Chapter 43 – The Whole of the Moon

LAPA.
The Playhouse.
The curtain call ended.

Paco wasn’t sure when to clap, because theatre was a new experience for him, and he didn’t want to commit what Carmen called a “fox-ass”, AKA a metedura de pata.

In his mind, Eppie would remain on stage and receive flowers, or bouquets would be delivered to the stage. In reality, the kids waved to the audience for about four or five breaths, then were ushered away by the groundkeepers while a swarm of technical staff began moving equipment onto and off the stage.

He saw Eric, who had seen him, and the two shared a split-second nod before Eric leapt down the aisle toward a gringo that looked like someone’s unmarried suburban uncle. They soon joined a woman, older than Carmen but rich-looking, with the kind of presence that did not exist in towns like Fresno, not even in Town Hall meetings. Una señora de verdad.

Mateo rose beside him. “We should—”

“No,” Paco stopped his family.

Carmen pointed at the room where Eppie and the others had retreated with a face full of questions.

Paco shook his head gently. “We are familia, they’re business. In the theatre, Eppie’s career comes first.”

The family understood. They were at a school for talented girls and boys. The people in suits down below were the school’s business. It was not right to stand in the way of the children’s careers. Besides, a lot was going on. Two other girls with unusual bearings hadn’t moved from their seats on opposite sides of the black box theatre. They were staring at one another, like a stand-off at high noon.

The city sure is a complicated place. Paco felt the urge for a cigarette. No wonder Zara came back to Fresno to recharge.

“After the Pines,” he said to the family. “After Zara. We’ll find her after and celebrate. We can talk over dinner at El Cid.”

The family murmured their agreement. Paco was the oldest and rarely disobeyed. His cari leaned her head briefly against his shoulder, a small, sweet thing, because she was his anchor. Mateo shrugged. He was impressed by the girl’s acting, but he had not heard her sing. His gratefulness was not like Paco’s.

“Let’s go find Itziar at the gallery,” Mateo suggested. “Zara’s probably all nerves and no fret, ha!”

“Si,” Paco glanced at the curtains one more time. There was no chance that Eppie would emerge from them soon, especially seeing as the trio from earlier, now joined by a young woman, was making a beeline for the side entrance.

He found himself feeling a little sad because, here in her world, Eppie did not need his protection at all.

Frederick caught up with Juliana Vaughan in three steps, trailed by his Newfoundland from Sony LA. Unlike himself, Vaughan had already walked halfway down with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where things were in a black box.

“Juliana.”

The regal lady of the Met turned. She pulled back her Hermès headscarf, transforming it into an aesthetic, silken shawl. Her expression was neither intimate nor distant, but the lukewarm friendliness of a professional who had lived on a pedestal for a considerable length of time.

“Frederick.”

“You’re going backstage?” he asked. “Might madam have a pass?”

“Do you?”

“I do, in fact,” Curon flashed an ID he had gotten from Burton. “Shall we?”

He offered his arm, partly because the aisle was narrow and partly because he wanted it on record that he had been the one to escort Madam Vaughan. “Eric—!”

Lee materialised from behind him, now accompanied by a young woman with long curly hair. She didn’t look like a fellow member of the industry, so Curon paid her only a curt compliment. He gave Eric his ID. “Can you speak to the doormen?”

Unfortunately for Curon, there was no need to show off, for the stage door opened by itself before they even reached it.

An African American thespian, lean-muscled, square-jawed, with a stubble that was tastefully buzzed, met their eyes and closed the distance. He was holding two armfuls of posters and other papers, with bric-a-brac weighing down the many pockets of his charcoal coat.

Curon racked his brain to figure out who this might be.
His face was distinct, but there was no way from the man’s bookish looks that he was a rapper, even a former one.

Juliana Vaughan unhooked her arm, leaving him unbalanced.

“Dr Cooper.” The Curator bowed her head slightly. It was different from how she greeted him. The register wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a business greeting, but a greeting between artists of a certain calibre. It was genuine, non-transactional. Curon felt a tinge of jealousy, but banished it with a thought. He was wooing Juliana for his daughter, who cared who she knew in a past life?

Vaughan helped the man pick up something from the floor. “Here, you dropped this.”

Dr Cooper moved everything to the corner, then wiped down his hands.

“Dr Vaughan,” he said, his eyes darting to Eric and Curon. “This is a rare pleasure.”

“We haven’t met since…” Juliana paused with a smile. “1998, I believe, at the ICCC. Othello, wasn’t it? You were excellent.”

“Thank you.” Cooper looked like a kid who’d just been awarded a principal’s medal. “These are?”

She introduced them. Cooper thanked Curon profusely for his work with Eppie, which made Curon feel better.

“So, all of this,” Vaughan indicated at the stage. “Your work?”

“It’s Susan’s, I mean, Susanna’s work, actually,” Cooper said in that creme caramel voice of his. “Susanna Tyker, from West End. I was involved, of course, here and there, to make sure the kids get the right parts.”

“The press conference as Chorus was elegant. Whose idea was it?”

“The students workshopped it with Costello—Dr Craig Costello.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “They were inspired.”

Vaughan laughed. Curon noted the cadence of the laughter was different when it wasn’t aimed at him.

Feeling like a third wheel, he nudged Eric in the ribs.

Eric coughed. “Dr Cooper, may we go and see Eppie?”

“Of course.” Cooper glanced at them, all smiles, the man’s erupting joy contained by masterful acting. He pushed the stage door open and held it. “She’s in the green room. Second left. Enjoy.”

The green room at the Playhouse wasn’t actually green. It wasn’t even teal. It was painted in the institutional beige of the late 1980s when it first went up, and it never saw a lick of fresh paint. Presently, it was covered by old posters and notices.

It was a shabby room, not that the condition mattered, for the room now contained twelve young theatre actors in varying states of costumed disintegration, stuffing themselves with Cooper’s gift of mozzarella sticks, cinnamon doughnuts, and three litres of Welch’s Grape Juice. Min-Jun had snuck in a bottle of soju, which Cooper confiscated with a warning. Umbrella played loudly on someone’s JBL, and the kids were wild with the joy of having performed their first play without incident.

Eppie stood in the corner with Chloe, who was having a bit of a cry because she had gotten too worked up, and now that the tension was gone, she couldn’t hold back the dam. They looked a strange pair, primly uniformed and dishevelled, like a before-and-after poster of a Say no to Drugs PSA.

Stolen novel; please report.

She counted her additional [Causality]. The amount was modest. She had brought joy, but changed no lives with her performance.

Min-jun was doing his best to chat up Sage, while Sage had her eyes on the boy playing Haemon. James Jules, still dressed as Creon, was all smiles, all directed at Eppie, while Eppie was too afraid to return it because that shit would be weird. Cameron stood against a wall, thinking about life and how fucking awesome he was as a stage manager. A gaggle of classmates not particularly close to Eppie stood in a group, gobbling cheese sticks while shooting glances her way, giggling now and then. Lucy lounged on the couch, cradling Chelsea, who looked like she’d just been through some shit, and now had to sit down and digest it all.

Knock—knock—
The kids instantly became good, mature children.

“Come in,” Eppie said to the door.

It was Dr Cooper, but he wasn’t alone.
Into the small room filed a threesome of strangers whom none but Eppie recognised. Curon was the most frightening, for he looked like someone’s unhappy uncle in Gucci, then Eric and Emily, whose face she knew well, and finally—

Eppie’s mouth hung half-open.