'You mean there's more?'
'Sure. I've only shown you where we keep our ghost, right here in the inner lobby. And only because you asked. I wouldn't have done this for just anyone.' She smiled. 'Only west coast flakes.'
'You got it. Open the doors, Tommy.'
Tommy did as he was ordered, then quickly walked down the left-hand aisle toward the stage, avoiding the surge of drink-laden guests pouring through the inner lobby and then into the theatre proper, after having dutifully oooed and ahhhed at the complexity and beauty of the mosaics.
Curt had, Dennis thought, done a marvelous job with the lighting. It was too dim to make out any details of the theatre, just bright enough so that you could find a seat. Above, the flat dome of sky was dark in the center, except for the dozens of stars (really 10 and 25 watt bulbs) that peeked through the scudding clouds provided by two half-century old stereopticon machines. Yet a hazy pinkness bloomed on the right side of the ceiling, as though the artificial sky was on the verge of a burgeoning sunrise. The audible responses ranged from the expected 'Gorgeous…” and 'Incredible…” to the equally anticipated 'I can't see a fucking thing!' from a number of the more tiddly guests.
'It looks terrific,' Dennis heard Robin say, and felt her hand slip into his. He turned and kissed her lightly. 'Here's Mister Microphone.' She handed him a Shure wireless. 'Just flick the switch when you're ready. Curt's got the power on.'
'Thanks. You're throwing a wonderful party, love.' He squinted across the thirty-four rows of seats toward the stage. 'Can you see anything up there?”
“No. Just darkness.'
'Good,' he said. 'That's how we want it. When that fire curtain comes down, they are going to love it.'
The fire curtain was planned to be the crowning touch to Dennis's spotlight tour of the theatre. The painting that covered it had been done in 1923, and filled nearly the entire proscenium with a scene depicting a ball in the Duke of Venice's palazzo, complete with orchestra, masked dancers and celebrants, and, in the lower stage right section, a wine barrel whose contents poured copiously into the goblet of a laughing, drunken courtier. Decades of lights shining on it had faded it somewhat, and those same years had seen it fall victim to minor staining as well, but it was still a remarkable work.
'Come on, come on, down here.' Dennis heard John Steinberg's voice haranguing the guests into sitting down. He and his secretary, Donna Franklin, a tall, bird-like woman in her forties, gathered the guests like mother hens, seating them, as Dennis had requested, in the center of the huge space.
Dennis smiled. John could be a tremendous bitch, but the bitchiness was always leavened with a wry sense of humor, and that was precisely why everyone loved him. Dennis had once met Truman Capote at a party before the writer's death, and had discovered him to be a vicious and far less macho version of Steinberg. While Capote's friends seemed to be cast in the roles of apologists for the man's shortcomings, no one had to apologize for Steinberg.
'For God's sake, Henry, there's a seat here, come on… Alice, Peter, don't sit so close, you're too close, come back here…'
When all two hundred and fifty were seated, Dennis flicked the switch on his mike and walked down the left center aisle, stopping at the first inhabited row, row K. As he turned toward the crowd, a pin spot caught him perfectly, the light white and blazing in his eyes. Years of experience kept him from squinting, and he smiled at the rows of people he could no longer see.
'I'd like to thank you all for making the effort to be here tonight,' he said. 'I hope that this evening will mark not only the rebirth of the Venetian Theatre, but the birth of a new era of American musical theatre. Now I suppose we've kept you in the dark – both figuratively and literally – long enough. New American musical theatre, both the people who write it and the people who perform in it, have needed a showcase for a long time, a place that does no revivals, but new works exclusively, seeking out excellent shows and producing them, not on a shoestring, but as they deserve to be produced, with adequate budgets, fine casts, and the best production people and facilities available. Tonight you'll have the opportunity to be part of this project.
'But let me make one thing clear. We're not asking for charity. We're asking for investors, for people who spend their money wisely. And I don't think I exaggerate when I say that you stand a far better chance to earn a profit here than you do on Wall Street.'
There was polite laughter, and Dennis went on.
I will take the boy when he comes on the stage. The curtain will come down. Yes, the final curtain. I'll call him there, call him out. Drop the curtain. And drop him as well.
The first. He will be the first. What an honor. To die for his Emperor…
'… you've seen the lobbies, and you've seen as much of the theatre itself as we have permitted you. Some of you may remember it from a quarter century ago – if you're willing to admit to it. It was dusty and abused even then, but, as you'll recall, its true beauty shone through nonetheless. Recently, we've given it the cleaning and the tender loving care it deserves. The Venetian Theatre is a revival house only in the sense that it has itself been revived. It's become, we feel, a fitting showcase for the gems we want to display. And we hope that you'll agree.'
That was the cue, and Curt, high up in the projection booth, slowly brought up the house lights until the stars and clouds on the ceiling above were invisible, and the interior of the theatre was lit as richly as if by an Italian sun. Balconies, backed by woven tapestries that hid organ pipes and speakers, hung gracefully over the side walls, and castellated towers above glowed warmly. Over the proscenium arched a span of columns reminiscent of an ornate canal bridge, and just below, at the apex of the arch, was mounted a large, golden face of Apollo, whose wide eyes stared out across the auditorium, focused on the top rows of the balcony.
'The Venetian Theatre,' Dennis went on, when the appreciative applause finally died down. 'Designed by Jonathan Underwood and built by David Kirk. Kirk loved Venice, as you can easily see, and to give you further proof of that, I'd like to draw your attention to the red act curtain…'
The heavy red curtain covered the whole of the proscenium. It was in two pieces, a valance that covered the top third of the opening, and a main curtain that hid the rest, both of them fringed at the bottoms with gold tassels. As Dennis spoke, those curtains slowly lifted, opened by Tommy Werton's mighty hands on the pin rail, showing only darkness behind.
Then something happened to the lights. All over the house, they flickered, dimmed, brightened again, not at all in unison, but seemingly independently. The lanterns of the huge sconces, the painted glass lights of the beamed balcony ceiling, the rows of bulbs hidden by the overhang of roof and walls – all were blinking randomly, crazily.
Dennis started to speak into the microphone, but found that its power was affected as well, so that only every third word boomed over the speakers. 'Excuse me!' he shouted to the audience. 'You know opening nights!' He gave a shrug, walked quickly back to the inner lobby, and began the long climb up the flights of stairs to the booth. As he turned a corner of the grand staircase, he saw that Robin had preceded him, and was now passing through the door that led to another series of stairs that eventually reached the booth.
Dennis gripped the useless microphone like a club, and followed her.
' Tommy! '
The voice from the speakers was so loud and abrupt that everyone in the audience jerked. Ally Terrazin turned to her date, a film director who had worked as an assistant on Dennis's Up Against It, and had directed Ally in Terror Night, and gripped his arm. 'Dennis sounds pissed,' she said.
'Tommy Werton?' said the voice again, while the lights continued to flicker. 'On stage please!'
Tommy's head appeared from behind the stage right wings. He looked around as if trying to find where Dennis's disembodied voice was coming from. 'On stage, Tommy,' said the voice.
Tommy came out tentatively. He was a backstage person, not used to being in the spotlight, and he looked nervously vulnerable standing in front of two hundred and fifty of the best-known personalities of stage, screen, and television. 'Here, Dennis,' he said softly, so that only Ally and the others in the first few rows of people heard him.
'A little further on, Tommy. Go ahead.'
