"Dennis -"
"And I think I would've. Everything seemed so futile. I couldn't think, couldn't feel, you know I couldn't act… but still, there was you. And I couldn't bring myself to leave you. It was as though. .. as long as you were still there, there was still hope, still something to live for."
"Even if I hadn't been there, Dennis, even if you'd been all alone, you wouldn't have done it. I know you well enough to know that. You're too strong."
"I'm not so sure of that. But you were there. You saved me, Ann, whether you believe me or not. You did save me."
They disengaged their hands and sipped some sherry. "Do you think it's gone? The Emperor?"
Dennis stared into his glass for a long time before he answered. "No. I don't feel him, but I think he's still there. Waiting."
"For what?"
He looked up at her. "For me. For the performance. And it makes me nervous as hell."
"But you're so much better now, your acting's wonderful."
"I can't help but feel that I'm being set up for a fall. I'm still enough of a pessimist to believe that."
"Just do your best. Use what you have. It'll be enough."
He nodded. "I've never been religious, but I've been praying lately. Isn't that funny?"
"No. It's not funny. I think it's fine."
"Well, I figure it can't hurt. I've been praying for their souls too – Robin, Donna, Whitney, all of them – that they'll be at peace." He smiled self-consciously. "There are no atheists in foxholes, huh?"
She smiled too, and repeated his words. "It can't hurt. And it might help. I've always believed it would. Whether you're praying to God or to something inside yourself. Just as long as it's for the good."
"Oh, I'm praying for the good, Ann. If the good is the destruction of the bad, that's what I'm praying for." Then he added softly, "And working for."
Sunday was the final day off before the performance. The weather was glorious, and most of the company drove cars, rented or owned, south to Philadelphia to visit the zoo or watch the Phillies lose again to the Mets, or north to tour the Pennsylvania Dutch countryside of Lancaster County. Terri and Evan went to the baseball game, and invited Ann and Dennis to come along, but Dennis declined. The final four days before the performance would be technical run-throughs and full dress rehearsals with sound, lights, and orchestra, making Sunday the last day he could concentrate purely on his role without technical distractions, the last day he could really work on his character, make sure that everything was just as he wanted it, give it that final polish. Quentin and Dex had agreed to work with him, and the three of them and Ann drove to the theatre after a leisurely brunch at the hotel.
They were the only people in the building. Even Abe Kipp would not stay there alone any more. Still, they were in good spirits and unafraid. They began with Dennis's song in Act I, Scene 3, "Do I Do What's Right?" Halfway through the song he stopped and questioned the motivation for several of the moves.
"This gesture on the line, 'Without a threat of regret I can close my eyes,' Dennis said, throwing his right arm in the air. "It goes with the music, but it doesn't feel right."
"Dennis, you've done that move for years in this song," Quentin said. "It's always worked. It looks fabulous."
"Well, maybe it looks fabulous, but it doesn't feel right. It just doesn't feel like something I'd do."
Quentin eyed him curiously. " You'd do? Or the Emperor would do?"
Dennis smiled at him. " I'd do," he said.
"Good Christ, I should've seen this coming," said Quentin, pushing his glasses down onto his nose, glaring over the top of them at Dennis, and shaking his head in mock rue. "Our boy's gone method at last. Call back the cast. Let's reblock the whole damned show…"
They laughed, Dennis hardest of all. "I know," he said, "this is a terrible thing to put you through, Quentin. I know you believe what's set is set. But I'd just like to do… something different, something more real. I'd like to make it fresh."
"Fresh – what are we doing, a show or a salad?" He chuckled. "All right, what would you like to do that feels fresh? Besides accosting Ann, that is?"
They worked on nearly all of Dennis's scenes, Quentin jotting down the changes in the prompt book. There would be time in the next four days to acquaint the other principals with the subtle variations Dennis had made. They all knew there would be more than enough time, while waiting for scene changes, or while lighting cues were being set, or difficulties in quick costume changes were being dealt with. The rehearsals leading up to dress rehearsal were filled with such empty moments, performers waiting impatiently while unseen technicians labored to bring the show's various and unruly parts not only under control, but to the perfect precision of a clockwork.
There was time. There were hours worth of time, in which all the actors who had scenes with Dennis were apprised of his changes, and worked out business of their own to respond in kind. The technical rehearsal days plodded, enlivened only by the presence of the orchestra for several hours of musical rehearsals when the technical work was done for the day.
Although the company did little but stand around from Monday through Wednesday, they went to bed early, exhausted by the frustration of being unable to move, to dance, to act for more than a few minutes at a time before Curt's voice would come over the speaker: "Hold it, please. Have to work out this cue." And five, ten, fifteen minutes would pass before he would say, "Okay, top of the scene, please," and they would start again, ever alert for the next interruption. It was, the actors complained, more like making a movie than a show. There was not an actor alive, it was often claimed, who liked technical rehearsals.
So, on Thursday at eight o'clock, when the overture played and the curtain rose, revealing the kitchen of the castle of the Emperor of Waldmont, everyone was bursting with unreleased energies. John Steinberg, Ann Deems, and Evan Hamilton sat together half way back in the auditorium, Ann's hand nervously clutching Steinberg's arm. She was tired, happy, and excited. Twelve hours of work a day for the last week had barely been sufficient to make all the preparations needed, even after hiring three temps. They booked hotels in Philadelphia for the guests, rented a fleet of limousines to transport the rich, famous, and infamous to the theatre, hired ushers, ticket takers, and parking lot attendants, and, most time-consuming of all, handled the financial paperwork for a cast of fifty, a crew of fifteen, costumers, designers, and a sixteen-piece orchestra.
Still, the possibility that Ann Deems would drift off to sleep during the rehearsal was unimaginable. It seemed to her that she was to watch her future unfolding tonight on that stage in the form of Dennis's performance. If he was good, if he fulfilled the promise of the past few days, that future could be filled with wonder. But if not …
The curtain went up, and the time for worrying was past.
The cast seemed electric, the music crisp, the dialogue as involving and witty as it had ever been, and when, in Scene 2, the set revolved, revealing Dennis as the Emperor Frederick, she knew that everything would be all right. He was strong, thoroughly in command of his lines, his movement, his voice, and before long she was not aware that she was watching a show that starred her lover. Instead she was caught up in a musical romance of royal intrigue, love, and honor, caught in the web of words and music, lost in the reality of the performances and the emotions that poured in waves over the stage, into her empathetic soul.
Her responses were so intense that she was almost relieved when the curtain fell on the first act. She relaxed in her seat, and turned to John. "That was… wonderful," she said.
He nodded. "It was indeed. I've never seen Dennis better. Or a better production, for that matter. Extraordinary what can be done in a limited amount of time on an unlimited budget."