Shakespeare 2012 - Part III
Page 4
“Think Emerald, what date is looming? A date doubly significant. The day when thousands think the world is going to end. The darkest day of the year. A day just before Christmas when everyone needs access to their cash, and a bank run would bring down the Government and so would not be allowed to happen.”
Emerald suddenly understood. “Jesus, John, you wouldn’t?”
“Morals, Emerald?”
Emerald put the calendar back on the desk. “21st December ...”
“In one. Maximum significance, maximum fear, maximum panic, maximum impact.” Venison slapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other. “Maximumimumium profit.”
Emerald was impressed. The impact of the news just before Christmas would cause catastrophic panic around the UK, providing an immeasurable multiplier effect. “You need a furry white cat to stroke, John. Your evil genius is unheralded.”
“Hark the unheralded, Emerald sing,” Venison chanted in a flat monotone. He pointed to himself, “glory to the new born king.”
Chapter 36
“I have decided,” Will said, urgently. “I am going to write a play based on Charles Dickens’ work. Something to reflect the modern financial crisis. Something to show the world how we can still learn from him. And ...” He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to finish his thought or not. “And I’d like to get it performed.” His voice lowered. “On 21st December.”
Leon had been expecting Will to initiate a new project but he was still surprised by Will’s choice of source material. He also recognised the significance of the date. “The winter solstice,” Leon whispered, “the midwinter night ...”
“The end of the world ...” Will said his voice trailing off into unspoken notions.
Leon tried to second guess what Will was considering. Was he naively worried about the Mayan’s predictions of the end of time? “Why that night?”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “I think it’s my one chance to get back to the past. I believe that by channelling our collective consciousness through a new play could produce another ... break in time to let me go back.”
“You want to go back?” Leon asked, stunned by Will’s sudden revelation. “To 1612? Why? You should stay!”
“I can’t stay here, Leon. This isn’t my world.” Will lifted a foot. “These aren’t my shoes.”
“But you can adapt!” Leon said, sounding frantic. ”You’re doing so well so far!” And this was absolutely true, Leon thought. “You’ve slotted right into modern London easily. Those shoes suit you.”
Will lowered his foot. “Leon, I have to get back. My friends, my family, need me. I ...” His voice wobbled. “I miss them. You had to teach me how to use the velcro.”
Leon had never considered Will would look to return to his time. He’d subconsciously assumed Will’s leap had been a one-way event. “I’m not even sure if you can go back.”
“I have to try,” Will said with firm certainty.
Leon wondered if Will needed more reasons to stay; perhaps his relationship with Camilla wasn’t going well. “Which novel are you thinking of making a play from? A sad tale’s best for winter.”
“Dunno. Does Dickens have any stories about Christmas?”
“Dickens? Christmas story? He’s only written the most famous Christmas story of all time. Well, after Jesus.”
Leon walked to the bookcase and scanned the shelves. He retrieved a book and tossed it to Will.
“A Christmas Carol,” Will read. “That’s Camilla’s favourite! What’s it about?”
“Camilla reads?” Leon joked. Maybe there was gossip after all. “It’s about a phenomenally rich man who hoards money, but never spends it.” Leon put on what he considered his miserly, Scrooge voice. “His heart is cold, his mind obsessed with his money.” Leon paced the room, bent forward like a wizened old man. “At Christmas, he is visited by three ghosts who show him the real meaning of Christmas: family, friends, peace and goodwill to all men. The ghosts show him his past, his present, and his future if he doesn’t change.”
Will laughed at Leon’s improvisation. “A rich miser? At Christmas? Shown his past? His present? And his future?” He nodded slowly. “Sounds promising ...”
Chapter 37
Sixteen weeks later, near the end of October. Leon tore the letter up, scrunched the pieces into a ball and lobbed it at the wastepaper basket in the corner of the living room. The ball missed the bin by almost a metre. It was the latest rejection letter he’d received concerning roles in plays he had auditioned for since the summer. Four casting agents had shown interest in helping him land his first professional role after watching him perform as Lysander on the midsummer night. Three of the agents had found him auditions. Leon had flunked each one. The feedback from directors and casting assistants had generally been that Leon had seemed distracted and ill-prepared.
