“Back home to Brooklyn? Not on your [203] life.” His tone was firmness itself. He spoke commandingly, as one who not only is master of himself but of a present situation. “Gertrude, you’d better stay here, too, now that you’ve come. I guess maybe I could get ’em to work you in on the regular list of extras. You’d probably film well.” He eyed her appraisingly.
“But, oh, Chester, to go—as you went—with never a word—never a line to me!”
“Gertrude, you wouldn’t have understood. Don’t you see, honey, it’s like this.” He took her in his arms, even as she had meant to take him into hers, and, with small, comforting pats upon her heaving back, sought to soothe her. “It’s like this—I’m before the public now. Why, Gerty, I’m in the eyes of the world.”
[204]
CHAPTER VI
THE GREAT AUK
As regards the body of the house it lay mostly in shadows—the man-made, daytime shadows which somehow always seem denser and blacker than those that come in the night. The little jogs in the wall behind the boxes were just the same as coalholes. The pitched front of the balcony suggested a deformed upper jaw, biting down on darkness. Its stucco facings, shining dimly, like a row of teeth, added to the illusion. At the bottom of the pit, or the family circle, or whatever it was they called it at the Cosmos Theatre, where the light was somewhat better, the backs of the seats showed bumpily beneath the white cloths that covered them, like lines of graves in a pauper burying ground after a snowstorm.
A third of the way back, in this potter’s field of dead-and-gone laughter, a man was hunched in a despondent posture. His attitude would make you think of a lone ghost that had [205] answered the resurrection trump too soon and now was overcome with embarrassment at having been deceived by a false alarm. The brim of his hat rested on the bridge of his nose. Belonging, as he did, to a race that is esteemed to be essentially commercial, he had the artistic face and the imaginative eyes which, as often as not, are found in those of his breed.
His name was Sam Verba. He was general director for Cohalan & Hymen, producing managers. He was watching a rehearsal of a new play, though he did not appear to be. Seemingly, if he was interested in anything at all it was in the movements of two elderly chore-women, who dawdled about the place deliberatively, with dust rags and brooms. Occasionally, as one of the women raised her voice shrilly to address her distant sister, he went “Sh-h! Sh-h!”—like a defective steam pipe. Following this the offender would lower her voice for a space measurable by seconds.
Border lights, burning within the proscenium arch, made the stage brightly visible, revealing it as a thing homely and nude. Stage properties were piled indiscriminately at either side. Against the bare brick wall at the back, segments of scenes were stacked any-which-way, so that a strip of a drawing room set was superimposed on a strip of a kitchen and that in turn overlapped part of a wainscoted library, the result being as though an earthquake had come along and shaken one room of somebody’s [206] house into another room and that into another, and then had left them so. In sight were four women and nine men, who perched on chairs or tables or roosted, crow-fashion, upon the iron steps of a narrow staircase which ascended to the top tier of dressing rooms, extending along a narrow balcony above. The hour was eleven o’clock in the morning. Therefore these persons wore the injured look which people of their nocturnal profession customarily wear upon being summoned out of their beds before midday.
At a little table, teetering on rickety legs almost in the trough of the footlights, sat a man hostilely considering a typewritten script, which was so interlined, so marked and disfigured with crosses, stars, and erasures that only one person—the author of these ciphers—might read his own code and sometimes even he couldn’t. The man at the table was the director, especially engaged to put on this particular piece, which was a comedy drama. He raised his head.