The Beekeeper's Apprentice - Laurie R. King [123]
He carefully inserted the papers and photographs back into their oversized envelope and stood looking down at me.
“Well, Russell. Thank you for showing me Palestine. It may be a long, long time before we are able to speak freely. I shall say good night, and good-bye, and we will meet when the prey takes the bait and comes into our trap.” His lips gently brushed my forehead, and he was gone.
hus began our act of alienation. Holmes and I had only a few days to perfect our rôles of the two friends now turned against each other, the father and daughter alienated, the near-lovers become bitterest, most implacable of enemies. It takes time to develop a part, as all actors know, time and an exploration of the nuances and quirks of the person being played. We had to be word-perfect before we reached England for the trap to be effective. We had to assume that we were being watched at every moment, and a slight slip of affection could be disastrous.
It is a truism of the actor’s art that one can play only oneself on the stage. To be fully effective the actor must have a sympathy for the character’s motives, however unsympathetic they might appear to an outsider. To a large extent, the actor must become the character if the act is to be effective, and that is what Holmes and I did. From the time we rose in the morning we did not play enemies, we were enemies. When we met it was with icy politeness that rapidly disintegrated into vicious attacks. I grew into the rôle of the young student who had come to view her old teacher with withering scorn. Holmes responded with malevolent counterattacks and the full strength of his razor-sharp sarcasm. We cut each other with our tongues and bled and crawled off to the sanctuary of our individual cabins and came back for more.
The first day was technically difficult, keeping up the persona in front of my real face, continually thinking, What might I do at this point if I really were this way? and How ought I respond to that? It was exhausting, and I went to bed early. The second day it quickly became easier. Holmes never looked out from behind his mask, and mine too was now firmly in place. I went to my room early to read but found it difficult to concentrate. My mind wandered off. What on earth was I doing here? I ought to be in Oxford, not on this boat. I had no business taking off this time of year. Even basic work was impossible in this bat-tleground. Perhaps the captain might let me off in France and I could take the train home. Probably be faster, and certainly more restful. I wonder—
I jerked to attention, horrified. These were not the thoughts of an actor; this was the character thinking. I had become, for a moment, the person I had played throughout the day. I sat appalled at the im-plications: If this could happen after less than forty-eight hours of play-acting, what would happen after days and weeks of it? Would I be able to shut it off at will? Or, my God, would it become a habit too firm to break? “For what will it profit a man, if he gains the whole world and forfeits his life?” Wouldn’t a nice clean bomb be better than losing Holmes? A malevolent voice seemed to murmur beneath the engine throb.
“If I forget thee, Jerusalem, may my right hand lose its cunning.” I went out into the common room for some brandy, and Holmes passed me silently as he went into his room. I stood in the dark, looking out at the black sea until the glass was empty, and went back to the hall-way. Holmes had left his door slightly ajar, and my steps slowed. I stopped and let my shoulder and head come to rest against the wall, not looking in at the segment of his room that was available to my eyes.
“Holmes?”
“Yes, Russell.”
“Holmes, when you have acted a part for some days, do you find it hard to drop it?”
“It can be difficult to shake off a part, yes.” His voice was calm, conversational. “When I spent a week working on the docks on a case many years ago, the day after the man was arrested I dressed and went out at the usual time, and