by David Hewson
The room was tidy, no books on the floor, no clothes, nothing but the gleaming tiles. She stood by the bed in a simple shift. Arms open, he entered her room for the first time.
‘Love…’
Juliet, eyes blazing, walked straight up and slapped him forcefully on the cheek.
‘Why?’ was all she asked. ‘Why?’
Outside an owl hooted. There was a far-off peal of bells. Midnight in the city. The last he might ever know. Romeo told her what had happened.
‘I tried,’ he pleaded. ‘I’d hoped to calm him. Appease him. Perhaps one day make him a friend–’
‘Tybalt? He had none.’ She sat on the bed. ‘There was a black thing deep inside him. I think my father tried to rid him of it. I didn’t. I never had the… patience.’
‘Perhaps there is that in all of us.’
‘If so, all the more reason to resist it!’
‘He would have killed me. I had no choice.’
‘Oh Romeo…’ She took his hand and lightly kissed his cheek. ‘There are always choices. We just pick the wrong ones.’ She sat and patted the sheets beside her. ‘Sit with me. This predicament is mine as much as yours. When must you leave?’
‘First thing,’ he said. By midday he’d be in Mantua, seeking out Laurence’s brother. He told her of the plan for his servant Balthazar to be in secret contact with her and pass on any news between them.
Juliet shook her head. ‘We need no messenger. I’ll come with you. We can leave this place together. They won’t divide us.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Why not?’
Gently he swept a strand of blonde hair from her eyes. Tears were forming in them like tiny glittering jewels. ‘Without papers no one can quit this city.’
‘Then we admit the truth! We married in secret and they all must make the best of it!’
‘Do that and we won’t be married at all. They’ll find a lawyer and annul it. Laurence said so and he’s right. It will be as if it had never happened.’
‘And then they foist me on Paris.’
‘While I’m still banished they mustn’t know. Not yet. I murdered your cousin. I’m a villain. If they find out our secret, we’ll always be apart.’
‘When I can I’ll leave. I’ll find you.’
While waiting in the cell, he’d run through every option in his head. To flee. To beg. To lie. Or simply admit the truth that they were married in secret and their families would have to make the best of it. At the end of every imaginary road lay disaster. ‘No. You’d be hunted as soon as they realise you’re gone.’
‘Let them look. This is my doing as much as yours.’
‘All you brought was love.’
‘With good reason, Romeo! I can ride. I can run…’
He held her slender shoulders and peered into her glistening eyes. ‘I will not make a fugitive of you. Besides they’d find us. No one hides from Venice. I’d be hanged as a felon and you brought back to Verona in shame.’
‘Then…’
He waited. ‘Then what?’
The tears were close, and her face full of bitter anger.
When she didn’t go on he said, ‘We must listen to Friar Laurence. Of all the men I know he’s the wisest and most decent. He says I must leave and you must stay. So we abide a while. His brother will make approaches to the Mantuan court the moment I arrive. They will appeal for clemency. When Escalus finds it in him to pardon me I can return. I will fly here…’
In a low and bitter tone she whispered, ‘On love’s wings?’
Words from the night before when the world seemed full of poetry. A flowery, pointless expression he saw, though said with devotion.
‘Whatever means are fastest. They will not keep me from you.’
His hand crept round her waist. The kiss was longer, bolder. ‘This man they want you to marry–’
‘Count Paris,’ she hissed. ‘I will deal with him.’
‘You will. You’ll make him wait.’
‘And wait. And wait. And wait. Till Judgement Day if I must.’
‘You are my love. My only love…’
Gingerly, his pulse beginning to race, he edged back the shoulder of her robe, saw the pale skin there.
She pulled his head close, ran her lips through his hair, found his ear and whispered in it, ‘You stink. Bear with me.’
Juliet tiptoed to the door and asked Nurse to bring hot water for the tub.
‘Thought you might need that,’ the woman whispered, handing over some jugs. ‘Got it already. Watch out. There’s talk going on downstairs. Make too much noise in all your pleasures and they’ll surely hear.’
