by David Hewson
After the interminable service was over they’d filed out, her father desperately trying to talk to some men whose business he sought.
Inwardly she felt furious at being dragged to this grim, slow spectacle. As they headed to the piazza outside the basilica she asked again the question she’d thrown at him the very first time he’d taken her to San Zeno. A gigantic rose window stood in the upper façade of the church above the square. The locals called it the Wheel of Fortune because around the room were carved six figures, some in joy, some in agony, supposedly depicting the brief and shifting nature of earthly life as it turned, sending half of them up to heaven, the others down to hell.
‘Father,’ she said, interrupting him as he tried to converse with a banker keen to find new customers for his loans. ‘The window…’
‘I’m talking–’
‘I’ve asked you this before and you never answered. Why does God let one man rise and another fall like that? If the world’s so random and merciless what’s the point of anything? I don’t follow. It doesn’t make sense.’
Any more than keeping old bones rotting in a crypt, wrapped up in gold and silver and red linen for all to see.
‘I’ve told you before. I’m not a priest. Ask one of them.’
Later, in Sant’Anastasia, at another pointless confession, she had asked again and got no good answer. Just the same platitudes she received when she asked why a kind, just God demanded death as recompense for the gift of life he’d given in the first place.
Because that’s how things are. It wasn’t an answer at all.
She got out of her evening clothes and hung them up tidily, knowing the quarrel that would ensue if she threw them on the floor. Then she found a shift, plain, long and cool. The night was too hot for anything else. She didn’t feel like sleeping. The evening had been too odd, too alluring, to contemplate that.
Barefoot, she went to the windows, threw them open and walked on to the balcony.
‘Oh, Romeo,’ she sighed. ‘Why do you have to bear that name? Montague, I mean. Romeo’s quite…’
Quite a part of me somehow.
She was talking to herself.
‘A sign of madness.’
Or love. Which was, perhaps, the same.
There was a long couch on the balcony. Comfortable. Sometimes she slept on it, a lemon-oil candle by her side to keep away the mosquitoes. Outdoors the world was real and the endless sky seemed to smile on her, just like the blue ceiling in San Zeno which was so much more fetching than that cruel rose window with its flailing figures caught between life and death. She lit the sweet-smelling candle and placed it on the tiled floor beside the couch, then found two pillows and tucked herself beneath a single sheet. The stars were so brilliant they might have been pin pricks in a great black velvet sheet set against the dazzling eternity of heaven.
He was here somewhere, in Verona, thinking of her, too. She knew that.
‘Sweet dreams,’ she whispered happily. ‘For now and all time forward.’
* * *
Romeo waited until the heated conversation inside the palazzo walls died down. Two voices he could place: Juliet and the woman servant who’d disturbed them in the garden. The third, soft and older, could only be her mother.
When he heard the hall windows close with a slam he pushed at the rickety side gate he’d used earlier and once again found himself in the garden of the Capulets. There he sat down by the wall, yawned, stretched out his arms, exhausted. His eyes seemed to close themselves. And straight away he found himself dreaming.
Juliet. Juliet.
Her lovely face filled his imagination, her bright, bold voice whispered in his head. He saw them striding hand-in-hand beside the flowing Adige in August. Walking through deep snow in the lower Tyrol as winter came. Peace there was in this place, everywhere. Between them. Between their respective houses, too. With this adoring devotion came a broader harmony that had been lost to so many for years.
All through love. Real love. Not the affected infatuation Rosaline had offered him. This was flesh and blood, a fond and physical passion that bound the two of them together like shipmates set upon the journey known as life.
Together.
Another welcome, arousing image came then. They were naked as the pair in Eden, fresh with ardour, rolling on the grass. Arms wrapped around each other, entering a private, secret place…
A sound. A bell. The Torre dei Lamberti. The real world pleading for his return.
‘Damn,’ he muttered, rolling to one side as he woke against the wall. It was all sleep’s cruel trickery.
He had registered only the last peal so he’d no idea how late it was. Only that hours might have passed. The night was cooler, the moon lower in the sky. Rashly he’d stolen into her garden and simply slumbered. An opportunity lost.
Cursing, he got to his feet.
‘Ow!’
Thinking only of her, he’d stumbled straight into a patch of brambles at the base of the riverside wall. Sharp thorns. Thick head.
Through the blackberries he stumbled, the thorns ripping at his velvet britches though he barely felt them. Her balcony lay ahead, the stone carvings on the front outlined by the moonlight. Candles burned, dim and smoky yellow on the wall. Then he saw her slim shape standing by the edge, nothing but a white night gown about her person, above it that face, that hair. The sight of her stirred his heart. He tripped and felt another stab of spines.
‘Ow!’
Artichokes. He’d never liked them.
She leaned over the balcony, one hand on the thick trunk of the ancient vine that ran twisting up from the ground.
‘Who’s that? Who’s there? You woke me. Thank you very much.’
Timid, too reluctant to show himself, it was the best he could do to whisper, so low she’d never hear, ‘Oh God, Juliet. Let us live together. Let us love. And damn the opinions of old men. They’re not worth a penny.’
