Thirteenth Night

by Alan Gordon

  “I am not the right man to take that advice.”

  “Why? Not married?”

  “Not young.”

  He squinted at me, and I tilted my head back and drank to conceal my face with the cup. It was good wine.

  “Were you on the last Crusade?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  “Neither was I. Wanted to go. I was young and full of righteous vigor. ‘You stay,’ says his own puissant self, the Duke. ‘Someone must stay and see to the ladies. Look after your sister for me.’ And off he gallivants, and all the best folk with him, while I’m stuck with the women and children. Doing my little administrative tasks, and not many of those. His steward took care of most of them.”

  “Claudius?”

  “No, he came later. Another fellow, old geezer. And then he dropped dead, and my sister without so much as a by-your-leave takes over. Did a good job. I’m not criticizing, but now, not only am I left behind with the women, but a woman’s running everything. Then the men come back, and they’re all heroes. ‘Oh, fine job watching the town, Sebastian. And I hear your sister helped. Well done, lad.’”

  He finished the cup, filled it again. I decided not to keep pace.

  “I’m a Count, you know.”

  I nodded.

  “By marriage.”

  I nodded again.

  “It was all very well at the time. Swept me off my feet. Didn’t even realize what was happening, then it turned out she wanted my sister all the time. Not after, of course, but she thought Viola was me, or I was her, or something. It all happened so quickly. I married a woman who thought I was someone else. Married after only one day’s courtship. I was seventeen. And I’ve been here ever since. With my older wife. And her money and her title. Don’t marry young. I know, I know, you’re old, but you can tell others about me. Make me into a cautionary fable for adventurous youths. Tell ’em to go ahead and have the goddamn adventure, even if it kills them. I have to take a piss.” He rose abruptly and staggered out.

  Another cask was tapped, and another after that. There was a toast from Alexander, and a toast from Sir Toby, and then from several other distinguished citizens. We continued toasting one another into the night. At some point we stopped, but for the life of me I can’t remember when.

  SEVEN

  Those women who paint their cheeks with rouge and

  their eyes with belladonna, whose faces are

  covered with powder … whom no number of years

  can convince that they are old.

  SAINT JEROME, LETTERS

  I staggered downstairs mid-morning. It took me several long moments when I awoke to remember where I was, why I was there, and who I was supposed to be. Alexander grunted pleasantly at me, and Newt hustled in with a bowl of porridge. Then I remembered what day it was.

  “Come here, lad,” I said as he turned to leave. He looked at me, comprehension and dismay spreading slowly across his face. I grabbed him briskly by the shoulder, spun him around, and gave him a good hard swat on the behind. He yelped.

  “Long life and joy to you, Newt,” I said. Alexander applauded.

  “Well done, sir,” he said. “I did not say anything because I did not know if they had that custom where you’re from.”

  “They do,” I said. “And I suppose Agatha’s too old for it.”

  “Around here, she is.”

  It was the Feast of the Holy Innocents, when the children are spanked for luck. I decided to limit my practice to the one house for practical reasons and reminded myself to pick up some small gifts for Agatha and Newt.

  “I seem to have overslept,” I said to Alexander.

  “You and the rest of the town,” he answered. “I think we crammed them all in last night.”

  “You seem none the worse for wear.”

  “It’s the one night of the year I won’t touch a drop. It gets too crazed. I must say the choir sounded in fine form.”

  “Yes. Maybe you should send them a barrel before they do the play. It will improve the performance.”

  “You should join them, sir. Your voice was as good as any.”

  “Really?” I said, covering my chagrin. “I don’t even remember singing.”

  “Oh, yes. After you had a few, of course. You seemed to know all the songs, and a few others, besides.”

  “I’ve spent far too much of my life in taverns. What language did I sing in?”

  “German, I suppose that was. Sounded like it, anyway.”

  Well, thank Christ for that. Bad enough I reveal my foolish side by singing, but at least I kept the accent intact. I made my usual post-hangover resolution to stop drinking so much, though I expected that I would have my usual success achieving it.

  I had no fixed plan for the day, which fit in nicely with my lack of a fixed plan for the entire journey. Another tilt at the Duchess’s gate seemed pointless. Perhaps I should pay my respects to Sebastian and Olivia. And it was about time I started doing a little night work.

  There was a flock of children running wild through the square, playing tag and gleefully spanking one another as hard as they could. Several were sliding along an icy patch near the wall, the object being to stay on one’s feet as long as possible before crashing into a large pile of snow at the end. A large group of them crowded against another part of the wall, screaming with laughter. I had a sudden instinct as to the cause and sauntered over to the edge of the crowd.

  He was completely bald, and his whiteface covered his scalp. There were red and green triangular markings around his eyes that echoed the pattern of his motley. In his right ear was an enameled earring depicting a death’s-head. On the fourth finger of his right hand was the ring I last saw in Father Gerald’s study. His eyelids were painted a deep crimson, very much in evidence as both eyes were closed. What made this significant is that, closed or not, he was having no difficulty keeping four clubs hurtling through the air.