Hermione picked the ball of paper up off the floor and placed it in the bin.
“Another?” she asked.
“Mm-hm.”
She crossed the living room, stood behind Leon and put her arms around his chest, resting her head next to his. “Don’t worry baby,” she said softly, “you’ll find something soon. Maybe you should take Will to the auditions and ask him for some feedback.”
Leon let his cheek linger next to Hermione’s, drawing comfort from her presence. But he was stubborn. “No. I can’t. I have to do this on my own. And I don’t want to risk either Will being recognised, nor for him to get involved in a play.”
“Don’t close yourself to some assistance, sweetie. I’m sure he’d be honoured to help.”
“I know. I know. But ...” Leon knew he was being too protective of Will, afraid to lose him, wishing to lock him in the flat like a balding, male Rapunzel.
Hermione stroked Leon’s face. “And William Shakespeare is one of those ... what are they called again ... playwright people,” she said with gentle sarcasm. “I’m not a theatre buff but I’ve heard plays are sorta what Shakespeare does quite well.”
Leon smiled at the wisecrack and slapped the bottom of Hermione’s leg. “Watch it, smart alec.” He sighed. “I know. But how can he work on a play without giving himself away?”
She stood up, trailing her hands up his chest. “Perhaps he could if you worked with him.”
He hadn’t thought of that before. But he quickly discounted the idea. “It’s too risky.”
She began to massage his shoulders. “Do you know where he’s been going for the last few weeks? I’ve hardly seen him.”
“Mmmmm,” Leon purred. “To the library. I suspect he’s writing something, but he hasn’t said what yet. And to Camilla’s. They went up to Stratford last weekend.”
“Aww, bless. He’s also been teaching some kids out on the estate how to write sonnets apparently. It looked really sweet.”
“What?” Leon asked abruptly, turning to face Hermione. He didn’t know nor like the sound of Will mingling out on the streets without Leon’s knowledge.
Hermione kept one hand on Leon’s shoulder. “I saw him sitting on the wall down at the corner the other day, with some of the kids from the estate gathered around him. They were writing and rapping. Will was reading their rhymes. Sorta like an outreach youth worker troubadour.”
“What?!” Leon blurted.
The front door opened then slammed shut. The door to the living room suddenly swung open and Will walked in. He tossed a tied-up bundle of papers onto the coffee table.
“Let me present to you ... A Christmas Carol by William Shakespeare!” he announced with an exaggerated flourish.
“Oh ... my ... god!” Hermione squealed, rushing around to the coffee table.
”So that’s what you’ve been up to,” Leon said morosely, leaning forward to take a look. “Can we see?”
“Or course!” Will answered, pointing to the manuscript. “Read it. Tell me what you think.”
Hermione untied the bundle. Several sheaves of old manuscript parchment slipped across the
table. They both picked up a sheaf. The handwriting was messy, almost illegible. Studying the sheaf closely, Hermione read with quiet reverence, "More profits man a stash of joy bankrolled; Invested, given, shared or earned than gold."
"Earn interest from your neighbour. Spend your friends’ affection,” Leon read, holding a sheaf close to his face. “Sons and daughters’ dividends, repay more love and delight."
“This is beautiful,” Hermione said. “What do you want to do with it?”
“This,” Will replied taking a seat beside her on the sofa, “is going to be performed on 21st December 2012.” He waited for a moment. “In the Globe. And broadcast live on TV, across the UK, and all around the world.” He looked at Leon. “If I am as famous and influential as you allege, this will be an event.”
“You have no idea how big,” Leon said. He tried to imagine the full implications of a new Shakespeare play being ‘discovered’. There was bound to be fanatical excitement in literary circles. “Do you want to present it as a Shakespeare play? You’ve, well, you’re not supposed to have been around London for around 400 years. People will not believe it’s your work.”
