Innocence. Kathleen Tessaro

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СКАЧАТЬ slender young man with soft, ashen hair walks in. He smiles at Imo and her whole face lights up. This must be Lindsay. But he takes a seat on the other side of the studio, folds his legs neatly over one another and fishes a worn copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets out of the pocket of his tweed jacket. He reads intently, brow furrowed, nibbling away at his nails.

      Imo gazes at him with unrestrained longing. I give her hand a gentle squeeze.

      Soon the studio is full; there are about twenty of us and still no sign of Robbie.

      At ten o’clock precisely, the door swings wide and Simon enters, wheeling expertly into the centre of the room. ‘Good morning!’ he bellows. ‘Welcome to the beginning of the spring semester! I’m Simon Garrett. I’ve spoken to most of you, and shall, no doubt, speak to you again. However, if you have any questions or problems, either my assistant Gwen or I will be available to help you. Gwen!’

      Gwen appears behind him, clutching a stack of papers, which she begins to pass around the room.

      Simon whips one from her hand and raises it high. ‘Here are your schedules for the next three months. As you can see, we expect a great deal from you—in addition to your regular classes there are masterclasses, workshops, private tutorials, and plenty of opportunities to see the greatest living actors of our generation in live performances. You’re in London now, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to seize the day! If this is your chosen profession then you’ll need discipline, determination, the ego of a dictator and the stamina of a decathlon athlete! We’ve provided you with the most extraordinary professional actors, actresses and directors as teachers. In return we expect you to be prompt, prepared and, above all, professional.’

      There’s an awful hacking sound on the other side of the door; a kind of retching cough, followed by a long, woeful moan: ‘Jesus! Fuuuuuck!’

      The door opens and a dishevelled, overweight man, somewhere between the ages of forty-five and sixty, stumbles in, an unlit cigarette dangling off his lower lip. His thinning brown hair is scraped back across his scalp, and he’s wearing a wine-coloured pullover, grey suit trousers and a pair of well-worn black sneakers. He looks like a tramp. Standing just behind Simon, he pulls a gold lighter out of his back pocket. The cigarette fizzes into life. He inhales deeply.

      ‘Greetings.’ His voice is deep and resonant: the rounded, poignant timbre of a fallen hero. ‘Pardon me. Have I interrupted your St Crispin’s Day speech, Simon? Once more unto the breech and all that? “O! for a Muse of fire,’” he roars, ‘that would ascend the brightest whatever-the-fuck-it-is of invention!’

      ‘Not at all, my dear man!’ Simon’s all warm authority; they shake hands. ‘Just giving them an idea of what to expect.’ He turns his attention to us. ‘I’d like to introduce Boyd Alexander, who will be your principal acting instructor this term. Boyd has just returned from Russia where he’s been working with members of the Moscow Art Theatre on a new production of The Cherry Orchard.’

      There’s an audible gasp; the Moscow Arts Theatre is legendary; the company Chekhov himself favoured.

      ‘He’s also due to direct the Wars of the Roses next season at the RSC, so we’re very, very lucky to have him.’

      Boyd executes a little half-bow, nearly scorching himself with his cigarette in the process.

      ‘Right!’ He pulls a chair up and collapses into it. ‘Enough about me. Run along, Simon! Now’—he glowers at us—‘what I really want to know is, can you people act? Or are you just poncing about in London on your parents’ credit cards for a few months?’

      Gwen and Simon exchange a look.

      Boyd waves them on. ‘Off you go, you two! And Gwen, a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss. Trust me,’ he purrs placatingly ‘I am, after all, a professional!’

      They leave. The rest of us are left clasping our schedules, the way that lost tourists cling to maps.

      ‘You were meant to prepare an audition speech. So, which one of you has the balls to go first?’

      All eyes hit the floor.

      He groans, inhaling again. ‘Fine. Shall we do it like this, then? How many Juliets do we have with us today?’

      Three hands go up.

      ‘Of course. Let’s start with the Juliets. And how many of you have prepared balcony scenes? Please rise.’

      Two of the girls stand up; a small brunette with glasses and a rosy-cheeked redhead.

      Boyd leans forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now, my dears.’ His voice is sinister. ‘I want you to do the speech together at the same time.’ He points to the brunette. She’s biting her lip. ‘You take one line and you’—he turns to the redhead—‘you take the next, do you understand?’ She nods, tugging at her skirt nervously. ‘And yes, my darlings, this is a punishment because no one should have to sit through the balcony scene more than once on any occasion and also, as actresses, you should know better. Juliet has some stonking speeches filled with lust, death, suicide, ghosts, the whole bloody lot and you guys have chosen the naffest one of them all!’

      They blink at him. The small brunette with glasses looks as if she might cry.

      Boyd swivels round to the rest of us. ‘The first rule of being an actor is to grab the limelight. Make the most daring choices you can. Wherever you are, find a light bulb and stand under it! If you don’t want to be looked at, if you don’t want to be noticed, then you’re in the wrong profession. And for fuck’s sake, do something worth watching! Now that you’ve got our bloody attention, keep it! Right! Off you go!’

      They stand, huddled together in the centre of the studio. The brunette starts, hands shaking.

      ‘“Romeo, Romeo.’” Barely audible, her voice is brittle and choked with tears. ‘“Wherefore art thou Romeo?’”

      ‘Stop!’ Boyd barks, jabbing his cigarette out on the floor. He strides over, grasping her by the shoulders. ‘Are you going to cry?’

      She nods her head, unable to form the words.

      ‘Brilliant! Use it! Channel it! Feed it into the language! Finally! I’ve always wanted someone to do something different with this speech! What’s your name?’

      ‘Louise,’ she whispers.

      ‘Speak up, girl!’

      ‘Louise!’ she shouts back, suddenly irritated.

      And he smiles. A great, wonderful, warm, open smile.

      His eyes gleam. Bouncing into the centre of the room, he flings his arms wide, throws back his head and shouts ‘Louise!’ until the windows shake. Grabbing her hands, he whirls her round. ‘LOUISE!! LOUISE!!’

      And she’s giggling, laughing. ‘Wherefore art thou Louise?’

      He catches the redhead’s hand. ‘Go on!’

      ‘“Deny thy father and refuse thy name!’”

      ‘“Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,’”

      The redhead СКАЧАТЬ