The bloodstone, p.16
The Bloodstone, page 16
The empty hours of the next two days began to fill. Her energy doubled. Also her demands. Fits of anger quickened the tempo. Pages of dialogue were deleted from the script. Actors complained that Chandal was being unreasonable. A few threatened to quit.
On Monday, Chandal was impossible to handle. There was no stopping her. No talk could calm her. She hadn’t slept well the night before. Twice she had gotten up, both times because she had thought she’d heard a baby crying in the downstairs den.
Standing frozen in the doorway, Chandal realized that the baby’s mournful wail had suddenly ceased. She had peered into the darkness... her eyes dissolving, disappearing into the now soaked walls. “Like tears,” she mumbled and felt a rush of nausea. Why did she think that there was a connection between this room and the brownstone on 85th Street? Was it only because of her recent visit there—the shock of reliving the final moments of the old woman’s death? Still... she could not go on. Her head was splitting. All she wanted to do was close her eyes, just for a moment.
Yes, close your eyes.
Yes.
Close them now. We need our rest.
Yes.
She shut her eyes and gave herself over to the voice that calmed her. Whose voice?
Mine.
Yes.
Near dawn, she had finally fallen into a deep sleep.
Now she was up, battling with fatigue—exhaustion. Best not to think about it, she scolded herself. Just concentrate on the play.
She had put on a simple cotton dress. Her hair was combed back severely and her face scrubbed. No makeup. The eyes that had been tearful for so many days were clear now. More than clear. Bright. Too bright. Her smile broadened. So did her voice, also too bright. Too loud.
“May we begin?” Eric Savage’s voice dripped sarcasm. “If it’s not too much to ask, Ms. Knight. We have read up to your entrance twice and I don’t feel disposed to do it again. I know it’s Monday, but—”
Chandal barely flicked her eyes up from her script. “I’m really not responsible,” she murmured in a disinterested way, “if the rest of your actors read their roles with no more preparation than they take to read the Daily News.”
Stunned silence reigned only a moment before Brad Sorel, the male lead, flung his script to the floor and said furiously, “I personally will be expecting an apology from Sarah Bernhardt before I read another fucking word!” He glared at Eric Savage. “And if you think I’m kidding, get ready for a surprise.”
Eric looked at him sharply. “You’re welcome to quit if you like,” he said levelly. He spoke with the exaggerated patience that teachers use when addressing a naughty child. “What I choose to say is one thing. But I run my rehearsals in my own way. My actors don’t lay down ultimatums. Now either pick up your script and get off your fucking high horse, or...” he smiled, “walk out the door.”
Redness crawled up Sorel’s neck as he glanced around for support. Unfortunately, his former confederates had buried their eyes in their scripts, leaving no doubt as to where their allegiance had fallen.
“Shit,” he muttered in strained bravado and, after an indecisive instant, gathered his script from the floor.
Chandal turned cold satisfied eyes on Sorel and thought only, I’m doing it. I’m breaking his will. She had known from the beginning that this was necessary. Sorel was playing Rachel’s husband. In the play, Rachel had fashioned this man into a weakling. An emotional cripple. Chandal intended to do the same thing to Brad Sorel.
For this reason she had begun to slap Sorel viciously during key scenes, even though neither was off script. The slap had been initiated in an improvisation and Eric had murmured in satisfaction, “That’s good. Don’t lose it.”
It was permission enough, although Sorel constantly complained that she slapped too hard and was not using a stage slap.
Chandal knew that Sorel had degraded himself for the first time today. She would see to it that it would not be his last.
“Doreen! I’m late. Late, late, late....”
“It’s only nine o’clock. You have plenty of time.”
“Now where the hell is my bag?”
“Hanging on the banister.”
“Goddamn it! This place is a mess again. I keep cleaning it, and it keeps getting so goddamn filthy!”
“You want a pill?”
“For what?” Chandal scowled.
