time, never the wrong thing.
she began to develop her own persona, no longer a shapeless piece
of putty where each man could make his own mark, she began to
have a definite form, some opinions, a consistent though flexible
posture, a strong woman, they said, independent, they said, a
woman who didnt hang on.
her third acting exercise, never let her insides show,
it was a calculated strength, designed to appeal to a certain kind of
man. she had determined who needed what.
the one she loved was not the father of this child.
the one she loved, how did she see him, not as she saw and had
always seen the others, she didnt see him as he wanted to be seen,
never believing it herself, she believed it, anything he wanted her to
believe.
she saw a great man.
the one she loved was a consummate actor, a pretender, a
charlatan, a liar, and a cheat.
sensitive, she thought, a genius, delicate, not like other men. kind
and deep and searching, not like other men.
here it converged, her ambition and her longing, he had touched
her, deep, inside, forever.
she had come to New York wanting to meet this man or someone
just like him, someone with precisely those eyes, that stare, that intense focus, someone with that fame.
she had met him one winter when she was teaching voice, his climb
to the top had been ruthless and clever but not in the obvious way. he
was a deceiver, a manipulator, good at keeping things hidden, someone who always covered his tracks, a certain kind of animal, smelling what he needed and taking it, then covering up his tracks, not like
other men with a brutal sweep of the hand, no, not like that, instead
gently, quietly, effectively, finally,
he was a homosexual, or so he said.
their discussions were long and deep, about work in the theatre,
about the human voice, about pain, about suffering, about death.
they would sit in his almost empty apartment on straightbacked
chairs, hands just touching, he would pour wine and stare at her and
into her.
she did not forget everything, she remembered what she wanted,
she wanted this man to love her.
this was no ordinary man. he liked smart women, strong women,
women who could work and talk and think and earn money, he was
a collector of such women but that she did not know. I am the only
one, she thought, different from the rest, this man respects me, she
believed.
her heart went out to him. whatever she could do for him she did.
her work in voice became connected to his work in the theatre, she
taught his actors what he wanted them to know, those he did not
like, she eliminated from classes, those he was interested in, she
cultivated like flowers.
