Strutting and Fretting: chapter seven
Aramis, Porthos decides, looks good in just about anything. Even stupid jogging gear. The swagger helps. Porthos knows he’s supposed to be being a director and watching for stuff and making sure things go smooth and making notes for his actors, but honestly, he’s on holiday. And Aramis is hot, so Porthos is basically just sprawled in the audience, ogling him, instead. Aramis won’t mind a bit.
Sylvie puts a stop to it. She definitely has stage presence. Porthos is definitely writing more for her. She whirls onto stage, takes it by storm. Her voice rings through the yard, across the canal. She’s got such a fierce way of standing, her chin tilted up, pride and fury steaming off her. When she turns to Constance she softens, and with Aramis, too, until her anger breaks over him. So much anger at so many wrongs and hurts.
Porthos sits forwards and listens to her, even though he knows her lines, has seen and heard her do it a hundred times. Athos, at his side, is beaming, eyes glued to Sylvie. She is compelling. She seems to be talking to each person in the audience. She moves almost among them, engages with her fellows on stage, connects with everyone. She turns, hair flying around her, and makes for Constance, embracing her, back trembling, and then she pledges to kill her children.
Constance lifts her, which Porthos had forgotten he’d suggested. A restraining, embracing move, begging her not to, to stay safe in the chorus’s arms. But, no. Sylvie ends up behind Constance, Constance’s head bowed, and the story moves inexorably forward, toward the forgone conclusion. Constance sits back on the boat, muttering to herself, casting Sylvie worried glances while Sylvie argues with Aramis, casting looks up at the sky, talking about Gods whenever the other two break off.
“That’s really good,” Athos murmurs.
Porthos nods. The three of them make it work so well, fitting seamlessly around one another, their characters all with a moral dilemma, all missing each other. Missing the point. The point which is the children, inside the house, invisible, voiceless. Sometimes they speak in the translations, sometimes they don’t. Porthos decided to keep them silent, there only as phantoms, dead before they die.
As the play ends, Porthos gets up and slips away to the table they’ve set up with the slight programmes they printed, just a few with basic info, and the tickets. He doesn’t mention who he is or his part in the show, just stores the compliments to pass on, finding some paper to set up with a pen if people want to write notes. Which some do. When the space is finally clear, he totes up their takings, and sits back.
“Even?” Athos asks, leaning on the table.
“More or less. Most of the cost was covered by favours owed me,” Porthos says. “Enough to make it worthwhile. We have another performance here this evening, then tomorrow we’ll do the curtailed version on the other bank. We shouldn’t be at much of a loss.”
“Any notes, sir?” d’Artagnan says, grinning, bouncing, leaping, springing.
“Nope,” Porthos says. “I forgot to make any. You were all good. Oh, you shouldn’t give in so much, in your scene with Sylvie, though. Don’t be afraid to take up space. Aegeus is a warrior, a mythological one. You need more weight to you. Gotta show the difference between you with Jason, and you with Medea. Status, gender, class.”
“Yeah, I know,” d’Artagnan says, looking dejected.
Porthos flicks through the two pages of comments and passes one to d’Artagnan, which makes him brighten again. It’s a compliment for both his scenes.
“Don’t worry, chick,” Porthos says. “You were great. Just, moreso, tonight. Own it. Where’s Aramis?”
“He and Sylvie were trying to get their makeup off,” d’Artagnan says. “I thought I’d just keep mine.”
Constance comes over and tells him he looks pretty, giggling, and he returns the favour, and they coo at each other for a bit. Until Athos loses patience and shoves himself between them, glowering. Porthos gives them more of the audience’s compliments. He’s about to go looking for Aramis, when Flea comes striding into the courtyard, and he forgets everything but her, leaping up to embrace her, laughing.
“It was good, then?” Flea asks. “I’ll come by tonight, if I can get away.”
“From your students. An Oxford lecturer, my little sister!”
Porthos crows.
“I ain’t your sister, you slept with me more than once that’s weird, and it’s guest lecturer to a summer school with the continued education department,” Flea says, but she’s smiling and proud anyway, so he squashes her to him.
Aramis comes over and rests a hand on Porthos’s shoulder, waiting patiently for Porthos to be done hugging. When Porthos does pull away, Aramis kisses both Flea’s cheeks.
“Congratulations on your lecturing. It’s a Shakespeare summer school?” Aramis says.
“Yes. It’s good, they’re mature students, all really keen to be there. Some are a bit weird, and they’re coming at everything from a critical rather than theatrical perspective, but it’s interesting. You’d like some of them, Porthos, they have weird ideas for adapting Shakespeare,” Flea says.
