Death Of A Hollow Man

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“You can’t cut your throat without any blood.”

“Absolutely. People expect it.”

“I disagree. There wasn’t any blood in the West End production.”

“Oh, Scofield,” Esslyn murmured dismissively. “So mannered.”

The Causton Amateur Dramatic Society (CADS) were taking a break during a rehearsal of Amadeus. The production was fairly well advanced. The Venticelli were finally picking up their cues, the fireplace for the palace at Schonbrunn was promised for the weekend, and Constanze seemed at long last to be almost on the point of starting to learn at least one or two of her lines, while remaining rather hazy as to the order in which they came. But the sticky question as to how Salieri should most effectively cut his throat had yet to be solved. Tim Young, the only member of the company to shave the old-fashioned way, had promised to bring his razor along that very evening. So far, there was no sign of him.

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