Thirteenth Night

by Alan Gordon

  Mark and Viola made their entrance, and everyone bowed. Many sneaked glances at the Duke, trying to gauge how he had fared in the fire, while Perun leaned against the far wall, watching everyone. I smiled to myself as Mark strode to his father’s chair and sat in it, prompting a few admiring gasps.

  “We have summoned you here on a matter of great import to our town,” he said. “We are under attack from within. Two murdered, and a treacherous attempt on our own life.” He exuded such command that one forgot it was emanating from an unbroken soprano voice. “We give thanks to our friend, Sir Andrew.” The room applauded, and the knight blushed. “And we commend our Captain in the heroic performance of his duties.” More applause, albeit uneasier in tone. Perun bowed.

  “There is a man who seeks to shed light on these dark events,” continued the Duke. “He has our ear, but we will not act unless you are convinced as well. He has requested that we use our office to provide him with a forum for your enlightenment. We know no more of what he will say than you do, but we urge that you give him your attention.”

  Sounded like a cue to me. I parted the curtains and entered slowly. Some woman shrieked at my cloaked visage. Sir Toby chuckled.

  “You’re late for the Feast, whoever you are,” he cried. “The time for costumes is over.”

  “Better late than never, Sir Toby,” I replied, pulling down my hood.

  “Well, bless me,” he said. “It’s the merchant, and he’s shaved.”

  “I have,” I admitted. “How do you like it?”

  He shrugged. “A man’s a man, whether bearded or no,” he pronounced. “It’s all the same to me.”

  “And you, Countess?” I asked, turning to Olivia. “What think you of this shorn face?”

  “I liked the beard better,” she said. “The face underneath is rather ordinary. What is this about, Herr Octavius?”

  “An ordinary face. My blessing and my curse throughout my life. An unmemorable one, wouldn’t you say?”

  “As faces go, yes. Yet…” She paused, uncertainly. “Have we met before?”

  “That is the magic of beards,” I said. “How they change our appearance. They make a weak chin into a strong one, men out of boys, and disguise our faces as well as any mask. Yet start with a beard, then shave it, and you’ll be even more unrecognizable. I notice that it is generally not the fashion of this town to sport them. Isaac does, of course, because of his religion. The Captain has a fine one, but he’s not from here. And Claudius … Where is Claudius, by the way?”

  “On holy retreat, at the Cistercian Monastery,” said Isaac smoothly.

  I shrugged. “That’s unfortunate. But to the point. I would like to thank all of you for the hospitality you have shown this humble traveler. In return, I would like to extend the festivities for one more day. After all, as they say, Twelfth Night is for revelry, Thirteenth Night for revelations.”

  “And what revelations do you have, merchant?” asked Sebastian. “That your spice scheme is a fraud?”

  “That, among other things, Count. I will reveal myself and others before I am done. But first, I must teach you a little more about disguises. Beards are but one method. A much better one … Well, let me propose it this way. Milord, are you fond of riddles?”

  “I fancy that I am rather good with them,” replied Mark.

  “Then puzzle this one out. Never seen, never felt, never heard, never smelt. Those who have me may enjoy Life, yet in the end I will destroy Life. What am I?”

  “Time,” he answered promptly.

  “Very good, Milord. Your wit rivals the best. Time, lords and ladies, is the great disguiser. It changes faces, bodies, hair, voices. Most of all, it changes the memories we have of people from our past.” I walked over to the table and sat with my back to my audience, placing the icon and my bag before me. “How may we defeat Time, Countess?” I asked, opening the icon to reveal the mirror.

  “We may not,” she said. “But we may create the illusion that we do.”

  “Excellently put,” I applauded. “And what do you use to create that illusion?”

  “Secrets, Herr Octavius. Secrets found in ointments and powders.”

  “The Countess is refreshingly honest about her artifice. Cosmetics to preserve one’s youth and one’s beauty. Not many of you men wear makeup, although yon fool makes up for the rest of you.” I opened my bag. “What is it that you use for whiteface, Senor Bobo?”

  “White lead,” he replied.

