Rita’s head bobbed in comprehension. She watched Fernando dancing and laughing, looking a bit guilty. Sterling elbowed her playfully.
Rita huffed. “Fine. When should I be there?”
“Mr. K’s driving us over in the late afternoon.”
“Don’t tell Christoph I’m coming.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I haven’t told him about any of this.”
“Of course not. Well, I’m working later and need my beauty sleep.”
After Rita kissed her good night, Sterling lingered. Someone had to play chaperone.
So, Madame was gone. She’d joined the long line of dead women who, one way or another, had raised Sterling. Rita was one of the few still alive.
— 53 —Dreiundfünfzig
Fernando paced the Grand Theater’s back alley. For the first time in his life, he was early for an appointment.
Sterling had made good on her promise by securing him this audition with Christoph. Was itMacbeth? No. It was a cheap rip-off ofThe Big Sleepbound to be a big snooze. Still, it was a play in need of a leading man, and since London’s Globe Theatre hadyetto call him back, he was available.
He was properly hydrated, rested, and so sober it hurt. He’d even taken his multivitamin for the past four days. True, they’d expired last year, but his mother would have been proud.
Drops speckled the concrete and beaded on his trench coat. While the inspector he was auditioning to play wouldn’t mind rain, the Fernando who’d spent all morning applying eyeliner did. Humidity was his greatest foe.
He tried the stage door. Locked. He leaned against it as the rain intensified, dripping off his fedora’s brim. He caressed the spine ofThe Merchant of Venicein his breast pocket. His good-luck charm.It hadn’t worked yet. Besides, this wasn’t the time for Shakespeare. This day called for cheap noir one-liners about dames with long legs and foolish men who fell to ruin chasing their skirts.
The stage door clicked as someone pressed the inner handle bar, chinking like a gun cocking. It opened outward, knocking him forward and interrupting his tough-guy act. He stumbled, yelping like a schoolgirl who’d encountered a mouse. A gruff, hard-boiled schoolgirl, mind you.
A tech guy slanted against the door frame, listless. The cavernous gray backstage area loomed behind him, lit only by the green beam of the exit sign. “You an actor,oder?” he asked, tongue lolling round his Vorarlberg accent.
“Got a meeting with Christoph, heard he needs a leading man,” said Fernando, baring his teeth in a clunky impression of young Bogart. He rubbed his chin scruff.
“Actors wait outside.”
“We’re basically family. I know Sterling.”
“Fine. Wait in the office,” said the tech.
Fernando tipped his fedora, then swaggered in. The techie locked up behind him.
Christoph’s claustrophobic office had an anachronistic ugliness unsuited to the theater’s opulence: 1970s-style wood paneling covered every surface. The boxy computer monitor made Fernando recall the sound of dial-up modems.
Fernando leaned back in Christoph’s squeaky desk chair, prying the bottom drawer open with the tip of his shoe. The metal drawer whined as a half-empty whiskey bottle rolled forward, rumbling.
The bottle teetered back, thunking against something. He searched behind it, and withdrew a heavy bundle wrapped in cloth, which he unfolded, revealing a snub-nosed revolver.
Fernando’s throat dried, begging for a sip of whiskey. He coveredthe gun and replaced it in the drawer, which squealed when he kicked it shut.
Sweat trickled down his forehead. Christoph hadn’t seemed the sort to own a gun.
He eyed old playbills on the shelves. Laughing at tragic 1980s headshots would calm his nerves. He wrenched out a dilapidated musty booklet from ’83. Christoph’s directorial debut. An “urban” retelling ofRomeo and Juliet. A tired concept, even back then.
The cast photos were better than he’d imagined. Or worse, really. Over-painted women, hair sprayed and teased to drag-queen height. Christoph had tried out a mustache that year. Best of all was the glamour-puss in the center. Starring in a supporting role as the nurse was none other than Sterling’s aunt Serafina.
Fernando read her bio, chuckling:Serafina Eagle is renowned for her character work. This is her stage debut after signing on as the newest member of the Nightingale Theater Troupe.
He gasped, then scanned the page as lightning flashed through the dusty windows, heart racing. Under Christoph’s embellished biography was a snippet:Director and Founder of the Nightingale Theater Troupe.
