by Anders Cato
He was shy and didn't look at me when he walked
in. He was only seventeen and said that he would be
doing the devil's monologue from the second act. His
face was pale and serious, his arms looked thin. He was
nervous and shook his hands in the air, while breathing
deeply, the way young actors do to try to relax. I wrote
a note about how it’s probably not something the devil
would have done.
There was something distant about his young and
unsupported voice as he began to speak. The words
came from far away even though the room was small.
He didn’t understand what they meant. It was as if he
was reciting a text in a foreign language that he had
learned how to pronounce, but didn’t understand.
How can a seventeen-year-old boy possibly know
anything about the devil? I thought. This was right
before he disappeared inside the sharp florescent light
and I found myself alone in the room. The door was
gone, and so was the window in the middle of the wall.
The lights blinked a few times, and then it was pitch
black, a ship moving through the night.
No one noticed when I fell into the dark water. I was too
close to the railing. The deck was slippery and my
fingers numb from the cold. As I tried to keep my head
above water, I saw the blinking lights again, but this
time from a distance, swinging back and forth, as the
ship disappeared into the darkness.
When I was eight we learned about the stars. To some
people, eternity is something that gives them hope. I
have never felt that way. I always picture it to be a place
somewhere far away, where others can’t reach you. I
have never romanticized loneliness. To me it was always
dark and I couldn’t see beyond the isolation.
It isn’t drowning that scares me. It’s the sea, the size of
it. The night.
The boy cleared his throat from far away. He was done.
“Thank you,” I said, but my voice sounded numb and I
couldn’t make it mean anything.
There was an awkward silence and then the boy walked
toward the door. He was wearing hard-soled shoes that
counted the steps. I looked at my notes and saw words I
didn’t remember writing. The handwriting was the same,
but the ink was slightly darker than the other notes.
Wet, shiny and black; words in a language I didn’t
The boy opened the door, but before he walked out he
turned back to look at me. His eyes looked different,
darker, reflecting the light on the surface, like buttons.
He looked at me as if he wanted me to say something
“I don’t believe in God,” I told him, I’m not sure why.
“Neither do I,” he answered and smiled.
As he closed the door behind him I couldn’t be sure if he
was the one who had auditioned, or if it had been me.
Anders Cato has directed over 50 productions in the U.S.
and Europe at theaters including Moscow Art Theater, Cherry
Lane Theater, American Repertory Theater, Cleveland
Playhouse, Alley Theatre, and the Royal Court Theatre in
London. Recently he has turned his focus to writing, while
continuing to teach and direct theater at New York
University. His screenplay The Room in Between was a
finalist in the Francis Ford Coppola American Zoetrope
Screenplay Contest. He wrote and recorded over 100
programs on American culture for Swedish National Radio.
Presently, he is writing a collection of short stories. Last year
he presented Photographs and Writing, an exhibition of his
photographs and short stories at X Gallery in Harlem.