He smiles and makes the gesture of a blade cutting a throat.
And so we return, to find the handcarts stacked high with all our makeshift sets, the players anxious – and eager – to get going.
As it is, it’s another two hours before all is ready, and as we anticipate the arrival of King James, so I look about me at the packed benches.
There’s scarcely a member of the nobility who’s not attended – at least, those who were here in the capital. Word has clearly gone out that something special’s afoot.
And then, with a fanfare, the King himself arrives.
James is a deeply unattractive man, both in his appearance and his manner. His particular mix of arrogance and physical timidity is deeply unappetising, to say the least.
Seeing him, Shakespeare hurries across, head lowered, then makes a sweeping bow.
‘Your Majesty …’
But Will’s smile is stretched thin. Like all there, his eyes are drawn to James’s rolling eyes, and to his tongue, which is far too big for his mouth.
Yes, deeply unattractive.
I watch James, see how he reacts; noting how defensive his whole manner is. He is a man who never knew his mother, and it shows. Raised as a strict Calvinist, his nature is cold and austere, but rumour has it that, wife and children aside, James likes boys. Attractive young boys.
‘Mister Shakespeare,’ he says, putting out a hand so that Will can kiss the ring. ‘I understand you have something special for us.’
Will bobs his head. ‘My Lord, I hope it … entertains.’
And if it doesn’t?
Only it will. I know it will. Haven’t I witnessed it once already, from my vantage point on the balcony at the very back of the packed banqueting house? Yes, and seen the King’s enthusiasm for the play.
It will, quite literally, be the talk of the town.
But right now Will is uncharacteristically nervous. He knows how important it is that the King likes it. King and courtiers, too. And though he knows this is his finest work, he also knows, deep down, that his fate might yet depend on how much – or how little – this frail and often disagreeable man enjoys this evening’s fare.
It is, one must remind oneself, something new. Entirely new.
Ahead of its time? Well, surely that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what makes it the work of genius that it is.
Bowing one third and last time, Will steps back, away from the King, and turns to face the crowded hall, his right arm forming extravagant shapes in the air as he addresses them.
‘Your Majesty, lords, ladies and gentlemen … I am delighted to present to you a tale of strange invention. A tale that, we hope, will both amaze and amuse you.’
And, as he says these words, so six of the cast – dressed in matching black cloaks – move slowly out into the vacant centre of the stage, each tilting the dark-painted box they carry so that the pebbles inside each box make the slushing sound of pebbles on a beach.
Will allows this sound to be repeated, once, twice, a third time, and then turns to the King once more and, smiling, bowing low, addresses him:
‘Of Time … And Tides …’
494
As it ends, even as the tall, pale shape of ‘Kolya’ steps from the stage into the dark, there’s the briefest moment of absolute stillness, of focused concentration, and then a great eruption – an ear-splitting tumult of cheering and clapping and of throwing of hats into the air. Why, even the King is on his feet, applauding, those surrounding him – looking to him for their lead – whooping and grinning, liberated by their master’s clear delight.
A triumph … There’s no argument. It’s a gem of a play. Truly one of a kind. And, as Will takes the stage once more, the volume goes up a notch or two, a deafening noise that just goes on and on, as, one by one, the players take the stage for their encores.
Later, in the crowded back room of the Rose, Will takes the seat beside me and, leaning across, embraces me.
‘Otto … what would we have done without you?’
I look down, as if embarrassed, then meet his eyes.
Which is when I see it. How strangely he looks at me, that is. As if, in the depths of him, he finally knows the truth about me. As if finally, drip by drip, it has penetrated his consciousness with a tiny ‘ah!’ of realisation.
And how could it not? Only nothing is said between us. He knows, and knowing is enough. Knowing is … well, let’s say that it’s something neither of us expected.
And then there’s also the possibility that Katerina’s told him.
And if she has?
‘You want a beer?’ he asks, as if, at that moment, it was the most normal thing he could say.
‘My shout,’ I answer, my smile mirroring his. Prolonged. As if smiling were the most natural thing. Yes, and no trace of what I’m truly feeling, no casual spoiling of the moment.
I turn and order two beers, then turn back, meeting his eyes again.
‘Is she waiting for you, Otto? Wherever it is you come from.’
‘Cherdiechnost,’ I say, and see him take that in.
‘So it’s a real place?’
I nod, then, the beers having arrived, I take them and hand one to him.
‘And Kravchuk?’
‘He’s real. Six times I killed that fucker and he still kept coming back.’
‘The dead who won’t stay dead,’ he says, quoting a line from his play. And I nod and take a long sup of my ale, wondering if he knows how close he is to dying. How deep the instinct is in me.
He’s silent a moment, then: ‘There was this woman once. I … I fell for her, Otto. Lock, stock and barrel. Left my wife and family to be with her. And then she died.’
‘I’m surprised,’ I say. ‘I mean … there’s nothing in your poems … nor in the plays, come to that.’
