to Hilde Bernz. “I wouldn't have thought there were this many people in Lissenberg.”

“There aren't,” said Frau Bernz. “Buses have been bringing them in all morning. From God knows where. We're news.”

“And this is only the preview.” Anne looked anxiously across the crowded valley. “What will it be like on Monday?”

“I hate to think.” Adolf Stern joined them. “And I wish I knew where all these people were going to spend the night. If they're meaning to camp, I shan't get a moment's sleep. You're lucky to be in the guest's suite, Miss Paget.”

“Yes. I do hope they go home when the dress rehearsal is over.”

“Why should they?” Stern was determined to make the worst of things. “Weather like this, they can sleep out well enough. And God knows there's not room for a midget in town. A friend of
mine telephoned a while ago to ask for help. His paper sent him here at the last minute, and of course he's got nowhere to stay And would that Josef let him come and sleep in my room? No, sir, he would not.”

“Well,” said Anne reasonably. “It would be a bit of a thing to have a journalist right here in our midst. Ah, here we go.” She was glad that the general move gave her the chance to move away from Stern and his grumbling.

In her dressing-room she found a scribbled note from Carl. “I talked to Michael. He sends his thanks.” No word from Michael himself, and his violets were beginning to wilt.

Would he be in the audience, she wondered, starting to change. During the costume call that morning she had looked up at the galleries to left and right of the stage, and thought how very unpleasant people in them could make it for the actors, if they should want to. She was almost beginning to agree with Stern about the design of the opera house. But then, who could have expected all this offstage drama?

At least, she thought, costumed and made up at last, the general tension had left little room for individual stage-fright. She herself ought to be down in the greenroom now, sharing this time of tension with the rest of the cast. Marcus, page to Regulus. The chance of a lifetime. A deathtime.
Don't think of that.
She adjusted her helmet, smiled at herself in the encouraging glass, and went down to join the others.

Since the vast stage had no curtain, there were various vantage points from which the auditorium could be seen. “It's packed already,” reported Carl Meyer, ten minutes before the last call. “And Michael says, don't worry. He is in the right-hand gallery, and Josef on the left, just in case, but he seems to think all's well. We're a romantic lot here in Lissenberg; a gesture like yours is bound to have a great effect. He said to tell you you'd never regret it.”