Free Glorious Ones by Francine Prose

knew.”
    But my mind was cold, logical, unmoved. “That’s all very well,” it said. “But strictly beside the point. The important thing is that Flaminio Scala has no practical experience. You know his type: he was a rich boy, a mama’s boy, maybe even a college boy. Those people have never been out on the streets, they’ve never learned anything. You can hear the wind whistling through their empty heads. If Flaminio knew anything about men, he’d never have done so badly when he tried to bargain with those Huguenot kidnappers. If he wasn’t so inexperienced with women, he’d never have gotten involved with a woman like Vittoria. There are great things for this troupe to do on earth, Francesco. But nothing will ever be accomplished by a man with his head in the clouds.”
    “But Flaminio Scala has made The Glorious Ones what they are.”
    “Small time,” replies my mind. “He’s made you small time. And it’s all the fault of that damned improvisation. The season for that has passed, Andreini, and you know it. It’s not good enough any more. It’s not reliable enough, there’s too much room for error. In order to do the things you want, the plays must be written out in advance, scene by scene, line by line. And Flaminio will never agree to the change. He’s dedicated to the improvisation, his whole life’s an improvisation, he cannot see the ends of things.”
    Not even my heart can find an answer to this.
    “And another thing.” My reason is hammering away at me now, like a lawyer. “Vittoria must go. That dumb slut is the weak point of the whole troupe. She, more than anyone else, was responsible for our expulsion from France. That French Cardinal felt uneasy just being in the same room with those big breasts, that hot body. We need another kind of actress, Andreini—someone more refined, more delicate, someone who will make the churchmen lose their hearts despite themselves. We need someone who will drive the aristocrats so crazy with love that they’ll gladly risk excommunication just for the sight of her.”
    In the end, however, my heart and mind always came to the same conclusion. The fault lay not just with Flaminio, or Vittoria, or the improvisation. Something else was missing—The Glorious Ones needed something else, something elusive, mysterious, passionate, spiritual. Both of them agreed; but, at that time, neither knew what it was.
    By the last days of that trip to France, I knew all the lies in Flaminio’s dream, all the ways it had to be changed. Several times I tried, and failed. I tried in that freezing cave, again on the journey home. But I couldn’t do it. My heart was working against me. And I didn’t have the power.
    And then, on the night after that absurd performance in the girls’ orphanage, Flaminio himself offered me the power like a swig from a jug of wine.
    Things were strained between us then, after my two abortive rebellions. But neither of us could admit that all the closeness had ended. And so, though there was little money for wine, Flaminio would occasionally manage to squeeze a few extra cents out of Pantalone, and would invite me to the cafe for a friendly drink.
    Perhaps even wily old Pantalone was somewhat befuddled by the strange events of those days; on the night I am remembering, Flaminio’s pockets were bulging with silver. I had not been drunk in a long time; it was a good feeling. After we had been in the tavern for almost an hour, I felt free enough to ask Flaminio the question which had been plaguing me all evening.
    “We have been friends for many years, Flaminio,” I began, in that way you can say such things only when you’re very drunk. “Like that,” I said, putting my two fingers close together.
    “By now, I’ve learned that an old devil like you often has his own sly secret reasons for doing things, reasons quite different from the ones you tell the troupe. So I am wondering about the real reason you adopted that mangy little orphan,