Valentine Durrell is an anxious young man. Out of drama school and out of work, almost out of money and within a week or two of being out of a flat, unless he can secure the money for the rent arrears. He needs this gig. Experience, limited though it is, tells him what a few of the actors he most admires have also said, that entering an audition without nerves is likely to be a precursor to a flat performance, and he can’t afford that. But there are limits, he thinks, trying to swallow the saliva in his mouth, but finding his throat constricted. He can feel his pulse, pounding in his chest, so strong he wonders whether it might beaudible to the other hopefuls.
Get a grip. This isn’t your first audition, and my god, it better not be your last. The passing thought alarms him. His last! Surely it can’t become that bad? Forcing himself to focus on the task before him, he runs over the lines of the sonnet. “Let me not to the marriage of true minds …” This is so familiar he could recite it while doing something else, filling in a form for instance, perhaps a loan application form, like the one sitting on his kitchen table. What can he include in the section requesting details of assets and prospects?
This is no good. His thoughts become a vortex, everything turns and swirls, and the more he allows himself to think of his situation the more it swirls until he begins to feel nauseous. Or perhaps it’s the effect of the three cups of strong coffee before he set out that morning, and skipping breakfast for the lack of appetite.
“Let me not …” How did it go? This is ridiculous: he has to stop worrying.
Seated in the hallway with him are three other young aspirants, and Valentine is reassured to notice two of them perched awkwardly on their chairs, displaying the body language of the anxiety he himself is feeling. One of them, that straw-haired guy with the big nose, is managing to maintain a nonchalant expression, but the intermittent agitation of his limbs gives the game away. Then that bony fellow next to him, with the fluttering hands. Odd looking bloke, they surely won’t take him. One more applicant; looks like his competition, Valentine thinks. Quite good-looking, if a bit on the rough side, very hairy, but apparently calm, composed, confident. Valentine didn’t believe the exterior betrayed the man, but that merely worsened the situation. Probably trembling inside, like the rest of us, he thinks, but the man’s a real actor. Look at that composure!
Shown to their waiting seats by a receptionist who could tell them nothing of the proceedings, the four young men, none older than 25, passed a tense ten minutes or so before the door to the studio opened, and they were greeted by a member of the crew. Slim, Valentine noticed, with an athletic build that spoke of a care given to his body, and very dark. He moved with a feral grace to the first of the applicants, the straw-haired young man Valentine had marked down as a scarecrow, with his large nose. The newcomer spoke softly to him, and Valentine was seated too far to overhear, but they evidently went through a quick identity check before the newcomer handed over a script. A few last words, straw-hair nodded, and the newcomer departed. Valentine watched as he moved, and was charmed by the smooth roundness of the jeans, tight across his rear, and the slight springing swagger in the walk.
About five minutes went by, during which straw-hair was absorbed in the paper he had been handed, ignoring the other three. Then he was called in, and the others looked up. Another wait followed, before the young man in the tight jeans again appeared, with a script for the second candidate. Once again three heads went up, and as the door opened a gust of laughter issued from the auditorium. Straw-hair was evidently going down a storm.
The next turn would be the good looking guy, the hairy neighbour, sitting close enough that Valentine could overhear their quiet conversation. Nothing unusual. Verifying personal details, and a short instruction about the text to be read. Valentine was watching the assistant more than listening, captivated by the man’s lissom movement, that dark skin, the rich coppery tones almost glowing as the lights of the corridor picked up highlights. But he heard the candidate’s responses: wonder! for all his tough appearance, the man had a high, squeaky voice. That rough appearance was compensation, surely. A great disadvantage, a voice like that. Valentine felt sorry for him, but elated for himself.
The assistant moved back towards the hall, but before he left he turned and looked directly at Valentine. A warm flush travelled up Valentine’s neck and through his cheeks, as the young man gazed at him for a moment, an uncompromising contact. At this close distance Valentine noticed the man’s long, soft lashes, and felt the centre of his being melt.
Now that the element of competition had shrunk, Valentine felt able to speak to his companion, and indeed felt he needed to, to steady his nerves. The pounding of his pulse had dropped once the first candidate was called, but shot up again after that meeting of eyes.
