"'What in God's name are you about!'" he cried. Or tried to cry. What came out, instead of an angry, imperious shout, was a weakly barked series of words that descended in a mealy whine. It was no worse, but certainly no better, than Dennis had done in the New York rehearsals.
"'About,'" Marks went on, snarling the line, "`to announce your future, your majesty.'
"'You've returned too early, Frederick,' " said Drummond as Kronstein. "'And you've gone too far, Kronstein,'" said Dennis flatly. "`Get away from that balcony.'"
"'Stop him, Kruger. Don't harm him, but stop him.'"
Marks drew his saber and advanced on Dennis en garde. Dennis fumbled with his blade, unsheathed it, and tried to go into the quick flurry of moves that would end with his slapping his blade under Marks's upstage arm to simulate a fatal thrust.
But his movements were sluggish, and he dropped the sword to his side in frustration even before Quentin was able to stop the scene. "Okay, Dennis, you remember the moves?"
Dennis nodded. "I'm sorry. Not loosened up yet.”
“Let's start from the same place then."
They did. Dennis gave his lines with no more life than before, the sabers were drawn, the movements barely gotten through. Dennis's final thrust was more like a caress, but Marks dropped his saber, grabbed his chest as though a cannonball had passed through it, and fell to the floor, expiring without another line.
"'That was uncalled for… your majesty,'" said Drummond. "'He would not have killed you, you know. Those were not the orders I gave.'"
"'I'm giving the orders, Kronstein. Move away from that balcony. Now.'“
“'You shall not let me make my announcement?'"
"'If you were to make it looking like that, I should be the one bound to it. And I shall not wed Maria. I'll wed no one.'"
Drummond cocked his head, narrowed his eyes. "'And let the line die out, eh? You're so grieved over the loss of your peasant girl?'" He spat the final words.
Dennis tried to act stunned, but failed miserably. "'What do you know about her?'"
"'I know she had a cherry mark upon her breast. But perhaps you never found that out. You always were such a gentleman, Frederick.' "
"'You bastard…'"
"'Precisely. A royal bastard, I believe, is the term.'"
" 'You killed her.'"
"`No. I intended only to… dishonor her. Originally Kruger was to have the pleasure. But when we had her there in the cabin, she was such a handsome wench that I decided to take her first. She tried to run away, but fell. Struck her head. A pity. She would have been quite a little piece. Perhaps I could have sired another royal bastard. Wouldn't that have been amusing, Frederick?'"
Dennis stood, trying to let the rage build up inside him, but the well was empty. He looked around quickly, trying to refocus his thoughts, and saw John Steinberg and Ann sitting in the first row. He lost the line. "Line," Dennis said, calling for it.
"'I shall not have you…'" Curt read from the prompt book
"'I shall not have you executed,'" Dennis repeated.
"'Oh, thank you, majesty.'"
"'I shall kill you myself.'"
"'That seems to gel precisely with my plans, Frederick. Only I plan to kill you. No one save your mother can tell the difference between us now, and old ladies die every day. I can become used to being addressed as Frederick… or as your majesty. In fact, I think I'll enjoy it.'" Drummond drew his saber. "'Pray to your god, Frederick. From this day on, I am God in Waldmont.'"
"'Add blasphemy to your list, Kronstein, along with murder and treason and whatever else you've committed. I'll execute you for all of them.'"
The duel began. Dex Colangelo pounced on the Steinway's keys, crashed out the opening minor chords of the scored battle, then darted into interweaving staccato runs intended to mimic the rattle of sabers onstage.
But the action between the two men could not hope to equal the dexterity of the musical accompaniment. Though Wallace Drummond tried his best to bring buoyant life to the carefully choreographed lunges, cuts, and parries, he had to carry Dennis Hamilton to do it. The piano played on, but the movement on stage slowed, as if the men were dueling in a thick swamp of dream, slowed, and then stopped, with Drummond's saber still en garde in arrested action, but with the point of Dennis's drooping to the wooden floor like an exhausted and storm-bent reed.
"Dex…" Quentin said softly. "Dex," he said louder, to be heard over the music that now accompanied only a tableau. Dex looked up, stopped playing, and sat back, his shoulders slumping. "What's wrong?" asked Quentin. "Did you forget the moves?"
Dennis shook his head.
"Do you not like the moves?"
"They're fine," Dennis said softly.
"Then," Quentin said, his voice rising, "why the fuck don't you do the goddamned moves!"
Dennis jerked his head toward the director, as if awakening from a long dream. "Is this the best we can expect?" Quentin's voice was tight, fighting for control. Dennis looked at him, then at Ann's face, filled with pity, and Steinberg's, frowning with concern.
"Can you do better?"
He turned, saw Terri Deems standing in the wings holding a costume, saw the cast watching, the dancers' taut bodies coiled with apprehension.
"Can you?" Quentin pressed. "Because if you can't, there is no way that this show can ever go on in eleven days. Eleven fucking days! "
"Quentin," Steinberg said quietly, "let's call a break -"
"It's not time for a break, John! Are you directing this show or am I?" He swung back to Dennis. "So what's it going to be, your majesty? Are you going to give me something or are you going to be a zombie up there? I want to know, and I want to know now!"
Dennis looked into Quentin's red face, looked at John, at Ann, at Drummond and Marks, at all of them waiting for him to speak.
"Don't you shout at me…"
Dennis's words were soft, but filled with angry intensity, and now they increased in volume and in furor. "Don't you ever, ever raise your voice to me again… you… scheiskopf! ” He saw Quentin's lips quiver, and something very much like joy surged through him. The saber tingled in his hand, and he raised it, swung it so that it sliced the air with a satisfying hiss. It finally felt at home in his hand, light, agile, ready.
"Let's do the scene," he said. "From the same place." He grinned at Marks and Drummond, a grin so wide it felt wolfish. "And we'll do it this time. Full out."
It was as though the years had rolled back. The performance, for performance it was, had the energy and the fury of youth, the anger of a lover bereft by death, a monarch usurped of his throne. Dennis shot out the lines like bullets, his voice and body full of command. The sabers danced as the music played, and those who watched felt that Wallace Drummond too had never acted better, in large part because of his all too real fear of Dennis's whistling blade.
Still, the movements came precisely as Quentin had staged them, except for Dennis's final thrust, when Drummond, in expectation, threw his upstage arm so far away from his body that, as Dan Marks laughingly said later, a small car could have been parked in the space, let alone a saber. Dennis's blade arrived at the planned and safe six inches from Drummond's torso, and Drummond clutched his chest and fell. The watching cast, Ann, Steinberg, Quentin, Dex, and even the unexcitable Curt Wynn, burst into a spontaneous ovation that lasted minutes, while Dennis stood trembling before them, his gaze fixed on the ground, his eyes slowly filling with long-sought tears.
Scene 7
That night, after a celebratory dinner with friends in the Kirkland Hotel's dining room, Ann and Dennis made love for the first time in many days, and lay afterward in each other's arms.
"You know you can do it now, don't you?" Ann said.