  “Do you know why I have my eyes closed, children?” he hollered.

  “Why?” they responded.

  “Because I’m afraid to look,” he said, and they shrieked as he opened one, gasped with fright and shut it tight again. The clubs continued their gyrations uninterrupted.

  A sleepy and altogether uninterested ass was tied nearby. On its head was a crushed dark green felt hat. The fool began inching towards the beast, the clubs following him at will. He opened his eyes and without breaking the pattern reached down, seized the hat, and placed it on his own head. The crowd, myself included, applauded. He shrugged nonchalantly and transferred the hat back to the ass’s head, then back to his, faster and faster until his hands were a veritable blur. I tried very hard not to hate him on the spot. Of course, when I was younger I could do the same trick. Not as well, or as fast, but I could do it.

  “You, Signore, come and help me,” he commanded a lad of ten. The boy inched forward nervously until he was standing next to the fool. The hat appeared on his head, then red and yellow hats on the fool and the ass. The clubs continued high into the air, and the hats moved from head to head in a strange sequence. Finally, all three ended up stacked on the fool’s noggin and the clubs settled gently into his hands, the fourth in a last-second catch just over the boy’s head. The fool took the boy’s hand, and they bowed together, the boy laughing hysterically. He ran back to his friends as a small shower of copper rained on the fool.

  “Greetings, Orsino!” he shouted. “My name is Bobo, and this is my beloved Fez.” The ass continued to ignore him. “We have come from Toledo for the express purpose of entertaining you. My friend Fez, he is a little ass. And I…”

  “… am a big one!” shouted the children gleefully as he looked shocked and offended.

  “In Toledo this time of year, it is warm and sunny, and the women smell of musk and spices. Naturally, I could not stand that, so I came here for the climate. Why? Because I am a fool. Let me show you what it is like in Toledo.” He reached into his bag and pulled out an assortment of scarves and wigs.
He then put on a quick dumb show, mimicking the walks of the fine ladies and the serving girls, the soldiers and the priests, the Moors and the Jews, switching identities with the flick of a scarf and a marvelously changeable face. I watched him closely, observing what I could steal, guessing who he stole from. A rare opportunity, seeing a colleague in a street performance.

  He went on for perhaps an hour, a most profitable one from all appearances, then bowed and collected his gear. He chatted good-naturedly with the townspeople while letting the children pet Fez, then started to load his bags back on the beast. I approached him casually.

  “Good Fool, tell me the news of the world,” I began.

  “The world, sir? I’m afraid that is out of my sphere.”

  “An interesting point. Do you hold with the theory that the world is round or that it is flat?”

  “Well, sir,” he said. “I believe that it is both round and flat.”

  “Your reason, Fool?”

  “It is a pretty one, sir, but requires a demonstration. Oh, that I had something round and flat to demonstrate it with!”

  I held out a penny, and he inspected it closely.

  “The very thing, sir.” He began walking, and I fell into step beside him. “From all I have observed, men rule the world but money rules them. As the greater must encompass the lesser, so must money encompass the world. And since coin is both round and flat, so then must the world be.”

  “But men are not.”

  “True, sir. Men with coin tend to be round, while men without end up flat. It is not an argument that Aristotle would put forth, but it works well enough for the real world.”

  “Truly, you speak as a fool. But, as they say, stultorum numerus…”

  “… infinitus est. Indeed, sir.” He shot a glance at me, smiling as we turned down a side street. “So you are the great Feste,” he said.

  “Never call me that!” I snapped.

  “Forgive me,” he said immediately, crestfallen. “It’s just that when I heard who I was going to be working with, well, you can only imagine how excited I was. It more than made up for missing the Feast. What name are you using?”

  “I am Octavius, a merchant of Augsburg. I stay at the Elephant, an inn by the wharves. I am the only occupant of the second floor, so you can sneak up the back stairs if you need to find me or leave a message. I notice you have Father Gerald’s ring.”

  “Yes,” he said, glancing at it. “Unusually cautious for him. The password isn’t enough anymore?”

  “Possibly not. For a secret society, we have become notoriously penetrable. How much did Father Gerald tell you?”

  “Some. I knew the basic story, of course. I’ve sung it enough times. How long have you been here?”

  “Since Christmas Day.”

  “You made good time. I left the evening of the same day you did, but I had Señor Slowpoke here. I probably would have made better time without him, but I hate to break up the act.”

  “Really? All he does is stand there.”

  “Yes, but you have no idea how long it took to train him to do that.”

  “I liked the gag with the hats.”

  “Thank you. Normally, I work in a fifth club, but it’s so damned cold.”

  “You’re done. Put on a cloak.”

  He smote his forehead and rummaged through a pack on the donkey until he produced a cloak and scarf, which he wrapped around him. A warmer hat replaced the felt one. He almost looked like a normal human being, except for the ghostly skin color.

  “What do you use for whiteface?” I asked.

  “White lead.”

  “Really? That’s unusual. Most of us think it’s poison in the long run.”

  “It may be. But I don’t expect to live that long, so I might as well look my best.”

  “Why the pessimism?”

