Robert Silverberg - Counterpart

Mark Jenner delivered the plays final line with as much force as he could muster, and the curtain dropped like a shroud, cutting off stage from audience. Jenner gasped for breath and fashioned a warm smile for his face to wear. The other six members of the cast left the wings and arranged themselves around him, and the curtain rose again for the calls. A trickle of applause crossed the footlights.

This is it, Jenner thought. Were through.

He bowed graciously, peering beyond the glare of the foots to count the house. The theater was about three quarters fullbut half the people out there were free-riders, pulled in by the management just to give the house a semblance of fullness. And how many of the others were discount-ticket purchasers? Probably, Jenner thought as the curtain dropped again, there were no more than fifty legitimate customers in the house. And so another play went down the drain. A savage voice within him barked mockingly, telling him that it was his fault, that he no longer had what it took to hold an audience, that he lacked the subtle magnetism needed to pull people out of their homes and into the theater.

There would be no more curtain calls. Tiredly, Jenner walked off into the wings and saw Dan Hall, the producer, standing there. Abruptly the tinsel glamor of curtain calls faded. There could be only one reason why Hall was here now, and the dour, sallow cast of the producers pudgy face left no doubt in Jenners mind. Closing notices would be posted tonight. Tomorrow, Mark Jenner would be back to living off capital again and waiting out his days.

Mark

Jenner stopped. Hall had reached out to touch his arm. Evening, Dan. How goes it?

Bad.

The receipts?

Hall chuckled dryly. What receipts? We had a houseful of unemployed actors sitting out there on passes; and the advance sale for tomorrow night is about eleven bucks worth.

There isnt going to be any tomorrow night, is there, Dan? Jenner asked leadenly.

Hall did not answer. Marie Haas, the ingenue, radiant in the sparkling gown that looked so immodest on so young a girl, glided toward them. She wrapped one arm around the rotund producer, one around Jenner. On stage, the hands were busy pulling the set apart.

Big house tonight, wasnt it? she twittered.

I was just telling Mark, Hall said. Most of those people were unemployed actors here on passes.

And, Jenner added, there are seven more unemployed actors here on this stage right now.

No! Marie cried.

Jenner tried to smile. It was rough on a girl of nineteen to lose her first big play after a ten-day run; but, he thought, it was rougher on a forty-year-old ex-star. It wasnt so long ago, he told himself, that the name Mark Jenner on a marquee meant an automatic seasons run. Lovely to Look At, opened October 16, 1973, ran 630 performances. Lorelei, opened December 9, 1977, ran 713 performances. Girl of the Dawn, opened February 7, 1981, ran 583 performances. Misty Isle, opened March 6, 1989ran ten performances. Jenner peered wearily at the producer. The rest of the cast had gathered round, now, half of them still in war paint and costume. As the star, Jenner had the right to ask the question. He asked it.

Were through, arent we, Dan?

Hall nodded slowly. The theater owner told me tonight that were below the minimum draw. Hes exercising option and throwing us out; he wants to rent the place for video. Were through, all right.

Jenner climbed methodically out of his costume, removed his makeup, cocked a sardonic eye on the spangled star on the door of his dressing cubicle, and left the theater. He had arranged to meet his old friend Walt Hollis after the show for a drink. Hollis was an electrician, currently handling the lights for one of the other Broadway showsone of the hits. They had agreed to meet in a bar Jenner liked, on Forty-ninth Street off Sixth Avenue.

The bar was a doggedly old-fashioned one, without any of the strippers currently the mode in depuritanized New York, without B-girls, without synthetics, without video. Jenner felt particularly grateful for that last omission.

He sat slumped in the booth, a big, rumpled-looking man just beginning to get fleshy, and gripped the martini in one of his huge hands. He needed the cold drink to unwind the knot of tension in his stomach. Once, acting had unwound it for him; now, an evening on the stage wound it only a little tighter.

What is it Ive lost, Holly? he demanded. His voice was the familiar crackling baritone of old; automatically, he projected it too far.

The man opposite him frowned, as though he were sagging under the burden of knowing that he was Mark Jenners oldest and possibly last friend. Youve lost a job, for one thing, Walt Hollis said lightly.

Jenner scowled. I dont mean that. I meanwhy have I lost what I once had? Why have I gone downhill instead of up? I ought to be at the peak of my acting career now; instead, Im a has-been at forty. Was I just a flash in the pan, then, back in the seventies?

No. You had talent.

Then why did I lose it?

You didnt, Hollis said calmly. He took a deep sip of his gin and tonic, leaned back, stared at his much bigger companion. You didnt lose anything. You just didnt gain.

I dont understand.

Yes, you do, Hollis said. His thumbs squeezed against his aching eyeballs for a moment. He had had this conversation with Jenner too often, in the past five years. Jenner simply did not listen. Acting isnt the easiest profession in the world, Mark. Lord knows I dont have to tell you that. But what youve never grasped is that acting has toughened up tremendously since the days you broke in. And youve remained right at the same level you hit at the start of your career.

Jenner tightened his lips. He felt cold and curiously alone even in this crowded midtown bar.

I used to be a star, he said.

Used to be. Look, Mark, these days you need something colossal to drag people out of their warm homes and into a Broadway theater. Homes are too comfortable; the streets are too risky. You never can tell when youll get mugged if you step out after dark. So you dont step out. You stay home.

People come out to see that British play, the one with whats-his-name in it, Jenner pointed out.

With Bert Tylor? Of course they do. Tylor has what it takes to get people into a theater.

And I dont, is that it? Jenner fought to keep the crispness out of his voice.

Hollis nodded slowly. You dont have it, Mark. Not any more.

And what is thisthis magic something-or-other that I lack?

Its empathy, Hollis said. The power to get yourself across the footlights, to set up a two-way flow, to get those people in the audience so damned involved in what youre saying that it turns into part of themselves.

Jenner glowered at the small man. Youre not telling me anything I dont know. All you did just now was to define what any actor has to do.

Hollis shook his head. Its more than that, now. Now you need special helptechniques for reaching the soul of the fellow in the six-buck seat. Ive been offering you these techniques for almost a year, but youve been too damned stubborn to listen to metoo proud to admit a gadget could help you.

I had a part lined up, Jenner said in a weak voice. Last May Dan Hall came to me, said he was doing a play that looked good for me, and was I interested? Hell, sure I was interested. I hadnt worked for two years; I was supposed to be box-office poison. But Dan signed me.

Hollis said, And you rehearsed all summer, and half the fall. And played the sticks half the winter while that poor hapless devil of a playwright tried to fix up the play you were killing, Mark.

Jenner sucked in his breath sharply. He began to say something, then throttled it. He shook his head slowly like a bull at bay. Go on, Holly. I have this coming to me. Dont pull the punches.