to mention. And in any case,’ he said, suddenly changing the subject, ‘why is there no Polish literature represented here? This is a Polish school, after all.’
‘This is a selection from the greatest works in the history of drama –’ I began, but the Tapeworm cut me off in mid-flow and said, in tones of heavy sarcasm, ‘Ah. So you consider, I take it, that our own literature has no drama worthy of note. Mickiewicz, Slowacki, Krasinski – for you they’re small fry, third-rate, second-rate at best . . .?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ I replied. This was an easy thrust to parry. ‘Nevertheless, on the other hand, you must admit that the works of Aeschylus, Shakespeare, Molière and Goethe are performed the world over, while our own classics tend to be appreciated mainly on their home ground.’
‘That’s right – “Exalting the foreign, dismissing your own”, as the saying goes,’ he mocked.
‘Strictly speaking, it’s not a saying; it’s from a poem by Stanislaw Jachowicz, another of our great poets. You know, the one who wrote, “Poor pussy was ill and lying in bed”,’ I supplied helpfully. ‘I’m sure you know it . . .’
‘All right, that’s enough, Mr Know-it-all,’ snapped the Tapeworm, cutting off my show of erudition. ‘Do you realise your attitude is a typical example of “cosmopolitanism”? You know what that means, don’t you?’
‘It means “citizenship of the world”.’
‘No,’ said the deputy headmaster. ‘It means indifference to or even contempt for one’s own culture and traditions. You worship the West; it’s a form of idolatry.’
‘The West?’ I repeated, feigning surprise. ‘As far as I know, Greece, especially before Christ—’
But the Tapeworm didn’t let me finish. ‘It’s a curious thing,’ he said, ‘that in your script you have also omitted Chekhov, Gogol and Tolstoy. Why this strange oversight? You surely don’t intend to claim that their plays are produced only in Russia – I mean, in the Soviet Union. Or do you?’
I could see that further discussion was fruitless. ‘So, what’s the decision?’ I asked. ‘Can we do it or not?’
‘Not as it is, no. Not unless you incorporate the changes I’ve suggested.’
‘I’ll have to think about that,’ I said diplomatically; inwardly I made a gesture expressive of what he could do with his changes and snarled, Not on your life, you bastard.
Insulting the Tapeworm, especially in one’s imagination, was no great feat. Finding a solution was harder. After all the months of rehearsals, after all our hopes and dreams, I couldn’t bring myself to tell the cast about the deputy headmaster’s decision. Yet concealing it, playing for time and making promises I couldn’t keep, was also out of the question.
With nothing more to lose, I made my way, that very afternoon, to the offices of the Warsaw section of the Amateur and School Theatrical Events Board, housed in one of the city’s theatres. I went there intending to enter our play in the competition; but I did not do so lightly. The idea was tempting: to participate in the festival organised by the Board, the most prestigious event of its kind, and at the same time to defy the Tapeworm – but what if it ended in disgrace? What then? Our experience of the stage was very slight; never having faced a live audience, we did not know how we would react. Would stage-fright paralyse us? Would we forget our lines? How would we cope with the unexpected? The idea of making a hash of it was terrifying. And then the competition itself was another unknown factor: perhaps, regardless of how well we acted, our compilation would seem puerile or, worse, boring, or simply ludicrous in its tragic intensity. Failure in these circumstances meant utter humiliation. I felt I was taking an enormous risk.
A sleepy calm reigned in the festival offices. Behind the desk a young secretary sat languidly painting her nails.
‘I’d like to enter our group in this year’s competition,’ I said, a touch uncertainly.
‘On whose behalf?’ inquired the secretary, without looking up from the task on which her attention was bent.
‘What do you mean, on whose behalf?’ I asked, surprised. ‘On my behalf. I mean, on behalf of the group I represent.’
She looked me up and down. ‘You don’t look like a teacher or an instructor to me.’ She returned to her nails.
‘And indeed I’m not – neither one nor the other,’ I admitted, with a pretence of chagrin. ‘Does that mean I can’t enter our group?’
‘The deadline’s passed,’ she replied, noncommittal.
Something in my heart contracted in a spasm of dismay, yet I felt a kind of relief. I’d tried and failed, and perhaps it was for the best. My prospects of victor’s laurels had vanished, but so had the spectre of shame and defeat.
‘The deadline’s passed . . .’ I repeated dully, like an echo. ‘Do you mind telling me when?’
‘At noon today,’ she announced, exuding false regret.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past three.
‘I had classes until two . . .’ I said, as if debating with myself.
She spread her hands in a helpless gesture, taking the opportunity as she did so to inspect the results of her work. ‘You should have come yesterday.’
‘Oh, well,’ I muttered, and began to shuffle about resignedly, preparing to leave. But at that moment the door opened, admitting none other than S. – one of the most popular actors of the day – himself, in person. The secretary leapt up to greet him with an ingratiating smile.
S. had distinguished himself not only on stage but also as something of a character: he was known to be moody and capricious, and was generally considered a fascinating personality. Anecdotes about him abounded: how difficult he was to work with, how he would play practical jokes on his fellow actors on stage and yet take pains to make himself agreeable to the theatre staff and, particularly, to his fans. His self-absorption and delusions of grandeur were legendary; his disingenuousness, his transparent attempts to cloak these weaknesses in a veil of false modesty and to portray himself as a timid naïf, were an ever-reliable source of amusement. He craved applause and admiration, and liked to be surrounded by young people, who could be relied upon to provide both; he taught at the drama school and patronised a variety of theatrical events, the festival among them. His latest triumph had been as Prospero in The Tempest, a production for which tickets had been sold out weeks in advance. I had managed to see it several times, and knew it almost by heart.
Now, as he strode in with an arch ‘Buon giorno, cara mia’ for the secretary, I was seeing him close up for the first time. For a moment I was all but struck dumb with the thrill. But when he magnanimously offered me his hand and with his typical disingenuousness hastened to introduce himself, I recovered my wits and hazarded a gambit in which I suddenly perceived the glimmer of a chance: I addressed him in the words of Ariel:
All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding task
