Rhombus Denied

By Julian Gallo

Former playwright and current high school drama teacher Dante Russo gets word that his friend and mentor is on his deathbed. Jacques Martre had always been an inspiration to him and over the years they had established a very strong friendship. Knowing that he doesn’t have much time, he travels to Paris to visit his dying friend. Jacques leaves Dante something special - an original manuscript of a play called Rhombus Denied - a production that had always caused near riots whenever it was attempted to be performed and had the distinction of never being performed in it’s entirety because of that. Along with the blessing of Jacques’s wife Margot, Dante returns to New York with the idea of putting on the play and getting back into what was always his first true love - the theater. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beat Corrida
• Release date: Jan 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507096703

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

Why should I care about posterity? What’s

posterity ever done for me?

Groucho Marx

zurich

April 24 1956

Jacques Marte knew something was wrong as soon as he saw the shoe sail towards the stage from the back row. Abuscheulichkeit! came the shout, which seemed to linger in the theater just as the shoe struck the lead actress on the side of the head. It struck Margot hard, and one could almost hear the slap of the sole against her skull. Immediately all the actors turned towards the audience, each shielding their eyes from the bright klieg lights to identify the perpetrator. Widerwärtig! came the same voice from the back of the intimate theater. Die schauspelerin is eine hure!

Then Margot saw him, just as the slight man in the blonde hair, round spectacles and bushy mustache stepped into the aisle, one foot secure in his shoe, the other exposing an argyle sock, half rolled down towards his ankle. He looked like a steam cooker ready to blow.

Das ist! Margot shouted from the stage. "Deine mutter saugte meine muschi!"

At first the irate man didn’t move as the echo of what Margot said slowly faded over the stunned audience. Slowly, his mouth dropped open, pushed his head forward on his long, spindly neck.

From the side of the stage Jacques covered his mouth, caught between complete shock and hysterical laughter. Margot had always been something of a firecracker, often shooting her mouth off and getting herself - and everyone else - in trouble. But the little man deserved it, he thought, and he just stood there, deciding not to interfere. He turned his gaze towards the man in the aisle, whose head now shook back and forth, as if caught in the throes of an epileptic fit, his teeth gnashing below his bushy blonde mustache.

The man didn’t say another word and charged the stage, his gait a hilarious limp as the sound of his one shoe clunked against the wooden floor. A few of the audience members jumped up and grabbed hold of him, struggled to keep him from tearing Margot to pieces. Ich werde dich töten, du tochter eine hure!

Margot stepped to the front of the stage, spread her arms, challenged the man to make good on his threat. The rest of the cast took hold of Margot and dragged her off the stage. She fought against them, shouting at the man, cursing him in French this time as the murmur from the audience turned into a full fledged din of shouts and hollers. That’s when another shoe flew through the air, hitting Margot’s colleague Marc on the side of the face. He immediately went down, his hand caressing his jaw.

Jacques ran out from the side of the stage shouting for everyone to keep calm but by now it was raining shoes, sometimes hitting him but most hitting the small stage with a dull thud. Mayhem ensued and the entire cast made a hasty retreat, leaving behind the sets, the costumes, and most of their personal belongings.

As they fled down the street towards their hotel Jacques couldn’t help but wonder what it was about his new play that provoked such a crazed reaction from people. This was the third time it happened. When it debuted in Paris, half way through the play the audience began to heckle the actors, then started throwing things. On the second night, the same thing happened, at just about the same point of the play. Now in Zurich, which never would have happened had it not been for a close friend of Jacques who had moved back to his home city after living in Paris for nearly a decade. In a way he was horrified by the reaction but in another way he enjoyed every moment of it. He had always been something of an infant terrible of the avant-garde Parisian theater scene. His reputation loomed large in the eyes of many who thought he was nothing but a philistine, a crank, a prankster, a lone survivor from the long dead days of Dada. 

Meanwhile, inside the theater, things got worse. The audience had taken over the stage, trashed the sets and tore up the stage curtains while the rest circled around looking for their thrown shoes. By the time the police arrived, the cast were safe inside Jacques hotel room and the angry man, who’s identity was never known, had been dragged out of the theater and made his getaway, hobbling away from the theater wearing only one shoe.