“Blood pressure.”
“There is nothing wrong with my goddamn blood pressure! Now put those pills down.”
“All right, all right. How about a headache? You have a headache?”
“No, Doreen. I do not have a headache. What I have is a real pain in my ass. You. You’re that pain, Doreen. And get your feet off my couch!”
“Okay. Okay. Sorry.”
“Shit. Come on, I want you out of here.”
“You go. I’ll lock up.”
“No!” Chandal gave her a sharp stare. “I don’t want you prowling around while I’m not here.”
“Prowling around?”
“That’s right. Someone was playing around with that statue. I found it turned nearly facing the wall yesterday. Somebody was fooling with it.”
“Well,” Doreen insisted, “it wasn’t me!”
“Oh, shit. Just leave now, okay?”
“Okay!”
Doreen turned back at the door and eyed Chandal warily. “You’re nuts, you know that? You’re crazy nuts!” With that she stormed from the carriage house.
Chandal stood motionless for a moment. She looked around, feverishly examining every detail of the apartment. She stared uneasily, trying to concentrate on just how she had left things.
An instant sharp thought pressed.
She scanned the room again. Her only concern, oddly, was that no one touch her statue. She picked it up now. And as her mind drifted for a moment, her hand touching the creature’s face seemed to respond and began to tremble slightly.
Chandal held the statue up to the light and heard again the soft-spoken man’s voice at the antique shop and how he had praised the statue she was now holding. Her hands began to steady. There was something about his voice that settled her nerves. He had appeared to be in his seventies, yet there was something youthful and solid about him, a feeling that he had cheated death and would continue to do so.
Carefully she set the statue down. Yes. The man had been right. “Just ask the statue,” he had said, “and he will grant your wish.” Silly—yes! But the old man had said it so simply, yet so seriously, that Chandal had found herself drawn by his persuasion.
Only when she glanced at her watch now, did the enchantment of the statue cease. Viciously she slammed the front door of the carriage house closed. She fumbled for her keys, damning all locks because her fingers were stiff and she could not find the right key, much less get it quickly into its slender niche.
“Goddamn it!” she grumbled and finally slid the key into the lock. A quick flick of her wrist and she turned and walked through the hazy courtyard.
Chandal was unaware of the old woman, her face bloated, full, yet drained of blood, watching her from the fifth-floor window of the brownstone. The woman’s vacant eyes followed her, clung to her psyche, lusted after the youth that had once been hers. Yet she knew Chandal belonged to another, and that after all—she was fortunate enough to have gained what little had been offered her. An outpost on the edge of darkness. A pitiful post to be sure. Yet she was lucky to have this much.
Thousands of eyes looked greedily back at her.
Rats’ eyes. They had become her pets.
She withdrew from the window as soon as Chandal had vanished from view. Yes, she mused, everything slips away as if it were merely a matter of a day. And then night comes. Night without dawn.
Slamming the outer gate shut, Chandal began walking toward Central Park West, her footsteps falling with heavy blows, steps that traveled through the cement-encrusted landscape as though caught up in a race.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE MAN PASSED HIS HAND OVER CHANDAL’S THIGH. THE lights flickered. The tiny loveseat rotated slowly on its axis. Chandal moved her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Her gaze was fierce and strong. She felt that she had lost her sense of time and space, that she had been out of her body in some new place. But now she knew her body better than ever before.
“Stop!” she said and laughed. She moved her leg an inch or so—closer. “My husband is watching us.”
“Let him watch. It will do him good to experience a bit of jealousy.”
Smiling, Chandal cupped her hand over his and ran it further up her leg. She shivered with joy, even pride. Her eyes shone with a new light.
“Do you think my husband is capable of jealousy?” she asked.
Hesitantly, almost timidly, the man moved his hand in a circular motion between her legs. Never before had he been allowed to do such a thing. And yet he knew that Chandal’s whims often ran to the bizarre. As his hand slid to her pubis, she spoke.
