Bernhardt's Edge Read Free Page A

I’ve ever worked in. The people who run it are very, very serious about what they’re doing—serious about producing damn good plays. That takes dedication, and stubbornness, and vision, and a feeling for what the public wants. And integrity, too. It takes a lot of integrity. And it also probably takes a touch of mild insanity, the kind of insanity that Don Quixote had, I suppose. Quixote, and Dave Falk, the man who’s run the Howell for as long as I’ve been here. If you haven’t met Dave, you will. Maybe you’ve already seen him, and didn’t know it. He could’ve been answering the phone, or selling tickets, or sweeping out the lobby, or—”
    A small, shrill shriek interrupted: Bernhardt’s pager, clipped to his belt, under his sweater.
    â€œOh, oh—” He switched off the pager. “I moonlight, like a lot of people in this business. Either you moonlight, or you have an inheritance. And that’s my master’s voice. I’ll just be a minute. Then we’ll do some reading, from the beginning.” He smiled, this time at Pamela Brett, who quickly returned the smile. Bernhardt pushed himself away from the edge of the stage, and walked up the center aisle. Slightly stooped, he moved purposefully, eyes to the front, as if his attention were focused just ahead. In profile, with his long, slightly hooked nose, his sharp chin, with his thick, roughly cut hair growing low across his forehead and over his collar, Bernhardt could have played the part of the younger Lincoln.
    In the tiny lobby with its worn carpet and its vintage playbills tacked to the walls, a pay phone hung beside the table used to serve coffee and pastries during performances. Drawing a deep, resigned breath, Bernhardt dropped a quarter in the slot, punched out a number.
    â€œYes?” the familiar voice answered.
    â€œIt’s Bernhardt.”
    â€œCan you come in tomorrow at nine?” Dancer asked. “I’ve got something for you.”
    â€œIs it local, or out of town?”
    â€œI’m not sure. A little of both, maybe.”
    â€œHow long will it take?”
    â€œHard to say. Two or three days, at least.” As always, talking to an employee, Dancer’s voice was take-it-or-leave-it flat. Then, because it was Bernhardt, he added, “It’s a skip trace. There’s a twenty-five percent bonus, if it works out. But you’ve got to tell me now. Right now.”
    â€œAll right. Nine o’clock.”
    â€œGood.” The phone clicked, went dead.
    Bernhardt flipped the script closed, put it on the edge of the stage, stretched, looked at his watch. “Okay, that’s the first act. What I’d like to do, I think, is go through all three acts, reading the way we have tonight.” He pointed to his clipboard. “I’ve been taking notes, the way directors’re supposed to do. So far I haven’t put down any ‘wows,’ but then there aren’t any ‘ughs,’ either. The way I like to work is to read through the whole play. Then I get together with each of you separately, and we decide whether we think it’s going to work, with the parts you’re reading. Okay?”
    As he spoke, the five auditioners folded their own scripts and rose from chairs that had been placed in a semicircle on the stage.
    â€œToday is Monday,” Bernhardt said. “Can everyone make it Friday at the same time, six o’clock?” He looked at the five faces: three men, one woman—and Pamela Brett, who’d obviously acted before. A month from now, four or five rehearsals into the play, some of them would have given up, forfeiting the money they’d paid, to pursue their fragile dreams.
    Thank God he believed it, what he’d said about the Howell. It was the best little theater company he’d ever worked with.
    â€œSo study your parts,” he said, concluding. “Read them over. Make the characters