Dracula in London

these premises on opening night. Seems that he and his wife think that seeing a performance of Pirates would make a grand way to spend her birthday,” Effie said.

“I suppose they’re renting out the entire theater? Just an intimate little gathering of 1,500 of their closest friends,” said Liam.

“No, they aren’t renting out the entire theater, you Irish idiot. You don’t think Bertie has that many friends?”

Another pain shot through Liam’s calf to punctuate Effie’s words. There was a muted chuckle from the costume mistress.

“Woman, you enjoyed that!”

“Me? Of course I did. Now, stand still!”

“I wanted to stop in and wish you good luck, Liam,” said Dracula.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Count. But I really wish you hadn’t said it.”

“What?”

Liam smiled. Explaining theatrical traditions to non-theater people was something that every actor had to do now and then. He led Dracula into the Strand Green Room. The Green Room, which was painted a mottled brown, was a large lounge in the back of the theater where actors and stagehands could take a few minutes and relax. Why it was called the Green Room Liam didn’t know. As a matter of fact he had never been in one that was green; it was just another theatrical tradition.

“It’s an old theatrical custom. If you wish a performer good luck before they go on, you don’t say those words; they’ll bring him bad luck. Instead, actors say ‘break a leg.’ Every actor knows what you really mean.”

Dracula raised an eyebrow at this. “I suppose each profession has its own customs. Very well, let me bid you to ‘break a leg.’ Figuratively, of course, not in reality.”

“Thank you,” said Liam.

“Are you nervous?” asked the Count.

“A bit. A very wise actor once told me that if I weren’t at least a little bit nervous before each performance, then that was the time to worry.”

“Your friend had the right attitude.”

Just then the door to the Green Room flew open, as if a storm was behind it. Bunberry came barreling in, followed by Effie and several stagehands.

“Liam, there you are. I’ve been looking all over the theater for you!” said Bunberry.

“Is there a problem? Everett has his sword and knows the new choreography backwards and forwards.”

“I don’t know what he does or doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Everett is incapacitated and won’t be going on tonight,” said Bunberry.

“Incapacitated? Is that a fancy way of saying he’s drunk again?” said one of the other actors.

Effie answered them with a humph, and a look of disgust. There were tales that Everett had, over his twenty-five-year career, given some of his best performances drunk.

“He’s passed out and no one can rouse him. He’s breathing, so I assume he is alive. I spoke to the gobashit earlier, not an hour ago,” said Effie. “He seemed fine then. I certainly didn’t smell any alcohol on him then.”

“Could he be sick?” suggested Liam.

“There’s a doctor in the audience. I had him come back and look Everett over. He says nothing appears to be wrong with him; he is just asleep and no one can wake him up.”

“The thing is, we are going to need a Pirate King and neither of the usual understudies is available,” said Bunberry.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“We can use Gene Yearson as Frederic, but not for the Pirate King. I want you to take the role,” he said.

The words hung in the air. Liam felt the bottom fall out from his stomach. He glanced toward the big clock that hung near the door. It said 7 o’clock.

“And curtain is at half eight,” he muttered. “The thing is, I don’t know half the songs or the dialogue. I’ll try, but I’m afraid that I will end up making a fool out of myself and disgracing us in front of the Prince of Wales.”

“That’s a chance that we are just going to have to take. Effie, can you alter his costumes and fit him out as the Pirate King in time to go on?”

“A moment, Mr. Bunberry,” said the Count. “Liam will do what he has to do; that is all any man can do. Understand that I do not doubt Liam’s abilities, but I may have an alternate possibility that you should consider.”

“Count, right now I can see no other answers, besides Liam, short of sending a man on with script in hand,” said Bunberry. “But, I’m willing to entertain any ideas. Just make it quick.”

“Very well, then I suggest you leave Liam in the role for which he is prepared and put me in the role of the Pirate King.”

There was utter silence in the Green Room. Every one of the actors had heard Dracula’s words; none was more surprised than Liam.

“You, Count?” asked Liam.

“Yes.”

“You’re an actor?” said Bunberry, a tone of disbelief in his voice. “In university, I suppose.”

“There and in other places. I was in fact considered very good,” said Dracula.

“You never mentioned that you were an actor,” said Liam.

“It was a long time ago. Besides, Liam, you never asked.” His eyes locked with Bunberry’s, as they had the previous night. The company manager didn’t appear to breathe for several minutes.

“You know the libretto? The songs, the dialogue?” said Liam.

“Every word.”

“Only two days ago you hadn’t even heard of Gilbert & Sullivan, let alone the Pirates of Penzance, said Liam.

“Meeting you and seeing this company made me curious. Shall we say I borrowed a copy of the libretto someone had left on a chair, read it over, and was amused by it. I even slipped in last night and watched the rehearsal.”

“That would help with you knowing the blocking. But you say you read the libretto just once?” asked Liam.

“That’s right. Anything I read I remember, every word of it.”

“Your voice, sir?”

Liam, Burberry, and the others looked toward the door. A man, dressed in evening clothes, with a neatly waxed mustache stood there.

“Mr. Gilbert!” said Effie.

“Your voice, sir? What do you sing?” demanded William

Schwenck Gilbert. The fifty-seven-year-old lyricist spoke with the manner of a sergeant-major demanding something from one of his troops.

“Baritone.”

“And you say you know my words?”

“Indeed,” Dracula began to sing, “Oh, better to live and die, under the brave black flag I fly. Than play a sanctimonious part, with a pirate head and a pirate heart.”

Gilbert stood silent, his face unmoving and emotionless.

“Effie!” said Gilbert. “Can you alter Everett’s costume quick enough to fit the Count? I can have them hold the curtain an extra ten minutes, but not a second longer.”

“I’ll have him looking like those clothes were made for him.”

“Do it.”

“Still nervous, Liam?” asked Dracula.

The two men stood in the wings, looking out at the back of the great gold curtain that covered the front of the stage. Effie was standing just behind them, tying off several threads in the Count’s costume.

“A bit. But I should be asking you if you’re nervous. After all, you came to see the play, now you’re a part of