Montreal, 1 June 1989

[noteful]

In the morning, Meg is getting on a train and heading off to visit her parents.

Tonight, she is supposed to be having dinner and going to the movies with Alain.

But when he picks her up, he says, "Ma belle, do you mind if we change the plans for this evening?" as he opens the passenger door for her.

Meg pauses. "Depends, I suppose, on what we're changing them to."

"Luc called. They're doing some kind of reading of the next play they're doing, and they need an audience."

"And what is the next play?" Meg asks, getting into the car.

"He is not allowed to say. It's a surprise," Luc says, shutting the door.

Alain's brother, Luc, is the house manager at a small theatre run by a man named Gérard, who made a fortune in something pedestrian -- Meg thinks it might have been something related to plumbing -- but always wanted to direct. So, when he retired, he bought a theatre and named himself artistic director.

His plays tend to open and close very quickly, partly because Gérard gets bored and wants to move on the next one. And partly because, well, the plays are dismal. Meg has, already, sat though An Ideal Husband translated into French and losing a lot in the process, and a production La Folle de Chaillot set on a spaceship. (Making the oil-in-the-neighborhood plot rather nonsensical.)

Meg looks over at Alain as he slides into the driver's seat. "Your brother is going to owe us a drink after this."

"At the very least," Alain says, putting the car into gear.

There are only about twenty other people in the theatre when they arrive. Alain picks seats in the last row. The curtain on the stage is closed, and there are about a dozen podiums lined up across the stage, for the actors. Meg looks down at the folded paper program she received at the door.

"Oh . . . my . . ."

According to the program, they are attending the world debut reading of L'histoire tragique de Richard V. A brief note explains that it is Gérard's own reimagining and translation of Shakespeare's version of English history, to address the current social and political climates.

Alain stares at it for a moment, and then asks, "Have there been five English kings named Richard?"

Meg shakes her head and holds up three fingers, as the house lights flash and the actors begin to cross the stage to their podiums for the reading. Luc slips into the theatre, but doesn't take a seat. He stays near the exit, leaning back against the wall.

Half an hour later, Meg would like to be closer to an exit, herself. On stage, a character who is either Hotspur or the Earl of Richmond or both, is interrupting what looks like Henry VI's courtship of Princess Katherine of France (disturbingly Oedipal, given that she is his mother).

Alain leans over and whispers, "This makes more sense in English, yes?"

"It makes more sense when it's four separate plays," Meg whispers back.

It goes on for two and a quarter excruciating hours -- dialogue and characters rearranged into a bizarre mishmash that Meg cannot make into anything that even remotely resembles a narrative. (And that's before Cleopatra shows up.) She turns to look at Luc once or twice. He's completely expressionless, but he fidgets with the pen he's holding like it's a cigarette.

The applause dies out quickly when the actors bow, and half the audience has escaped to the lobby even before the house lights come up.

Gérard reaches Luc the same time Meg and Alain do, which means they all wind up talking. And that Gérard asks then what they thought. Meg tells him that it was a truly unique theatrical experience, which is the only truthful thing she can say that isn't basically It was dismal. Alain offers to help Luc shut the building up so they can get to a dinner reservation he has just invented. Which leaves Meg stranded with Gérard for twenty minutes. (Fortunately, she's not called on to add much to the conversation.)

"What happened to chivalry?" Meg asks, as they follow Luc to the bar near his apartment. "You left me alone with him."

"That was chivalry, ma belle. It was the fastest way to get you out of there," he tells her, coming to a stop at a light that Luc has just made it through ahead of them.

"And you'll make it up to me later?" Meg asks.

Alain reaches over to take her hand for a second. "With interest."

Luc has already found a table when they reach the bar. There are three beers in the middle of it, but he's ignoring them for the moment, focusing on his cigarette.

"Poisoning yourself won't help," Alain says, pulling out the chair to Luc's left for Meg.

"Yes, yes," Luc says, with a wave of both his hand and his cigarette. "I'll quit next month."

"That is what you said last month," Alain says, taking the seat to his brother's right. "And the month before that."

It's a conversation Meg has heard -- and stayed out of -- a half dozen times.

"Well, this time I will," Luc says. "But not this month. I have to deal with this play first. Next month will be better." He turns to Meg before Alain can say anything else. "Was it any better if you know the English versions well?"

"I think it might actually be worse, knowing the English versions."

Luc groans and drops his head to the table.

"Though I only know some of them well," Meg adds. "Maybe it's different if you know all of them."

"You're going to set your hair on fire with that thing," Alain says, of the cigarette smoldering dangerously close to the top of Luc's head. The And it would serve you right if you did is left merely implied.

Luc gropes for the ashtray without looking up, and snubs it out.

"Maybe the play will make more sense with staging and costumes and everything," Meg says.

"Do you really think so?" Luc asks.

"Well . . . um . . . no."

Alain laughs. "Cheer up. It could be worse."

"How, Alain, could it be worse?" Luc asks, picking his head back up off the table and reaching for one of the beers.

"You could be one of the actors."

"Gérard wants to talk to me about that, for the next one. He saw me in Tartuffe. He says he has the perfect role for me, but he can't tell me what it is yet."

Meg and Alain exchange looks across the table.

"Well, shit," Alain says, reaching for a beer himself.

Meg takes the third, and settles more comfortably into her seat.

They could be here for a while.



[OOC: All dialogue was in French for this one.]