“Especially since there’s some modern slang in here," Hermione added, still flicking through the manuscript. “Dildo?”
Will sat back deeper into the sofa. “Only a few words and phrases, which are still used in 1612, albeit with different meanings.”
“But no-one’s going to believe it’s by Shakespeare,” Leon said.
Hermione reordered the sheaves and neatly stacked the bundle. “Unless you get an acknowledged Shakespeare expert to study it and verify it.”
“Rumpold!” Leon and Will exclaimed together.
Will produced a dirty feather and an almost-empty little glass pot of ink from his bag. “This was why I used my own papers and made a quill – to make it look authentically old.” He glanced up at the LCD TV on the wall. “And I didn’t use any metaphors with modern references. Although this world is abundant with potential imagery.”
Hermione put her hand on Will’s knee. “Mister Shakespeare, you are, as the whole world knows, a genius.”
Will placed his hand on top of Hermione’s. “My genius but a brick to the Shard of thy beauty.”
Hermione leaned forward and kissed Will on the cheek, then gave him a hug. Leon watched them suspiciously.
Chapter 38
Bertram Rumpold fell in love with Shakespeare as an undergraduate. He had started a philosophy degree originally but changed after one year to English literature after he had been persuaded by a friend to perform as Rosencrantz in a student production of Hamlet. Reading and re-reading the play before and during rehearsals had ignited and then deepened Rumpold’s appreciation of the astonishing philosophic beauty of Shakespeare’s writing. He felt he had learned more about ethics and existentialism from the play than from his university seminars and decided to switch to a literature degree. He performed in several more Shakespeare productions during his English literature course, and he plunged joyously into the academic minutiae of Elizabethan theatre. He graduated, easily in his unspoken opinion, with a first class degree, and had continued to specialise in Shakespearean studies in a masters degree, and then during a doctorate entitled Socio-historical Linguistic Evidence Underlying Subjective Iconology in Shakespearean Realms. He had written hundreds of papers concerning arcane features and interpretative analyses of Shakespeare’s life, times, and work, establishing a reputation as one of the world’s leading Shakespeare experts. And throughout his academic career, Rumpold had continued to perform, starting out in the lead roles in low-budget amateur versions, to minor roles in professional productions, including one blessed production with the Royal Shakespeare Company itself. Reading Shakespeare, researching Shakespeare, writing about Shakespeare, performing Shakespeare, discussing Shakespeare, and teaching Shakespeare had become Rumpold’s life, and his passion had only increased over the years.
It had been an uneventful Tuesday so far for Rumpold at the Central College of Speech and Drama. He had taught his fresher class, then photocopied some resources for the tutorial the following day. His afternoon was going to involve peer-reviewing two papers he had been sent by the Shakespeare Quarterly. There was a knock at his office door. “Enter!” he barked in his usual haughty fashion. He had told his students that he would be available to answer questions about the course on Tuesday afternoon. He was most surprised when Leon and his companion Mr Wavearrow entered.
“Leon! Goodness, what brings you back to your alma mater so soon after departing? Good day, Mr Wavearrow.”
“Good day, Mr Rumpold,” Mr Wavearrow replied formally.
“Hi Mr Rumpold. We have something exciting to show you. Are you free?”
“Exciting? How ... exciting! Please. Take a seat.”
Rumpold shifted the print-outs of the journal articles onto a pile of papers at the left edge of his desk. He watched his visitors pull two seats up to his desk. Leon extracted a bundle of what looked like old manuscripts out of a box in his bag. “And what do we have here?” Rumpold asked fixing a monocle to his right eye.
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Leon answered. “My elderly great aunt lives alone in a large old house in Mayfair. She’s lived there for over seventy years, the last thirty of them on her own. There are rooms in the house which have been completely unused for years. And the basement has probably never seen a visitor for decades. I was down there over the weekend, rooting around, just being nosey. It’s a historical treasure trove. There are boxes and boxes of old books, documents, manuscripts. Some of them are hundreds of years old, and could be worth a fortune.”