‘Let them. Perhaps that would be an end to it.’
Nurse looked scared. ‘No. Just a terrible beginning.’
Romeo took the jugs and went coyly to the tub behind her black lacquer screen. Juliet removed her night clothes and stretched naked on the sheets. When he returned he smelled of lemon and pomegranates, the essences she used herself. He had his long shirt on and stared in wonder at her pale bare shape upon the bed.
One candle stood by the bedpost while moonlight streamed through the open windows. As he reached to extinguish the flame she stopped him.
‘No. I want to see. I practised a verse for you,’ Juliet whispered, reaching for a pot of something by the bed. ‘And brought a gift with it. Your shirt, Romeo.’
He removed it and asked, ‘A verse? Right now?’
‘No other time. It’s from the bible. Here…’ Juliet put two fingers into the jar she’d stolen from the kitchen. They came back covered in a treacly pat of sweetness which she smeared above his lips then thrust inside his mouth, feeling tongue and teeth and warm damp flesh, spreading the stickiness everywhere.
In his ear her hot breath whispered, ‘I am come into my garden, my spouse: I have gathered my myrrh with my spice; I have eaten my honeycomb with my honey; I have drunk my wine with milk.’
Her mouth, open, willing, closed on his. Tongues met. Fingers wrestled. Honey between them. Then, ‘I sleep, but my heart wakes: it is the voice of my beloved that knocks, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.’
With a tentative stealth he began to move above her. She pushed him back then softly straddled him the way she had in the garden. So close now, so near to that first magical meeting.
‘My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door, and my warm quarters were moved for him. And… ah…’
The Song of Solomon fled her throat and retreated to her feverish mind. Still living there, beneath the rush and heat.
I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands dropped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock.
Then the words returned so briefly she had to cry them.
‘And I opened to my beloved…’
Beneath the candlelight and the silver moonbeams, watched by the eager eyes of the painted child on the canvas behind the rattling, squeaking bed, they turned and wrestled, moans high and low, slow and quick, filling the airy perfumed room.
Time stopped. As did the world, nothing in it but Juliet and her Romeo, lost in a solitary paradise of passion. Blind to the bargain being struck a floor below.
* * *
Count Paris sat in the downstairs study, a glass of grappa in his hand, taking two sips from it only. Bianca Capulet was there, too, at her own insistence, drinking nothing. Her husband made up for their abstention. Angry, determined, he was a man cheated, by Escalus, by Montague. By everything around him.
‘You have my condolences,’ Paris said with a nod. ‘This Romeo who slew your nephew–’
‘A rogue. A thief. Like all the Montagues.’
‘We do not know that, husband,’ Bianca Capulet told him. ‘Tybalt was scarcely an angel himself. What happened–’
‘You heard the sergeant’s report! The villain dragged him on to the piazza of Sant’Anastasia and sta
bbed him through the gut.’
Paris stayed silent. Capulet eyed him and asked, ‘You know this Montague boy?’
‘He was with his father in Florence a while ago. Seeking business. I met them briefly.’ He placed the cup on the table. ‘The old man seemed unremarkable. The boy quite pleasant…’
Capulet waved his goblet in the air with such force the drink spilled on him. ‘A man is judged by his actions. Not his appearance. They wanted your money?’
‘They sought it. I turned them down. It was my belief…’ His eyes glittered as they crept to the stone stairs. ‘My desire that we should have commerce of our own. In trade. In matters of the heart.’
Bianca Capulet stared at the shiny tiles and the spilled liquor upon them and kept quiet.
‘Will Juliet be joining us?’ the count wondered. ‘Since you summoned me I assumed–’
‘She’s very upset by today’s events,’ her mother said, before her husband could answer. ‘Tybalt was her cousin. They were not… close. Still… the way he died.’
He nodded. ‘I understand. These times of woe afford no space for love, I fear. I should leave you in your grief. Tomorrow I return to Florence. This city has proved barren for me. I will not come back soon.’
