Eyes Like Stars Part 10

The Stage Manager intensified his glare as the Theater Manager sat down behind his desk and steepled his fingers.

"What did you decide you want to do, Beatrice?" he asked.

Bertie took a deep breath and said, "Esteemed sirs, I'm here to apply for the position of Director."

"Director?" the Theater Manager said, not betraying anything in his expression. "Well. That's certainly . . . unexpected."

"It's poppyc.o.c.k!" snorted the Stage Manager, his ruddy cheeks hinting at the possibility of an aneurysm.

"What do you want to direct?" the Theater Manager asked.

"Mayhem," muttered the Stage Manager. "Scenes of utter chaos and destruction."

The Theater Manager tapped ponderous fingers against the desk. "Let her answer the question."

"I want to restage one of Shakespeare's plays." Bertie leaned forward in her enthusiasm and instantly regretted it when one of the corset's steel bones jabbed her ribs. She gritted her teeth and smiled again. "Hamlet, but transported to Ancient Egypt."

"Why would you want to do that?" The Theater Manager looked genuinely bewildered.

"If I don't change the show in some dramatic fashion, there'd be no need for a Director, right?" Bertie asked.

"That is certainly true," he conceded, "though you've yet to convince me why that's a good idea."

Bertie had pondered this very question at length while Mrs. Edith had dressed her, so she was prepared to attack him right where it would hurt most: the Theatre's coffers. "When's the last time we sold out a performance and had standing room only?"

The Theater Manager pursed his lips. "I don't see how that's relevant. . . ."

"You will, once we send out the announcement about the performance. Half our patrons will be intrigued by the idea, and the other half will be outraged by such a presumption, but all of them will buy tickets and turn up. If my version is a success, I can restage other cla.s.sic plays. By the end of the season, the theater could touch upon the highest point of all its greatness, the full meridian of its glory."

"All thanks to you," the Stage Manager said with sarcasm sharp enough to cut through her grand visions. "I suppose you haven't stopped to consider we haven't the time or budget for such nonsense."

"We don't need either," Bertie said. The conversation was a dance: a step to the side, a glide, a pivot, a turn. "We have the script. We have the costumes, the props, the sets."

"We'll help!" piped up four voices from the keyhole.

"Ridiculous," said the Stage Manager. "Those creatures are nothing but a menace."

"Baloney!" said the keyhole.

Bertie closed her eyes and prayed to Peaseblossom. There was a short, noisy conflict on the other side of the door, followed by blessed silence.

"Do you see?" the Stage Manager shouted anyway. "She encourages blatant disregard for the order of things. Ask her about the earthquake."

The Theater Manager's eyebrows collided in the middle of his forehead. "Earthquake? I don't remember any earthquake."

Might as well be honest about it.

"It was a very small earthquake, really," Bertie said. "And that was some time ago."

"You don't say." The Theater Manager peered at her, as though seeing her for the very first time. "That would mean you have experience coordinating large-scale projects."

Bertie sat ramrod straight-Mrs. Edith would have been proud!-and nodded in her most rea.s.suring manner. "I do, sir."

"An understanding of commitment," he said.

"Of course," Bertie said. "Do you have any idea how much commitment it takes to pull off an earthquake? Or commandeer a pirate ship? Or teach the starfish to dance the fox-trot?"

"I'm warning you," the Stage Manager interjected, "allowing her to become a Director would only make things worse. Think of the damage she's already done, then imagine how much more she might do!"

The Theater Manager pondered a moment and then said with crystalline calm, "I'm afraid I agree. I cannot sanction such a course of action."

Everything in Bertie plummeted: her hopes, her heart, her incredible posture. "But you promised!"

"It's not that I doubt your sincerity, Beatrice, or your enthusiasm," said the Theater Manager.

"Then might I inquire as to your objections in the matter?" Bertie was proud to manage civility when her first inclination was to shout and throw things.

The Theater Manager crossed to the window; when next he spoke, his voice reminded Bertie of the yellow silk obscuring the gla.s.s. "I fear too many changes may upset the delicate balance of this place. A balance I've strived to maintain, I will add, since the day you arrived here. The more time the Players spend with you, the more they transform, the more they exceed the limitations of their written parts. Your closest friends come and go as they please with no thought as to the consequences. . . ."

"How does that hurt anything?" Her bewilderment pained her. Bertie's fingers sought out the scrimshaw for rea.s.surance. "I don't understand."

When the Theater Manager turned to exchange a long look with his colleague, the medallion took their every un-spoken word and transformed them into rustling leaves. Within seconds, the Office was a forest primeval, oak-aged secrets reaching their arms from floor to ceiling like a family tree.

The Stage Manager wove poison ivy words through the vision. "Don't tell her."

"She has to know, in order to grasp the importance of the situation," the Theater Manager said.

"What do I need to know? I wish you both would stop being so mysterious!" Bertie let go of the medallion and shook her head to clear it. "This has been my home for as long as I can remember. I want to make my contribution, and you promised me I could try!"

"I did promise you, Bertie, and the theater will hold me to that promise," the Theater Manager said. "But I fear the changes you make might permit the Players to leave."

"I don't understand." Bertie frowned. "You said that wasn't possible."

"A wishful falsehood." The Theater Manager's face looked as tight as a clenched fist, but the words that followed were fingers opening to reveal a magician's dark coin. "What I am about to tell you must never leave this Office." He waited for Bertie to nod before he admitted, "A long time ago, one of the Players managed to escape."

The revelation stole her breath from her lungs, just as Ariel had in the hallway. Bertie had her suspicions, but she asked anyway. "Which one?"

"That part," the Theater Manager said softly, "isn't important. What is important is that you understand the gravity of the situation. That you proceed with the utmost caution."

