Little Disquietude C. E. Case

[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

"It's just business, Leah."
"What else do you have for me?" she asked.
"The End wants you to do a set."
That was something. Leah leaned forward. "Really?"
"Yes. Isn't that awesome?"
The way his eyes lit up made her suspicious. "What's the catch?"
"You'd be opening for someone."
"Not Gates McFadden."
"No."
"Who?"
"The Maguires. They're a Celtic industrial band from Canada."
"No," Leah said.
"You'd get four songs."
"No." Her eggs were getting cold. She stabbed at them.
"So, how's North Carolina?" he asked.
She smiled sweetly at him. "Wish I was there."
* * *
The opening night party for Renegade Tartuffe cooled down after
the press left. Joe's Pub had been a good choice; cast settled onto
couches, talked quietly, drank cheap champagne. Leah had been seen
with everyone. When the pictures went out in the post the next
morning, she'd be there. Her parents would complain that she hadn't
called them.
Or maybe the editors would ignore her altogether, filter her out,
bemoan that she was taking space that could be filled by Hugh Jackman
or Jeremy Kushner.
Angel asked, "Renee Zellweger, couldn't she get you a part in a
movie?"
"Oh sure. Maybe I could be the caterer. Or second assistant."
"What about your little friend, the one that got discovered by Nicole
Kidman when she was on stage?"
Leah sighed. "See, you said it yourself. You have to be on stage,
first."
"Maybe you shouldn't spend so much time in North Carolina."
* * *
Enrique from the ensemble had a Blackberry and shortly after one
in the morning Enrique, the dark and lithe dance captain, exclaimed
that the New York Times had posted its review.
"Ben or Charlie?" Angel asked.
"I believe he prefers Charles," Enrique said.
"That's not what he said when my dick was in his mouth," Angel
said.
"Ew, ew. Can we please not slash the theatre critics?" Leah asked.
"It's like picturing Republicans naked."
"But theater critics are actually gay," Enrique pointed out,
shrugging. He scrolled the text on his handheld.
"I won't believe that until they use 'fabulous' in a review." Angel
leaned forward. "Did he say you were fabulous?"
"All right, shut up!" Enrique yelled. He stood up on the couch. The
room quieted. The director finished off his drink. The producers settled
in at the bar, and hid their faces.
Enrique read, "We gave the French Jerry Lewis--"
"Not a good start," Angel said.
Leah elbowed him.
"And in return, the French gave us this. Set in a time before the
bloody revolution--either of them, there's a sense of nostalgia and
innocence. In the same way Spring Awakening borrows from an older
century's text, Tartuffe draws us in because we want to see something
different than the next jukebox musical.
"There are no fake French accents. The attempt to Americanize it,
to offer a social commentary on being swindled by the power figures
we idolize, doesn't always work, but it works enough. The commentary
on the religious right cannot be ignored, and the direction and acting
are apt enough to win shameless laughter from us, rather than
uncomfortable titters.
"Were this a tragedy, the ending would be quite different, and more
familiar, and perhaps more satisfying. This, however, is a comedy, and
a reminder that stories don't always end as we expect.
"Part of this surprise is the performance of--" Enrique lifted his
head and asked, "Should I go on?"
The crowd threw popcorn and pretzels at him, and he laughed and
went on. Everyone cheered as he finished, except for Teresa Rosa, who
fled to the bathroom. Presumably to puke. Charles had called her inept.
Angel whispered to Leah that it was drugs.
Leah had gone home with Theresa once and had bad, drunken sex
without much satisfaction. She had contemplated trying for that again
tonight, but not if Teresa had been vomiting.
"How does she get parts?" Leah asked.
"You mean, when we don't? It's her vulnerability. She should be the
perfect Mariane, since she was born as Ophelia. But that doesn't make
her funny."
"It just makes her sought after," Leah said.
"Bingo."
Leah sighed. The party was dispersing. Only the people too drunk
to stand weren't out on the streets by now, calling their loved ones,
quoting the reviews.
"Now see what the Los Angeles Times said," Enrique said.
If the review had been bad, no one would read the other papers at
all. The New York Times was the only one that mattered. But in their
success, they could be drunk on praise. They could take the fainter
blows of the Daily News or the New York Post with more ease. Leah
envied them and thought of the little North Carolina paper, that
wouldn't have sent their movie critic to New York, because Tartuffe
didn't exist in that world.
Even though Tartuffe was the only thing that existed at the moment
in hers.
Stefan tapped her. His breath was sweet from gin and tonic, and he
said, "Sing for us. I'll play the piano."
"Do you know 'My Funny Valentine'?" she asked.
He did.
Chapter Twelve
"When are you coming back?" Adam asked through the phone.
"Tuesday."
"Why not Sunday? What is there to do in New York on a Monday
night?"
"Very funny. Sunday I'm in a studio. They're putting me on another
CD."
"Tres delicious."
"Angel got fired from his show," Leah said.
"Because of his nose?"
"Yes."
"I don't know why you hang out with losers, Leah."
"I don't know. Adam."
"Very cute."
"He spent the whole day with me," Leah said.
"That's because he has no other friends."
"He's going to be bigger than all of us someday," Leah said.
"So you say. He's got the voice of an angel. He's the next Euan
Morton."
"So why won't he work with you, is what you're saying?" Leah
asked.
"I know why he won't. And, Leah, he's thirty-five. He's never going
to be bigger than us. He'll never live up to your Hugh Laurie
expectations."
"You're projecting."
"Do you hear me, Leah?"
"Yes. Don't do drugs."
"And lay off all the drinking," he said.
"What am I supposed to do, Adam? I'm an actor. I have demons.
Demons, Adam."
"So act. Put them into your characters so they won't live in you.
Hey, I'm writing that down. Oh, and listen, we're sending a car for you
on Tuesday. Look for your name."
She heard him rustling around, searching for paper, and hung up on
him.
* * *
She put on her sunglasses before walking gingerly down the
gangway to the surface of the earth. The terminal rose up before her. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Archiwum