— “And yet, is not life simply music played
— — — by some cruel, though gifted, artist?
— “For death can be naught else
— — — save the culmination of a magnificent, rushing finale.
— “What then, oh Gresham, of the encore?”
The heavy curtains were lowering slowly between the still-motionless orator and the audience – now shaking the foundations of the theater with thunderous applause.
Antonio permitted a smile to touch his face as the curtain reached the stage separating the still-clapping audience from the two actors onstage. The prone form of Hancock, alias Gresham, lay as one in the sleep of death, a knife protruded from his back, opposite the heart. Blood soaked clothes hung from the limp form.
Antonio felt reluctant to stir from his position above the body. He could still sense the tingle of the air that lingered from the performance. He knew that any movement, though inevitable, would break the spell and cast him from the world of fantasy and romance to the cold life of the real world.
Finally, Hancock opened one eye, then two, in a manner unlike that of one awakening, for the eyes said that the death was merely a pretense, and that the actor was conscious at all times of his surroundings.
Hancock rolled over and sat up smiling as he reached behind him to remove the stage knite. “We really brought the house down, didn’t we kid?”
It was Antonio who looked like one startled from sleep. “Wha? Oh. Yes. Yes, we did.”
Antonio thought of his portrayal of Tureq, knowing that he had done it as well as he had ever seen it done – and he had watched all the greats. He smiled, again. “Yes, we certainly did,” he said softly.