CHAPTER ONE
 
RICHARD
 
We were at the end of a three-month run, not the longest of stands in Broadway history, but for a season that saw the quick and nasty deaths of more heralded and more expensive productions, not bad; everyone agreed that it was the worst season in memory, as last season had been the worst, and the one before that, and the one before that. In other words it was a season like any other, and the passing of a struggling revival of Brigadoon would go largely unremarked and unlamented, save by the hundred-odd actors, singers, dancers, and technicians who had labored for close to four months to bring it to life.
There is something about acting in a musical unlike any other kind of theatrical experience; it's what we all got into this business for, the feeling we used to imagine when we sat in the audience, watching. When you're in a straight dramatic play you're always conscious of yourself, your character, your "moments"; in a comedy you work toward your laugh lines, you measure the audience response from show to show, try different inflections to milk the laugh. But in a musical ...
In a musical you stand in the wings, listening, as the orchestra strikes up the overture, as a brassy vibrato brings a shiver of anticipation, and in the pause between movements it feels almost as if your heart is beating in time to the music. In the space of a few minutes all the separate themes and songs of the play are compressed into a single prelude, each one flowing seamlessly into the next ... and that's what it's all about, really.
Because you're not alone up there. It's not just you and the words, it's you, and the words, and the music, and the dancers, and a hundred unseen hands: the composer, the librettist, the choreographer who has to seem invisible, has to make our movements seem spontaneous, unrehearsed. The first time I saw myself on film, I thought: That's not just me up there, I can't take all the credit; it's the script, the camera, the cutting, the underscore, all working together, creating something more than the sum of its parts. It's that way in a musical. For as long as it lasts, you're all part of a greater whole; and no matter how many years later, if you're in an airport or a taxi and you hear that song you sang, or that theme you danced to, you're a part of it again.
Outside the Gershwin there was a line of people queued up at the box office, their breath fogging as they waited to buy tickets for that night's performance; a banner added to the show poster announced bleakly, FINAL PERFORMANCE--JAN. 28. I passed the line of shivering people and thought, somewhat bitterly, Where the hell were you when we needed you?--a silly thought, since the dozen or two customers who had decided to see the show before it died would hardly have extended our run by much more than twenty seconds. I turned up the collar on my jacket as I passed, but one of them recognized me and stepped out of line, instantly burrowing in the pockets of her coat. "Mr. Cochrane? Could I--?"
I stopped, smiled awkwardly, and took the piece of paper and stubby pencil she offered me. I always felt self-conscious about this; who was I, anyway, to be signing autographs? That was for stars like Pacino, not some pisher like me. Two years on a soap opera had done more for my public recognition than the dozen-some plays I'd done over the last decade, but when people like this woman asked me for my autograph I couldn't quite shake the feeling that I was cheating them--that I'd turn around to find Frank Langella standing behind me, clearing his throat and saying, gently, "Ah ... I think she was talking to me, old man, do you mind...?"
Besides, I could never think of what to write. The woman was watching as I stood there blankly, groping for something clever or personal, distinctive in any damn way. "Ah ... what's your name?" I asked. Barbara, she replied, Barbara Kovacks. I quickly scribbled: To Barbara--All the best, Richard Cochrane. Lord, what stunning originality. What epic imagination. She didn't seem to mind; she took the paper, thanked me, and I said, No, thank you for coming, because no actor likes to close to an empty house. And of course the moment I said it I knew that was what I should have written, but it was too late; she scurried back into line, and I into the theater.
On stage, on screen, you hit your marks, you pick up your cues; in life, unfortunately, everything is always a little too late, the right words coming too slowly, the moment passing too soon. I thought of Libby and wondered if she'd show up at tonight's performance. No reason why she should.
Backstage, every dressing table was piled high with photos and résumés. The phones were in constant use, and I thought suddenly of a Gahan Wilson cartoon I'd seen years ago: a bedraggled, bearded doomsayer carrying a placard reading, Death means never having to call your agent. I stopped for a moment behind Sally Marsden, who'd been the last-minute replacement for the second female lead, the promiscuous Scottish lass Meg Brockie, when Tess Canton came down with bronchitis. Sally was brushing out her hair, usually pulled back in a tight chignon but now falling freely in a style more appropriate to the play and the period; on the table beside her were half a dozen of her composites, each 8 × 10 page broken into four separate head shots. One had her as a Baby Doll coquette, another as a businesswoman in a gray suit, a third as a country girl in a plaid halter top, and the fourth, a nun. I nodded appreciatively. "If they ever make Sybil into a weekly series, I think you've got a lock on it."
She smiled, shaking out her long blonde hair. "I was thinking of dumping the nun. I mean, unless they're casting Agnes of God, what's the point?"
"You ever play a nun?"
"Professionally?"
"No, amateur novitiate night at Regine's. Of course professionally, what else?"
Sally swiveled round to face me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You ever hear of a game called 'The Abbess and the Penitent'?" she asked.
Sally was well cast. I cleared my throat, smiled wanly, and started toward my own dressing table. She called after me, "Richard, you're no fun at all," and I suppose she was right. Thirteen years as an actor in New York and I was woefully deficient in the prerequisites of my profession: I had never (a) engaged in a homosexual affair, (b) slept with anyone to advance my career, though I still harbored hopes, or (c) cultivated a taste for cocaine, alcohol, or amyl nitrite. What can I say? I was clearly a failure in my chosen lifestyle.
I sat down at my table and began applying the hated spirit gum to my face; at first the beard had seemed a nice touch, a subtle way of contemporizing my character, but after a hundred and six performances, a hundred and six times of applying and removing the makeup, its novelty had waned. It might've been easier to grow the thing myself, but the few times I'd tried it came out bristly, scratchy, and a bit too curly; I always looked like I should be starring in Maciste at the Gates of Hell. And Libby said it was like making love to a Brillo pad, though by the last few weeks of our relationship a Brillo pad might've fared better than I. I began applying the beard, piece by piece, mustache first, then sideburns.
"Evening, Richard," came a voice to my...