“We’re going to the pub, after tonight, come along and tell us about it,” Aramis says. “Porthos, I’m gonna grab some lunch and look over things for tonight, then take a nap. Come find me?”
“Yep,” Porthos agrees, turning to accept a kiss. Aramis wanders off. “So? How are you? Have you heard from Charon recently? He’s ignoring my texts because I insulted his boyfriend again. He’s a twat, right? Have you met him? When are you next contracted, because I have something in mind that I’m writing you into? And when are you coming to visit me in London?”
Flea laughs at him, links their arms, and walks him through what she tells him is called Jericho (seems to just be part of the city to him, but if she says it has a name, so be it), to a café for lunch and catching up and gossip. It’s Greek, and they sit in the garden, and it’s so good to see her. Porthos only gives her two hours, though, then he sighs and suggests they go back to their respective jobs. She promises to come to the pub later, then leaves him to walk back alone.
No one’s around, when he gets back to the boat. Just Aramis, spread out on the crossbed, and a note from Athos saying the others had gone to lunch and then planned a bit of a walk. Porthos sits on the bed, and sighs. He’s tired, and there’s a throb from his binder that he’s been ignoring, a bit of a headache he’s pretending doesn’t exist. Aramis sits up, keeping his eyes shut, and fumbles with Porthos until Porthos takes his shirt off, letting Aramis help him out of the binder.
“You shouldn’t wear it when it pains you,” Aramis scolds, gently, with no heat.
“It’s fine,” Porthos says, shortly, kicking off his shoes and lying on his side, pulling a pillow over his head. Then he un-pillows himself and flops over, grinning. “No one’s here.”
“They went to get food and to walk,” Aramis says.
“Mm. Shall we put a sock on the door?”
“A sock? Why on earth- oh! Yes, you romantic bugger. Oh how you woo me, darling.”
Porthos scrambles up and finds a sock. Their sock shenanigans don’t help his headache, but lying spread over the bed afterwards, eyes shut, basking in the sensations still chasing themselves through his body, he doesn’t really give much of a damn about the little tingles and spikes of pain. Aramis notices them somehow anyway, and gets up on his elbows, planted either side of Porthos’s head, and massages his temples until he’s relaxed, humming with each circular rub.
“You should be babying me,” Aramis grumbles. “I did all the hard work, this afternoon. You just ogled my bum.”
“It’s such a beautiful bony bottom, my love,” Porthos murmurs. “Them muscular thighs, that arse, the way you move. You’re lovely and all.”
“Carry on,” Aramis says.
“The curve of your spine, the dip. The energetic grace of you.”
“My arse is energetic and graceful,” Aramis purrs, pleased with the compliment, though that hadn’t exactly been what Porthos meant. Not exactly. Porthos doesn’t mention it.
“Oi! Are you two done yet? I’m bored!” d’Artagnan
shouts, banging on the door.
“We’re naked!” Aramis calls back happily. “Naked and wrestling!”
“Just because we’re doing a Greek play doesn’t mean you have to be so Greek about everything!” Constance calls.
“I think that’s racist,” Aramis says, to Porthos, laughing.
Porthos pulls on his pants and jeans, then hesitates over the binder. Aramis sits up behind him, bracketing him in muscular thighs, and runs fingers over the places the binder leaves marks in his skin. Porthos sighs, but nods, and lets Aramis gets him into a shirt without the binder. It’s not like his breasts are huge. They’re quite small, and he can almost pass without binding. He just hates them. He sits hunched while Aramis gets dressed and lets the others in.
“Are you alright?” Athos asks, making a beeline for him and sitting close.
“Binder was hurting,” Porthos grumbles.
Athos grimaces in sympathy, and a little of the unhappiness lifts from Porthos, he sits a little straighter. Constance comes and sits the other side of Athos, and Porthos leans back, consciously opening up his body language and relaxing. He smiles.
“Ready for tonight?” he asks. “We’ve got a couple of lights, but it’s not fantastic so you’ll have to be aware of that.”
“I had a thought about masks, but I forgot about it till now,” Sylvie says. “That would have been good, in low light. Never mind.”
“It shouldn’t be too dark, it’s still staying light quite late,” d’Artagnan says.
“You did practices in low light,” Constance says. “We’ll be as brilliant as we were this afternoon. Are you going to leave out paper for feedback again? That was nice.”
“Two whole pages,” Porthos says, beaming proudly around at them, his mish mash temporary troupe. “That’s a pretty lot of it, eh?
