CHAPTER FIVE

FIVE
David Belasco was probably as close a friend
as I have ever had among mortals. He was also my
theater mentor. What I learned from him about make
up, lighting, casting, the whole schlemiel, changed
my existence. He was probably the greatest genius in
American theater to date – playwright, impresario,
designer, theater owner, actor, director, producer – or
what was called a manager in his day.

Theater buffs know his name, as do opera buffs
– his plays “Madame Butterfly” and “Girl of the Golden
West” having been adapted by Puccini. The general
public has little knowledge of him. Audiences enter
the Belasco and most have no idea that it is named
after the consummate man of the theater. To some
degree that may be my fault.
Myth is as good as or better than truth when it
comes to reputations or recollections. So, when David
died, I decided to become his ghost. With my speed,
and my knowledge of the use of shadows, it was an
easy legend to construct.
I would make myself up to look like a
preternaturally pale David Belasco. Then, having
observed rehearsals and knowing the blocking, I
would choose one player and “appear” to him or her
just off stage at a point in the action where my chosen target was the only person who could possibly see me.
I would do this during rehearsals. Choosing the right actor to frighten was enough to revive the legend with each new show. Once my ghostly presence was a hot topic among the cast, I would make some flitting appearances in the balcony or loge so that more cast members got a glimpse. Then I would make three or four appearances to my original mark while he or she was performing before an audience. Spotting David Belasco’s ghost and carrying on the business of drama became a badge of courage, a status symbol.
Soon, the ghosts of others were being reported to appear in the Belasco. Let me tell you something right now. Vampires are real. Ghosts are not. Edwin Booth became a popular ghost for serious male thespians. To my knowledge, Booth never played the current Belasco Theater. (Before moving his casting couch to 44th Street, David opened the first Belasco Theater on 42nd Street. It went through various incarnations, including a porno theater, and now is the New Victory and caters to families by importing various children’s theatrical fare from far and wide.)
Actresses, not to be left out, reported appearances of a variety of deceased women stars. The actress “witnessing” the ethereal visitations usually had hair color in common with the “ghost”.
According to Broadway lore, David’s ghost stopped appearing after a production of “Oh, Calcutta!” The truth is, I left town for over twenty years.
Backstage is not immune to my haunting. Stage hands tend to be as superstitious, if not more so, than the players. Visual confirmation is not required. All it takes is a quick brush of fabric, a breeze through the curtain when all doors are closed, or a breath on the back of the neck, to bring David back into existence. Backstage was my target this evening.
“What the hell was that?” asked a beefy member of Local One.
“What was what?” said Jack, the assistant company manger.
“I just felt something touching me.”
“Touching you where?”
“The back of my shoulders. . . What the hell? There it is again.”
“Probably the ghost.”
“You mean Belasco’s ghost?”
“So they say.”
“No wonder this theater never has a hit – a freakin’ ghost. I heard about it before. Anyway, I’m outta here.”
Jack checked his watch.
“You were out of here five minutes ago.”
“Yeah yeah. Don’t sweat it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There was time to kill before my evening meal. People are much easier to kill than time. Dawdling, or ruminating on the foibles of my foodstuff, heightens the element of time. It passes. I remain.
I prowled the building from top to bottom. David’s old penthouse was musty and dusty and dark. Once it was glorious and idiosyncratic – a showman’s shrine to himself. How times change, while time remains the same.