Page 430 - A Little Life: A Novel

leaving a house in St. Louis that had been owned by the father’s family for
generations, but which they could no longer afford to maintain. But instead
of a set, they had staged the play on one floor of a dilapidated brownstone

in Harlem, and the audience had been allowed to wander between the rooms
as long as they remained outside a roped-off area; depending on where you
stood to watch, you saw the actors, and the space itself, from different
perspectives. He had played the eldest, most damaged son, and had spent
most of the first act mute and in the dining room, wrapping dishes in pieces
of newspaper. He had developed a nervous tic for the son, who couldn’t
imagine leaving his childhood house, and as the character’s parents fought

in the living room, he would put down the plates and press himself into the
far corner of the dining room near the kitchen and peel off the wallpaper in
shreds. Although most of that act took place in the living room, there would
always be a few audience members who would remain in his room,
watching him, watching him scraping off the paper—a blue so dark it was
almost black, and printed with pale pink cabbage roses—and rolling it

between his fingers and dropping it to the floor, so that every night, one
corner would become littered with little cigars of wallpaper, as if he were a
mouse inexpertly building its tiny nest. It had been an exhausting play, but
he had loved it: the intimacy of the audience, the unlikeliness of the stage,
the small, detailed physicality of the role.
This production felt very much like that play. The house, a Gilded Age
mansion on the Hudson, was grand but creaky and shabby—the kind of

house his ex-girlfriend Philippa had once imagined they’d live in when they
were married and ancient—and the director used only three rooms: the
dining room, the living room, and the sunporch. Instead of an audience,
they had the crew, who followed them as they moved through the space.
But although he relished the work, part of him also recognized that Uncle
Vanya was not exactly the most helpful thing he could be doing at the

moment. On set, he was Dr. Astrov, but once he was back at Greene Street,
he was Sonya, and Sonya—as much as he loved the play and always had, as
much as he loved and pitied poor Sonya herself—was not a role he had ever
thought he might perform, under any circumstance. When he had told the
others about the film, JB had said, “So it’s a gender-blind cast, then,” and
he’d said, “What do you mean?” and JB had said, “Well, you’re obviously
Elena, right?” and everyone had laughed, especially him. This was what he

loved about JB, he had thought; he was always smarter than even he knew.