“The best actors in the world, either for tragedy,
comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,
historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-
comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or
poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor
Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the
liberty, these are the only men.
“And women. Should change that to people,” Porthos says.
“You know that’s a joke, right?” Aramis says, coming over with a plate of sandwiches. “But thank you all the same.”
“What about me? Have I not been indispensible?” Athos says, dry and sarcastic.
“You’ve been great,” Porthos says, seriously. “Selling tickets, sitting with me, typing things for me. Don’t denigrate yourself. Now. d’Artagnan, that scene with Aramis was lovely this afternoon, do that again. You know about the next, with Sylvie, so we’ll pass on. Sylvie, you really brought Medea to life, let’s do that again? And keep that connection with Constance, that’s lovely from both of you. Keep the energy up, and just do what you do best. Afterwards, I will buy you all a pint.”
d’Artagnan cheers, around a mouthful of sandwich, and nearly spits it out laughing at himself. Porthos watches him, later, on stage. He moves differently. He’s always seemed young, but on stage he lets his limbs look long and overgrown, lets himself be a teenager, though with control over his body. An athletic teenager. He later holds his character and his own with Sylvie, keeping the loping gait, the grin, the little quirks of youth, but straightening out his shoulders, carrying himself differently again. A young king, giving way to Medea out of choice and political wisdom.
He glances in the direction of the house, of Jason, as well. As if looking to his ex lover, thinking of him, weighing things up. He includes Jason in his decision to harbour Medea, without speaking a word to say so. Porthos smiles, tapping his thumb against his breastbone as a reminder to compliment d’Artagnan on that, later. After d’Artagnan leaves the stage, Porthos is free to observe Sylvie again. She doesn’t need any notes, so he relaxes. He does pay attention to how her performance is knitting with the overall piece, but otherwise turns his director’s brain off.
Aramis weeps over his dead children, this performance, kneeling there in front of the boat, facing Sylvie. Constance hovers, not daring to approach, and Sylvie looks on in scorn before turning away, refusing him access to his children even in death. She says she’ll take them to the temple, and then she wanders through the audience, as if lost, directionless, into the dim evening, around a corner. Porthos breathes out. He’d had a thought about it, this afternoon, and mentioned something in passing, but he hadn’t expected that, and hadn’t expected the effect of her gait, her pride, her anger, her rightousness. Her sadness, her grief, her guilt. The weight of it all.
He cheers with the rest when they all come to take their bows before climbing into the boat. He stands with the rest, cheers again with the rest until they return and take another bow. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles shrilly with the rest. He’s just an audience member, and he loves it. He stands and tells everyone about his actors, this time, talking about how hard they worked and how brilliant they’ve been to direct. He’s talking to a serious young person when Aramis comes tearing over and leaps onto his back, wrapping around him like an octopus.
“That was so fun,” Aramis says.
“I’m pretty informal, as a director,” Porthos says, to his audience member, who’s laughing at him. “This one is a complete pain and the most difficult man to work with.”
“I’m a wonder to work with, I’m smooth and nice and wonderful,” Aramis says, biting Porthos’s ear.
He yelps and shakes himself loose from Aramis’s arms, and Aramis laughs, bouncing off to bother Athos at the tickets and programmes table. Porthos goes back to his conversation, then moves on to another person, and another, gently guiding them to the exit. He comes across Flea at the table with Athos, and embraces her, a rush of joy at seeing her again filling him to bursting. Athos scrambles up, and Porthos thinks something’s wrong. It’s just Sylvie, though, coming across arm in arm with d’Artagnan, her hair piled on top of her head, smiling widely. Athos hugs her hard enough to lift her off her feet, and showers her in praises before bearing her off to the boat. Constance comes scrambling out a minute later and hurries over.
“They’re socking it,” Constance says. “Pub?”
“Rickity Press?” Flea suggests. “Or the Bookbinders.”
“Jericho Tavern,” d’Artagnan says. Then, when they all look at him. “What? I went to school here, till a-levels. I’m a farmer’s son, we’re posh.”
“Farmers aren’t posh,” Constance says.
“Firmly middle class, we are,” d’Artagnan says. “Jericho Tavern, yes?”
“It’s a nice pub,” Flea admits, arm around Porthos’s waist.
“Can I get a piggy back? I’m tired,” Aramis says.
“Yeah, sure. From d’Art,” Porthos says, shaking Aramis’s hand off his shoulder.
Aramis jumps up anyway, and Porthos carries him willingly enough, indulging him. It won’t hurt, just the once. The weight of him is nice, anyway. Comforting. Warm. Beautiful.
Chapter Eight and Epilogue