Ch.158Act 2: Ch.10 – Long Live the King (10)

Disappointingly, our rookie actor didn’t get a chance at the microphone. It mainly went to politicians and lead actors, with the conversation mostly consisting of light banter. Only when I was reaching the limits of my patience did they finally get to the main topic—a general introduction to the play.

“‘The King Sleeps in Carcosa’ consists of four acts in total, though it’s fair to say the fourth act has almost no content. It’s incomplete, you see. So generally, performances only go up to the third act.”

The woman who had taken on the role of representative finished her explanation. She was dressed in a satin gown adorned with peacock feathers. She seemed to be the type who often played the character of a vivacious hostess who holds the stage together. A journalist raised his hand.

“You’re famous for the marketing tactic of never properly performing through the third act. Are you deliberately avoiding it for publicity?”

Murmurs of agreement rose among the journalists. This time, the male actor beside her answered, showing off his thick chin.

“Ha! In theater, no one knows what might happen. And how many people are involved? The director, costumes, installations, art, vendors, and of course, we need a proper stage!

And ‘The King Sleeps in Carcosa’ has an enormous cast! With so many people involved, wouldn’t it be miraculous if nothing went wrong?

It’s the same with other Broadway shows! You there, the gentleman with the goatee. Aren’t you from New York? You look familiar.

Then you must know that among the theaters there, some deserve to be called cesspools! Poor Harold Washing even broke his ankle falling through rotten floorboards! That’s the city of New-York.

New-Yooooooork!”

He stomped his foot at “New,” and his voice rose endlessly at “York.” Even those who had merely been snickering at first applauded his magnificently soaring voice. Anyone would react the same if a field-running bull could leap as high as a bird with just a stomp.

“Yes. Another journalist?”

This time it was a woman who appeared somewhat older.

“I’m from the Boston Globe. This is quite well-known among cultural reporters… certain roles change very frequently. Especially the ‘Man in the Silver Mask’ role, which is filled by rookie male actors. In fact, I noticed it changed again just before the Pollard Island performance?”

The actors, seated in a row, looked at one another one by one. Like the Doppler effect. The journalists burst into laughter. They seemed to think it was a pantomime gag. But to me, it felt somehow unsettling. It reminded me of the seemingly identical grasses of the northern pastures.

Eventually, the man at the far end—Carlo Broski. No, Drugstore—took the microphone.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Carlo Broski. I’m playing the ‘Man in the Silver Mask’ in this performance. Let me answer that. Well, to be honest, nothing happened to my predecessor. I heard he caught some disease—cholera or typhoid or something like that. So I was brought in as a replacement. You’ll extend my contract, won’t you, Director?”

“We’ll see how you do!” The host burst into hearty laughter. But the woman from the Boston Globe didn’t laugh.

“That’s exactly my point. The Man in the Silver Mask wears an actual mask, so facial expressions aren’t necessary. But conversely, movement, vocalization, and connection with other actors become much more important.

The rapport between actors elevates the quality of the performance, yet you have a rookie who knows nothing and has no prior relationships with the cast wearing a mask, and this rookie happens to be central to the play? I find this situation extremely ironic.”

A man standing in front of me, who seemed wealthy but not particularly knowledgeable, whispered to the man beside him.

“What’s she talking about?”

“The Man in the Silver Mask is one of the main roles. A main role means it’s central to the play—you need someone who can maintain the weight and balance in that position, but they’re putting a complete rookie who’s also wearing a mask there. That journalist is asking if that’s why the play keeps falling apart.”

“Shh.”

Both men fell silent at a polite reprimand from somewhere. It was disappointing, but fortunately, Drugstore continued his answer.

“Everything you said is correct. But that’s also the original author’s intention. One reason the play is difficult to interpret is that the ‘unnecessary parts’ contain the details.

In ‘The King Sleeps in Carcosa,’ everything is strictly defined—the stage setup, the movement paths of the characters, the sequence of props. Particularly, the ‘Man in the Silver Mask’ must wear an actual silver mask, and the role must be played by a rookie male actor.”

The journalist gained the floor again. Seeing that other journalists didn’t bother raising their hands, there might have been prior coordination with the theater company, or perhaps some collusion among the journalists.

“That’s precisely my point. Respecting the author’s intention is good, but is blindly following tradition without understanding the reason truly what the creator intended?”

“Well. I’m not sure whether you prioritize form or function, ma’am.”

Drugstore smiled.

“‘The King Sleeps in Carcosa’ is a strange work. It’s not an easy piece. The emotions, context, content, message—everything is complex. There’s too much room for interpretation. It’s like a kaleidoscope. While I don’t represent the theater company, my goal is to ‘reproduce’ my role according to the scriptwriter and director’s intentions as much as possible.”

The journalists laughed politely. The woman from the Boston Globe raised her hand one last time.

“So you’re saying that since you can’t form your own interpretation or understanding of the play, you’ll just memorize it and perform accordingly?”

“Wow, that question is quite aggressive!”

Drugstore clapped his hands. But I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing. He was trying to contain his excitement.

“Well. All I can say is, please watch the performance and judge for yourself. No matter how much an actor talks beforehand, it means nothing. What matters is the performance itself. Professionals ultimately speak through results and their work. Only immature creators want to be understood through their intentions.”

“Is that so? You’ve been performing Act 1 for two days, Act 2 for another two days, and then leaving without doing Act 3. How are we supposed to verify that?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Drugstore looked at the host. The host nodded.