New York City

Present Day

I got the call in the middle of the night. I hate it whenever the phone rings in the middle of the night because, if not a wrong number, it can only mean bad news. Well, it was bad news. Margot Martre, who I haven’t heard from in ages, called to inform me that Jacques was not well and it was only a matter of time. The mere mention of his name brought back a flood of memories. I hadn’t seen or heard from Jacques in years, since he left New York to return to Paris. The last I saw him he was as rebellious and as spritely as ever, full of ideas, still pissing everyone off. He was always a great friend to me, as well as a mentor. It was Jacques that made me appreciate the more, let’s say, experimental possibilities of the theater. He wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, of course, but he had his admirers, those who tired of the stuffiness of some theater productions and those who utterly loathe what Broadway has become - these bombastic, garish, musicals with the same sensibilities I remember seeing in my high school theater group. There are some exceptions, of course. No, Jacques was from a different time, different place, different world. Virtually unknown by today’s theater establishment (almost a non-existent blip on the radar here in America) but those who loved experimental theater, those who came up with folks like Julian Beck and their ilk always appreciated him. Granted, sometimes he’d do things more as shock value than anything else but even within those parameters he often had something interesting to say.

God, all those years ago...

Margot says it looked as if he didn’t have much longer. He’s still conscious, she says, still somewhat alert, but it’s clear that he’s fading fast. Upon hearing the news I knew I had to go to Paris to see him and told Margot as much although she tried to dissuade me from taking the trip. You may not get here in time, she said but I said that was of no consequence. If I were too late, at least I could be there for his funeral, pay my respects. After all he’d been to me, it’s the least I could do.

Julia doesn’t know yet - she’s still asleep (nor did the phone awaken her) but I’m sure she’s not going to be thrilled with the prospect of me leaving for Paris for a couple of days. But she’d be understanding. She never met Jacques but she’s heard me talk about him incessantly over the years. The stories I’ve told her... It would be great if she could come with me but that fucking job of hers...

How did we both end up with the lives we have?

––––––––

I told Julia about Jacques and being the beautiful creature that she is understood and insisted that I go on line and book my flight to Paris. Naturally, she can’t come with me - work - that fucking job of hers that keeps her away all hours of the day and night. Sometimes it amazes me to see her so willing to give that job her all. When we first met, the last thing in the world I would have ever expected her to enjoy would be the world of high finance. But it’s allowed us to have a good, comfortable life because Lord knows my salary would barely allow me to survive in New York these days had I not been married to such a successful woman as Julia. However, it sort of saddens me to see how her dreams of working in the theater disappeared like a puff of smoke once she started earning some serious money working at that firm. No one’s interested in a woman my age, she told me. You know as well as I that the younger you are, the better your chances. I didn’t accept that, of course. Are all productions made up of young people? Well, perhaps they are but there is a need for older actors, aren’t there? Perhaps she became discouraged. Over the years I could see that her heart wasn’t in it anymore.

But I’m the one who should talk. My acting days came to an end years ago. I too felt the sting of age descend upon me at one point and felt a little ridiculous doing some of the work I was doing at the time. I thought my talents and experience would be better served being a playwright (although that didn’t pan out too well) or perhaps directing or producing productions (which worked out much better). But I, like most of New York’s creative community, have to have a day gig in order to pay the bills - and as anyone living in this fair city knows, a teaching gig doesn’t exactly have one swimming in money. From acting to teaching theater to a bunch of starry eyed, naïve, dopey kids at a city high school. Talk about crushed dreams...

At any rate, the trip is booked (and quite expensive, I may add) and I leave for Paris on the 26th. I’ll call Margot later to let her know that I’m coming. It’s going to be nice to see Paris again, although it would be much better had Julia been able to accompany me - but the world of finance doesn’t care about an obscure, old Parisian playwright. Sad, really.

––––––––

Been going through this box I keep in my bedroom closet. It’s full of keepsakes from the theater days: old passes, tickets, programs, reviews, etc. People weren’t so different back in the 1980s as they are today, were they? I mean, today, you log on to the internet and it’s full of complaints, rages, spews, acid and bile whenever anyone dares makes at attempt at trying to create something beautiful. Okay, beautiful may not be the right word to describe the kind of work I used to do but I think you get the idea. Reading over some of these reviews - written not by known theater critics, mind you, but by some pimple faced staff writers from the local newspapers, culture pages and theater zines (they actually had these?). I seem to remember the work I did and the productions I was involved with going over rather well but you’d never know it from these cretins. One of the most boring, incoherent pieces of shit I’d ever seen read one of them, written by a guy named Kale Forbes in the East Village Chronicle. (That periodical no longer exists but it was a huge deal in the early/mid 1980s). You’d have to expect snarky bullshit from someone with the name Kale. The review went on to specifically criticize me more than anyone else in the cast, although they too felt the righteous justice of our friend Kale here. Dante Russo’s performance was wooden, listless, like a kid just out of his high school theater class... Looking at his photo next to the byline - he reminds me of those dopey hipsters you see running around New York these days. Same smug expression, same big glasses, only his hair is more 80s, sort of that poofy, Ralph Macchio-esque quaff you usually saw back then. Kale Forbes. I wonder if he ever amounted to anything. I have to remind myself to Google him later to see if he’s still around causing trouble.

Anyway, that particular production, Ice Limbs, was written by a good friend of mine at the time who