Dying On Stage

He was billed as The Incomparable Giacomo and performed three shows nightly and two Saturday matinee appearances each week. He delighted, astounded and regaled audiences with feats of gymnastic acumen, pantomime and an assortment of actions comedic and whimsical that never failed to enrapture even the most jaded connoisseur of live theatrical entertainment. He was a man of legendary fame and unprecedented popularity and, unbeknownst to all, arguably the single most truly unhappy individual on the planet. 

His name was not, of course, Giacomo. He was born Jakab Kazimir Benedek in a small town relegated to nonexistence by the merciless Treaty of Trianon. On the cusp of completing a Fine Arts degree in Budapest, he was swept away onto the bigger stage of world politics as a conscript of the Austro-Hungarian war machine.

Three years later found him wounded and expatriated in a hospital near Przemysl. Though the surgeons saved his life, he was left with a cleft palate, ensuring any hopes of a career as an actor were gone. When the unit was recalled to England, the hapless young man was granted leave to travel with them.

Bereft of options and bankrupt of hope, he answered a newspaper advertisement for stage help at a seedy theater in Dalston. By happenstance, a regular performer took ill one night and just that incongruously began the vaudeville stage career of the man who, in the fullness of time, came to be known as The Incomparable Giacomo.

What none knew, what Jakab would never express was how much the stage took for all it gave. A comfortable loft, a motor car, tailored suits and gourmet meals could never restore his dignity to him. Capering and cavorting about like some demented jackass for the amusement of the crowds, a little bit more of his soul died with each succeeding performance.

It is a very dangerous thing when the soul of a man dies for, though it is not always so, very often the body does not linger far behind. On the night of October 3, 1924 when he failed to appear for a show, the stage manager went to his lodgings.

Toscanini’s Pagliacci was playing on the victrola and The Incomparable Giacomo, in full costume and harlequin makeup was found, quite dead, floating in the bath. Perhaps saddest of all was he left no note, knowing no words to express the pain he felt. 



This story was written for the Behind the Curtain flash fiction contest hosted by the incomparable Anna Meade.  You may follow the click button below to view the contest entries.