Читать книгу Cue the Dead Guy - H. Mel Malton - Страница 5

SERPENT: Beauty pothetheth a dangerouth punch / She will make you her thlave and then have you for lunch.

-The Glass Flute, Scene vii

Rico Amato makes a great woman. When he’s in drag, he looks like a twenty-ish university student—an ultra-hip babe studying environmental science, with a minor in theatre arts. His look is purely classy. No flashy jewellery, no blue eyeshadow or platform heels. He has better taste in clothes than I do.

When he’s decked out, he likes to call himself Ricki, and because he’s a friend of mine, I play along with it. That’s how I ended up with a broken nose at the tail end of Steamboat Theatre’s “meet the cast” masquerade party.

My name is Pauline Deacon, and I’m a puppet-maker by trade. You may think that’s a ridiculous thing to be doing for a living these days, but actually, the puppet market is booming. Perhaps it’s because the current political and economic climate has made us all search desperately for something we can control. There’s nothing like pulling a few strings to make you feel powerful. Lately, there’s been a run on police marionettes and Prime Minister hand puppets.

I have a fair amount of experience building big, theatrical pieces, and that’s what got me involved with Steamboat Theatre. They’re a small children’s touring company based in Sikwan, a town in the Ontario cottage-country District of Kuskawa. Just north of Sikwan is Cedar Falls, the village I call home.

Steamboat was remounting a guaranteed moneymaker called The Glass Flute, a black-light production in which puppeteers, dressed from head to toe in black (so they can’t be seen) manipulate large, glow-in-the-dark puppets under ultra-violet light. Kids really love black-light theatre. Watching it is like watching a live cartoon, except that it’s bigger than a TV screen, and when you throw stuff at the actors, they throw it back.

The theatre was reeling with the shock of a ninety percent cut in government funding, and needed a sure-fire hit. The Glass Flute was it—the kind of show that schools and library associations book faster than a Sharon, Lois and Bram concert.

It was an old show, written in 1980 by Juliet Keating, the company’s founder and artistic director. It had been revamped and remounted so many times that the theatre’s staff groaned at the mention of it. They called it “The Glass Fluke” or “The Fluke”, for short, but the truth was that it had saved Steamboat’s ass more than once, and Juliet had decided to trot it out again. That’s where I came in.

The props, larger-than-life foam-constructed animals, people, trees and flowers, had taken a battering over the years and their original designer had moved to L.A. to work in film. So, Juliet called me and asked me to re-design everything.

I jumped at the offer. What I said before about the puppet-business booming? I lied. I was broke and starving. So there. I’d done well at Christmas with my patented Jean Chrétien sock-puppets, but the rest of the winter had been very, very lean, made worse by the fact that I was nursing a wounded ego following a stupid affair with a cop. When Juliet called on the first of April, I was drinking the last of my home-made dandelion wine and going quietly bonkers. She offered me the gig, four weeks of puppet-making followed by an intense, one-week rehearsal period, teaching the actors how to be puppeteers. I made sure it wasn’t a sick April Fool’s joke, then got so excited I danced around like an idiot, which made Lug-Nut (my dog—an idiot too) so hyper he peed on the rug.

The masquerade party was Juliet’s idea. It was a sort of “get acquainted” thing on the eve of the first rehearsal. Maybe she thought that the cast and crew, many of them fresh from Toronto and suffering from culture shock, would be more at ease if everyone dressed up funny the night before and got howling drunk. Juliet’s an odd one. Raised in an old-money Boston family, she spat out the silver spoon at the age of seventeen, ran away and joined a Vegas-style touring show as a chorus girl. She immigrated to Toronto in the mid-sixties and co-wrote and produced a series of naughty musicals that shocked the straight-laced Canadian audiences, who, nonetheless, flocked to the theatre to be outraged. Juliet and her business partner, Dennis Gold, made pots of money, particularly with their last one, Hogtown Hooker. When Dennis died of a sudden heart attack, Juliet closed up shop and moved north, settled in Sikwan and started Steamboat.

What Juliet doesn’t know about life on the road would fit comfortably on the back of a pack of piano-lounge matches. She’s in her late fifties, favours short skirts and tight, low cut T-shirts, and has a smoking habit that makes me look like a nun. She’s good at what she does, though, and while she might scare some of the more staid Sikwan-ites, she is generally respected.

I invited Rico to Juliet’s party because he’s my new best friend. My old best friend, Francy, is resting peacefully in the Temple of the Holy Lamb cemetery and I haven’t forgotten her, but Rico helped me through some rough times after she died, so he gets the dubious honour of replacing her in my affections.