  “Just so,” I said. “I prefer wheat flour mixed with a little chalk.” I rubbed it into my face as I spoke. “It is not as pure a white, but it is plentiful and cheap.” I glanced at the mirror. Normally, I can make up my fool’s face blind, but it had been a few weeks since I had done this. “See how Time flees before the onslaught. The cracks are smoothed, the features erased, all character lost. The face becomes a blank canvas upon which many faces may appear.”

  “His accent’s gone,” commented Sebastian.

  “That voice,” whispered Olivia. “I know that voice.”

  I outlined my eyes with a sharpened stick dipped in kohl. “I avoid white lead,” I said. “There was a Roman fellow, name of Galen, who decided that lead was a subtle poison that eventually drove men mad.” Rouge for the cheeks and lips. “By the way, Señor Fool, how do you know when a fool goes mad?” Finally, my signature, malachite to make two small green diamonds, one below each eye.

  “I do not know, Brother Fool,” called Bobo. “How do you know when a fool goes mad?”

  I turned to face them. “When he acts just like everyone else,” I said, and bowed low.

  “Good God, it’s Feste!” ejaculated Sir Toby.

  “Feste,” breathed the Duke in wonder.

  “Now, the motley has its own tradition,” I said, whipping off the cloak and revealing myself in my full foolish glory. “While many prefer fools to perform naked, that has a certain impracticality, especially this time of year. The motley is made of many colors. This is of necessity, as we must assemble it from what scraps of cloth we may find. But that is a reflection of Man himself, a thing of shreds and patches, constantly adding and mending.”

  “Anything that’s mended is but patched,” quoted Olivia. “Virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue.’”

  I bowed to her. “I am astonished and honored that you remembered,” I said.

  “You were of great comfort to me when my brother died,” she said. “I have not forgotten. Now, Feste, tell us why you are here.”

  “Did you not send for me, Milady?”

  “No.”

  “Did any of you?” I asked. A negative murmuring. “Yet someone did. Milords and Miladies, to give an adequate account, I must instruct you in some of the secrets of my profession. A confession of the profession, if you will. For although the adage says that King and Fool are the only states in life to which you are born, not made, that is not in fact true of the fool. I have a craft, learned in a Guild that is dedicated to maintaining the high standards of a low life. Where you learn the seven liberal arts, we study the seven foolish ones, which are what, Señor Bobo?”

  “Juggling, tumbling, languages, music, magic, repartee, and rhyming extemporaneously.”

  “Bravo, Señor. In my most recent sojourn at the Guild, I was given a message. Orsino was dead, fallen from on high. Incidentally, Milord, let me add my condolences now that I am in my true form. I knew and loved your father many years ago.”

  “Thank you, Feste. I am happy to meet you at long last.”

  “Milord, I advised you that I would bring you sad news today. And there are no pretty words, artifice, or magic tricks that will make it any better. But part of the paradox of my profession is that when I put on makeup and motley and transform myself into a walking mask, it gives me license to do freely what no others may do: to tell the truth.”

  “What sad truth do you have for me, good Fool?”

  “That your father was murdered.�
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  The boy turned pale, and cries of grief and consternation came from the assemblage. “How is this possible?” he whispered. “He fell from the cliff.”

  “He was dead before he fell, Milord. I took the liberty of examining his body with the consent of your mother. The back of his skull was crushed by some blunt object. Yet he had landed facedown at the base of the cliff. He was murdered, Mark.”

  “It’s true, Milord,” said Viola, placing her hand on his arm. He pulled it away, fighting back tears.

  “Captain, you observed the body. Would you agree with my conclusion?”

  “If the back of his skull was crushed,” said Perun, considering, “then, yes. I would.”

  “But who did this?” cried Sir Andrew. “And what did it have to do with…” He stopped, suddenly fearful. “Malvolio?” he whispered.

  “That was my thought,” I said. “His longtime vow of vengeance was finally being carried out. So, I came here. It was decided at the Guild among my fellow fools that I would travel in a mercantile guise, to be followed by a colleague in motley. In that manner, I could investigate safely while he distracted our invisible enemy. But our plan went awry. While I was examining the cliffs from which Orsino fell, an attempt was made on my life. By crossbow.”