‘Hear me out, Paris!’ Capulet demanded. ‘Were it not for you I’d have been in bed hours ago, thinking of a funeral.’
Paris demurred. ‘This is surely not the time…’
‘There’s none better! Tybalt’s gone. We all die some time. I must think of this house’s future. My daughter–’
‘I tried to talk to her this morning as you asked. My words fell on deaf ears. I’m not an accomplished lover. I cannot woo with poetry or honeyed words. If a woman doesn’t want me for what I am then…’ He looked at her mother. ‘You told me you’d persuade her.’
Capulet waved his cup about. ‘We lacked the time! This miserable, bloody day…’
‘Then I thank you for your efforts and must bring this fruitless adventure to an end.’
He was on his feet. Capulet dashed to stop him.
‘Listen to me. My nephew’s untimely death has taught me well. A father is master of his family or nothing. With Tybalt I was lax and acquiescent. With Juliet, too.’
The count waited, interested. ‘And now?’
‘A daughter will obey her father. In all matters. As it should be.’
‘She’s not our property, Luca!’ Bianca Capulet cried. ‘The child has a mind of her own.’
‘Aye,’ he snapped. ‘And don’t I hear it day in, day out? Sixteen years I’ve listened to that constant yapping. From this moment on that girl will be ruled in all respects by me. Paris here’s as good as a son as far as I’m concerned. He loves her. He’ll have her. We’ll join our separate houses and make them one. By God, this week I’ll do it too… What… what?’ The drink had befuddled him. ‘What day is this? I forget now…’
‘Tuesday,’ Bianca said with a long, pained sigh.
‘Right. I knew that. Tomorrow, we bury Tybalt. On Thursday Paris marries Juliet.’
His wife came and stood by him, outraged. ‘One day after our nephew’s funeral. The whole city will talk of our disrespect for the dead.’
‘Let them talk! You think I care what those scum think?’ He took the count’s arm. ‘This good man shall get the girl he loves. And she will marry him, by God. Go tell her. She’s got a husband. No arguments. No more fights. I’ll drag her to the altar myself if need be.’
Paris laughed. ‘That would not be seemly.’
Capulet calmed himself. ‘You’re right. Won’t happen either. Children buck against you when you give them opportunity. Remove the choice and they know their place. I’ll inform the girl. This marriage is made. Not in heaven. But by me.’ A chuckle then. ‘The household god.’
He raised his cup. Paris found his. Bianca Capulet watched them toast, then drink. Her husband’s cold eyes found hers. ‘Go, Bianca. Wake the child. Make it clear. She’s got a husband. In two short days she’ll be a wife.’
‘To Thursday,’ Paris said and raised his drink again. There was a lecherous look on the count’s face Bianca didn’t like at all. ‘To the marriage bed. And children. A grandson for you soon after.’
Happy, he left not many minutes later. Capulet sank back into his chair. His mood was mixed. Elation, exhaustion. Perhaps a little shame.
‘Fetch more spirit. Then do as I say. Wake the child. Get it over and done with.’
She retrieved the half-full cup from his shaking fingers. ‘No to both, husband. You’ve drunk enough. Juliet can hear her fate in the morning.’
He turned his glazed eyes on her. ‘You think I’m wrong?’
‘I think… with a little time… we might bring her round.’
‘There is no time. You heard the man. He marries her now or leaves for good.’
‘I’ve never known you bow to ultimatums before.’
‘Paris is a man of substance and breeding. This is different.’
‘Yes! It is! Juliet’s an unusual child. She’s not a pretty bird you can trap inside a cage.’
He was on her then, face red, spitting out his words. ‘But I have! And Paris will keep her there. Comfy and loved for the rest of her leisurely life. Not a care in the world. No need to earn a penny. No hard decisions to make. Heaven for her. Idleness and luxury. What else does a woman want?’
Then he snatched back the cup and drained it, coughing and choking on the strong and fiery drink.
She left him, and decided to go Juliet’s room in any case. Tomorrow would be difficult. Perhaps it would be best to broach the subject when her daughter was too tired to argue.
