Distracted by Boehlmer’s absent gesture, Pauline got tripped up in her Nebuchadnezzars and made an uneven entry, out of step with the evening’s accelerated pace. Flavy noticed, Flavy grimaced. He thought of going up to the (impersonated) Boehlmer to offer a final bit of advice. As you might imagine, this is not the sort of thing that actors, as a rule, welcome. Strangely enough, however, they almost seem to welcome it from Marcel, “the debonair dictator,” as Pacal-Bram calls him. Flavy is on record stating that it was at this moment he noticed that it was not Boehlmer who was waiting in the wings. He was so startled by this realization that he did not even try to prevent the Usurper from taking the stage. (And, after all, what good would it have done?) The entrance thus took place thirty seconds in advance, and quite jauntily — something we’ve chosen to adopt in subsequent performances.
Boehlmer’s character is a rebel leader who had formerly been a brother-in-arms of the President of the Republican Council. Once in power, the President, ingratitude incarnate, stripped him of all rights and honors. Then he exiled him (“Be wary of he who crowns you”). But, unbeknownst to the President, the rebel (Boehlmer’s character) disguised himself and remained in the capital — a flickering flame, the clandestine conscience of a dishonored Republic.
As soon as Flavy realized what had happened, what was happening, he reached for his walkie-talkie and issued an order, which it was my job to carry out. I was to find out what had happened to Boehlmer and whether he was in need of assistance — medical or otherwise. At that moment I was under the stage, having just released a fake rat that was made to traverse the boards by means of an invisible nylon string. I am the director’s assistant — and, by that virtue, his factotum. I am even sometimes called the Factota, which, linguistically speaking, is idiotic, but, well, there you go. I rushed backstage more than a little confused by the assignment I’d been given. I found Boehlmer’s door locked. I knocked. There was no response. I pounded. Still no response. Pressing my ear to the keyhole, I finally made out something, something faint — a groan that was immediately drowned out by a fierce argument coming from onstage. At this point in Flavy’s drama, the potentate and the pseudovagabond have not yet recognized one another, and are exchanging unpleasantries concerning the prostitute played by Soulemenov. (To be more precise, the President of the Council has not yet recognized his opponent, but the rebel may already have recognized his President. Although Flavy’s text doesn’t make this point clear, it would help explain the vehemence with which this man of the people counsels the prostitute against having anything to do with such a “dubious” personage as the disguised president.)
After some hesitation, and a few unsuccessful attempts at further communication via walkie-talkie, I rushed off to find Flavy. I was getting more and more anxious as I ran through one worst-case scenario after another. Once I located Flavy, a new problem presented itself. He was standing in the wings and didn’t want to come with me. To watch an actor in profile is a special pleasure for the connoisseur, all the more so when that actor is unknown, unexpected — and perhaps acting for the first and last time. Such an actor is, as Flavy would later remark, a hapax of the stage. (A typical Flavian remark. Hapax means unicum.) I too, however, soon fell under the Usurper’s spell. I stood rooted to the spot, fascinated by how he seemed instinctively to find the perfect intonations for every line, and yet through certain professional shortcomings botched several passages. In doing so, he completely inverted the hierarchy of values that six weeks of rehearsal had firmly established. The stranger had evidently seen our first performances — and, who knows, maybe even our rehearsals — as he not only knew his lines by heart, but every gesture, no matter how slight.
As the Usurper called out, “In virtue of my powers stripped,” he reminded me of a gifted student of Léna Gomborska, or even of the early Léprant; one of the ones who didn’t follow the former to Latin America or the latter to Pernand-Vergelesses. Though shaken from habits laboriously acquired, Jean-François Ernu and Sylvestre Pascal-Bram both adapted relatively well, mutatis mutandis. At moments, they even seemed concerned that they might not be holding their own against the newcomer. Think of all the things that must pass through an actor’s mind when he or she is confronting something unprecedented onstage, and to which he or she must react in the unseen blink of an eye. Question after question. Has there been an accident? Was this planned? Is it a test? A destabilization exercise? An initiation ritual? A waking nightmare? But there’s little time to wonder, and none to be shocked. You have to deal with what’s before you, relying on your reflexes, and without the luxury of crossing your fingers.
In other words, the moment was filled to bursting with an extraordinary intensity. Compared with the preceding performances, this new incarnation of the fallen rebel was at once more touching and more fervent. What’s more, he was both of these things earlier in the play. It was fascinating to observe. This is not meant as a criticism of Boehlmer’s performance. He had only been following orders, after all — ones that reflected, from the very beginning, a conception of the role which he shared with the author and director of the play as little, apparently, as did his talented Usurper.
I was the first to emerge from this hypnotic state. I told Flavy that it was imperative he come to Boehlmer’s aid, stressing that the man’s life might be at stake. At last, and unwillingly, Marcel made for the spiral staircase. I let him go first. He has authorized me to report that he was furious—furious with Boehlmer for putting the performance at risk on precisely the evening when the feared critic Botsinas had chosen to come, armed, as ever, with his inflexible expectations. We entered Boehlmer’s dressing room by force: Flavy kicked in the door, shattering the wood of its frame.
Boehlmer was doubled over, drooling a little. Flavy took hold of the front legs of the chair, lifting them roughly so as to raise the head of the still-confined man. No sooner had he done so than he began assailing the gagged actor with questions. I thought it prudent to intervene at this moment and undid, not without difficulty, the patriotic scarf tied around Boehlmer’s head. He spit out the plastic bag that had been stuffed into his mouth and then vomited, making inarticulate noises as he did so. Flavy grabbed a largish nail clipper from a nearby makeup kit and began slashing furiously at Boehlmer’s bound wrists. Flavy is a far cry from agile and I feared that he would only succeed in wounding the forearms of the man whom he hadn’t ceased berating as I’d never seen him berate anyone before. He called the — at last liberated — Boehlmer an idiot and an imbecile. If anything, however, Boehlmer was even more infuriated than his abusive rescuer. Gradually straightening his bent spine, he called Flavy inept, incompetent, a twit, a scumbag, a loser, and, finally, a traitor to his class — the last of these a surprisingly dated slur. He charged Flavy with being so incapable that he couldn’t even guarantee the security of his actors. Both men were to regret this violent exchange, untempered by the least self-control and in no way reflecting the excellent working conditions to which the entire company had grown accustomed. I tried, at first without great success, to calm the two men.