It
was the first and last time I visited a theatre. I’ve never been a cultured
man, because I’m still a boy at heart. If I went to see a play now, it’s
certain I would be ejected from the premises for disruptive behaviour. The
temptation to cause mischief is too strong, and that’s entirely due to what
happened to me in that original audience, when I sat near the back with my
girlfriend.
Natasha
was seventeen, a year younger than me. She didn’t care for the amusement
arcades and rickety rides of the funfair, so I was forced to think of a more
sophisticated venue for our introductory date. Uncle Max suggested the local
playhouse. A roving company had established itself there for a single evening
with a new romantic drama. I hadn’t read any reviews, but it seemed ideal. I
was at the age when I believed poetry could soften up any woman.
A
big mistake, for the production in question was an experimental piece. I don’t
remember the name of the author, but he wasn’t famous. I reckon he was that
tall fellow who was flapping around the lobby when we entered. Natasha had her
arm linked in mine and I felt very much like a genuine grown-up lover. We were
the youngest there, but I don’t think we looked out of place. Uncle Max had
lent me his smartest suit in exchange for several of my best comic books.
I
bought the tickets with money earned from my Saturday job in the newsagents,
and we passed into the auditorium. The usher showed us our seats and luckily
our row was as distant from the stage as possible. I didn’t want too many
people sitting behind me when I chanced a kiss. We sat down on the squeaky
seats and waited for the theatre to fill. The interior was grand but faded,
with chipped plaster cherubim clinging to the ceiling and frayed velvet drapes.
The
cheap sculptures which occupied every nook and recess in the sidewalls reminded
me of the background characters in my comics. They were poor representations of
people and animals, hidden by potted plants but obtrusive enough to trouble the
eye. When I directed my gaze at the stage, they poked themselves into the
corners of my vision. Strange to say, it actually hurt. Tears hatched like eggs
under my lids. I decided to save all my sly glances for Natasha.
But
something new caught my attention. If you’ve ever wondered who pays for a
private box in a crumbling regional theatre, then you’re on your own. I already
know. It’s no mystery to me because I saw him enter with his wife. It was Mr
Lucas, the newsagent who employed me. He stood for a full minute before taking
his seat, which was a real chair rather than a folding contraption like ours,
fiddling with the creases on his trousers. Either he was embarrassed or else he
hoped to give everyone a reasonable chance to notice him.
An
unfortunate incident, as it turned out. It reminded me again of comics. Apart from
Natasha, they were my main passion. I liked the ones full of superheroes best.
Mr Lucas allowed me to read them fresh off the shelves while I waited to serve
customers in his shop. I wasn’t ashamed to be still under their spell. Uncle
Max was also an enthusiast and had convinced me they were good fun at any age.
Not that I planned to reveal my hobby to Natasha. She was too perfect, with her
long tumbling hair, to tolerate such a simple pleasure.
Anyway,
I pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind and prepared for the beginning
of the play. The audience wasn’t vast but adequate for this place at that time.
We settled as the lights dimmed. Somewhere, in the bowels of the building,
there must have been a man whose task was to dim. I took that responsibility
later, in respect of Natasha’s view of me. But her love, if there was any, went
out abruptly, and this swelling gloom was gradual and less alarming.
The
ragged curtains parted to mild applause. No scenery, no props. A man on a bare
stage. Frankly I felt let down. Just a single character, muttering. This was
supposed to be daring theatre, a minimalist romance, but it came over as mean.
I was constantly expecting other actors to run on, to liven up the drudge. But
they didn’t. A monotone speech and jerky postures. A glut of meaningful pauses.
I
began to sweat. Was I really going to have to sit through another three hours
of this? The very concept was appalling. Then the spotlights died, one at a
time. I assume the author wanted to manipulate atmosphere directly, as well as
through the words of his character. But the process didn’t work for me. Soon
the entire stage was black except for the man, wrapped in his unearned halo.