“You haven’t answered my question.” Chandal’s smile broadened.
Covertly he inspected a portion of Chandal’s upper leg, and, at the same time, fumbled for his lines. What on earth was she trying to prove, he wondered. Against Chandal’s milk-white skin his hand appeared like a tan leather glove as he dug his fingers deeper into her flesh.
Chandal laughed with pleasure. “Oh, poor Anthony. I seem to be less and less married every time I see you. In fact, I think that by now I’m not married at all.”
The man cleared his throat discreetly. “I... I only wish it were so.”
Chandal pressed closer. Clasped her legs together into a sailor’s knot, and trapped his hand in place. She began to rotate her pelvis slowly. At the same time, she pressed hard against his hand and used it as an instrument of masturbation.
“Say the word, just one word,” she groaned, “and I’ll divorce him. But I know you are not capable....” She pressed harder, moved more quickly, her voice coming in short gasps. “... You won’t say it. You’re too afraid. All men—afraid of me.”
Torn between fright and a wild impulse to laugh, Chandal watched as he slid his knee closer to her leg. He clutched desperately at her and loosed a steady flood of words as though afraid that, if interrupted, his very life would be in jeopardy.
Chandal tried to withdraw from his embrace, but he held on with frenzied strength. With his face buried between her breasts, he caressed her center.
At that precise moment, Eric Savage stepped silently onto the stage. Seeing him, the man pulled away from Chandal. At the sight of Eric he flushed, as if he had forgotten that anyone else was in the room. In the theater.
Chandal, meanwhile, focused her attention on herself. Adjusted her dress. Smiled.
It was Tuesday, the fifth day of rehearsal. April 8th.
At lunch, the actors left in a closely knit group, exclusive of Chandal. She sat on the stage and watched them go, observing the significant glances they exchanged, the care that was taken not to look in her direction.
“Aren’t you going to lunch?” Eric asked from the door, somehow not fitting the time-hallowed image of a director. His clothing was always so neat—today a white shirt collar was revealed from the neck of his black cashmere sweater. He wore loafers and a well-tailored pair of silk trousers. Too neat, too conservative—even his hair was cropped a bit too close to his bony face.
Yet despite his non-theatrical appearance, Chandal knew that the actors all worshiped him for, as everyone knew, he bestowed his praise and his insults fairly. Still no one in the company knew, from day to day, where one stood with Eric Savage.
“You really should eat something, you know,” he said and took a step forward.
“Maybe later,” Chandal replied faintly. “I need to be by myself for a while.”
“Okay. By the way, you’re doing fine. Better than fine. You’re even better than I thought you’d be.”
“Yeah. I’m real popular too, don’t you think?” Chandal commented wearily.
“We’re not running an election here.” He smiled suddenly. “People should learn how to lose as well as how to win. You are winning. They are losing. They’ll get over it.” He paused. “In the meantime, try to grab a bite. You’re thin enough.”
“Okay,” she muttered and watched him disappear into the lobby.
Chandal waited for the outside door to close, and almost collapsed with relief when it finally did slam shut. The silence which followed told her that she was totally alone in the theater.
She closed her eyes and willed her mind to go out of focus for a moment. To let go of the shattering realization that always hit her the instant rehearsals ceased and she was no longer in the play, but instead back in the real world.
Awkwardly, she covered her face with her hands and let the tears come. That she was in trouble was undeniable. Her emotions were no longer controllable. She knew it. She was not altogether certain what the other people thought. It was just that in rehearsal she actually seemed to become Rachel and she hadn’t the will to pull back, to be a nice person. To be herself. The tears rolled down her cheeks as she rose from the edge of the stage and began to pace the set.
It was strange how divided she seemed to be about the play. On the one hand, she was totally absorbed in a way she had never before experienced. She had been rehearsing only a week, and already she knew most of the lines. But it went a lot deeper than that. The passion of Rachel seemed to find a deep root within herself. And she could not shut it off. That was the point. She could not shut it off!