Leon delicately placed the manuscript on Rumpold’s desk. Rumpold pulled it towards him.
“Careful please Mr Rumpold!” Leon warned. “It’s old and may be extremely valuable.”
Rumpold delicately brought the manuscript closer. “My word, what is this?” he murmured, his voice full of fascination.
“Well,” Leon answered, looking quickly at Mr Wavearrow. “We think this may be a handwritten manuscript of a Shakespeare play – an undiscovered one.”
Rumpold thought he felt his heart bump against his ribcage. He coughed, and the monocle fell out of his eye.
“We think it may even have been written by Shakespeare’s own hand,” Leon continued. Mr Wavearrow nodded his agreement.
Rumpold put his hand to his chest and took a deep breath. And then another. He felt giddy, light-headed, like he was going to faint. He refitted his monocle and looked up at Leon. “What? An undiscovered Shakespeare play? My God.”
Rumpold had frequently fantasised about discovering a new Shakespeare play. His current reputation would be permanently imprinted on posterity. He had often imagined a Shakespearean theatre company or publishing company being named after him. Yet he had never truly believed it could happen. He carefully picked up the top sheet and studied the top of the page. The handwriting was messy, flat, like it had been squashed under pressure pushing down on it from the top of the page. Rumpold read the first line: “A Christmas Carol by William Shakespeare”. He stopped reading. A Christmas Carol? Charles Dickens had written A Christmas Carol.
“Is it possible Dickens could have used a copy of this as his source?” Leon asked quietly.
Rumpold didn’t answer. His mind was speeding along at thousands of thoughts per second, analysing potential connections, imagining possibilities. At first look he thought that the handwriting resembled that of ‘Hand D’ in the manuscript of the Elizabethan play Sir Thomas More. Like many scholars, Rumpold believed ‘Hand D’ was the only surviving fragment of Shakespeare’s own handwriting left in existence - until now. Could he now be holding a manuscript that Shakespeare had written over four hundred years ago? He continued reading. Leon and Mr Wavearrow sat silently and watched him study the documents. Rumpold delicately picked up another sheaf and studied it. He picked up the next sheaf, then the next. He moved down through the small bundle.
“You think it’s by Shakespeare?” Leon asked.
“My first impressions are that it most certainly could be. The parchment looks genuine, the handwriting, and spelling look plausibly early seventeenth century. At first glance the language is Shakespearean.” Rumpold caught Mr Wavearrow’s eyes. Mr Wavearrow held Rumpold’s gaze and nodded sagely. “This is more than gold,” Rumpold continued. “This is ... stardust from another galaxy.” The full implications were slowly surfacing in Rumpold’s mind. “This is what I have been dreaming of for decades.” He took a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and dabbed his brow. “I ... I’m overwhelmed.”
“Yeah, I was a bit too when I found it,” Leon said. “People will want to know if it’s authentic. How could we get it verified?”
Rumpold returned his handkerchief to his pocket. “Oh, have no worries there. A panel of fellow Shakespearean professors will rush here immediately to see it and analyse the text word by word.” He began to work out a plan of action. “I could have them here by the weekend with the exposure this will generate. Believe me, they’ll cancel weddings, births, even golf for this. I’d like to get this soup bubbling asap. It’s too intriguing to countenance delay.”
“This weekend? Wow! How could you organise something so quickly?”
“My young Lysander, news of the discovery of a new Shakespeare play will create its own media tempest. I have a wonderful friend who’s a Shakespeare-loving theatre reviewer on a national newspaper. He’ll appreciate the scoop. This will create an instant clamour over a scandal of authenticity. Yes, a symposium of experts will form itself quickly – under my direction naturally.”
Chapter 39
Leon burst into the lounge the following morning and threw a copy of the Guardian at Will. “Front page! Whole page!”
Will caught the paper, unfolded it open and read the headline. “Lost Shakespeare Play Discovered!” The by-line read, “Experts to verify authenticity of handwritten manuscript”.