Her voice grew more strident, yet not loud. ‘If it’s a burglar I’m warning you. Best make yourself scarce. We have guards here. And dogs. Both fierce.’ She hesitated then. ‘I am saying this softly, however, by way of warning. And in case… in case you’re not a burglar. Just someone who happens to be passing. Or…’
He scrambled nearer and still didn’t dare show his face. The sky betrayed the faintest rosy hint of morning. ‘Dawn breaks and Juliet is the sun. Farewell moon. Goodbye stars. She shines too bright…’
‘Whoever you happen to be. Thief. Villain…’
‘I’d be both and steal your heart, my love. If only you knew. If only I dared.’
She waved a dismissive hand out towards the garden. ‘That’s it. I’m off to bed now. Shortly.’
‘To bed.’ He didn’t want to think of this. ‘And here I am. Tramping through her garden. Watching like a craven coward…’
Just then Juliet leaned over the edge of her balcony and peered into the trees below. The moon outlined her face against the pale palazzo stone. ‘Romeo. If it’s you messing about down there kindly show yourself. I feel a proper clown stood out here in my nightshift.’
All the words he knew deserted him. Not so her.
‘Damn it. Why am I talking to thin air? What stupid turn of fate made you a Montague in the first place? Tell your father to get lost. I’ll do the same to mine. Marry me and I’ll happily cease to be a Capulet. I mean–’
‘Marry?’ he whispered, voice trembling with excitement. ‘We said we’d marry.’
He was about to step out and reveal himself when she threw something – a glass, he thought – straight off the balcony. It whizzed past his head and shattered on the path. Cross words followed.
‘It’s names that make enemies here though none of us got to choose the one we’re born with. Eight letters of the alphabet are my foe. Not you. Never you. And what’s Montague? A word. Not a… a hand or a foot. What’s a name in any case? You could call a rose a beetroot and still it would smell as sweet.’
He edged against the
palazzo wall and there she was, elbows on the balcony edge, head in hands, staring at the growing dawn.
‘So there’s the answer, my Montague. I’ll dispatch my name. You throw away yours. Then take me. All of me. I’m yours. If only…’
He lurched out into the open, stumbling through the rose bed and cried, ‘I hear you, sweetest!’
Juliet gazed down at him, half-surprised, half-embarrassed. ‘Less noise, please. Do you want the world to know?’
He came and stood where she could see him clearly, arms wide open as if to catch her. ‘I’ll shout my love from every tower in Verona if you’ll give me leave. There’s an endless night to be slept for both of us. Before it comes give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more, and a second hundred, and then… and then–’
‘Is that poetry again?’
‘Catullus. He was born here.’
‘I know!’ She paused and put a finger to her lips. ‘He’s filthy, isn’t he? That’s why Mother wouldn’t let me have the book.’
‘Only in parts.’
‘What parts?’
‘It doesn’t matter! I take you at your word, my darling. Give me your heart and baptise me how you want. Romeo’s a dead man. Rechristen me as you wish…’
‘They’ll set the dogs on you in a minute. Or worse my cousin Tybalt. Do you want to rouse them all?’
‘No. Just you.’
Juliet laughed. ‘You’ve managed that. In any case… what is this? Hanging around my garden, listening to my private thoughts.’
He went and stood by the vine, then put a hand to the gnarled trunk, wondering if it would hold him. ‘Well they weren’t that private, were they? Otherwise I wouldn’t have heard. If the name of Romeo upsets you, fairest, change it. You from whom the radiant sun does shine like–’
‘How did you get here?’
‘On love’s light wings I scaled those walls. No stone, no fortress keeps out a passion like mine. Not your family–’
She leaned over the edge and squinted down the garden. ‘So the gate’s still open. I hope those wings work when Tybalt catches you. Otherwise there’ll be murder.’
He bowed graciously, and swept the air with his right arm. ‘I’m more afraid of a single cold glint in your eye than twenty of their swords. Just look on me a little tenderly, please. That’s sufficient armour–’
‘This poetry of yours could get tedious.’
‘It’s done with. When we’re married.’ She didn’t laugh, didn’t budge, just looked at him. ‘As we agreed. Later this very day.’
Then he took hold of the vine and climbed up, hand over hand, feet struggling for grip upon its flaking trunk. The balcony was high. And more distant than it looked. He flapped an arm out towards her. It was a long drop down. With an amused sigh, she reached out, grabbed him, helped him over. Romeo set foot in the palazzo of the Capulets for the second time that evening. The two of them stood there for a moment in each other’s arms. He kissed her. A natural kiss, full of love and passion and heat. So much she retreated and said, quite shyly, ‘That was more convincing. Anyone would think you’ve been practising.’
‘Only in my dreams.’
She raised her fingers and stroked his cheek. ‘Tonight was nice. I’m flattered, honestly. But how can you really love me?’
