You could hear the afternoon rains echo in from the alley behind the theater. Curses in French from the house master echoed in when people would linger, letting the offensive humidity in from the outside. The strange dust of the old playhouse frolicked in the softly lit stage.
After an hour of unremarkable college students churning through grossly under-prepared auditions, I was growing impatient.
“Next please,” the stage manager grunted methodically.
She shuffled into the light and began. She stood rather plainly. Young shoulders slightly slumped, wearing a humble white blouse and black trousers that tapered to ridiculously small ankles and feet. She looked up at me past the light and began with no cue.
“Where would You have me go? What would You have me do? What would You have me say, and to whom?,” she asked me. She read her lines in a disarmingly quiet, but defiant and confident voice, “Who would you have me become?”
I knew immediately who.