for Martin.
As soon as they walked through the door, Will could hear actors repeating the lines he had long since committed to memory. He didn’t think he would ever tire of it. There was a chance the play would only last a few nights, that everyone would hate it, that nobody would ever again stage any other play he wrote, but for now he was pleased and proud. That pride was an unexpected sensation, fluttering inside some dusty and forgotten part of his chest.
“Oh,” Martin said, a little sound that was hardly more than an exhalation. They had just reached the corner of backstage where they could see the backs of the actors and an expanse of empty seats beyond.
“The woman in the red gown is supposed to be Cecile, the widow,” Will whispered. “The man in black is the wicked uncle, and he’s—”
“I know who they are,” Martin whispered back. “I recognize the lines. I just didn’t realize how big this theater is.”
“It seats three thousand,” Will said, a wave of nausea passing through him as it always did when he contemplated three thousand people watching his play. Hartley had been in agonies for weeks, but Will hadn’t quite caught up until opening night was excruciatingly near at hand.
“I’ve never been to the theater,” Martin said.
“What?” Will asked, loudly enough that one of the stagehands shot him a dirty look. Then, softer, “Your father did take you to London a few times. I remember it.”
“I was always too ill to accompany him to the theater. Or, at least he told me I was. I’m not certain.”
Sometimes Martin would allude so casually to his father’s mistreatment of him that Will would momentarily wonder whether Martin knew the gravity of what he was saying. But now he glanced over at his friend and saw the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes. He squeezed Martin’s arm.
“I know,” Martin said, not turning his head. “You’d feed him to wolves.” One corner of his mouth quirked up in the beginnings of a smile.
“Wolves are too good for him.”
When the manager called for a rest, one of the actresses noticed Will standing there, and the next quarter hour was spent in a flurry of introductions and explanations. Martin was fascinated by the Argand lamps and the hanging transparencies, awed by the enormous chandelier that hung over the stage, but flustered and embarrassed while meeting the members of the cast and crew who came up to Will. Martin was always a bit aloof with strangers, though. In fact, he was aloof with almost everyone. It was easy for Will to forget, because Martin wasn’t like that with him. And it was even easier to forget when Martin was dressed fashionably; the price of his clothes somehow transformed his stiltedness into something that passed for snobbery.
“Just say that you’re very much looking forward to seeing the play opening night,” Will whispered. “And say you’re honored to visit backstage and everything is so interesting.”
Martin flushed. “Is it so obvious that I’m terrible at this?”
“It would be a miracle if you were otherwise, Martin. Do you want to leave?”
“No. I do find all of this very interesting.”
“I’m glad. Oh, here’s Madame Bisset. She plays the dowager countess.”
“William,” said an older woman in full stage makeup and a heavy French accent, kissing Will on both cheeks. She proceeded to speak animatedly to Will, too quickly for Martin to understand. Occasionally she cast a curious glance in Martin’s direction, before eventually turning to him and speaking in rapid French.
“She’s saying that she very much enjoyed your translation of the play and sent it to her son, who manages a theater in Paris. If he wishes to stage it, she’ll take twenty—” he broke off, switching to French to hold a conversation with the lady “—she’ll take ten percent as a fee.”
“I only did it to occupy myself,” Martin said when they found seats in the pit to watch the next act.
“If you fancy translating things,” Will said, trying to keep his voice casual, “you’d do even better to translate French novels into English. Remember Jonathan York who visited us in Sussex? His father is a publisher, and the lady who used to do translations for him left for Canada. He’d probably pay a few pounds a book.” Will had been thinking along those lines since he saw Martin’s careful translation of the play. Nobody grew rich as a translator. It probably wouldn’t even pay enough to keep Martin