The transvestite community up here in Kuskawa is somewhat limited, and I knew Rico would enjoy the opportunity to dress up. He always struts his stuff at Hallowe’en, whooping it up at a nearby resort that’s gay-positive, but once a year is not enough when you’ve got a hobby you really like. Juliet and Rico know each other because they’re both on the board of the local AIDS foundation, but I had to ask if I could bring him as a guest, because Steamboat parties are known to be somewhat exclusive.

When I arrived to pick Rico up outside his antique store by the highway leading into Cedar Falls, I hunkered low in the cab of the truck, which I had borrowed from my neighbour and landlord, goat-farmer George Hoito. I was rigged out as a goat (a costume I’d made three years before for a mascot-gig at a dairy-farming conference) and I felt a little goofy, because it wasn’t Hallowe’en, and the costume had enormous goat ears that flopped around a bit.

I felt even goofier when I saw the pretty young woman standing by the phone booth outside the Tiquery, presumably waiting for her boyfriend to come out of the Quick-Mart next door. She was pretty hot, and made me feel frumpy and old. I’m only in my mid-thirties, but still. She was dark-haired, about twenty-four, with large flashing eyes and a red mouth, sulky-looking but very sexy. I remember thinking that she wasn’t from around here—that she must be from the city. She wore black jeans, red Doc Martens and a tight red sweater. She was, as they say, stacked. A black leather biker jacket was draped casually over her shoulders. I looked around for the Harley. When she waltzed over to the truck and got in, I almost screamed aloud.

“Er . . . can I help you?” I said.

“Boy, is it ever cold for May,” Rico said. I waited until my heart had stopped doing push-ups in my throat.

“Jesus, Rico. That you?” Duhh.

He giggled. “Fooled ya, huh?” Fooled was not the word. Bowled me over was more like it.

“Rico, you are amazing,” I said. Even his voice was different. Sort of Demi Moore-ish. It was going to be an interesting evening.

When we got to the theatre, the place was ablaze with light and we could hear the music from the parking lot. I’d taken the back roads, not because it was faster, but because George’s truck, born a year before I was, didn’t like modern speed limits.

We were a little late.

Most of the cast had arrived that day from the city. (After all, very few professional actors live in cottage-country.) They were all staying in hotels or B&Bs in Sikwan, prior to the road-tour, where they would all be staying together in whatever accommodation presented itself. Juliet had made Kim Lee, Steamboat’s general manager, include an invitation to the party when she sent their contracts. The invitation said something like “We’re glad you’re coming aboard Steamboat, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll come to the party and provide your own costume as well!”

An actor-friend from way back, Simon Wolfe, once told me that he would never, ever wear a costume unless he was being paid to wear it, and I wondered how many cast members might share his views. It was pretty unusual, and not, I dare say, a terribly professional request. Typical Juliet. People who act for a living, even those poor souls who have to take badly-paid, under-rehearsed gigs in the boonies, have some pride.

Juliet met us at the door dressed as Snow White. She was carrying a martini glass in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Her Snow White outfit was close to the Disney original in colour and design, but the cut was tweaked high and low to show off her ample physical features. The effect was startlingly soft-porn, as if old Walt had overdosed on Viagra before dreaming up the character.

“Darlings!” Juliet said, transferring her smoke to the martini hand and pulling each of us towards her with an iron grip to deliver a couple of air-kisses. Her raven hair was helmeted to her head with spray, and the makeup was laid on with a trowel.

“Ricki, you look divine,” Juliet said. “Absolutely delicious. A triumph.” Rico glowed.

“Polly, dear, are you dressed as a cow?” she said to me. She was referring, I think, to the coy pink udder that was part of my costume. Nothing outrageous, but it was there because I’m a stickler for detail.

“A goat, Juliet.”

“Oh. A goat. That would make Ricki . . . I know, Heidi!” She howled with laughter, and Rico joined in. I chuckled to be polite, but my heart wasn’t in it.

“Oh, lighten up, Polly. You look sweet. Go in and get a drink,” Juliet said.

I hate costume parties, and I hate being told to lighten up.

We waded into the crowd.

“I haven’t met the cast yet, but I’ve seen their head-shots,” I said. “I think that’s Amber Thackeray over there. She’s playing the Princess and the Serpent.”

“Didn’t I see her in that new McDonald’s commercial?” Rico said.

“That’s her. Juliet said she’s fresh out of theatre school. She’s done some commercial and modelling work, but I don’t know if she can act.”

