simply that he was not yet ready to be unfaithful to Robin's memory, and had a great fear that, if he looked too closely or for too long a time at Ann, people would read in his face what he felt in his heart. An actor, he was used to wearing his emotions, or what passed for them, on the outside.
After two weeks in Florida, he felt revitalized, and ready to return to Kirkland and the Venetian Theatre. Whatever awaited him there, professionally or emotionally, he could now deal with. The change of scene had done him good, and he felt better than he had in months. It seemed, in a way, almost unnatural.
~* ~
When Dennis arrived at the tiny Kirkland Airport, after a commuter flight that jostled him all the way from Baltimore, he did not call Sid Harper to come and pick him up. Instead he took a taxi and had it drop him off in front of the Venetian Theatre's blank marquee. He paid the driver, stood for a moment in the cold, and then, his flight bag over his shoulder, began to walk around the massive complex that housed the theatre and his home.
His thoughts were full of Robin. He recalled the first time they visited the theatre together, the excitement on her face, his realization, mirrored in her eyes, that this was the perfect home for the venture that had been their dream for several years. He remembered their moving in, their taking possession of the place, nights spent together in their suite, and most recently her reading pages from Craddock to him, singing the songs at the piano, smiling, laughing, loving and caring for him.
And now that was over, over in the seconds of time it had taken her to fall through the air and break her body on the floor of the theatre, their theatre.
Dennis sighed and turned into the outdoor plaza. In the cold and the night, he sat on one of the stone benches and looked up at the dark windows of his suite. In the glow of the street light he could see the balcony and the large French doors that led inside, imagined Robin there, waiting for him as she should have been, as she would have been if all this had never happened, if he had not been weak and filled with old love.
Then, just as his impossible memory of her cry of accusation had frozen him days before, so did he feel the chill of more than the freezing weather as he saw something move behind the glass above. There was only the slightest hint of motion, and he thought for an instant that it might have been the reflection of blowing branches, but realized that there was no wind. The air was dead.
Dennis stood up and moved back out of the street light's gleam. Now he could see that a light shone dimly behind the glass doors. He watched, and in another minute he saw the movement again. Someone was slowly pacing in front of the doors to the balcony. His first impression that it was Robin's spirit was, he saw now, erroneous. The figure was far larger than Robin's petite frame. It looked tantalizingly familiar, but from just the bits of motion he could glimpse he knew that it was not Sid, nor John Steinberg, nor anyone who lived in the Venetian Theatre building. Then who? Someone he knew, he was certain of that. Someone he knew.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he started quickly toward the nearest entrance for which he had a key, unlocked it, and entered. It took several minutes for him to wend his way through the corridors and up the stairways, but soon he stood outside the door of his suite, listening. He could hear nothing inside, so he took a deep breath, fit his key into the lock, and pushed open the door.
The suite was not altogether dark. A ginger jar light was turned to its lowest illumination, bathing the room in a fifteen watt glow. Dennis listened again, and let the door close softly behind him. 'Hello?' he said, but there was no answer.
Trembling slightly, he pressed the light switch on the wall, and the room grew bright. There was no one there. Warily, he went from room to room, opening doors, turning on lights, even looking into closets, but the suite was empty save for himself.
He went back to the front door then, and locked and double locked it. Then he called Sid.
'Dennis, Jesus, you should've let me know you were coming back early. How'd you get here?'
'Took a cab. Listen, Sid. Was anyone in here tonight?'
'In here? What, your suite?'
'Yes. I thought I saw someone from the street.'
'Not a soul, Dennis. I was in a couple of hours ago to straighten things up.”
“Did you leave a light on?'
'Yeah, one of the lamps in the living room, why?'
'Nothing. I'm just a little jumpy, I guess.'
There was a pause. Then Sid asked, 'You need someone to talk to?”
“No, I'll be all right. I'm tired. Just want to take a bath and go to bed.'
'You have a good trip?' The words Did it help? were unspoken but understood.
'It was fine. It helped a lot.'
'Good. That's good. Look, if you want anything, just call.'
'Thanks, Sid. You're a good friend. Goodnight.'
Dennis hung up, turned off the lights in the living room so that just the ginger jar glowed weakly, then went into his bedroom. Not bothering to unpack, he stripped off his clothes and took a near scalding bath.
He was toweling himself dry when he heard it. The sound of someone clearing his throat. A familiar sound, and Dennis knew unequivocally that whoever was in the suite was known to him. He took his robe from the hook, slipped it on, and looked around for something he could use as a weapon. The only thing at hand was a heavy antique wood hand mirror on Robin's vanity. He hefted it like a club, praying that he would not have to use it, and opened the bathroom door.
He prayed too that it would not be Robin he would see, Robin staring at him with dead and accusing eyes. The thought made him shiver as he moved down the hall, coming closer to where he could see into the living room, see in the dim light who was there waiting for him.
Then he rounded the corner, and saw.
It wasn't Robin.
(The scene is the living room of Dennis Hamilton's suite. It is dimly lit by a single lamp. DENNIS HAMILTON stands stage right at the entrance to the hall. Beside the portrait of Dennis as the Emperor stands THE EMPEROR, dressed exactly as in the portrait. He smiles at Dennis.
THE EMPEROR
Hello, Dennis. You don't know how long I've been waiting to meet you.
(The mirror falls from Dennis's hand and shatters. They stand, looking at one another.)
CURTAIN.
ACT II: CREATOR
A man's soul was his own enclosed garden, nothing could obtain admittance there without his invitation and permission.
– 'Naboth's Vineyard,' E. F. Benson
Scene 1
(DENNIS and THE EMPEROR are in the exact positions that ended Act I. There is a long pause.)
DENNIS
(In a voice filled with fear and awe) Who are you?
THE EMPEROR
(Smiles) Who do you think I am?
DENNIS
You're not me.
THE EMPEROR
I'm part of you. I'm something you created – out of yourself.
DENNIS
This isn't real. I'm imagining it. You don't exist. (He moves toward the Emperor, a hand extended gingerly)
THE EMPEROR