‘Count the ways. I–’
‘No. Don’t bother. I knew you’d say that. Boys do. Men do. And swear their love then see another pretty face. Or ankle. After which they’re gone…’
‘Never…’
‘They say that too. Half the gods in heaven are laughing at lovers’ broken promises. Be honest with me. Here I am, half-dressed, half inclined to… believe you.’ She looked up at him, an earnest, searching expression on her face. ‘Am I being too forward? That’s not good, I know. If you like I could be a bit more remote. Distant…’
‘No, no really. This is perfect. Honestly.’
‘I agree I’ve got a sharp and unguarded tongue sometimes. But if I say yes I’ll mean it. Much more than all those girls who’ll lead you a merry dance. It’ll be yes for ever and ever. World without end. Well, as long as these little lives of ours may last. And, by the way…’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m only speaking candidly like this because you had the temerity to eavesdrop on a lady’s secret thoughts whispered from her balcony.’
That seemed a little unfair.
‘It was quite loud for a whisper. In fact I thought you might be hoping it was me and–’
‘A whisper.’
He recalled the sharp voices he’d heard earlier, her mother and the woman servant.
‘A whisper it was. I swear with all I have, by the blessed moon that’s now fading over these orange blossoms…’
‘Oh, don’t swear on the moon. Please. Anything but the moon.’
‘Why?’
She folded her arms and frowned. ‘Well… it’s such an inconstant thing. Waxing and waning like that. Driving people mad. Are we both lunatics then? Terrible idea.’
‘What precious thing do you want me to swear by then?’
‘Swear on your own good name. If you’re honest, as you say, that’s good enough surely. You can be precious to me. I can be precious to you. Why would we need more than that?’
‘With my heart then…’
Juliet looked back into the room. He followed the line of her gaze. There was a bed there, large, four-poster, the sheets untouched. The sight of it made his heart leap.
Then she said, ‘Thinking about it, let’s not do this swearing thing right now. It’s late. Or early. Romeo. I love to see you. Honestly. But… it’s as if we’re trapped in something that moves too quickly. Like an hourglass where the sand doesn’t trickle as it should. Just runs and runs.’
He took her in his arms again. ‘Let it.’
‘But sands run out. And lives with them.’
The bed. The sheets. The thought of her… ‘I am so full of passion for you. Without a touch, another kiss, they may as well run out right now. If–’
She reached up. Her lips touched his. Her hands found his back. While his worked beneath the delicate nightgown and touched the soft warm skin there. It was as if a wasp had stung her. She retreated, eyes down.
‘Too soon for that.’
‘One more poem,’ he promised. ‘Just one.’
This rhyme had followed him ever since he’d slipped from her in the garden below.
‘Just one,’ she agreed.
He waited a moment and thought to himself: if all my life depends upon these few words then say them well and truthfully.
‘My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks–’
She tapped his arm and stopped him. ‘Red coral wards off the evil eye, Nurse says. Not that she ever tells me what the evil eye truly is. Do you–?’
‘And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.’
Another tap. ‘Are you saying my breath smells?’
‘No! Only of you? May I finish?’
‘If there are no more insults.’
‘There were none before…’ He coughed and fought to concentrate. On this final passage depended everything.
‘I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music has a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.’
She waited to make sure he’d finished.
His hand rose to her face. He took a strand of her hair in his fingers, looked at it, at her, in wonder. ‘I think my love as rare–’
‘Did you make that up yourself?’
Trying to sound serious, he ex
plained, ‘There’s a theory no art is original. That there are only seven different stories in the world, with countless variations. The skill lies in creative improvisation, not a false sense of novelty.’
She smiled. ‘Well, I won’t ask who it was then. Still… it’s the sentiment that matters. Will you please stop staring at my bed?’
He couldn’t stop himself. The neat white sheets, gauze drapes around them to keep out the night insects. And an odd painting: a grinning young girl, a little like Juliet, holding up a childish charcoal sketch of a woman, all stick arms and stick legs. A gift from her father she said when she saw he’d noticed. Painted from life when she was eleven and trying to draw herself. The hair was wrong, the face a mistake, the eyes too big. But she kept it on her wall all the same, to please him since, in his own way, her father tried so hard to do the same for her.
‘May I come in? It’s getting a little cold out–’
‘No.’
‘But–’
‘No! How can you even think such a thing?’
‘How can I not?’
Her fond fingers brushed his face. Then came a kiss that lingered. For a brief and tantalising moment her fingers played upon his chest. ‘If we are wed, Romeo. When–’
‘Today!’
She didn’t laugh. ‘How?’
‘Secretly. By a friar I know. A good man who will always do God’s work.’
‘I can’t…’
‘We meet. We say our vows. No Count Paris for you. No Bologna for me. Just us. Our lives together.’
‘And after? Our parents… What will they say?’
He shrugged. ‘Either they embrace us. Or they hate us. So long as we have each other… does it matter?’
‘Then perhaps we live in a palazzo? Or become beggars in the street?’
‘If I’m with you I’m happy. That’s all I know.’ By the balustrade he went down on bended knee. ‘The humblest beggar you will ever meet implores you, Juliet. Marry me. This very day. Then we tell the world and dare it to damn our love.’
