Chapter 456:

Since the construction of the new crematorium in 1934, the insult to the cemetery has continued. The tomb has been searched and used as a lead coffin lining, the stone was overturned and smashed. It was soiled by dogs and graffiti. Only a handful of mourners now take care of the grave. The generations have decreased, and the few who may still have their loved ones buried there are too weak to risk the throttling sidewalk, or too gentle to tolerate this kind of destruction.
This is not always the case. There are many outstanding and influential families behind the marble facade of the Victoria Mausoleum. The founder's father, local industrialists and dignitaries, and all those who are proud of the efforts of the town. The body of actress Constantia Lichfield has been buried here until dawn and the shadows disappear, although her grave is almost unique among the attention of some secret admirers. No one was watching that night, it was too bitter for lovers. No one saw Charlotte Hancock open the door of her tomb and greet the moon with the beating pigeon, whose beating wings praised her vitality. Her husband Gerald was with her, he was newer than her, and he had been dead for thirteen years. The world-renowned Joseph Jardin followed Hankos, and the list of Fletcher Marriott, Anne Snell and the Peacock Brothers continued. In one corner, the captain of Alfred Crawshaw's 17th Lancer is helping his lovely wife Emma get out of the hospital bed. There are faces pressed by the cracks in the tomb everywhere-isn't it with her child who was only pregnant for a day? And Martin van der Linde, "Memory of Justice" is blessed, his wife has never been discovered. Rosa and Selena: Both are women. And, and-too many names to mention. Can't describe too many decay states. Suffice to say their appearance: the fly at their funeral was born, and all faces were deprived except for the foundation of beauty. They were still coming, waving the back door of the cemetery, and walking across the wasteland to Elysium. In the distance, traffic sounds. Above, a jet plane roared and landed. A Peacock brother stared at the blinking giant while blinking, missed the opportunity to stand, fell on his face, crushing his jaw. They enthusiastically picked him up and escorted him on the road. No harm. Without a little laughter, what will the resurrection be? So the show continued.
"If music is the food of love, then go ahead and give me more; that is too rich, the appetite may be disgusting, and therefore die-" Galloway couldn't find it on the curtain; but Ryan got it. Moersmith's instructions through the ubiquitous gentleman to participate in the director's performance.
Lichfield said: "He will be upstairs, among the gods." "Actually, I think I can see him from here."
"Is he smiling?" Eddie asked.
"Laugh from ear to ear."
"Then he is very angry."
The actors laughed. There was a lot of laughter that night. The performance went well. Although they could not see the glare from the audience on the newly installed footlights, they could still feel the wave of love and the joy pouring out of the auditorium. The actors stepped down in joy.
Eddie said: "They are all sitting among the gods, but your friend Mr. Lichfield is doing well. They are quiet, but they have such a big smile on their faces."
Constantia Lichfield, the first entrance of the viola, met with spontaneous applause. Such applause. Like a hollow snare drum, like the brittle beating of a thousand sticks on a thousand stretched skin. Luxurious, wanton applause.
And, my God, she came forward. She planned to continue acting from the beginning, playing the role wholeheartedly, without the body to convey the depth of her feelings, but telling the waving of her hand with such a smart and passionate poetry is far better than a song. One hundred gestures. After the first scene, every entrance of her received unanimous applause from the audience, followed by almost religious silence. In the background, a firm confidence began. The entire company smelled success. Success robbed the miracle from the disaster.
appearing again! applause! applause!
In his office, Hammersmith dimly recorded this fragile compliment by smoking and drinking. He was pouring the eighth glass of wine when the door opened. He looked up and found that the visitor was the upstart Calloway. Hammersmith thought, I dare to say gloating and tell me I was wrong.
"what do you want?"
Punk did not answer. From the corner of his eyes, Hammersmith saw Galloway's bright and brilliant smile. A self-satisfied half-wise man, a man comes in while mourning.
"I think you heard it?"
The other party grumbled.
"She is dead," Hammersmith said, and began to cry. "She died a few hours ago without regaining consciousness. I didn't tell the actors. It doesn't seem worth it."
Galloway found nothing about this news. Does that care? Doesn't he think this is the end of the world? The woman is dead. She died in the guts of Elysium. There will be a formal inquiry, an inspection of the insurance, a post-mortem investigation, and then an investigation: this will reveal too much information.
He took a deep sip from the glass, unwilling to look at Galloway again.
"Son, your career will dive for this. It's not just me: Oh, dear."
Galloway remained silent.
"Don't you care?" Hammersmith demanded.
There was a moment of silence, then Galloway responded. "I'm not talking nonsense."
"Jump on a little stage manager, that's all, it's you. That's all you director has! A good comment, you are a gift from God to art. Well, let me make it clear for you- "
He looked at Galloway, eyes, swimming in alcohol, and had difficulty concentrating. But he finally got there. Galloway, dirty bug, naked from waist to bottom. He is wearing shoes and socks, but no pants or underwear. His self-exposure was originally ridiculous, but it was due to the expression on his face. The man went crazy: his eyes were spinning out of control, his mouth and nose were running with saliva and snot, and his tongue stuck out like that of a panting dog.
Hammersmith put the glass on the absorbent pad and looked at the worst part. Galloway's shirt was stained with blood, and his neck stretched to his left ear, where Diana Duval's nail file came out. It has been driven deep into Galloway's brain. That man must be dead.
But he stood, talked, and left.
There was another applause in the theater, disturbed by the distance. To some extent this is not a real voice. It comes from another world, a place full of emotions. Hammersmith has always felt excluded. He has never been an actor, although God knows he has tried, and the two plays he wrote are executable. Bookkeeping is his strength. He has always used bookkeeping to get as close to the stage as possible. He hates his lack of art because he hates other people's skills.
There was applause, as if receiving a hint from an invisible reminder, Galloway walked towards him. The mask he wore was neither comic nor miserable, it was blood and laughter. Retreating, Hammersmith was turned behind the table. Galloway jumped up. He looked ridiculous, the tail of the shirt and the ball leaped towards him, and Hammersmith was caught by the tie.
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