Then his feet disappeared and the darkness crawled up his legs to his knees.
The
beam of the remaining spotlight was being narrowed to achieve an unspecified
psychological effect. The man was talking about love, but in an unbearably
cryptic fashion. I’m sure he made important points, but I don’t know what. Ask
the author yourself, if you can find him. Now all that was left of the
character was his mouth. Two pink lips and a set of bright teeth, hovering in
the void.
This
seemed to be an echo of many of my favourite superheroes. They tended to wear
sealed costumes and masks that covered their faces apart from the mouth. They
had names like Antman, The Phantom Joker, Dr Squid, Captain Superb, The Green
Clown, The Red Herring, The Excessive Clump, Buttertalons, The Dull Gleam,
Nadir the Octaroon. They were all loners, individualists, mavericks. Generally,
but not always, they fought on the side of good. They never recommended their
tailors.
I
was falling into a trap set by boredom. I willed myself to ponder on something,
anything else. I had recourse to a last desperate measure. I turned in my seat
without warning and kissed Natasha on the lips. She slapped me. A loud slap. In
the almost total darkness it wasn’t obvious to our neighbours what she had
done. They would have worked it out, of course, but I couldn’t bear the
dishonour. Call it reflex or immaturity, but I smothered the truth with a
shout:
“The
Undeniable Grin has struck his enemy!”
There
was a selection of giggles, then someone added: “He must have very long arms to
reach you from there!”
I
nodded, although the gesture was lost in the murk. “They are made of elastic
and can stretch halfway around the world!”
To
my astonishment, nobody objected to this absurdity. Not a single complaint
reached my ears. Instead, the audience supported me. There was a squeal and a
sudden cry of rage:
“The
Undeniable Grin has pinched my thigh!”
A
voice asked: “Why? What did you do to him?”
The
actor on stage fell silent. Maybe he had forgotten his lines in the excitement,
or perhaps he was simply waiting for us to finish before returning to his
monologue. He fell silent, yes, but he kept grinning, a wide floating smile in
the dusk, and this was his fatal error. It seemed an admission of guilt. In our
minds now, he was this farcical superhero, this implausible mutant, and for an
unknown reason he was opposed to us, radiating harm from his hub of power.
The
pause was brief. Invisible and nonexistent arms snaked out from the stage and
violated us. We screamed.
“The
Undeniable Grin has poked me in the eye!”
“The
rascal has stolen my wallet!”
“He
groped my wife without permission!”
“The
bugger has filled my mouth with obscenities!”
“He’s
forcing me to have unnatural thoughts!”
“About
me, probably! And stop tickling me there!”
“It’s
not me. It’s The Undeniable Grin!”
“He
persuaded me yesterday to declare myself bankrupt!”
“He
made me gamble away my salary on the horses!”
“Everything
I’ve ever done wrong in my life was really the fault of The Undeniable Grin!”
“That’s
true for all of us!”
And
so on and so forth. I can’t imagine where all this nonsense was leading to. Perhaps
it would have ended in a party. But it went beyond a joke before the management
could react properly. There was a loud thud, the tipping of a heavy object out
of a soft one and over a low edge into a vertical distance that ended on a hard
tiled floor. One of the tiles cracked. When the house lights came on all at
once, we were no wiser. It took long minutes for our eyes to adjust to the
glare, but when they did we saw how simple the answers were.
The
low edge was the wall of the private box, the soft object was a chair and the
heavy one was Mr Lucas. His wife was standing and looking down at his broken
body. Her hand was held to her mouth and she tried to appear shocked as she
groaned:
“The
Undeniable Grin has murdered my boring husband!”
All
eyes turned to the stage, blinking guiltily as they accused. The poor actor was
a man after all. He must have changed back. Having had so many amazing feats
attributed to him, it seemed unlikely he was capable of trumping any of them.
But he did. As his body came back into sharp focus, his grin utterly vanished.
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