The Troupe Read online

  “Can I ask you a question, Harry?”

  “I suppose.”

  George thought about it, and asked, “What are you, exactly?”

  “What am I?”

  “Yes. You’re not a performer, or just a performer. I’ve seen vaudevillians do a lot of things before, but I’ve never seen one pull reflections off glass. So what are you?”

  Silenus smirked, sat back in his seat, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. “You’re wrong, kid. I am just a performer. I’m just putting on a show you haven’t seen before.”

  BY ROBERT JACKSON BENNETT

  Mr. Shivers

  The Company Man

  The Troupe

  Copyright

  Published by Hachette Digital

  ISBN: 9780748125968

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Robert Jackson Bennett

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Hachette Digital

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Also By Robert Jackson Bennett

  Copyright

  Part One: The Sticks

  Chapter 1: A Departure

  Chapter 2: The Men in Gray

  Chapter 3: “A man of mechanism and wit, of ingenuity never before seen…”

  Chapter 4: The Chorale

  Chapter 5: Heironomo Silenus

  Chapter 6: “He sees what he wants to see.”

  Chapter 7: Colette de Verdicere of the Zahand Dynasty, Princess of the Kush Steppes

  Chapter 8: The First Rehearsal

  Chapter 9: A Meeting of Shepherds

  Chapter 10: “In the beginning…”

  Chapter 11: “Her name was Alice Carole.”

  Chapter 12: “Are you coming or not?”

  Part Two: The Big Time

  Chapter 13: The Long Tour

  Chapter 14: Stage Time

  Chapter 15: Franny’s Secret

  Chapter 16: The Professor’s Miracle

  Chapter 17: “We are all hanged men.”

  Chapter 18: Blessings

  Chapter 19: An Unexpected Return

  Chapter 20: George Meets a Fan

  Chapter 21: In Which a Song Is Changed

  Part Three: The Chasers

  Chapter 22: A Very Funny People

  Chapter 23: The Water of Life

  Chapter 24: The Midnight Visitor

  Chapter 25: The House on the Hill

  Chapter 26: Suggestion and Assumption

  Chapter 27: “He has harmed me grievously.”

  Chapter 28: The Little Black Island

  Chapter 29: Anne Marie Sillenes

  Chapter 30: The Light

  Chapter 31: “You are the most beautiful thing

  Chapter 32: “What will happen will happen.”

  Chapter 33: A Man Very Bad at Dying

  Chapter 34: In Which Burdens Are Laid Down

  Chapter 35: The Hanged Man

  Chapter 36: The Second Song

  Chapter 37: Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

  Chapter 38: The Singers

  Extras

  About the Author

  1: Venice, Tuesday 4 January 1407

  2: Late Summer 1406

  This book is for Jackson for whom the sun was created to rise and set upon.

  Of course.

  PART ONE

  The Sticks

  Had it been within his power, the vaudeville performer would have been a timeless wanderer, spanning the generations using the bridge of his talents.

  — Fred Allen, Much Ado About Me

  CHAPTER 1

  A Departure

  Friday mornings at Otterman’s Vaudeville Theater generally had a very relaxed pace to them, and so far this one was no exception. Four acts in the bill would be moving on to other theaters over the weekend, and four more would be coming in to take their place, among them Gretta Mayfield, minor star of the Chicago opera. The general atmosphere among the musicians was one of carefree satisfaction, as all of the acts had gone well and the next serious rehearsals were an entire weekend away. Which, to the overworked musicians, might as well have been an eternity.

  But then Tofty Thresinger, first chair house violinist and unofficial gossip maven of the theater, came sprinting into the orchestra pit with terror in his eyes. He stood there panting for a moment, hands on his knees, and picked his head up to make a ghastly announcement: “George has quit!”

  “What?” said Victor, the second chair cellist. “George? Our George?”

  “George the pianist?” asked Catherine, their flautist.

  “The very same,” said Tofty.

  “What kind of quit?” asked Victor. “As in quitting the theater?”

  “Yes, of course quitting the theater!” said Tofty. “What other kind of quit is there?”

  “There must be some mistake,” said Catherine. “Who did you hear it from?”

  “From George himself!” said Tofty.

  “Well, how did he phrase it?” asked Victor.

  “He looked at me,” said Tofty, “and he said, ‘I quit.’”

  Everyone stopped to consider this. There was little room for alternate interpretation in that.

  “But why would he quit?” asked Catherine.

  “I don’t know!” cried Tofty, and he collapsed into his chair, accidentally crushing his rosin and leaving a large white stain on the seat of his pants.

  The news spread quickly throughout the theater: George Carole, their most dependable house pianist and veritable wunderkind (or enfant terrible, depending on who you asked), was throwing in the towel without even a by-your-leave. Stagehands shook their heads in dismay. Performers immediately launched into complaints. Even the coat-check girls, usually exiled to the very periphery of theater gossip, were made aware of this ominous development.