‘I couldn’t,’ he says. ‘I … I just couldn’t. To constantly remind myself of that. To have it paraded out in public … No, it broke my heart, Otto. After that, nothing was the same. My work grew darker …’
I nod. Despite what I feel, I understand. And as I do, so the idea of taking him back there to see his dead love once more fills my thoughts. Only I know it’s a bad idea. One I need to keep to myself.
I change the subject. ‘So how was our friend, the money-lender? Did he like your entertainment?’
Will sups from his beer, then laughs. ‘He loved it. Gave me a full extra week to come up with the money.’
‘And the King?’
‘The King wants me to write an alternate version. Something more flattering …’
‘Oh …’ I say, wondering why I should be so surprised. After all, they all want to rewrite history and show their bloodline in a better light. And what better opportunity than this? To have Time conquered by the glorious Stuarts!
He’s quiet a moment, then: ‘Otto?’
‘Yes?’
He reaches out and holds my arm, giving me his most charming smile. ‘Thank you, brother. Without you …’
‘It was nothing,’ I say, even though I know it was in fact a great deal. Had I not arrived through Time to save his bacon, where would he be? Dead, probably, floating face down in the Thames.
But that’s not my role here. My task is to find out where our nemesis, Kolya, is, and why he’s here, in 1609.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ Will says, and for a moment I don’t have the slightest notion what he’s talking about.
‘Strange?’
‘The idea of changing the outcome of things. I’ve never really thought to play with time and event in that fashion. But now … Well, I just can’t see how I can ever write things in the good old way again. It’s as if … well, it’s as if there are doors – real, physical doors – connecting all the different timelines, and the more you use those doors, the more tenuous they become. The more … fragile.’
He pauses then. ‘Do you see what I’m trying to say, Otto?’
I shake my head. ‘Not really. It’s just a devic
e, that’s all. A toying with ideas. It isn’t real.’
‘Isn’t it?’
Shakespeare’s face changes. His eyes grow more thoughtful.
‘It’s just that, as I was writing it, it didn’t feel like it usually feels. It felt real. As if I was some kind of conduit … some messenger sent by the gods. And d’you know what? I’ve never felt that way. Not ever. There has always been a distance between me and the words. I was always – always – in control. But this time … this time I felt immersed, swept along by the immense forward momentum of the play. Carried on the tides of time, you might almost say.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, trying to interrupt him. ‘Even so—’
‘No, no buts and no maybes, dear friend. I was totally immersed. Lost to this world and its ways. Adrift, and no way home except to step back through the door I’d taken.’
I nod, unable not to. Because that’s how it feels every time I jump. And he understands that.
‘You saw the crowd tonight, Otto. Saw how they reacted. I mean … I’m used to captivating them. But nothing like they were tonight. They were there.’
And that too is true. Crude as our time-travelling devices were, they were powerfully effective. More than that, they were new. The gasp of surprise the audience gave when our hero jumped between the worlds was one of genuinely shocked surprise. And yet there was belief there, too.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘I can’t argue with you, only …’
‘Only?’
I shrug. After all, what was the point of arguing? It’s what I wanted, wasn’t it? And Will has delivered in trumps. For years to come, poets and playwrights will be mining this territory, inspired by the ideas Will has introduced here to the world. Until one day …
Or am I being naïve? What if nothing actually comes of this? What if this remains a purely imaginative venture? What if it spawns nothing in the way of deeper rational thought, but remains an entertainment, as now?
What a waste that would be. What a let-down for the species.
And yet the gambler in me would place everything I own on someone, somewhere coming up with something. That’s vague, I know – vague to the point of being almost incoherent – and yet I sense its existence close by. Up River.
Which is why Kolya’s here. I’m more certain of that by the moment.
I look to Will again and see that he’s lost in his thoughts. And once again I see him kissing her.
I look down. My choices are simple. To confront him or to let things go. To trust in what I have and not destroy it through my jealousy.
‘D’you fancy another ale?’
He looks to me and smiles. ‘I think we deserve one, no? My shout.’
And so the evening begins. An evening to remember.
495
Only it’s all for the wrong reasons. I’d seen them kiss before, but this time …
I have to stop. I tremble just to say it.
The problem’s thus. As I said, I’d seen her kiss him once before, a chaste peck on the cheek, the briefest touch of her hand against his upper arm, but this, glimpsed from where I stand in the unrevealing darkness at the top of the stairs, is in a different category. This time it’s her mouth to his, her tongue against his tongue, even as their hands grip one another in the spell of passion, body pressed to body.
And so my heart breaks once again.
I want to go down there and kill him, the way I’d killed Kravchuk that time. Only this time it’s different. This time it’s Will and Katerina who are doing this to me. And I can see in their eyes that they can’t help themselves. That this is not just lust but love.
And how am I to cope with that? I who know what love can do to a man?
I watch till I can watch no more, then turn away, into a darkness so profound, so overwhelming, I stumble and fall, all power gone from my limbs.
I want to die. Without her I cannot live. Only how can I unremember this?
And with the thought comes the answer. Urte will know how. She’ll juggle with Time until there’s no trace of this abomination in my head. And so I jump. Back to Moscow Central. As so often I have jumped, in dire need. Though never as dire as this.