  “I had my fortune told by an expert, and she said I would not see my fortieth year. I am thirty-eight now. She was known for the accuracy of her predictions. She even foretold her own death to the day.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “Not really. She hung herself when it came up. Kind of a cheat, but then, maybe not. One should at least respect her professional integrity. So, I plan to be a dead fool with great makeup rather than an old fool without. But to the present matter. What have you learned?”

  I sketched in my discoveries and speculations. It took all of a minute. By the end, he was shaking his head.

  “You can’t even prove he was murdered,” he pointed out.

  “Not yet.”

  “And you have no idea if this Malvolio is even here.”

  “Oh, he’s here. I can’t prove it, but deep in my bones, I know it.”

  “Deep in my bones there’s marrow, and it’s freezing. Where should I stay?”

  “Somewhere I’m not. The hostel’s your best bet.”

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “Find out what you can. Take a crack at getting inside the villa. I couldn’t convince them to let me in.”

  “They have children?”

  “Two, a boy and a girl. The boy is ill. I suspect they may need some entertainment.”

  “I’ll go straight away.”

  “It might be worthwhile sounding out the Duchess. If the Duke was in some way lured to his death, perhaps he mentioned something to her first.”

  “Worth a try. Can you describe this Malvolio to me?”

  “About my height, a little younger. If he’s here, he’s here as someone else. He’s probably been here for a while, getting himself established. I’m guessing he’s somewhere central where he has access to the great houses and the information he needs.”

  “Any candidates?”

  “There’s a Jew named Isaac who assists the Duke’s steward. There’s a captain of the guards who is itching to take my head off.”

  “That was quick. Most people have to get to know us first. Let me offer a suggestion, based on what you told me.”

  “Yes?”

  “What about the Bishop?”

  I thought about it. “I would think he wouldn’t have enough time to establish himself in the Church that well.”

  “Who needs time? They appoint the Bishop, he leaves Rome, and Malvolio arrives. No one here knows the Bishop. He can pass through all doors unchallenged. It’s perfect.”

  “All right, why not? Anyway, there may be other possibilities, and we may not have much time.”

  “How so? Orsino died over a month ago, and nothing’s happened since.”

  “He was waiting.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “For a fool to appear.”

  We walked on up the hill. “Feste doesn’t arrive but Bobo does,” he said, thinking out loud. “Malvolio will think the Guild sent me instead of you, for whatever reason. I stay visible, draw his fire. Hopefully, he misses, and we catch him.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “And then turn him in.”

  “No. He disappears.”

  He looked away. “I see,” he said quietly. “One of those assignments.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  He grimaced. “I’ve killed before. So have you, I’m sure. But it always seems counter to what we stand for.”

  “He’s responsible for the deaths of two of us.”

  “Maybe. Possibly. Probably. But vengeance should be the Lord’s, not the fool’s.”

  “He’s a threat to the Guild—think of it as self-defense. If you don’t have the stomach for it, at least help me catch him, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “All right. I’ll go straight to the Duchess. I’ll meet you at the Elephant at sundown. Laugh like I’ve said something funny.”

  I chuckled merrily as a guard rode past, staring at us.

  “You could have laughed louder,” complained Bobo.

  “It wasn’t that funny,” I said. “Until sundown. Be careful.”

  We parted ways, he to the hostel, I to the northwest.

  * * *
<
br />   Olivia’s house overlooked the northern wall, halfway between the inland gates. I presented myself to a maidservant who vanished inside the house, then reappeared and bade me enter. The speed of my admission was so much more than I had been accustomed to in this town that I barely had time to prepare my story.

  The Countess was in. The Count was in but out, sleeping off the previous evening’s festivities in an upper room. A swarm of children passed through the rooms and hallways, in such a constant whirl that I could not possibly begin to count them.

  She was seated on a pile of cushions near the fireplace, placidly working on some needlepoint. Many-hued silks were draped on the walls and on the Countess. Her unveiled face was coated with enough rouge and kohl to challenge Bobo for decoration. She indicated a large pillow decorated in some Arab fashion. I bowed and sat down.

  “You’re the singing German everyone has been talking about,” she said, observing me closely.

  “I’m afraid that I overindulged,” I replied apologetically.

  “The rumors have been flying about you,” she remarked. “Only natural, since you’re the newest stranger in town.”

  “The second newest,” I said. “But please tell me, what are these rumors?”

  “Oh, you’re a smuggler, a fabulously wealthy merchant come to invest in our little town, a fortune-hunter pursuing the Duchess, the new steward for the Duke, and my favorite, a Venetian spy.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. She continued to observe me, basking in her opulence, never missing a stitch.

  “The last is more than a rumor. It was propounded by Captain Perun, who happens to be an admirer of mine.”

  “As any man in his right mind would be, Milady.”

  This drew a slight smile. “A most excellent piece of flattery, Signor Octavius. You may do very well here.”

  “Are we speaking of commercial prospects now?”

  “Perhaps. If you like. But let’s speak of other things as well. You have been to Venice recently? I’m dying to hear the latest.”