Chapter 39 – The Sound of Silence

When the afternoon arrived, Eppie shed her outer layers for the theatre blacks, then stretched out her body beside the stage while the rest of the cast tried to wrangle their minds into the right headspace. As much as she wanted to wear her Sony leotards, she just couldn’t work up the courage, not when everyone else wore their basics.

Chloe Vickers, Valorie’s clique-mate and her Ismene, was already on stage, running her lines.

Costello was their presiding instructor while Cooper did his Senior work, and the pair were in the process of perfecting the opening act—the scene that would decide whether the walk-ins would leave or stay.

Normally, this was a very, very important stage for Sophomores. It was their first time taking to the black box in a professional production, and the experience would make or break many of them.

Unfortunately, this year’s Sophomores would not be subject to the high-pressure criticism of a golf-clapping audience. This was because the school was already singing praises of their new golden goose, Eppie Fontaine, a songwriter with a knack for evergreen tunes that seemed to gel with an older demographic with disposable income. As for her singular pop tune, Umbrella had no challengers on the pop charts during its run. The song would not be dethroned until the audience grew bored or new talent rose to usurp Kellie Noah’s reign.

That, and Sony had sent over some pictures of Eppie, which LAPA promptly included in the Fall Gala brochure.

As with all of Valorie’s lackies, Eppie felt no particular antagonism toward Chloe. Sanders’ relationship with her cronies reminded Eppie of her old self. They both had lots of hangers-on, lots of associates, but no one who would jump into the sea to pull her back on deck.

“From the top now,” Costello wasn’t paying attention to Eppie at all. He sat cross-legged on the floor with a Moleskine notepad, taking Chloe through the Laban movements.

The scene was simple. Antigone will bury her brother. She wanted her sister to help, but the stake was their lives.

“How can we fight? Annie?” Chloe’s body shrank into itself, as if to hide from the harsh light of Antigone’s interrogation. “We’re just girls… we’re girls, Annie. Students. Nobodies. How can you expect us to challenge Uncle Creon? He’s the Secretary of Defence! I… I don’t…”

“From the top,” Costello said, from the floor where he is sitting cross-legged with his notes. “Antigone calls Ismene out of the palace at night. She has a plan. Ismene doesn’t know the plan yet.”

Costello allowed the dialogue to run.

Off stage, Eppie felt her body act in turn. Antigone’s response wasn’t anger. It’s something more dignified, resigned, and dangerous. Antigone had resigned herself to action. She loved Ismene, even if her sister was weak, even if her sister wanted peace.

You can be what you want to be. Emmi, but I will bury him.

That was Antigone’s counterpoint, Eppie’s line, her spine unyielding to the end, even if it meant a live burial.

In the evening session, Dr Cooper arrived with the economy of a man who could no longer afford sleep. He had a mug the size of Eppie’s head, not filled with water, but iced coffee.

They worked on the burial speech. It’s Eppie’s scene, and her longest dialogue, the one where she backtalks Uncle Creon after he has her arrested and confined. As Antigone, she delivers a monologue about her elopement with Haemon to find Polynices and their inevitable doom.

In the lightless prison, kept dark to cool her hot head, she spoke to the audience by speaking to herself, to the pantheon of Gods.

“The last four lines.” Cooper held her back before she could finish. “Again”

She performed the lines again.

“You’re rushing the end,” he said. “Why?”

Eppie knew why. It was because their conversation wasn’t about Mio; it was about her Antigone. “Shouldn’t we want the pain to end? To resolve?”

“Not resolved,” Cooper studied her, mulling over her words. “It is my belief, and you can disagree if you wish, that the final four lines are not the end. I think they’re a destination of arrival. She knows she’s death incarnate, but that was her choice; now, she’s simply arriving at the destination of her choosing. She didn’t want to die—of course. But she’s here now. She owns it. It’s a relief, almost.”

“Yessir.” Eppie shook herself out. She tried to put herself in the right state of mind, but there was no [Trait] for that, at least not yet. Either the [System] wanted her to earn it, or it was something tied to a bigger story, a crueller [Usurper].

She took her time.

Across from her, Cooper listened with his eyes closed, measuring the tenor of her voice, her chest compression, her projection in minute detail.

When she finished, he opened his eyes as if to examine her.

“What’s holding you back, Eppie?” Her instructor’s face was close. The African American philanthropist was leaning down to reduce the distance between them. Her instructor was close. She could smell his cologne; it was something infused with sandalwood.

“If you must know,” Eppie moved her face closer as well, uncomfortably close. Before Cooper could move back, she shot her shot via an intimate whisper. “I found Luciana Mio. Doc. I know what happened to her.”

Dr Cooper froze on the spot for a microsecond.
The man’s eyes opened wide, then returned to neutral, as she’d never said anything at all.

Well, that was the right gamble. Eppie would have patted her own back if chance permitted, but she was acting now, acting as a troubled theatre student.

As an actor far more natural than Eppie, Cooper stepped back with discernible disappointment and concern, looking at his student even as he near-imperceptibly shook his head.

“Let’s take a break,” Cooper said to the class. “Fontaine. We’ll discuss your concerns in my office after the evening session.”

LAPA.
Eppie waited in front of David Cooper’s office until his Senior rehearsals were done, whereupon the poor man stumbled back in his cashmere coat to the Main Building. He gave her an affirming nod, then unlocked his office.

The desk of Dr David Cooper was filled with notes on the productions, headshots of students, resumes and casting sheets. The walls were covered in photos, awards, and certificates of appreciation. Cooper was married, she could see. Two kids. Both old enough to be in college or work.

With a groan from old, protesting furniture, the man sat.

“Fontaine, make yourself comfortable.” He pointed to the seats in front. These were the famous interview seats. The Seniors spoke of them with reverence, the Juniors with terror. In these seats, theatre leads were made and unmade.

No doubt, sometime ago, Mio sat here with Valorie, and Cooper had told them in his deep, baritone voice, that one was to be the understudy of the other.

This was Cooper’s Hubris, his hopes and dreams for the common actress.

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The consequence was a catastrophe.

“Tell me, Miss Fontaine,” Cooper commanded. “Where is Mio?”

Above them both, the ancient fluorescent tubes were harsh and flat, affording neither of them any particular mercy.

She told him.
She told him because she trusted the [System] and her instructor. Dr David Cooper had a reputation. He had ethos. He had done in his youth what no talented theatre major on a national level was willing to do: to step out from the limelight and into the Bronx, to teach the kids there that art was a viable path to greatness, that talent was something money can’t buy.

She prefaced nothing. She ran down the dramatis personae like a scripted play in four acts, missing the finale. Mio. Cooper’s decision. May 4th. William. Herself. The pregnancy. Mio’s peace. She did not name Lim; she made it clear that she would not.

Then, she slid over a cassette tape.

She never got past the first minute. She doesn’t want to. She knew too much already and did not need the trauma of Mio’s howls rattling in her head. If she had finished, she doubted her little mind could find the sweet balm of sleep ever again.