Chapter 7 Kal
7
KAL
After the show, Oliver stops by my green room—one of the five-by-five pop-up blackout fabric tents in the backstage village of shipping containers, portable washrooms and handwashing stations. I am flattered but also surprised. Notes? I think. Even now? But Oliver is a perfectionist, and whatever feedback he has for me, I will take it and apply to next season’s shows, which haven’t been cast yet. I feel confident that after showing what I can do this past week, my days of walk-on parts and “itty-bitty” lines, as Miz says, are behind me.
I know that had it not been for Oliver seeing me as a talent worth developing and not a backdrop against which the talent of others could shine, I doubt I would have been hired at the company at all, let alone earned two work permits. Making me understudy the role of Antony—to no small amount of grumbling from the higher-ups, considering the age, experience, and colour difference between Grant and me—had been the peak of it, from which I could see the heady vista of all the possibilities ahead once I become a permanent resident.
As he closes the tent flap behind him, my director looks too serious. He gestures for me to take a seat in the folding chair by the dressing table. I sit, angling myself to face him as he perches on the ledge of the table, hands on his knee, and takes me in. I wait, trying not to fidget.
Gradually, his unreadable expression morphs into a face-splitting grin. “Sublime,” he says.
I am at a loss, as if I’ve forgotten my cue. “Who?” I say uncertainly.
“You!”
My heart swells and I want to leap from my chair. “Thank you,” I say instead, controlling my delight. My first night as Antony had been discouraging—many ticketholders requested refunds when Grant’s absence was announced, leaving me to perform for a sparse audience. But three nights later, word had got out, and the house was at capacity and had been since. But more than the sold-out shows and the standing ovations, I treasure Oliver’s approval. “Coming from you…”
“Where did you go, if you don’t mind my asking?” Oliver says, sounding mystified.
What did I tap into, especially tonight, is what he’s asking. Every understudy has a choice: replicate the original actor or make the part his own. Last Saturday, at the first performance, I had studiously done the former. But afterward, Silvio rallied me to show what I specifically could do with the role, that I could give the leading lady something new to work with. So I went for broke, giving myself over to the part, becoming bolder with each night. Tonight was the culmination. I poured everything I had been holding back into Antony, purging all that I had felt with, because of, and about Muna. The lines had come so alive that I hadn’t dropped a single one.
“Let’s just say I can relate to Antony…” I say, hoping that will be sufficient. Even after baring my soul for hundreds to see, I am far from comfortable talking about the period of my life after Muna and I broke up. Even with my closest friends, Miz included.
The last time I saw Muna was two years ago at the mourning for my mother, since our families are close. In the time since our relationship, Muna had become a married mother of two, confronting me with what I had thought would be our future, further complicating my grief. We did not exchange more than a few cordial words, but that had been enough to obliterate what little emotional progress I had made in Toronto talking to a few women.
Thankfully, Oliver puts up his hands. “Better you don’t share, in fact,” he says. “Protect your reserves.”
“Always room for improvement though?” I say, still expecting notes.
Oliver shakes his head, disagreeing. I feel a quiet pride. No notes from the great Oliver, wow. But then he lets out a long, troubling breath and pulls his hand over his mouth and down the length of his grey goatee. “Which is why it pains me, deeply, Kalkidan, to bring you regrettable tidings.”
He interlaces his fingers, as if I will need divine help to handle what is about to come at me. I sit back and look away at our reflections in the mirror, fearing the worst.
“I would have preferred to wait a few days, but I didn’t want you finding out through gossip at the party later.” He clears his throat. “Your sponsorship is not going forward.”
I cave in as if I’ve been hit. These are the worst possible words to leave Oliver’s mouth. And in response, my own falls slightly open. My mind rushes back in time to everything that has led up to this moment: the years in the wilderness after Muna, when the theatre had become my only refuge; discreetly applying to theatre school and for a student visa; my family’s shock when I said I was leaving. Saying goodbye to them, to my staff; the first days of class as the oldest student; the highs and lows of scene study chasing that elusive state of total presence; meeting Oliver; getting hired at this company; my first days as a professional actor; the relief of every immigration status adjustment or extension. Research outings with Miz. Her drowsy face in the audience every closing night. All that struggle and triumph and joy flashes before my eyes. All that time wasted. But I am too numb to speak or cry. I only stare back at Oliver.
“The board moves in mysterious ways,” Oliver says. I nod reflexively, trying to look professional even though I dissolve inside. “I am truly sorry. What it boils down to is resources. They didn’t feel they were warranted in expending the resources to sponsor you,” Oliver says, then adds, “at this time.”
But I know that is just a bone he is tossing me, to soften the crush of failure. I have fired people too, in my previous life as a manager of multiple branches of our bakeries in Ethiopia, a life I would have to return to. These decisions are always final.
“Oliver, can I ask,” I say, clearing my throat. “How long have you known about this?”
“I didn’t want to ruin your week.”
“I appreciate that.” So they had known they were letting me go before Grant’s accident. Not even my soul-baring work over this past week could have made a difference.
Oliver is still talking. He leans in. “Did you hear me, Kal?”
“Hmm?” I look up, eyes glazed.
“I said, it’s not over for you. Don’t give up. The politics here, as with politics everywhere, are ever in flux. I refuse to believe your journey ends here.” He stands, towering over me. I get up too, though the weight of my failure makes me feel even smaller next to him. Silence looms save for the ghostly echo of tonight’s applause in my mind.
Because the show is over. Really over.
Oliver shakes my hand, pulls me in for a shoulder bump, all of which I barely register. Then he leaves. I feel so hollow the gust of air in the wake of the tent flaps parting should knock me down, yet I stand motionless, frozen, as I had been just a week ago after Donna’s call. But what a world of difference between how large and proud I had felt then and my present sense of being small and worthless, no more than a speck of dust.
I had spent my heart, emptied my emotional pockets, and been rejected.
In art, as in life.