fine as a public amenity, was not exactly a temple to art. It housed a variety of offices and workshops, a rather grungy café and a huge conference hall, used during the week for committee meetings and on weekends either for the depressing evenings put on to entertain the old-age pensioners who lived near by or for noisy dances, attended by the older representatives of the local youth and usually ending in drunken brawls. In short, it wasn’t the most attractive locale; for me, with my aspirations, it was an affront, an outrage to my artistic soul. But perhaps it was the only possibility: at that hour theatres would be getting ready for evening performances and perhaps weren’t available. Or so, at least, I told myself. A pity, of course: it would have been nice if such a pleasant ceremony could have been held in one of the temples at which I worshipped. Oh, well, I consoled myself, it’s not all that important; no point in worrying about it.
But the sight that met our eyes when we arrived on Sunday turned my muffled resentment into serious anxiety. We seemed to have blundered into some kind of horrific nightmare.
The famous conference hall was done up as if for a carnival. On stage a bunch of teddy boys, members of a rock group idolised by the local youth and rejoicing in the name of The Firecats, were feverishly milling about. They all wore the high-heeled boots favoured by The Beatles, tight, narrow trousers and short jackets beneath which hideous folds of ruffled cloth could be seen, drooping unattractively. Thus attired, they were fussing about hooking up the cables to their electric guitars, tuning the converted radios that served as their amps and endlessly trying out the microphone with hoarse rumbles of ‘testing, one-two-three’, an activity which produced fearful whistles and caused the window panes to vibrate alarmingly.
Then there was the public. It was the most bizarre and fantastic assortment of people ever gathered in one room. The first few rows were filled by pensioners from the nearby Home of Tranquil Old Age. Behind them and on benches to the side sat the competitors, surrounded by numerous relatives, and representatives of various schools, come no doubt to cheer on their friends and make as much commotion as possible. The back of the hall was reserved for the rabble: overgrown students from technical schools, soldiers on leave and gangs of excitable teenagers, alert to every opportunity for dubious pleasantries and spoiling for a fight.
It was clear what all this meant: our ceremony had been incorporated into the community centre’s normal programme, an item like any other on its list of activities. And, indeed, to the management it must have seemed providential: for the pensioners a more perfect form of entertainment could not have been devised, and for the rabble it was ideal as the medicinal dose of culture exacted by the Ministry of Education as payment for each rowdy dance.
I looked around desperately for S. and the other members of the jury, hoping that their presence, even if it didn’t raise the standard of the proceedings, might at least lend them some measure of seriousness. But in vain. Prospero, having removed his mantle, had dissolved into thin air.
I did notice another actor, however, a smooth and foppish type best known not for his achievements on stage or screen but for his appearances on television shows of the vilest sort, such as Quiz or Teatime at the Microphone. Dressed in a black suit and shiny black patent-leather shoes, a white drip-dry shirt and a pretentious bow tie, he was nervously fussing about the stage, talking to the organisers and jotting things down in his notebook. Clearly he was to be master of ceremonies.
The thing began. The brilliantined buffoon gave a prancing leap onto the stage, seized the microphone and launched into his act. He postured, strutted and smirked; he gushed; he paid effusive compliments to the audience. It was all in the worst of taste. But the public loved it, and he was applauded.
The order of the proceedings was as follows: the master of ceremonies called the winners up on stage, beginning with the lowest prizes; then, with much consulting of notes, he introduced everyone in the group; finally, modulating his voice like an American television host, he announced each prize and the performance for which it had been awarded. The Firecats’ percussionist crashed out a deafening flourish on his cymbals and drums, the master of ceremonies, having presented the certificate to a member of the group, withdrew, and the prizewinners were left alone to display their artistic skills. When this part of the ritual came to an end, there ensued a musical interlude (a notion familiar to me from another occasion), enthusiastically greeted by the back rows, in the form of some rock’n’roll number by The Firecats.
It was a ghastly spectacle. The most absurd school ceremonies, the most grotesque moments of the Festival of Choirs and Vocal Groups, were nothing compared with this travesty. To call it ludicrous, preposterous, a mockery, a farce, would not do justice to its monumental idiocy. Embarrassment and shame trickled down my back in rivulets of cold sweat.
Where am I? What am I doing here? Why did I let myself in for this? I wailed silently.
And all the while, ineluctably, our turn was drawing closer. I couldn’t decide what to do. Refuse to go on stage? Refuse the award? Refuse to perform? I didn’t dare; it would have made too much of a scene. In the end, I put my faith in the spirit of improvisation.
When the dreaded moment finally came, when the master of ceremonies, having reached the high end of his range of vocal possibilities, called us up on stage, one of my cast, to wit Prometheus, whispered into my ear: ‘You can do what you like, but count us out. We’re not coming.’
‘I’ll take care of everything,’ I said through gritted teeth, like the captain of a sinking ship. ‘You can leave the stage as soon as he’s handed over the certificate.’
We stood there, in the glare of the lights, like a group of condemned men on the way to the scaffold. The master of ceremonies droned on, consulting his notes – some nonsense about the ‘high artistic value’ of our performance. And I was looking at the back rows, where the rabble was, and thinking, They’re sitting there like good little lambs, just waiting for this farce to end so that they can finally have their dance and whoop it up. Just as we waited for the end of the Festival of Choirs. And they’re right: now I’m the thorn in their side, the pathetic creep they have to listen to. As soon as I leave the stage and the public disperses, they’ll clear away the chairs, make a dance-floor and throw themselves into the wild gyrations of some frenetic dance to The Firecats’ music. And that will be their triumph: their ‘No more’.
These lugubrious thoughts suddenly revealed a challenge. No, I decided: I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I wouldn’t let them amuse themselves at my expense. Let them sneer, but not at me. Let them amuse themselves as they please, let them jeer – and quite rightly – at the Festival of Amateur Theatres; but they shall not mock me!
And then it occurred to me that they were the supreme judge here. To bring the thing off in front of people like myself, to win the hearts of the pensioners in the front rows, even, yes, to impress S. himself with my skills – none of that was so very hard. But to subdue the rabble, especially rabble itching for the brutish bacchanalia to come – now that would be an achievement. It was a challenge worth attempting.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ shrieked the master of ceremonies, ‘the winners of this year’s first prize, the Golden Mask! A big hand for them!’ And he hurried offstage.
‘A big hand for the end!’ someone yelled from the back.
With a discreet but authoritative nod I signalled to the cast to leave the stage. Then I took a few steps forward and, shading my eyes dramatically against the lights, commanded with an edge of impatience, ‘Lights, please.’
The old electrician in charge of the lights, whom I knew from the theatre, grasped at once what I wanted. He slowly killed every light but one, a spotlight on my face and the upper half of my body.
Then, in the most ordinary voice
