“Young man,” he said, “to use the word ‘bad’ in that connection is to scorn all the resources of the English tongue. As a masterpiece of understatement, however, it might have some merit.”
“You mean you won’t be able to open on schedule?” Patricia asked sympathetically.
“On the contrary,” said Mr Keane. “I’m afraid we shall.”
Simon raised his eyebrows. “Afraid?”
“My dear boy,” said Mr Keane heavily, “the success of Shakespeare in the emasculated theater of today is uncertain even with the most brilliant of performers, but when the lines of the Bard are assaulted by a gang of bellowing buffoons and dizzy doxies such as have been thrust upon me, the greatest play of all time would be doomed before the curtain rose.”
“But isn’t Iris Freeman a good actress?” Patricia asked.
“As a soubrette, yes. But as Lady Macbeth—” Mr Keane made an expressive gesture which swept an ash tray off the table. “Still, I could almost bear with her if only she would not insist on putting all her friends in the cast regardless of their incompetence — and most especially that tailor’s dummy, Mark Belden, whom she picked as her leading man.”
“I never heard of him,” Simon admitted.
“Would that I shared your happy ignorance. Unfortunately, I have been condemned to get to know Mr Belden so well that his voice will ring in my ears until they sink into the merciful silence of the grave. A vaudeville hoofer who murders Shakespeare with every breath he takes!”
“But aren’t you the director?” Patricia put in. “Don’t you have anything to say about the cast?”