Along the passageway that led to her quarters she found the nurse dozing on a chair some way from the bedroom door, a collection of empty water jugs by her chair.
‘Madam,’ Nurse said as she approached. ‘What is it?’
‘I think I ought to talk to her. Matters are coming to a head. Why are you here? Not in your room?‘
‘The girl’s terribly upset with all this news. She wanted a bath and I fear suffers a nightmare. Leave her be, I beg you. Tomorrow’s soon enough, surely. I’ll wait here in case I’m needed.’
She thought she heard a noise. Juliet tossing in her sleep perhaps, wracked in a sweaty nightmare.
‘It is hot in here. This day was like a long bad dream.’
‘In the morning, my lady. She’ll be more accommodating then.’
‘Please God. You know her better than I in some ways. She must rise first thing. I have to speak with her before her father does.’
The nurse nodded and gave her a gap-toothed smile. ‘A wise decision as always.’
‘Goodnight,’ Bianca Capulet said and went back to her quarters, there to await her husband’s heavy drunken form. And sleep perhaps. Ahead of the fateful day to come.
* * *
The bout was over. Damp, exhausted, they lay in each other’s arms listening to the night noises: birds and insects, a dog’s bark, the occasional drunken shout in a far-off street. Once she shivered, hearing faint voices down the long corridor that led back towards her parents’ quarters. Then came Nurse’s firm tones and nothing more.
The candle had fluttered throughout their quick passion. She put a hand to his cheek, admired his face in the waxy light and said, ‘I thought that might have lasted longer.’
‘But…’ Romeo blinked at her.
Quickly she added, ‘No, no, love. Don’t take that wrong. It was an observation not a criticism. We must learn to be frank with one another. No lies, no secrets…’
His face was shiny with sweat. There was a wry smile on it. ‘I thought it would take longer, too. There’s candour for you. I’m sorry–’
She rushed to put her fingers against his lips. The honey was still there, dry and sticky. ‘Don’t say it. There’s no need. We’re like the first couple on that wall in Florence. You the new Adam. Me a second Eve. Innocents fallen straight out of the garden.’ She hitched herself u
p on one elbow to look at him. ‘I imagine they needed a little practice, too.’
‘Lots,’ he said, and touched the tip of her nose. ‘Daily. Morning, afternoon and night. Until we tire of it. Or become so proficient we can stay in bed forever.’
He yawned then picked up the thin sheet and drew it over them. She didn’t know why. Their easy nakedness seemed as natural as the way they’d found one another on the bed.
‘I will come for you, my Juliet. Soon. As soon as I can.’
‘And if you don’t… I’ll come for you.’
With that he took her fingers in his and peered at her intently. It was a curious sensation. Her father had looked at her this way sometimes, mostly when she was younger and more malleable. It was an expression that was both caring and, she thought, proprietorial …patronising.
‘We must be patient, wife. They that run too fast and never think… shall fall.’
She waited a while, becoming aware again of the world beyond the window, a place of promise and plague, wonder and misery. Then quietly she said, ‘You must run fast to outspeed death. Sometimes, in my mind’s eye, that’s the way I see you. Icy and pale, stiff in a stone tomb…’ The unwelcome image came to her again. ‘Me the same, somewhere by your side. It’s a silly waking dream, I know. My mother told me she had them. Perhaps it’s a little demon in our German blood.’
The quietest sound of slumber left his lips. She looked and saw his eyes were closed. Romeo slept and she couldn’t bear to rouse him. Softly, she slipped out of bed, found her nightgown then sat on the open balcony, looking at the stars. She thought of the new world they must be shining on at that moment. And a new century soon. One that would surely belong to them.
The Song of Solomon came back to her. The closing line in that fragment she’d whispered to him in her passion.
Alone on the hard chair, next to the grape vine he’d climbed twice and would descend a final time with the coming dawn, she repeated those missing words, though every syllable filled her with dread.
‘But my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spoke: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.’
Juliet looked back at the bed and the man sleeping there.