“That’s right. We’ve actually been very mindful of the criticism we’ve received. That’s why we’ve decided to be flexible this time. As you mentioned, we’ve previously split Acts 1 and 2 over two days, but today is different. From the premiere, we’ll perform straight through to Act 3!”

The journalists’ eyes widened. This was unprecedented—something they hadn’t done even for the Kaiser. Some cynical comments suggested that their marketing effect must be wearing off, but everyone agreed it was a bold move.

“Thank you for your answer.”

Drugstore handled it more smoothly than expected. He put down the microphone. The actors who had been watching him turned their heads back to the front in sequence, like a wave. This time, even the journalists didn’t laugh. There was a sense of discomfort.

“Let’s take one last question. Um… the journalist with the very pretty hands? My, you’re tall.”

The final questioner was an older female journalist. Her face was deeply wrinkled, and she had an overall sharp appearance, though her thick glasses softened that image considerably. Under her black long hair, streaks of gray were visible, but perhaps the stark contrast of black and white made her look more intense.

“My goodness, you’d make a better model than a journalist!”

“Well. I’m too beautiful to be a model!”

Yet her manner of speaking was that of a complete country grandmother—warm and familiar. Her pronunciation slipped through the gaps, yet retained a girlish freshness.

“I’m Irene Adler from the Chicago Daily Bulletin. Actually, I was so flustered earlier that I couldn’t write down the valuable answers! Oh dear, where is my… my pen… oh goodness!”

With a clatter, Adler’s small bag spilled open. Nearby journalists hurriedly gathered her belongings. Lipstick, a pocket watch, pens, and such.

“Oh my, it’s not just the hands that get clumsy with age! I have a question—you said you’ve never performed through Act 3, right? Are you perhaps not performing properly for publicity? And do you think it’s right to use a complete rookie actor for the Man in the Silver Mask role?”

The journalists stirred. Even I found it strange. Had she not been present until now? These questions had already been asked, so why…

“I must! Hear! This! Muuuuust!”

Adler raised her voice. It was a chilling intonation that made listeners flinch. But I saw it—all the actors turning their heads at once. Keeping their upper bodies fixed, only their necks swiveling smoothly to look at Adler. The thick-jawed actress smiling.

“Actually, ‘The King Sleeps in Carcosa’ consists of four acts in total, though it’s fair to say the fourth act has almost no content. It’s incomplete, you see. So generally, performances only go up to the third act.”

The male actor showing off his thick chin.

“Ha! In theater, no one knows what might happen. And how many people are involved? The director, costumes, installations, art, vendors, and of course, we need a proper stage!”

The men in front stirred.

“Didn’t they just say that?”

“It sounds exactly the same, word for word.”

“Shh.”

But this time the men didn’t quiet down. Instead, the host intervened.

“Enough!”

The actors fell silent as if by magic… no, even more dramatically. Like a light switch being flipped on and off. I studied Drugstore’s face. He was pressing his lips tightly together, watching cautiously.

The host clapped lightly.

“Well, we had a bit of commotion! Unfortunately, I’d like you to refer to the answers given to other journalists for that question. Now, let’s move on to the next item! A special performance for our future, for the children!”

A door beside the lobby opened, and grimy children, each holding a lollipop, poured in. Their faces and hair were relatively clean, showing some effort, but nothing could be done about their worn and dirty clothes.

“Come, over here. Listen to the Father!”

At the front of the line, Father Michael wore a truly perplexed expression. Familiar nuns were visible among the children—Sister Beatrice, Sister Maria, and even Abassina.

The journalists stood up and snapped photos. Illustrators sketched rapidly. Some children burst into tears at the sudden flashes, but the older ones opened their eyes wide in wonder.

The host seized the opportunity.

“Now, now. It’s time to clear the lobby! These children have been specially invited from the Southern Cathedral of Pollard—they’re Pollard’s little ones.

What does it matter if they don’t have much money? What does it matter if their families are poor! Children grow up well when exposed to culture from a young age! Child welfare through art—truly pioneering! Mayor Arthur Black and Senator Annette Cole have cooperated in this effort!”

Men in red vests quickly made space. The lead actors had somehow risen and exited with their chairs. Shortly after, stilt-legged clowns, magicians in capes and tall Lincoln-style hats holding long sticks, and people with small drums and trumpets entered.

“Now, now, the actors must prepare for rehearsal, but a very special event has been prepared for our distinguished guests! A casino! Come along, everyone!”

The big band started playing again. The closed lobby doors reopened. Upper-class guests who had passed through security checks by police and White Hand mafia members entered.

The journalists, politicians, and theater management headed toward the corridor leading to the casino. As expected, they already knew each other. The press conference itself had been staged.

The actors slipped out through a door behind the small stage. Crayfield nodded at me once before heading toward the casino. He meant for us to split up and investigate separately—he would follow Arthur Black and Annette Cole, while I would follow Drugstore. This was fortunate, as I would have only stammered awkwardly had I gone with him.

I approached Father Michael and the nuns. Of course, with my fake mustache, even Father Michael didn’t seem to recognize me. Perhaps he was too busy looking after the children.

“Waaah!”

I couldn’t prevent a child from bursting into tears. Looking closely, it seemed he had spilled his gift juice on his clothes. Abassina knelt down and wiped the child’s collar with a handkerchief from her pocket.

Abassina looked straight at me. She seemed surprised, then moved her lips slightly, and smiled knowingly. She had figured out my situation.