amc@whuts.UUCP (Andy Cohill) (08/22/85)
They took the outside stairway up to the top of the ship, and walked
forward until they were standing on the deck directly over the
bridge of the ship. The varnish on the wood railing was worn off
here, because this was where everyone came at night, in ones and
twos, to face into the wind that always blew up here, 120 feet off
the surface of the water.
They stood there for a while, until the wind became a constant that
you did not notice anymore. She turned to him, picking up the trail
of the conversation that they had begun in the lounge.
"So what *is* the problem?"
He did not reply immediately. He shifted his weight slightly, so
that he faced directly into the wind, opening his eyes at the same
time. Almost instantly the wind made blur with tears, and turned
around, so that his back was now to the rail, and the wind could not
snatch his words away before they reached her.
"It's as if we are all actors and actresses who have studied and
practised and memorized our parts for years. And then on opening
night, just before the curtain rises, new scripts are thrust into
our hands, and the director is changed, and the lighting and set has
been changed too." He paused here, looking at her, to see if she was
listening. She was looking directly at him, so he continued.
"And so there are all these changes, yet we go out on the stage
anyway because we believe in our craft, we believe in the magic of
the theatre, and because we want to do well. We want that curtain
call, when the audience roars its approval. But everything goes
wrong. No one knows the new lines, so we stumble time and again,
missing cues, ruining entrances, upstaging our fellow thespians.
The audience hoots with derision, though we cannot see them through
the glare of the footlights.
"By the end of the first act, some of the actresses are in
tears, and two of the actors have already come to blows over
trounced lines. But we straighten our make-up and go out again. All
the months of practise becomes our enemy, as the memorized lines and
gestures keep welling up unconsciously, making our attempt to
stammer out the new lines a farce.
"By the end of the show, no one is speaking to one another.
There were no curtain calls, because most of the audience got up and
left during the third act. In the changing rooms, everyone yells at
the top of their lungs, angry that their part had been spoiled by
the clumsiness of their comrades.
"And the new director disappeared. No
one ever saw the real culprit." He looked at her again, waiting for
a reply. Over her shoulder, the moon had begun to peek out from
behind the clouds, casting a weak glow on the mottled South China
Sea. She curled her lips into a smile, stepped away from the rail,
and pirouetted into the wind before speaking.
"So what part do you and I have in this travesty of a play? Are
you the leading man, and me, the object of your desire?" She was
standing out in the center of the deck, the wind blowing the folds
of her dress straight out behind her.
"No." He paused, thinking of the parts that they played. He saw
it suddenly; he dashed towards her and embraced her, bringing he
face very close to his, so that he could speak in a whisper.
"No....you are the scullery maid in the second act. You have just
one line--'Dinner's ready.' And I am the butler in the third act. I
have no lines at all. We aren't even on stage at the same time."
Then he kissed her, and as he did, *she* found him. He was chilled
suddenly, holding that woman he barely knew, because above the wind
was the song without words, sung straight from the blue hills 12,000
miles away. *She* was out on the wind rocks, calling him back,
calling him away from the woman in his arms, singing the song he
knew so well. And he knew he would spend this night alone...
Andy