“She probably doesn’t have to,” Rico said. Amber was cover-girl gorgeous. She had a long, luxurious mane of real, honest-to-God red hair, her teeth were white and even, her skin was flawless, sprinkled with cinnamon freckles, and her body positively vibrated with sexual energy. She was dressed in a Greek-goddess toga, but she could have been wearing sackcloth and ashes and she still would have had every eye in the room. I just hoped that her beauty hadn’t made her mean. It can do that sometimes.

She bounced over to us.

“Well, hello there,” she chirped. Her voice was lightweight, and I knew instantly that she was going to have trouble projecting through the black hood she would have to wear in The Glass Flute. I wondered if she had been told that she would have to be masked from the audience, swathed in black velvet.

“I’m Amber Thackeray. Are you in the cast, too?”

“Polly Deacon,” I said and held out my hand. “I’m the puppet designer.” She shook hands by clasping mine in both of hers and squeezing. A large diamond ring glittered on her left hand.

“Oh, I just saw your stuff upstairs. All those cool props. Pleased to meet you, Polly.” She smiled with a warmth which was almost tactile. People would be falling in love with Amber all over the place. Maybe the ring on her finger was a talisman to ward off unwelcome suitors.

“This is my friend, Ricki,” I said, putting my hand on Rico’s shoulder. “She’s not in the show, just came for the party.”

Amber shook his hand, too. “How come you didn’t wear a costume?” she said.

Rico smiled a secret smile. “Short notice,” he said. “I loved your McDonald’s commercial.”

“Oh, thanks. I’m trying to avoid that stuff now, though,” Amber said. “I want to work at Stratford one day.”

A Steamboat Theatre children’s puppet show was a long way from doing Shakespeare, I thought. Amber read my mind and grinned bashfully. The effect was adorable.

“Yeah, I know. But you gotta start somewhere. I’m taking voice with Bob Green in Toronto, and he told me to audition for this to build up my stamina. I almost died when I got it. You’re teaching us puppetry, right?”

“Yep,” I said.

“Who’s doing voice?”

“Well, I don’t think anyone’s actually hired to coach in that department, Amber. Ruth Glass is the music director, and she’ll be working with all of you on the singing numbers, but I don’t know if she’ll have time for individual coaching. I guess you’re on your own.”

Amber squealed and hopped up and down, in a cute way. “Ruth Glass? You mean, the Ruth Glass? Of Shepherd’s Pie?”

“Uh huh,” I said. “She lives around here. Taking a break from touring.”

“Oh my God,” Amber breathed. “Like, oh, my God.” She was in full Valley-girl mode, but it was still cute. I began to find her annoying. “Oh, God. I hope I can do it. I’m so nervous,” Amber said and rushed away to greet someone else who was just arriving.

“She’s a bit eager, isn’t she?” Rico said.

“Positively puppyish,” I said. “I hope she survives. Touring kids’ theatre is the worst kind of trial by ordeal. If you haven’t got the chops for it, you sink real quick.”

“You’ve done it?”

“In spades. I was a touring stage-manager and performer with a company out east for years. Even kept my Equity standing, although I haven’t been on stage for a long time. Touring is murder, Rico. There’s no way I’d ever do it again.”

“Never say never,” Rico said, shaking a manicured finger in my face. “Anyway, good thing you don’t have to tour with that one. She looks like she may be a sinker. Mind if I mingle? I’ve got to see if the bartender recognizes me.” He gave me a pert wave and pushed into the crowd.

“What did Amber just say to you?” said a voice in my ear. I turned to find Jason McMaster, the stage manager, gazing intensely at Amber’s retreating form. He was dressed in stage-crew black, the uniform of stage managers everywhere, and carried an arm-load of audio cable. Black was not his colour. I swallowed my preferred response, which would have been to raise an eyebrow and say in a chilly voice: “You are her keeper, yes?”

“Excuse me?” I said, instead.

“What did she say to you?” he repeated.

“She introduced herself,” I said. “Does she need your permission for that?” Jason and I had enjoyed a couple of run-ins already and weren’t destined to become bosom buddies.

He shook himself like a wet whippet and glared at me. “Of course not. It’s just that she seems to be avoiding me, and I can’t figure out why.”

“I think she just wants to meet everyone,” I said, carefully. I could at least make an effort to be friendly, I figured. “You know her, I take it?” I had known Jason for less than a week. He came up in advance of the cast, as per his Equity contract, to do the stage-manager’s organizational thing. He was originally from Kuskawa and a graduate of the Laingford High drama club. I’d heard that he’d been through the theatre tech program at Kingsway Theatre School in Toronto, and he took his job seriously.

He’d never mentioned a connection with any of the cast-members.

“Amber’s my fiancée,” he said.