Yes, but what else will I lose if I lose this? What lasting damage will this alteration bring?
The truth is, I don’t know. Maybe it will mar all that we’ve achieved. Only what is that? The play? Might this destroy that too? Make it as though it had never been spoken of, never crafted?
We can’t allow that, surely? Only how then can I live? How can I function, having seen what I have seen?
No. I am better dead than have that in my head.
Yes, and here’s the irony. That he who I would newly kill should have written such a play as Othello. Or is that yet to come?
No. He has written it already. I know he has. How then could he do this to me, knowing that?
Unless he had no choice.
Even so, I can’t forgive him.
I stand unsteadily, looking about me at the thick and choking blackness of that room, hearing the noise from the bar below.
I know that they’re standing there, right now, there at the foot of the stairs, their eyes drowning in each other’s eyes, their bodies locked in that passionate embrace. And I want to cry out like a child, the pain I feel. Want to tear and rip and stomp …
Or simpler, end myself.
Only that’s no solution. For no sooner had I done it than they would have whisked me back and made me live again. In some other timeline.
I try to jump. Only there’s no response. My body stays anchored where it is. I try again and then a third. But nothing.
It seems then that I must go down. To confront those whom I love and hate the most.
Only they’re no longer there.
Gone to his bed, I tell myself, the wash of sheer agony at the thought almost unhinging me, making me grunt with pain. Only even as I frame the words in my head, I hear him – Will Shakespeare himself – shouting over the noise of the crowd down there, drawing their attention, so that it grows quiet, the crowd of friends and players listening to hear what he might say.
Only he’s barely said two lines before there’s a fresh outcry at the main door to the inn. Men are shouting now, exchanging blows, and suddenly there’s a scream. Someone, it seems, has drawn a dagger.
I hurl myself down the stairs, in time to see a small group of men – a dozen or more of them – pushing their way into the already crowded inn. They’re spoiling for trouble, and I can see that people are going to get badly hurt unless I do something. Our players might be great fighters on the stage, but in real life?
In real life, they don’t stand a chance. Not unless I intervene. Only when I try again, I find that I still can’t jump, which makes me think there must be some kind of suppressor in the room.
There’s the flash of steel in the candlelight, and shouts and yet more screaming, and then …
And then – and the transition is sudden and abrupt – nothing.
Leaving silence and blackness and a full moon shining in through the smashed windows of the inn. Only I realise I am not alone in that moonlit room. There’s one other, seated there, across from me, his pale blue eyes registering a cold disdain.
Kolya.
496
For a moment neither of us speaks. The silence is profound.
And the room?
The room is the same as that we were in in what seems mere seconds past, only the windows now are all blown in, as if by an explosion, and the tables and chairs are covered in a moon-silvered layer of dust.
This is one of his oldest selves, perhaps the most ancient I have ever met. He’s a hundred if he’s a day, and probably twice that. As old as the timelines would be my guess. Mind, the night-dark cloak and the shock of pure white hair don’t help, nor the long ash-staff he grips in his right hand.
A wizard, that’s what he looks like. And those eyes. Paradoxically timeless. So pale and grey-blue they seem to hold the winter sky in their o
rbits.
I take a step toward him, yet even as I do, so two of his younger selves, more my age than his, step from the air, to either side of him.
I stop, seeing that both are armed, and take a slow step backward.
‘Very wise,’ he says, showing that cold disdain and sense of invulnerability I’ve come to recognise as his trademark.
‘What do you want?’
The old man laughs – the sound like a gust of sudden icy wind. ‘Want?’ he asks. ‘Why should I want anything?’
‘Because that’s how you operate. You’re not a giving fellow, are you?’
His eyes harden. ‘You understand, I take it?’
‘Understand?’
‘The significance of this place. What it meant to you and me?’
‘I know you killed me here, a hundred times and more.’
There’s almost a smile on his lips at that. Only it clearly bugs him that I kept on coming back, good as new, even if it was a long time ago.
‘Let me ask you again,’ I say, determined to have his answer. ‘What precisely do you want?’
He seems to lean back a little, as if getting his breath. ‘I wanted to warn you.’
‘To warn me?’ I laugh, genuinely surprised. ‘Why, Kolya, dear friend, you almost make it seem as if you’re helping me. A warning …’ And I laugh again.
Laughter. He doesn’t like laughter. Unless it’s from his own lips.
His eyes seem suddenly colder. ‘I could have killed you … This time, I mean. I had the choice.’
‘Only?’
He hesitates, then. ‘You never were my match, were you, Otto Behr? From the word go you struggled to understand it all.’
I shrug. That’s maybe even true. I really never was Meister material. No. I was far too impulsive. Much too driven. But I’ll be fucked if I admit that to him here and now. Show any weakness and he’s guaranteed to exploit it.
‘I was lucky,’ I say. ‘And I chose my friends well. Very well indeed. That’s why I survived it – your plan to eradicate all trace of me.’ I pause, thoughtful suddenly. ‘Yes, but why was that? What made you choose me? Or was it just that I was the first of us you encountered?’
The Master of Time: Roads to Moscow: Book Three Page 43
