Chapter One

I spent a disturbed evening, appalled by what I had heard and read, still unable to believe the young man I admired and in time come to love, could commit such heinous crimes. I searched despairingly through the media mire for something that would point to his innocence, some discrepancy, some incongruity that might expose a fabrication, a trumped-up charge. Yet, I had found nothing. Not that anyone had offered any sure-fire proof of his guilt. The evidence was, as they say, circumstantial, hearsay, based on testimonies that were at best tenuous.

They pounced on him soon after he resigned as Artistic Director of the National Theatre, only ten days ago. It wasn’t long before he was branded a pariah, a monster. His life was over. The theatre, his great love, was a thing of the past. Even if an astute lawyer were to win his acquittal, he’d be lucky if he were given a job as a delivery boy, let alone a part in a film or play. The media, the social media and the world at large condemned him out of court. He had been publicly executed, lynched by the mob, torn limb from limb. Even a government official, a secretary of state, who should have known better, described him on national television as a ‘danger to society.’

It was all politics now, the opposition blaming the government for appointing him to a position in which he could ‘prey on the innocent,’ the government pleading ignorance of his private life and accusing the opposition of trying to make capital out of a situation that could not have been foreseen. Yet, without a shred of evidence and before any official charge had been filed against him, ‘they,’ the government, the opposition, the public, the nation had condemned him out of hand.

He would never work again, a brilliant career obliterated in the blink of an eyelid. All his artistic accomplishments, his sparkling performances, his insightful articles on ancient Greek theatre, his delicately crafted productions, his winning interviews, in which he dazzled viewers with his wit and acumen, had been erased from public memory as if they never happened. His past was wiped out and he would survive in the annals of the country only on the strength of his notoriety.

If condemned in court, and it seemed very likely that he would be, he would not survive prison and, if by some miracle he did escape the barbarity of his fellow inmates, he would not be able to endure the isolation, the disgrace, the rejection and, above all, the mental stagnation. Jason, despite all they said about him, was gifted, artistic, sensitive, yes, sensitive, which may seem paradoxical, given the crimes of which he was accused.

They talked glibly of castration, summary execution, bringing back the death penalty. Even if what they said about him was true, I abhorred their self-righteousness, their holier-than-thou hypocrisy. Was his crime worse than that of a terrorist who was convicted of eleven assassinations and was now on hunger strike, drawing crowds of sympathetic demonstrators demanding the state should accede to his demands?

I had seen reputations ruined, sometimes justifiably, often not. In many cases, it had nothing to do with misconduct or incompetence, but politics. The worst crime anyone can commit is to rock the boat, side with the opposition. Seventy years after the Civil War, in which right and left, sometimes members of the same family, clashed in an onslaught of hatred, political fanaticism was still endemic.

If it wasn’t dirty politics, it was dirty journalism, which is almost the same thing, as newspapers in my country are, as a rule, flagrantly partisan. Even those that make an effort to be impartial fail to convince a lot of the time. Yes, the civil war is still raging, the younger generation taking over from the old, the children of those who fought in the original bloody internecine war. One wonders whether it will ever end.

So, I clung to the hope that this was yet another attempt to ‘assassinate’ someone who had declared for the other side. His conservative views on how the theatre should be run were no secret, which was anathema to his left-wing colleagues, who controlled the Actors’ Unions and the Actors’ Committee of Ethical Practice, whose own practice was what could only be described as ‘eclectic’ at best.

The evidence, however, seemed irrefutable, the leaked depositions incontrovertible. If their aim had been to charge him, try him and condemn him publicly, they had succeeded. The whole country was in an uproar, as if only now had they become aware of something to which many, including myself, had shamefully turned a blind eye. I knew such things went on but, for lack of facts and tangible evidence, had kept quiet about them. Like so many others, I was not prepared to stick my neck out for fear of being accused of sour grapes or waging a personal vendetta against an ‘innocent’ personage.

Only a victim could speak out but it needed great courage or great anger, or both. The psychological trauma is bad enough but to undergo the ignominy of public scrutiny, to take on a public giant, an acclaimed member of society is too much for the ordinary person. So, we let it slide, let it carry on, pretending it doesn’t matter but all the time knowing that it does, suppressing our guilt, finding excuses not to inform.

Yet, all it takes is one person to speak out for a chorus of ‘Me Too’ to follow. That person, however, must be extraordinary. It took twenty years for this person to emerge, an Olympic Champion, to reveal her secret, and with it she opened the flood gates that threatened to sweep away professionals from all walks of life; actors, directors, teachers, athletes, coaches, anyone in a position of authority, who used their ‘power’ to impose their callous will on others.

Jason, no, surely not. I was in shock, still trying to come to terms with what felt like a betrayal. I had been more than just a teacher to him. I had been his mentor. He trusted my judgement and I his. Perhaps I overestimated his talent but certainly not his ambition. He wanted to reach the top and was prepared to work hard to achieve it. As we all know, talent is never enough. Some succeed with very little, while others who have an overabundance of it never do. It is tenacity, determination and diligence which get you places, and he possessed all three in ample supply.

The sound of the doorbell made me shudder. It was past midnight. I was tired and overwrought. I had no desire to face him. For a moment, I considered not answering the door, but I couldn’t turn my back on him, after all the years we had been friends, nay, more than that, family even. I could not abandon him now that he needed me more than ever. When he phoned that afternoon, he had sounded desperate, on the point of mental collapse, on the brink of tears, so I gave in. Besides, I had to know for sure, one way or another.

As I went to open the door, I had an outdated image of him in my mind, of an innocent, shy young man, brimming with enthusiasm, with that quaint disarming smile of his. I knew he had lost his youthful good looks. I saw shocking pictures of him on TV. He looked haggard, prematurely aged. I once jestingly referred to him as Dorian Gray, but in his case, it was the portrait that had stayed young not Dorian.

I didn’t turn on the porch light or the light in the hall, so as not to attract attention. Yet, he could have been anyone standing there in the semi-darkness, lit only by the streetlamp opposite. He was wearing a cat burglar’s outfit, a ski cap pulled down around his ears and an anti-Covid 19 mask, also black, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

Neither of us spoke. He hesitated, possibly wondering whether I might have changed my mind. Had he read something in the strained expression on my face? The onset of repulsion perhaps? I’m not sure.

I beckoned him in. I didn’t want him hanging around on the doorstep. I scanned the balconies opposite and the street outside to make sure no one had seen me admit the mysterious stranger, not that they would have connected me with the now infamous celebrity. Our long friendship was no longer public knowledge, as far as I knew.

“Thanks,” he said shifting awkwardly in his black trainers, as if still unsure whether I would let him go beyond the threshold.

I had to gently draw him forward to close the door.

“It’s good of you to take me in, Patrick. I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“Yes,” I murmured.

He must have been desperate indeed to seek me out after all these months. As his teacher, we formed a bond of mutual admiration, I of his burgeoning talent, he of my ability to relate to my students and possibly what was left of my fading celebrity status. In hindsight, I think he may simply have felt sorry for me, an old horse turned out to pasture, opting out in my prime. That, however, is another story.