I am only an actor
Imagined from the ending of the novel ‘Mephisto’ by Klaus Mann
He said his name was Robinson, the stranger in a suit that looked as if it had never been in a pub before, never been near a scruffy out of work actor like me. But for some reason this man whom the suit was allowing to occupy it seemed intent on striking up a conversation.
I had been sitting alone with yet another pint consoling myself for yet another failed audition, and didn’t want to talk. He showed me his card:
“John Robinson, Importer of fine Wines” Yeah!
Was he gay? Was I giving out the wrong vibes? Truth is my ears are rather prominent. A bit of a turn off for directors casting a romantic lead, hence the long hair..
In his role as importer of fine wines, he said, he was sometimes called upon to undertake small tasks for ‘the palace’. Oh really? The prince, he said, sometimes needed a stand in. Just someone to do the regal wave and smile when he might have to dash off through the back entrance to some other important engagement.
“You”, he said, after insisting on buying me another pint, “have been recommended to me. You must be aware of your remarkable likeness to his Highness. Given the right haircut, and the right clothes and with your undoubted acting talent, you would certainly pass muster.” How did he know I was an actor? All suspicions sank under the visions of Bond Street haircuts and Saville Row suits, silk ties and shirts from Asser and Turnbull! And expenses? Of course! He named a price that made my eyes water, and I agreed.
I never saw “Mr. Robinson” again.
Turned out I was needed far more often than he had hinted. The prince, it seemed, had a great many urgent other appointments to attend. And it worked. I rather enjoyed my new role, though I did have to buy a wig for everyday to avoid the questions and mockery of my friends.
The first time I had to walk beside the Princess and ride with her in the limousine was truly terrifying. Surely she was going to denounce me, scream even. But no, she walked graciously beside me, keeping her distance and sat silently apart in the car, staring out of the window. She must have known surely? I longed for that beautiful woman to look at me, to speak to me, but she never did.
I rented a better flat, and for the first time I didn’t have to share. I could afford good clothes, my taste not his, theatres, opera, concerts – in the audience! I got comfortably accustomed to being at the beck and call of the Palace, but then suddenly it all came to an end. I had a visit at home from two more suits, big men with shoulders, and not nearly as charming as Mr. Robinson. They had a paper for me to sign – a non disclosure agreement that I would not talk about my connection with the palace, and a very generous cheque.
The divorce must have been on the cards by then of course. Nothing must be said about those important other engagements.
I grew my hair again and with my silence money bought a share in a market stall in the Portobello Road. We sell mainly retro stuff, ornaments, household stuff and clothes – the sort of clothes Mr. Robinson and his pals wouldn’t be seen dead in. I love it. And I have kept my word until long after there were no secrets left to keep,
Why am I telling you now? Because it affected me so when she died, the princess. There is a sore patch that I don’t want to touch: a ghost of grief there at the back of my mind. Like the rest of the world I was stunned by her death but also there was another heavier sadness that I, albeit unknowingly, had a share in the blame for the destruction of that beautiful woman.
But after all I was only playing a part. I was only an actor.