  But not everyone was shaken by this news. “Good riddance,” said Chet, their bassist. “I’m tired of tolerating that little lordling, always acting as if he was better than us.” But several muttered he was better than them. It had been seven months since the sixteen-year-old had walked through their doors on audition day and positively dumbfounded the staff with his playing. Everyone had been astonished to hear that he was not auditioning for an act, but for house pianist, a lowly job if ever there was one. Van Hoever, the manager of Otterman’s, had questioned him extensively on this point, but George had stood firm: he was there to be house pianist at their little Ohio theater, and nothing more.

  “What are we going to do now?” said Archie, their trombonist. “Like it or not, it was George who put us on the map.” Which was more or less true. It was the general rule that in vaudeville, a trade filled with indignities of all kinds, no one was shat upon more than the house pianist. He accompanied nearly every act, and every ego that crossed the stage got thoroughly massaged by abusing him. If a joke went sour, it was because the pianist was too late and spoiled the delivery. If a dramatic bit was flat, it was because the pianist was too lively. If an acrobat stumbled, it was because the pianist distracted him.

  But in his time at Otterman’s George had accomplished the impossible: he’d given them no room for complaints. After playing through the first rehearsal he would know the act better than the actors did, which was saying something as every actor had fine-tuned their performance with almost lapidary attention. He hit every beat, wrung every lau
gh out of every delivery, and knew when to speed things up or slow them down. He seemed to have the uncanny ability to augment every performance he accompanied. Word spread, and many acts became more amenable to performing at Otterman’s, which occupied a rather obscure spot on the Keith-Albee circuit.

  Yet now he was leaving, almost as abruptly as he’d arrived. It put them in a pretty tight spot: Gretta Mayfield was coming specifically because she had agreed to have George accompany her, but that was just the start; after a moment’s review, the orchestra came to the horrifying conclusion that at least a quarter of the acts of the next week had agreed to visit Otterman’s only because George met their high standards.

  After Tofty frantically spread the word, wild speculation followed. Did anyone know the reason behind the departure? Could anyone guess? Perhaps, Victor suggested, he was finally going to tour with an act of his own, or maybe he was heading straight to the legitimate (meaning well-respected orchestras and symphonies, rather than lowly vaudeville). But Tofty said he’d heard nothing about George making those sorts of movements, and he would know, wouldn’t he?

  Maybe he’d been lured away by another theater, someone said. But Van Hoever would definitely ante up to keep George, Catherine pointed out, and the only theaters that could outbid him were very far away, and would never send scouts out here. What could the boy possibly be thinking? They wasted the whole morning debating the subject, yet they never reached an answer.

  George did his best to ignore the flurry of gossip as he gathered his belongings, but it was difficult; as he’d not yet made a formal resignation to Van Hoever, everyone tried to find the reason behind his desertion in hopes that they could fix it.

  “Is it the money, George?” Tofty asked. “Did Van Hoever turn you down for a raise?”

  No, answered George. No, it was not the money.

  “Is it the acts, George?” asked Archie. “Did one of the acts insult you? You’ve got to ignore those bastards, Georgie, they can be so ornery sometimes!”

  But George scoffed haughtily, and said that no, it was certainly not any of the acts. The other musicians cursed Archie for such a silly question; of course it wasn’t any of the performers, as George never gave them reason for objection.

  “Is it a girl, George?” asked Victor. “You can tell me. I can keep a secret. It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

  At this George turned a brilliant red, and sputtered angrily for a moment. No, he eventually said. No, thank you very much, it was not a girl.

  “Then was it something Tofty said?” asked Catherine. “After all, he was who you were talking to just before you said you quit.”

  “What!” cried Tofty. “What a horrendous accusation! We were only talking theater hearsay, I tell you! I simply mentioned how Van Hoever was angry that an act had skipped us on the circuit!”

  At that, George’s face became strangely still. He stopped gathering up his sheet music and looked away for a minute. But finally he said no, Tofty had nothing to do with it. “And would you all please leave me alone?” he asked. “This decision has nothing to do with you, and furthermore there’s nothing that will change it.”

  The other musicians, seeing how serious he was, grumbled and shuffled away. Once they were gone George scratched his head and tried not to smile. Despite his solemn demeanor, he had enjoyed watching them clamor to please him.

  The smile vanished as he returned to his packing and the decision he’d made. The orchestra did not matter, he told himself. Otterman’s did not matter anymore. The only thing that mattered now was getting out the door and on the road as soon as possible.

  After he’d collected the last of his belongings he headed for his final stop: Van Hoever’s office. The theater manager had surely heard the news and was in the midst of composing a fine tirade, but if George left now he’d be denied payment for this week’s worth of performances. And though he could not predict the consequences of what he was about to do, he thought it wise to have every penny possible.

  But when George arrived at the office hall there was someone seated in the row of chairs before Van Hoever’s door: a short, elderly woman who watched him with a sharp eye as if she’d been expecting him. Her wrists and hands were wrapped tight in cloth, and a poorly rolled cigarette was bleeding smoke from between two of her fingers. “Leaving without a goodbye?” she asked him.