Valentine spoke to his neighbour, with little idea what he was saying, only that he must talk. He hardly heard that thin voice indicating what he’d been handed to read. Unmistakable. From Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood, the narrator’s opening. Valentine recalled having listened to an old recording of it, recalling the dream-like, incantatory quality of the language, the soundscape it conjured. He would be confident given such a piece. He wished his companion luck, and meant it.
‘Sure,’ the other replied. ‘Break a leg, eh?’ and both smiled.
Five minutes later and they were down to two; at least Valentine assumed it must have been five minutes, though it felt like twenty. Time dragged on. Valentine had ceased to think of his narration piece, and found his mind whirring. Then the door opened, and their dark usher appeared once more, his eyes this time on Valentine. He approached, and crouched in front of Valentine. His voice, deep with a rich timbre, dropped low for the formal check, ticking details against a list. Then he looked up, their eyes met for a second time, and that gaze seemed to look deep inside Valentine.
‘Here’s your piece. It’s Beckett. From Endgame. You know it?’
‘Only vaguely.’
‘Okay. Endings and beginnings, circles, repetition. Nagg is old, one of the two characters in the bins. He tries to amuse Nell with a story that she once found amusing, but he’s told it too often. He plays it in a variety of voices, so look out for the directions. At the end he laughs, but no one else does.’
Valentine tried to take all this in as quickly as he could. The others weren’t given such details. His head was spinning, and he didn’t know what to say, except ‘Okay.’
The man gave him a quick grin, and, as he rose to go, a half wink, too slight for the other candidate to notice, but which reached Valentine with the physicality of a promise.
Soon it was Valentine’s turn. As he stood in the close darkness before the stage door the dark usher’s body brushed against his, as light as a casual accident, but Valentine felt a charge transfer to him at the contact. The darkness wrapped them in a momentary intimacy. ‘One more thing,’ the young man said softly, placing a hand lightly on Valentine’s arm, ‘the producer is the one you need to convince. She’s sitting back from the others, on your left. Don’t miss her. And, hey – don’t worry. You’ll nail it.’
Valentine walked out onto the stage, bathed in light with no spotlights. In front of him the house lights were half up, and after a moment to adjust his vision Valentine made out three people sitting centrally a few rows back, two men and a woman. He peered more closely and, sure enough, behind them and to the left another woman sat in shadow.
‘What Shakespeare speech are you going to give us?’
‘I’m not. It’s one of the sonnets.’
‘A sonnet?’ The surprise was evident. ‘This isn’t a poetry reading, you know.’
‘No, but I thought it would make a change. Many of the big speeches are no less rich in verse, and many of the sonnets make a direct address to one or more people.’ He had anticipated their response, and practised his answer. At home, alone, it had seemed persuasive: he would do something distinctive, in order to stand out. As one of his drama colleges instructors used to say, ‘Give ‘em a reason to remember you.’ Here on the stage he suddently felt less certain.
‘Oh well, it’s your choice.’ The reply came with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Give it your best shot.’
Valentine looked around, and was glad to see the young man in the tight jeans off to one side, wrapped in a warm shadow too deep to make out the expression on his dark features, but Valentine was sure of it. His moment of doubt passed, and he began. Though he knew the man he had just met could have little or no impact on the casting choice, in his mind he was speaking to him. What Valentine spoke now was an offer, a declaration he could make the more easily because it used the words of another. Love, a guiding star, constant, not Time’s fool. He believed in this while he spoke; stating it must make it true, and that famous final couplet, “If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ nor no man ever loved” must ring out as a challenge he could stake his happiness on. Here was Shakespeare explaining love to the young and mysterious Mr WH, noting the impediments to a worldly marriage, stressing the tortuous paradoxes that only love’s simplicity might resolve. Valentine wanted all of this, and to make his audience know it.
He was not interrupted, and as he finished the little audience conferred in whispers, before one called out ‘Thank you. And your other piece, you have the text.’
He played up the part as suggested, grateful for the tips, an old man adopting various voices, and moving as he did so, circling back on himself, changing posture for each voice. There were no questions at the end.
‘Thank you. We haven’t seen everyone yet. We’ll let you know before the end of the week.’
Two days later Valentine was at home. He had managed to borrow some money again to cover his immediate bills, and was completing his loan application when the phone rang. ‘Hello?’ he said, and instantly recognized the deep voice at the other end, with its rich timbre. Valentine felt a jolt of electricity run through him, lifting his heart to his mouth. Only now did he realize quite how much he’d wanted to hear that voice calling him.
END