  Another round of murmuring, and Perun looked at me sharply. “Why did you not report this to me, Fool?” he asked.

  “Because in my mind, you were a suspect,” I replied.

  He thought about that calmly. “From your perspective, I would be,” he conceded. “Am I still?”

  “Yes. As are you,” I said, turning to the Bishop. “And you.” This time, to Isaac.

  “Outrageous,” sputtered the Bishop. Isaac chuckled.

  “I am not offended. I am suspected of so many things,” he said. “But did you see your assailant?”

  “No, but I heard him. His voice sounded like Malvolio’s. And Bobo, who was watching me, saw a man wearing a monk’s cowl who had a beard that resembled Malvolio’s.”

  “And Malvolio struck him,” finished Perun.

  “That’s what I was supposed to believe,” I said. “But, as Bobo pointed out to me over a chess game the other night, there was something odd about that incident. It is unlikely that Malvolio, fifteen years later, would still have the same black, triangular beard. Bobo suggested that we were meant to see him and survive to tell the tale, so that everyone would be duly convinced that it was in fact he.”

  “Are you now saying it wasn’t?” protested Viola. “You heard his voice.”

  “Milady, I can do an accurate re-creation of every voice in this room. Malvolio’s was a particularly easy one to imitate.”

  She looked at me long and hard. “You told me that Malvolio killed my husband,” she said.

  “When was this?” asked Sebastian. “How long have you known about this fool?”

  “Whoever killed Orsino knew that he would be alone at the cliffs that night,” I said. “Knowing he’d be at the cliffs was not enough. He went there every evening. His killer had to know that all three of the people who normally accompany him would have been prevented from doing so.”

  “That was the night I became ill,” said Mark.

  “And I was with him,” said Viola.

  “That leaves Claudius,” said Perun. “Where was he? Shall I send my men for him?”

  I looked at Viola. Slowly, she bowed her head. “Claudius won’t be at the monastery,” I said. “Claudius is here.”

  “Where?” said Mark.

  “By your side,” I said. “Viola is Claudius.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then Toby roared, “Good God, she’s done it again!”

  Sebastian was livid. He hurled himself at her and had to be restrained. “Why?” he screamed. “It wasn’t enough to humiliate me once, but you had to continue doing it? You couldn’t even trust me that much?”

  “Please, husband,” said Olivia. “Calm yourself. It didn’t concern you.”

  He turned to her in shock. “You knew?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “I see,” he said coldly. “A conspiracy of women. And the Jew, I suppose.”

  I had been watching the others to see who was the most surprised. The Bishop, Maria, and, I was pleased to see, the Captain all had expressions of shock and chagrin. Poor Mark looked as though he didn’t know where to turn.

  “So, it couldn’t have been Claudius,” concluded the Captain after the hubbub subsided. “Would you be so kind as to continue, Fool? This is fascinating.”

  “Thank you, Captain. I must give credit for this next bit of analysis to my colleague, Señor Bobo. It was he who realized that there had been no attack on me until after I had stumbled onto the secret of the Duchess’s identity.”

  “Mother?” said Mark uncertainly. She was backing slowly towards the rear of the room.

  “It was during the course of that same chess game that Bobo pointed out that an hour lapsed from the time she left for the doctor to the time she returned, ample time to either kill her husband or arrange for it to be done. And then he said the thing that finally convinced me as to the identity of Orsino’s killer.” I turned to face her. “Viola,” I said, a bit hesitantly. “It grieves me to say what I must say.” Then I stopped.

  Oh, if you could have seen her, standing before us in all her regal beauty. A cold fury burned within her and a presence so commanding that none could take their eyes off her for a moment. She raised her right hand and snapped her fingers. In a trice, Malachi and three other burly manservants materialized around her. She pointed at me.

  “Seize the fool and bind him fast,” she ordered. I froze as they ran towards me.

  Then past me.

  He put up a fierce struggle, I must say. A knife produced from somewhere left its mark on one of the men, but they were four to his one, and they prevailed. He sat, glaring, bound to his chair. I squatted down and looked him in the eyes.

  “You were very good, Señor,” I said. “Very good, indeed. You’ve studied our ways well enough to fool even a fool. The white lead was a mistake but a small one. Now, answer me a few questions. What is this?” I held up a chess piece.

