IN THE PLACE THEY had made for him in the chorus at the Lyceum, with twelve singers to his left and eleven to his right, Zachary stood in the red glow of lights that cast fire over a great painted backdrop of London. Its monuments were shattered, its walls breached.
In front of him, at center stage, the new Interlocutor spoke to the audience in a deep voice modeled on Zachary’s father’s. Staring at the man’s back, seeing him silhouetted in the red light, Zachary believed that it really could be his father. He tried to make it true by force of will. He did not want to imagine it was impossible. His father had vanished and left no body behind, like an illusionist or a saint.
But every time the new Interlocutor spoke, Zachary knew his father was gone. “And so, ladies and gentlemen, for this our final number tonight, we remember all those who have perished in this beloved city of ours, the city of mankind. And we remember that there is another city, both identical to ours and superordinate to it, where death has no dominion.”
The chorus began the hymn, and Zachary joined in as best he could. As they sang, the floodlights brightened, and in their soft glow a new backdrop was revealed: London, rebuilt and restored—but more than that. Every spire was taller, every bridge broader, each old familiar landmark improved. As the red floods brightened they were no longer flames but the glow of the sunrise. Yellow and white lights joined the red, until eternal London shone in the full light of day. As the singers threw back their heads to raise the final chorus, the audience rose to its feet. Zachary felt nothing, except perhaps a dull surprise that they bought it.
When the curtain came down, the manager took him aside. They stood in the wings while from the auditorium came the muttering, shuffling sound of the audience departing.
“You winning, big man?” said the manager.
Zachary smiled. “Sure.”
“Because from where I stood, I had twenty-three souls in my chorus, and then I had you.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”
“You do that. Happy Negroes, that’s what we serve here. One sad coon in my chorus, it’s a hole in my bucket. All the magic leaks away, you know?”
Zachary shrugged. “Maybe I can take a break.”
“And do what? So long as you’re for sleeping in my basement, I’m for getting some work in return.”
“I could play piano in the interval.”
“With that long face? I’d sooner give the gig to a German.”
“I could bus the tables, then.”
The manager gave a weary look. “I’ve got forty kids queuing up for that chorus. I’d just as soon take you off it, but all my players would say ‘Give the boy a slot, you owe it to his father.’ And before I know it I’ve traded one sad face for nine. So come on, why won’t you sing?”
Zachary shrugged again and said nothing.
“You shy? Because you’ve got a nice voice. I wouldn’t march you down to Parlophone to cut a disc, but I wouldn’t pour lead in my ears either.”
“It isn’t that.”
“What, then? This is your break. You’d rather the street?”
Zachary hung his head. “I’d rather something.”
The manager laughed. “Think if you hold out long enough I’ll open up my other box of jobs for Negroes who can’t write their name? What is it you’re holding out for? Pope, or prime minister?”
Zachary said nothing, and finally the manager sighed. “All right, bus my tables, then. Collect the tips and good luck to you, but the job doesn’t pay. Sleep in my basement, but if you want a wage then you’ll damn well sing in my show. Got that?”
Zachary nodded.
Afterward, when the players were gone, Zachary lit a candle and went down alone to the basement. He sat with a metal basin between his knees and a mirror propped against the wall at the end of the bench. With a cloth and cold water he scrubbed off the white greasepaint lips and the white rings around his eyes.
He clasped his hands. “Sorry, Dad.”
There was no answer, though he listened for one in the silence.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Nothing. The darkness in the basement was frightening. It scuttled and knocked. A month had not cured him of the fear of it. He curled up under drapes in the corner, but sleep would not come.
“Are you there?” he said in the lowest voice he could.
He waited. His candle seemed to flicker, and perhaps this meant that his father was there.
“I don’t know what to do.”
In the silence, in the endless underground night, the candle flame seemed to be steadier. Perhaps his father meant that he ought to be steady too. Zachary squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the drapes tight against the dark.
January, 1941