  George smiled a little. “Ah,” he said. “Hello, Irina.”

  The old woman did not answer, but patted the empty chair next to her. George walked over, but did not sit. The old woman raised her eyebrows at him. “Too good to give me company?”

  “This is an ambush, isn’t it?” he asked. “You’ve been waiting for me.”

  “You assume the whole world waits on you. Come. Sit.”

  “I’ll give you company,” he said. “But I won’t sit. I know you’re looking to delay me, Irina.”

  “So impatient, child,” she said. “I’m just an old woman who wishes to talk.”

  “To talk about why I’m leaving.”

  “No. To give you advice.”

  “I don’t need advice. And I’m not changing my mind.”

  “I’m not telling you to. I just wish to make a suggestion before you go.”

  George gave her the sort of impatient look that can only be given by the very young to the very old, and raised a fist to knock at Van Hoever’s door. But before his knuckles ever made contact, the old woman’s cloth-bound hand snatched his fist out of the air. “You will want to listen to me, George,” she said. “Because I know exactly why you’re leaving.”

  George looked her over. If it had been anyone else, he would not have given them another minute, but Irina was one of the few people at Otterman’s who could command George’s attention. She was the orchestra’s only violist, and like most violists (who after all devoted their lives to an ignored or much-ridiculed instrument) she had acquired a very sour sort of wisdom. It was also rumored she’d witnessed terrible hardships in her home in Russia before fleeing to America, and this, combined with her great age, gave her a mysterious esteem at Otterman’s.

  “Do you think so?” asked George.

  “I do,” she said. “And aren’t you interested to hear my guess?” She released him and patted the seat next to her once more. George sighed, but reluctantly sat.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Why such a hurry, child?” Irina said. “It seems like it was only yesterday that you arrived.”

  “It wasn’t,” said George. “I’ve spent over half a year here, which is far too long.”

  “Too long for what?” asked Irina.

  George did not answer. Irina smiled, amused by this terribly serious boy in his too-large suit. “Time moves so much slower for the young. To me, it is as a day. I can still remember when you walked through that door, child, and three things struck me about you.” She held up three spindly fingers. “First was that you were talented. Very talented. But you knew that, didn’t you? You probably knew it too well, for such a little boy.”

  “A little boy?” asked George.

  “Oh, yes. A naïve little lamb, really.”

  “Maybe then,” said George, his nose high in the air. He reached into his pocket, took out a pouch of tobacco, and began rolling his own cigarette. He made sure to appear as nonchalant as possible, having practiced the motions at home in the mirror.

  “If you say so,” said Irina. One finger curled down, leaving two standing. “Second was that you were proud, and reckless. This did not surprise me. I’ve seen it in many young performers. And I’ve seen many throw careers away as a result. Much like you’re probably doing now.”

  George cocked an eyebrow, and lit his cigarette and puffed at it. His stomach spasmed as he tried to suppress a cough.

  Irina wrinkled her nose. “What is that you’re smoking?”

  “Some of Virginia’s finest, of course,” he said, though he wheezed a bit.

  “That doesn’t smell like anything fine at all.” She too
k his pouch and peered into it. “I don’t know what that is, but it isn’t Virginia’s finest.”

  George looked crestfallen. “It… it isn’t?” he asked.

  “No. What did you do, buy this from someone in the orchestra?”

  “Well, yes, but they seemed very trustworthy!”

  She shook her head. “You’ve been snookered, my child. This is trash. Next time go to a tobacconist, like a normal person.”

  George grumbled something about how it had to be a mistake, but he hurriedly put out his cigarette and began to stow the pouch away.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I remember one final third thing about you when you first came here.” Another trembling blue finger curled down. She used the remaining one to poke him in the arm. “You did not seem all that interested in what you were playing, which was peculiar. No—what you were mostly interested in was a certain act that was traveling the circuit.”

  George froze where he was, slightly bent as he stuffed the tobacco pouch into his pocket. He slowly turned to look at the old woman.

  “Still in a hurry, child?” asked Irina. “Or have I hit upon it?” He did not answer.

  “I see,” she said. “Well, I recall you asked about this one act all the time, nearly every day. Did anyone know when this act would play here? It had played here once, hadn’t it? Did they think this act would play nearby, at least? I think I can still remember the name of it… Ah, yes. It was the Silenus Troupe, wasn’t it?”

  George’s face had gone very closed now. He nodded, very slightly.

  “Yes,” said the old woman. She began rubbing at her wrists, trying to ease her arthritis. “That was it. You wanted to know nothing but news about Silenus, asking all the time. But we would always say no, no, we don’t know nothing about this act. And we didn’t. He’d played here once, this Silenus, many, many months ago. The man had terribly angered Van Hoever then with his many demands, but we had not seen him since, and no one knew where he was playing next. Does any of that sound familiar to you, boy?”