In only two and a half weeks the play would open to previews, a week later to critics, but by that time, what kind of claim would Rachel have on her?
Almost mechanically Chandal dried the tears from her cheeks and climbed from the stage. She knew she should eat something. Her usual toast for breakfast just wasn’t enough.
She hesitated in the lobby for a moment. There was a strange silence in the darkened place. It felt cold. She found herself breathing carefully. Her eyes were shiny and tired.
Off in the distance, a phone began to ring.
She listened.
Her mind clicked suddenly onto a small, quiet, private, dim room: the brownstone. The room was located to the rear of the brownstone. Inside that room, Chandal watched herself huddle in the corner, frozen with fear.
The phone continued to ring.
What do you want from me? What!
More clicks—a camera. Justin’s camera. They had gone to the park. Chandal had been worried about her mother’s health. Her hypochondria. Click. Justin kept clicking the damn camera! Please, Justin—don’t take any more pictures!
... Around and around... this way and that way and around behind.... She suddenly yanked the receiver off its hook. “Hello!” she cried, and then turned and realized she was standing in the lobby of the theater, that she had just answered the pay phone hidden away in the corner.
“Chandal Knight, please,” requested a low, somehow familiar male voice.
Her mind came back into sharp focus. “This is Chandal.”
Harsh breathing came from the other end. Nothing more.
“Who is this?” Chandal demanded.
The voice uttered something she couldn’t understand.
“I can’t hear you.”
“The play,” said the voice hurriedly. “You’ve got to get out of the play.”
“Get out?”
“It’s only the beginning,” the voice warned. “The next time it’s a bigger play, a better part. And it keeps getting harder and harder to say no.” The voice broke.
“Billy?” Chandal said suddenly. “Billy, is that you?”
“I tried not to look at you that night. But when I heard about the play... I owe you this much, Chandal.”
“Billy, please—don’t hang up. I have to see you. Please. I know something’s going on. Something to do with the brownstone. Maybe you can—”
“Don’t tell anyone, whatever you do.”
“No. No, I won’t.” She paused, then added. “Billy, I have to see you. Talk with you.”
“Tomorrow,” Billy said unwillingly. “I’m staying at The Boulevard. 83rd and Central Park West.”
“I’m writing it down. I’m off tomorrow.”
“No! In the evening. 11:00 o’clock. Not before, not after. 11:00 o’clock.”
“Billy, I’ll be there.”
“My apartment is not listed. Check with the desk.”
“All right.”
A sharp click told her that Billy had hung up.
Somehow, over a lunch of chef salad and a glass of white wine, Chandal thought that now it would all be different. Billy would be able to help her. Billy had always been so helpful in the past. She knew that he had the answers she’d been looking for.
She was getting closer to the truth. Images were starting to flood her memory. Something had gone wrong in the brownstone. She was sure of it now. Her mother’s death, the fire, her feeling that Justin had been unfaithful to her, it all was more than fantasy—it was a truth.
Or why else would Billy have run from her that night? Why had he called her now, warning her to get out of the play? Yes, she thought determinedly—everything would be different now.
Rehearsals would also be different. This time she would refuse to give way to the bitchiness, the hatefulness. She just had to be stronger. Jesus, she had to be. Because she had a sinking feeling that maybe it might boil down to that or giving up the role. Just as quickly she pushed the thought away. Giving up Rachel was impossible. Rachel was a part of her now.
If Chandal could have seen herself at that moment, she would have seen too deep a crease work its way across her smooth young forehead.
In rehearsal that afternoon the anger within her surfaced from a deep spring in her subconsciousness. Everything bothered her, especially the child actress who was to play her daughter and who worked for only a few hours every afternoon. Not only was the child too ugly to be on a stage, but she had little training and even less talent.