"How . . ." Bertie licked her lips. "How did it happen?"

"If I knew, I'd have put safeguards in place."

That's why Ariel thinks I can help him escape! He's done it once before!

But all Bertie said was, "I just want to prove that I belong here."

"This will be a disaster of colossal proportions." The Stage Manager snarled his dissent. "Mark my words, we'll find ourselves standing in the smoking ruins of the theater. I'll have no part in it!"

The doork.n.o.b rattled. Another scuffle broke out in the hall.

"If you'll have no part in it, I'll give the cues myself," Bertie said.

The Stage Manager opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, thought better of it, and shut it once more. He picked up his gla.s.s and attempted to finish off his brandy in one determined gulp.

Bertie couldn't resist adding, "I know the headset fits."

The Stage Manager choked. "Now see here, you pipsqueak-"

About the time he threatened her nose with his finger, Peaseblossom lost her grip on the situation with the boys. The door crashed open, and three irate fairies launched themselves at the Stage Manager. Cobweb and Moth pelted him with sequins while Mustardseed rammed beads into his ears.

"Dance!" they commanded, and dance he did, hopping with impotent anger and pain from one foot to the other as he batted his meaty hands at them.

"I'm sorry!" Peaseblossom wailed as she landed on Bertie's shoulder. "I tried, really I did."

"I know."

"Maybe I didn't try as hard as I ought when he started calling you names," the fairy admitted. "Serves him right, the nasty old t.u.r.d. Punch him again, Moth!"

The Stage Manager howled and fled as the fearsome threesome gave chase. In their pursuit, they knocked over the crystal inkwell, and Moth flew straight into the door-jamb.

"b.u.g.g.e.r!" he yelled, either in pain or at the fleeing man's back.

Bertie winced at the profanity, which was one of her favorites, and slanted a look at the Theater Manager to gauge his reaction.

"Look demure!" Peaseblossom coached. "And horrified."

Bertie arranged her lips in an O of surprise, raising one gloved hand to her mouth. "Such shocking behavior," she said, but didn't specify whose.

"Indeed." The Theater Manager righted the inkwell and wiped at the mess on the desk with a piece of blotting paper.

"Do let me help you with that, sir," Bertie said.

The Theater Manager flapped his blotting paper at her. "No, no. I wouldn't want you to soil your gloves. Or get a spot on your . . . er . . . ensemble. Mrs. Edith wouldn't be pleased at all."

"Quite the opposite," said Bertie. Peaseblossom shuddered, presumably remembering the threat about the tweezers.

The Theater Manager opened a leather-bound calendar and began to flip through the pages. "There is a bit of difficulty, I'm afraid."

Bertie leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the rows and rows of his neat lettering, until the corset reminded her of her limited range of motion. "What is it?"

He tapped a single blank spot with his fingertip. "The only opening I have in the schedule for some time is this weekend. You can have the Friday evening slot, which is slightly less conspicuous than a Sat.u.r.day night performance, but better attended than a weekend matinee."

"That . . . that's in four days!" Bertie stared at him, aghast. "There's no way I can be ready with a new production in four days!"

"You said you have departmental support," the Theater Manager said.

"I do, but-"

"And the Players already know their lines," he continued.

"Yes, but-"

"So what, exactly, is the difficulty?"

"I-I-I . . ." There was the stutter again! Bertie swallowed her protests along with the superfluous vowals so intent on ruining her. "No difficulty, sir. Four days will be more than sufficient. I'll make the announcement to the Players, run through the show a few times with the new sets and costumes. Piece of cake."

"Glad to hear it," the Theater Manager said, nodding once. "Now, as to setting some measurable parameters for your success . . ."

"Measurable what's-it?" Bertie felt her forehead pucker like one of Mrs. Edith's gathered seams.

"What will const.i.tute a success on your part in this challenge." His hand hovered over the mess on his desk until he located a fountain pen, then he began adding notations to a sheet of paper. "You were saying something about a sold-out performance?"

"Um," she answered, watching with a sinking feeling as he nodded, taking the monosyllable as her agreement.

"Standing room only?"

"I did say that, didn't I?"

"In addition," he said, not looking up, "I think a standing ovation might be in order, as proof that the audience appreciates your vision and innovation."

"Of course, sir." Bertie thanked the heavens and Mrs. Edith for the corset, which was the only thing holding her up at the moment. "A standing ovation, it is."

"We have never before had cause, in the history of the Theatre, to hire a Director, G.o.d help us." He handed her a form that read EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT at the top in bold, black letters. "Sign at the bottom, please."

"And don't you dare get ink on that corset," said Peaseblossom.

Bertie took as deep a breath as possible and signed at the X.

Beatrice Shakespeare Smith She handed both pen and contract back over the desk. "Well."

"Quite," said the Theater Manager. "I have no idea how the Players are going to cope with changes in scenery and subtext, so you should get an early start tomorrow."

Bertie gathered what was left of her composure and shook his proffered hand. "Would you be so kind as to tell the Stage Manager he can be in charge of hand-delivering announcements to our patrons, season ticket-holders, and benefactors, something that will let them know about the new performance? They should go out immediately, if we want to sell out the show."

"I'll give him the a.s.signment," the Theater Manager said with a dismissive nod. "Get some sleep. You're going to need all your wits about you."

Bertie walked to the door in something of a daze.

"Oh, and Beatrice?" he called after her.

Halfway into the hall, she turned back. "Yes, sir?"

"Best of luck."

Bertie summoned a brilliant smile that lasted only until she shut the door. "Famous last words."

"You're a Director now," Peaseblossom said with a tinge of awe in her tone. "How does that make you feel?"