Дэймон Найт - Orbit 12

I clutched my forehead. “Are we players or serfs! Lemperer swore to us we would never do The Visionaries ever again. We were almost pelted off the stage last time!”

“You know the taste of audiences in Vamonal. A visiting Duke of Ragusa is to be present and he has specially requested the piece.”

“Then I know his taste as well. The thing’s at least a century out of fashion. And my part of Phalante the Bankrupt is so small. How did Lemperer come to consent to such a degrading idea?”

Lemperer came up panting, still wearing La Singla about his neck, in time to hear what I said.

“Prian, Prian, my dear fellow, you know how funny you are as Phalante, the old apothecary. Juggling your wooden spoons and shouting, ‘Why, this table silver alone is part of the fabled treasure of Troy and worth an entire ransom—half a ransom...’ And Melissa thinks you a conqueror of the world and falls in love with you! Oh, come now, admit it’s droll and nobody could take the part but you!”

“Nobody is fool enough,” I said. “Let’s at least drop that business with the spoons!”

“In Vamonal, they won’t know how foolish you are, I promise! There—my promise as a genius of the theatre! They’ll all be Melissas and truly believe you a conqueror!”

So he cajoled us, and so we gathered ourselves together and went into the courtyard to rehearse, with poor simple Gilles holding the prompt book. Standing about, we went through our lines as well as we could.

It was a comedy of illusion, with all the characters mad or deluded and believing themselves to be other than they were. The old father with his three daughters had to see them married off between four competing suitors—a simple piece that had to be taken at a fast pace for its jokes to work at all.

At twelve noon, when the bell of the nearby church was chiming, Lemperer cried enough and released us. He buried his head in his hands.

“That I should live to see men of straw mouthing like men of wood! Pity the poor Duke of Ragusa who will have to sit through your terrible bout of arthritis, my dear friends! All right, come back early tomorrow and we will try it again. Meanwhile, I shall scour the city for a man who can hire me two panthers to bring a little life to the proceedings!”

For all Lemperer’s reproaches, we were a cheerful crowd who pushed in to see the ombres chinoises. On our way to the shadow theatre, we refreshed ourselves with wine at Nicol’s tavern before going into the little shady garden, where performances were held in a large Oriental tent, covered with carpets and tapestries to make the darkness inside more intense.

These shadow plays were coming into fashion so much that we feared it might affect our business, though it was hard to imagine that audiences would prefer the shades of puppets to real live actors, once the novelty was over. Now here was the Great Charino’s Ombres Chinoises, newly set up, and offering the public The Saga of Karagog , preceded by The Broken Bridge— and charging high admission prices.

As we filtered into the gloom, Lemperer plucked me aside and whispered in my ear, “Prian, darling fellow, you sit by me, if you will, for of course I want your criticism of the performance.”

“Then you should have paid for my ticket, if you are retaining me in a professional capacity.”

“Your criticism is too amateurish for that luxury. Don’t go above yourself, that’s my sincere warning, or you could find yourself landed with playing the dog the next time we do Beppo’s Downfall . . . No, you see, I also need a more personal word with you about my little naughty wife.” He squeezed my wrist hard, indicating the need for silence.

A lizard-girl came round selling comfits, and we made ourselves as comfortable as possible until harpsichord music struck up and the curtains parted. We were pleased to see that scarcely a dozen people were attending the show, apart from our own company.

The screen was a sheet some four feet long by three high. On it shadows pranced, picked out by brilliant flares behind. Principal characters moved near to the screen, and so were densely black, while lesser characters and the scenery were moved at a greater distance, so that they appeared in greyer definition. In this way, great variety was achieved, and the scenic effects were striking, with clouds and water well imitated. The Great Charino’s chief novelty was that parts of his puppets, such as their faces, and the clothes of the more important personages, were cut away and replaced by coloured glass, to give dazzling effects on the screen.

Although few of the puppets were jointed, their movement was good and the commentary reasonably funny, if time-honoured. What was most amazing was the way in which, after a moment of watching the screen, one accepted the puppets for reality, as if there were no other!

“I don’t want to do her an injustice in any way at all, and the Virgin herself knows that I cherish the tiresome baggage dearly, but my darling Singla is too fond of hopping in and out of beds that really aren’t fit for her lovely and unruly body. Now she’s hopped into one bed too many . . . I’ve been hearing rumours, Prian . . .”

At that moment, La Singla, acting perhaps on some disconcerting feminine intuition, thrust her pretty head between ours and said, “What are you two whispering about? Isn’t it a dainty show?”

“Go away, my love, my honey pot,” whined Lemperer. “Go and flirt in the dark with Portinari—he knows where to stop, if you don’t! Prian and I are talking business.”

La Singla snorted like a cute little pig and withdrew.

“You need to be more coaxing than that to a wife to keep her faithful, maestro!” I said.

The Broken Bridge was reaching its conclusion. I had seen it many times in many forms, but never so well done. The boatman was rowing across the river with every appearance of reality; his back was cunningly jointed to make the movement lifelike. Behind him, snow sparkled on high mountains. The only snag was that sweat poured off the faces of the audience, so intense was the heating of the flares which achieved the lighting effects.

“I am tired of coaxing the jade! Would not any woman give her maidenhead to be married to a successful man like me, a creative man? But now she’s gone too far—much too far, Prian. I can be a vindictive man when the spirit moves me, you understand!” To help me understand this point, he pinched me hard on the wrist, so that I cried out with surprise and pain just as the plesiosaur began to munch up the ill-natured labourer mending the bridge. At that, the audience burst into laughter.

“This time she has had the impertinence to fall in love with some worthless coxcomb—yes, I know not who he is, but I found one of his impertinent letters to her, tucked in with her chemises —just this morning, when I was looking for spare laces to my corset. I mean to have the coxcomb waylaid and beaten soundly. No man meddles with my wife’s affections and fails to pay the price!”

Each of these points he emphasised with further pinches. I was careful not to give the audience further cause for laughter—an intention the more easily carried out because, in his agitation, Lemperer had seized me by the throat and pushed my head backwards over the seat, so that, like Paul Riviere in the farce of the three kings, I was “trapped between chocolate-time and eternity.”

At last I broke away and slapped down his hand.

“We may be the best of friends, maestro, but this is no reason to kill me outright! Do you imagine I am the coxcomb you seek? Faith, for my honour, I would as leave climb into bed with you as with your spouse, so great is my respect for you.”