That afternoon, Dennis and Ann walked arm in arm through Central Park. There was a light drizzle, and they huddled together under a wide umbrella, more for the human contact than to keep the thin sheen of rain off their heads and shoulders. The air was warm for March, and here and there crocuses pushed from between the rocks by the side of the paths, their bright purples and yellows like miniature torches in the gray mist.
Dennis slowed down as they reached a bench. "Let's sit down a minute," he said.
Ann wiped the moisture from the wood with a handkerchief. "You're tired.”
“A little." They sat and Dennis lowered the umbrella. "It's stopped raining.”
“How do you feel? Really?"
"Terribly tired. I have no energy at all. All I want to do is just lie down and sleep. It's draining away, Ann. My life. The son of a bitch is taking it. He's back there in Kirkland, but somehow he's still taking it."
"You could be sick, you know," she told him, almost wanting to believe it. At least sickness was something that could be either fought or accepted. At this point, the Emperor allowed for neither. "We'll know better tomorrow."
"They won't find a thing," Dennis predicted. "My blood will be fine, there will be no tumors, no sites of infection. Blood pressure will be normal, and there will be not a trace of cancer. The test for AIDS antibodies will be negative." He smiled crookedly. "I won't even have so much as a cold."
He put his head back. The rain had begun again, a fine mist, and he closed his eyes and let his mouth fall open as if, she thought, he was about to receive some communion from the heavens. Then he closed it and, still looking up, said to her, "They can't see sicknesses of the soul."
He was right. They could not. The following day, after an evening in which he fasted and a night in which he purged himself with castor oil and Fleet enemas, he submitted himself to the ministrations of the doctors. Despite his apathy, some of the procedures were painful enough to make him cry out, and he welcomed the pain, welcomed anything that could make him feel, react, show an honest and unforced emotion.
At the end of the day, when he was dressed and feeling only dull aches, the weak memory of pains suffered rather than their sharp reality, the doctor told him that neither she nor all the vast machines of Mt. Sinai could find anything physically wrong with him, and suggested therapy to see if his condition could be of a psychosomatic nature. He declined the offer.
On Monday the rest of the cast had rehearsed in Dennis's absence, and now that he had returned, they still rehearsed in his absence. Dennis was there, they all felt, in body only.
He grew paler and thinner as the days passed. Those who had lunch with him saw him eat, but could see no trace of the nourishment in his flesh. Even his singing voice, that wonder of regularity whose lack of failure had never caused him to miss a performance, was growing weak. The notes were always there and on pitch without cracking, but their fullness had diminished to heard shadows of what they had been. Kelly and the others who shared scenes with him tried desperately to draw the Emperor of old out of him, but with no success. They worked around him.
Many of them had rehearsed shows like this before, star vehicles for music theatres in which the lead, usually a TV celebrity, came in for the final run-through, and was represented in early rehearsals by an assistant stage manager who carried the book, read the lines lifelessly, and walked through the movements like a trained zombie. It was little better than acting with a puppet. Only in this case the puppet was a performer who had won two Tony Awards and the applause and respect of the theatre world.
Ann Deems did what she could for Dennis. She encouraged him, admonished him, seldom left his side, lived with him, made love to him, and loved him. His reciprocating love, she thought, seemed the only real thing about him anymore.
When she met him at the studio at the end of the day's rehearsal, he showed more life than he did at any other time. Still, she thought
"He's dying, John. I really think he is."
Steinberg quickly looked up from the papers they had been about to go over, as if surprised at the unexpected comment. "They said he was all right at the hospital.”
“But he seems so weak, and getting weaker."
"I know. But too, I know Dennis. I've known him for a much longer period of time than you, my dear, despite your recent relationship. And there were times he was absolutely dreadful in rehearsals – disinterested, bored, lifeless -"
"But ever as bad as this?"
Steinberg sat back in his chair, folded his hands upon his generous lap, and looked up at the ceiling, as if his memory dwelt there. "No," he said. "I'll concede that. No. But the situation… all the deaths, the loss." He sighed. "Robin… Whitney… Donna …”
Steinberg sighed, and Ann knew that he was remembering the woman who had worked with him for so many years. Their own relationship had improved considerably in the past month, and she thought that Steinberg might be trying to turn her into a replacement for Donna.
Steinberg jerked his head down. "He'll change once he gets on a stage. And when he finally has an audience… well, you'll see. We'll have the old Dennis back again. We'll have the Emperor, by God." A shiver ran through her at the intensity of his grin. "But enough of this. I can only say don't worry about him. You're good for him, Ann. He needs you. And he'll be all right. Now our job is to make sure that the evening of the performance is everything that he wants it to be."
She nodded. "I'm sorry. Sometimes it just gets to me. I worry that he won't… have it."
"He'll have it. And we'll have one hell of an audience. I've got the donations to date here. At $5000 a seat, we'll be filling the Venetian Theatre to capacity.”
“John, that's incredible!"
"Not so incredible when you think about it. Only about half of these names are our prior investors. The others are all from news services, magazines, television stations… both Geraldo and Sally will be there."
The truth hit her then. "My God, because of what happened… and -“
“Because of what might happen again, yes, you're right. The vultures are out in force, hoping for a show beyond the show."
"You can't let them, John."
"I can't stop them, Ann. Their money is as good as anyone else's. But understand, nothing will happen beyond the show. Backstage will be filled with cast and crew, and we will have security people en masse. There will be no opportunity for what happened to Tommy Werton. These news hounds will see a musical, nothing more. And the publicity this will bring the project is something that no money can buy. I confess I hadn't thought of that angle when Dennis said he wanted to do Empire again."
"But it seems so ghoulish…”
"What's ghoulish about playing A Private Empire? Some people may have a morbid reason for coming, but that's their problem. They'll soon learn that if they want to see Grand Guignol, they had best go to Paris. They won't see it here. No, Ann, the only thing they will see on that stage is the, shall I say, transformation of Dennis Hamilton." Steinberg's eyes got very small, and he leaned across the desk toward her. "Why is he doing it, Ann? He hasn't told me."
"Maybe he thought you were right about it, and changed his mind."