  “What?”

  “Answer him,” said Malachi, a knife at his throat.

  Bobo gulped. “A king.”

  “And this?” I said, holding another one.

  “A queen. Feste, what are you doing?”

  “And this?”

  “A bishop.”

  “And this?”

  “A knight, of course. And that one’s a rook. Let me go, Feste.”

  I stood. “Allow me to continue my discourse on foolery. As you can see, we have our traditions. Although some would trace our lineage to King David, who played the fool to escape his pursuers, we of the Guild look to the First Fool, Our Savior, Our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “This is sacrilege!” thundered the Bishop.

  “Bear with me. He spoke the truth as well, through parable and paradox. And at the supreme moment, when he could have saved himself by doing a few simple magic tricks for the King, he chose silence. Then, he was led in a mock royal procession through the streets of Jerusalem to his doom and saved us all.” I pulled my cap out of the bag. “Consider the jester’s cap, Milord and Miladies. Some say because of this tradition that the fool parodies the King, and that this donkey-eared thing is our crown. But that is not the tradition of the Guild.” I placed it on my head and shook it so that it jingled. “Mark, I must catechize you for my proof. How many kings on one side of a chessboard?”

  “One, of course.”

  “How many queens?”

  “Also one.”

  “How many bishops?”

  “Two.”

  I turned to the Bishop. “How many bishops in a bishopric?”

  “One,” he replied.

  “Mark, is that not strange? Two on a chessboard and one in life.”

  “I suppose it is. I’ve never thought of it before.”

&nbs
p; “How many sections to my cap?”

  “Three,” he said. “And they all flop down.”

  “And who else in this room wears a hat that has three sections?”

  “Well,” he said, looking around. Then he looked at me. “The Bishop.”

  “Very good, Milord. As much as anything, the Guild’s tradition is to mock the Church. For that reason, we wear the three-sectioned cap. The French, who understand folly better than anyone, know this and call the piece that stands at the side of the king and queen—that avoids the gallant leaping of the knight and the straightforward approach of the rook and chooses instead to stagger drunkenly through enemy lines on the diagonal—the fool. And no jester who comes through the training of the Fools’ Guild would ever call it anything else, especially a bishop. It was during the course of the chess game that I realized that the wolf in fool’s clothing on the other side of the board was Malvolio.”

  There was a long silence, broken by Bobo screaming, “That’s it? That’s your proof?”

  “Basically,” I said.

  “Milords, listen to me,” he begged. “I am indeed Bobo the Fool. This is madness, literally madness. I was sent by the Guild to keep an eye on Feste. We were concerned that he had lost his wits after hearing of Orsino’s death. Malvolio is dead. He’s been dead for years, and we have known about it since it happened, yet this poor simpleton has continued to rave about him. When he set off on this mythical Crusade, this quest, I came to prevent him from doing any harm. He is an honored fool, we owed him that much. But don’t condemn me on the basis of this rambling diatribe.”

  “Oh, there was also this,” I added, beckoning to Malachi. He left with the other servants and shortly returned with a shrouded figure on a plank. I pulled off the shroud to reveal the dead man from the woods. Some in the crowd shrank back, others leaned forward. “Captain, your professional opinion, if you please.”

  Perun stepped forward and examined the body. “He was tortured,” he said immediately. “His ear was cut off, as well as two fingers. There’s…” He stopped, puzzled. “There’s very little blood, all things considered.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “After I realized that Malvolio had come in the place of the fool I was expecting, I went looking for the original. I believe that this is the real Señor Bobo. I found him a short distance from the north road. My guess is that Malvolio was lying in wait for me, having sent the message to the Guild after killing Orsino. Instead, Bobo showed up. The poor fellow was ambushed, taken and tortured to reveal what he knew. Learning that I was not acquainted with the fool I was expecting, Malvolio improvised a clever plan: He assumed Bobo’s identity, gained my confidence, and continued his revenge under the best of covers. He took the poor fellow’s earring and finger rings the hard way, then scrubbed the body until no trace of makeup remained. One Bobo leaves the Guild, and then another arrives in Orsino.”