The Playmakers by Graeme Johnstone Page A

curtly.
    “Viktor, I watch the result of every act.
Yours is very good, but …”
    “Yes?”
    “You will admit, Viktor, with respect, the
applause is always polite.”
    “Yes.”
    “But not over-enthusiastic. And the money
thrown on stage is not as good as most of the others.”
    “Y-e-s …”
    Budsby nodded. Good
point, he thought. It had always puzzled him that one of his
most skilled acts drew such a relatively modest response.
    Viktor’s contribution was usually one of the
smaller amounts of money thrown into the pot and divvied up among
the cast at the end of the day - after certain necessary expenses
were taken out, of course.
    “Put it this way,” continued Shakespeare. “We
prove to the audience how strong Hercules is by getting people up
to challenge him. No one can lift what he does, and then they
appreciate how good he is.”
    “True,” said Budsby.
    “And the jugglers!” added Shakespeare. “Every
now and then they accidentally drop a pin or take a fall, and that
proves they are human. But, you, Viktor, no one can comprehend how
good you are. By making a mistake, and recovering, you will show
that!”
    “No, no! Viktor is perfect,” said the little
man.
    “It will be dramatic, believe me, and improve
an act previously thought beyond improvement.”
    There was silence.
    Even the big man was mute. He did not know
what which way to turn, for fear of losing either one of his best
acts, or, worse still, the troupe’s obvious heir apparent.
    Eventually, Shakespeare broke the
impasse.
    “Wait,” he said. “Wait here.”
    He left the wagon and a few minutes later
returned with a soft leather bag, dramatically spilling some of its
contents on the table - a sizeable collection of gold and silver
coins.
    “See, this is the money I took from my
father’s business the day I left Stratford. I have never had to use
it because Mr Budsby has been so good to me.”
    “You have earned your way, my boy,” said
Budsby warmly.
    “Thank you, Mr Budsby. But now I will put it
to good use. Viktor, this is what I am proposing. At your next
performance, I want you to try what I have outlined.”
    “But …”
    “Wait, wait, hear me out. I will wager you
this bag of coins that it will work. If it succeeds, well and good.
If it fails, you can have this money, and … and …”
    Budsby started to shake his head.
    “I will leave the troupe,” said Shakespeare
flatly.
    Budsby moved forward, but Shakespeare waved
him away.
    “Is done,” said Viktor, smiling.
    The next day, villagers watched impassively
as Viktor The Supreme went through his paces.
    But they were starting to lose just a little
interest, when suddenly, his left foot slipped, he dropped his long
balancing stick, and he began to fall.
    There were screams of horror as at the last
second, he grasped the wire with his left hand, and hung there,
twenty yards above the ground.
    People whimpered, they drew their breath in,
children began to cry. Those that had begun to drift away suddenly
returned. Passers-by sensing the drama, joined them. Concern was
etched on the faces of the swelling crowd, as tiny, seemingly
helpless Viktor hung by one arm and appeared certain to fall to
death or serious injury.
    He stayed there for seemingly minutes, and as
the concern spread, he began to play it up. The more he struggled
to get his right arm up, the more they gasped.
    Eventually he got both arms back on the wire,
to the partial relief of the crowd, and then slowly but surely
pulled himself up with both hands.
    When he finally walked across to safety at
the side without the support of the stick, the applause could be
heard three towns away, and Budsby later counted the biggest haul
he had ever seen for one act.
    A smiling Viktor agreed to stay with the
troupe that night, and Shakespeare hid his bag of coins away
again.
    Between these triumphs, and Shakespeare
scouting for other quality acts to join them, the business had
blossomed to the point that Budsby decided to