Michael noticed that she was barefoot.
“I’m Anne Summers, the stage manager,” she said.
“I’m Connie Kee, the chauffeur,” Connie said.
Michael did not introduce himself because he was still wanted for murder, albeit the murder of a dope dealer fence.
“You look familiar,” Anne said.
“Everybody tells me that,” Michael said.
“Okay to go in?” Felix asked.
“Sure.”
“‘Cause I want to kill Judy,” Felix said, and smiled.
“So does Kenny,” Anne said, and turned to Michael. “Kenny Stein, the director,” she explained.
Michael figured that in the theater, everyone had a title. He wondered if he was supposed to recognize Kenny Stein’s name. Anne was looking at him expectantly.
“Gee,” Michael said.
“You’d better sit way in the back,” she said to Felix. “Kenny likes a lot of space around him. Are you sure I don’t know you?” she asked Michael.
“Positive,” Michael said, and followed Felix across the room to a doorframe hung with a black curtain. Felix pushed the curtain aside, whispered, “Stay close behind me,” and stepped through the doorframe. Connie went out after him. Anne was watching Michael. He smiled at her. She smiled back.
There was darkness beyond the curtain.
And a man’s voice.
“Let’s take it from Judy’s entrance again.”
And then a voice Michael remembered well.
“Kenny, could you please refer to me as the Queen?”
Judy Jordan speaking. The woman who’d called herself Helen Parrish on Christmas Eve. Wishing to be called the Queen on Boxing Day.
“Because if I’m going to stay in character …”
“Yes, yes,” the man said patiently.
“… and you keep referring to me as Judy …”
“Which, by the way, is your name.”
“Not in this play,” Judy said. “In this play, I am the Queen, and I wish you’d refer to me as that.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man said. “Can we take it from the Queen’s entrance, please?”
“Thank you,” Judy said.
Michael was following Felix and Connie up the side aisle of the small theater, turning his head every now and then for a glimpse of the lighted stage, where Judy Jordan was standing with three men. Michael stumbled, caught his balance, and then concentrated entirely on following Felix, who was now at the last row in the theater, moving into the seats there.
“What’s the problem?”
The man’s voice again. Kenny Stein, the director.
“Some problem, Your Majesty?”
“Did you want this from the top of the act, or from my entrance?” Judy asked.
“I said from your entrance, didn’t I?”
“That’s so close to the top, I thought …”
“From your entrance, please.”
Seated now, Michael turned his full attention to the stage. The set seemed to be an ultramodern apartment in Manhattan, judging from the skyline beyond the open French doors leading onto a terrace. But the people in the set—Judy and the three men—were dressed in medieval costumes. Judy was wearing a crown and an ankle-length, scoop-necked gown. One of the men was wearing a black helmet that completely covered his head and his face. Another of the men was holding what looked like a real sword in his right hand. The third man, younger than the other two, was wearing leggings wrapped with leather thongs, and a funny hat with a feather in it; he looked like a peasant.
“They’re rehearsing in the set for a play that’s already in performance,” Felix whispered, leaning over Connie, who was sitting between them.
“It’s only two A.M.,” Kenny said patiently, “just take all the time you need.”
“We just want to make sure we’ve got the right place,” the man with the sword said.
“The right place is Judy’s entrance,” Kenny said.
“From my line?”
“Yes, your line would be fine.”
“`The White Knight? At your service, fair maiden?`”
“Yes, that is your line,” Kenny said. “Can we do it now, please?”
“Thank you,” the man with the sword said.
“Judy, are you ready?”
“Please don’t call me Judy,” she said.
“Well, I’m not supposed to know you’re the Queen yet. You haven’t come in yet.”
“Yes, please do come in,” Kenny said. “Just say your line, Hal, and Judy will come in.”
“The play is called Stalemate,” Felix explained.
On the stage, the man with the sword said, “The White Knight. At your service, fair maiden.”
“I’m not a maiden,” Judy said. “I’m a queen.”
The White Knight knelt at once. “Your Majesty,” he said. “Forgive me.” Judy turned to the man who looked like a peasant. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I am the White Knight’s squire,” he said, “a mere pawn. Your Majesty.”
“And this poor creature?” she asked, indicating the man in the black helmet.
“A helpless servant of the Queen, Your Majesty, tell him to put up his sword!”
“Release him,” Judy said.
“He’s a dangerous man, Your Majesty.”
“Release him, I say.”
The White Knight and his squire immediately let go of the man wearing the black helmet.
“Take off your helmet,” Judy said. “I want to see your face.”
“No,” the man in the helmet said.
“I’m a queen!” Judy said. “Do as I say!”
“You’re not my queen, lady,” the man in the helmet said, and immediately turned to look out into the theater. “Kenny,” he said, “I don’t get this, I really don’t. A minute ago, I’m calling her `Your Majesty,` and now I’m telling her she’s not my queen.”
“That’s because this is the first time you can really see her,” Kenny said patiently.
“Why can’t I see her before this?”
“Because she’s standing in the dark. This is when she moves toward the fire. On `I’m a queen,` she moves toward the fire. And you can see her face in the firelight, and that’s when you say `You’re not my queen, lady.`”
“Then whose queen is she?” the man in the helmet asked.
“That’s not the point, Jason. The point is …”
“You know, I think Judy’s right, you shouldn’t call us by our real names when we’re supposed to be other people.”
“It would be clumsy to call you `Black Knight,`” Kenny said.
“Then call me `Sire,`” the Black Knight said.
“Me, too,” the White Knight said.
“And what would you like to be called, Jimmy?”
“I’m the Pawn,” the young man in the peasant outfit said, looking stunned.
“Yes, that’s what the playwright has chosen to call you, the Pawn, that is part of the metaphor. The chess metaphor. But shall I call you `Pawn` when I address you?”
“Yes, that would be fine, Kenny,” the young man said.
“Very well, then. Sire, would you please take it from your denial line?”
“Me?” the White Knight asked.
“No, the other sire, please.”
“My what line?” the Black Knight asked.
“The line where you deny the Queen. If you please.”
“Oh.”
“Thank you,” Kenny said.
Michael wondered if allegory and metaphor were one and the same thing. Whichever, it was certainly a very confusing play, at least the part of it they were rehearsing. At one point, he thought he was beginning to catch on to the idea that the Black Knight represented black men everywhere, but then the play swerved off in another direction and he figured he was wrong. Puzzled, he began to lose interest, until—
“I can still remember the day Arthur died,” the Black Knight said.
“Oh, yes, of course,” the Queen said, “the whole world remembers.”
“I’d been in the woods with a friend of mine,” the Black Knight said. “It was a bright, clear November day, the forest was alive with sound, we walked on crackling leaves, and breathed needles into our lungs. And when we came out of the forest, there was a beggar woman sitting by the side of the road, wringing her hands and weeping, and we said to her, `Why do you weep, old woman?` and she answered, `Arthur is dead.` And we didn’t believe her. Arthur could not be dead. But as we walked further along the road, we came upon more and more people, all of them saying, `Arthur is dead,` until at last there was a multitude of people, all of them weeping and saying the same words, `Arthur is dead, Arthur is dead,` and then we believed it. And the sun went out, and a wind rose up, and there was no longer the sound of life in this land of ours, there was only the sound of muffled drums.”