Star-Crossed

by Minnie Darke

  * * *

  Squeezing her way into a seat in the middle of the second row of the dress circle, Justine observed that the gathering audience was made up of a great many silver-haired women with large earrings and vibrant woolen wraps. In general, these women were accompanied by equally silver-haired squires who wore what Justine thought likely to be their second-best suits. The cheap seats at the back were taken up with younger people, many of whom—in their cable-knit cardigans and thick-rimmed spectacles—looked to Justine as if they might be drama students, or university English majors.

  Two empty seats in the front row of the dress circle stuck out like the gap in a six-year-old’s bottom teeth. But then Laura Mitchell made her way, smiling and apologizing, past the seated patrons toward those seats, followed by a woman with dangling pearl earrings and a plum-colored woolen wrap. This was almost certainly Laura’s mother, Justine thought, for the two women had the same expensive-looking jaw structure, the same top-shelf cheekbones, the same thick hair that looked simultaneously sleek and aerated, like something out of a Kérastase advertisement. As she took her seat, Laura caught sight of Justine, and gave a tiny wave, which Justine returned.

  The Gaiety was not a theater that was known for cutting-edge performances. And yet, as soon as the curtains parted, Justine could see that this was not going to be a standard Romeo and Juliet. Each of the characters wore the same basic costume—a simple long-sleeved black top and three-quarter-length black pants—although the identity of some characters was quickly signaled by headdresses of white or gray. But while the costumes were minimal, the makeup was intense. Every actor’s face had been artfully painted to accentuate the mouth and eyes.

  The staging was stripped back: a black floor was enclosed by a concave cyclorama that changed with the scenes from pale day to starry, starry night. As the actors worked the nighttime scenes, the constellations that were projected on this screen rotated in a slow, inexorable reminder of the wheel of time, turning.

  As was often the case with semiprofessional theater shows, there were in this production so many things that threatened to unsuspend the audience’s disbelief. The young man playing Tybalt had decided to make this Capulet cousin a caricature of evil. Hence, he spent most of his onstage time swishing around his long, crow black hair and demonstrating swordsmanship skills that Justine imagined had been hurriedly gleaned in an adult-education Try Your Hand at Fencing class. Lady Montague delivered her lines with the overblown pomposity of the worst kind of amateur Shakespeare, and while Lord Capulet was okay so long as he stood still to deliver his lines, he tended to lose the plot if he tried to walk and talk at the same time.

  But Justine could see that the director had husbanded his varied resources brilliantly. He had lured an experienced, matronly actor into the role of Juliet’s nurse, and she rode the knife-edge of comedy and tragedy to perfection. Cast in the role of Friar Laurence was a performer who bore a striking resemblance—in face and voice—to the English actor Simon Callow.

  And then there were the lovers themselves. No longer Nick and Verdi, but Romeo and Juliet, with not the least hint of archness in their flirtations. From the start, they portrayed their attraction as soft, sweet and deep, and the poetry of their lines played its proper second fiddle to the emotion. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about the performances of the four strongest actors was that, together, they almost made Justine believe that a happy ending was possible.

  In the tomb, the director toyed with the audience, choosing for Juliet to wake up just a moment after Romeo downed his poison, giving them just enough time for one passionate, living kiss before the poison took effect. Tears squeezed out of the corners of Justine’s eyes. She could hardly swallow, her throat was so sore from the effort of not weeping.

  “Thus with a kiss I die,” Romeo said, and then Justine did cry, hopelessly. Enough to make Laura’s mother swivel in her seat. Idiot that she was, Justine hadn’t put any tissues into her purse, so she had to make do with the backs of her hands.

  Thank the heavens, Justine thought, that the director had cast himself in the role of the prince, so that it was someone with perfect timing who delivered the play’s final lines: “For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

  The audience applauded loudly. And Justine thought, Shakespeare was a fucking genius. A couplet, as kitsch as a couplet could be, and yet it was enough to fill the heart to overflowing. When the actors took their bows, Justine clapped until her hands hurt.

  When the house lights came up, there appeared mysteriously at Justine’s right shoulder a handkerchief, newly shaken out of its folds.

  “So, now I’m guessing,” someone said, “that you’re a Cancer.”

  Justine turned to see, sitting behind her, a person who was definitely Daniel Griffin, although her watery vision made him appear somewhat submerged.

  “Oh God. Thanks,” Justine said, and she took the handkerchief and wiped her eyes and nose in a way that she would later reflect was probably too hasty. “What are you doing here?”

  “You don’t think Alexandria Park Rep sends free tickets to the editor of the Star?”

  Justine noticed, simultaneously, Daniel’s use of the word tickets, plural, and that the woman sitting next to him was Meera Johannson-Wong, the anchor of the nation’s most highbrow television current affairs show. She was famous both for her cutthroat questions and her seriously avant-garde wardrobe, and tonight she was wearing what seemed to be a pinafore pieced together from men’s suits. Justine couldn’t prevent herself from gawking at Meera, who was twisted around in her seat, talking to a woman in the row behind her, giving Justine a view of the many competing suit collars that rippled down the back of the amazing pinafore.

  “That’s Meera Johannson-Wong,” Justine whispered to Daniel, awestruck.

  “Well, thanks for telling me,” Daniel said, a little smugly. “We’re old friends. I’m glad I haven’t been mistaking her for someone else all these years.”

  Brain: You caught that, right?

  Justine: Caught what?

  Brain: Friends. He said “friends.” He’s emphasizing to you that they’re just friends.

  Justine: Because?

  Brain: Honestly, Justine.

  Justine considered. It wasn’t such a terrible thought. Daniel was…well, he was nice. He’d been nothing but encouraging about her work; he hadn’t turned out to be nearly as up himself as she’d first thought. And he was terribly easy on the eye. But he was also, now, her boss.

  “So, you’re here to check up on Ms. Highsmith’s performance?” Daniel said, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “To see if she was equal to what you wrote about her?”

  “Well, yes. There was that. But also, Romeo’s an old friend of mine.”

  Brain: Don’t think I missed that.

  Justine: Oh, go to sleep.

  Daniel scanned his program. “Nick Jordan? He was good. Really good. Both the leads were excellent. So…was I right?”

  “About what?”

  “You’re a Cancer?”

  Justine gave a mock frown. “Now, why would you say that?”

  “Well, you’re clearly very emotional. Empathic, sensitive. Easily moved to tears.”

  “Easily? That’s a bit harsh. We just watched one of the most tragic love stories of all time.”

  “And…you’re a bit unpredictable, maybe a touch hard on the outside, but soft on the inside…?”

  “All these things may be true. And yet,” Justine said, “a Cancer I am not.”

  Daniel shook his head, bewildered. “You present an unusual challenge, Miss Carmichael.”

  * * *

  Backstage, meanwhile, on Verdi Highsmith’s dressing table, a bouquet of palest pink roses, mid-pink hyacinths and hot pink gerberas lay in front of her lightbulb-studded mirror, with a note that said, For Ms. Highsmith,
with admiration, from Justine Carmichael.

  Across the hall, in Nick Jordan’s dressing room, was an even larger bunch of flowers: white roses, deep blue hyacinths and forget-me-nots. The note said, For a word-perfect Romeo, from his favorite pedant. And inside the copy of the Alexandria Park Star that peeked mischievously out of the bouquet’s wrapping, Leo Thornbury waited to pass on a message.

  Cusp

  Guy Foley—Aquarius, philosopher with mild conspiracy-theorist tendencies, street busker specializing in tin whistles and spoons, occasional but self-justified shoplifter, owner of a canvas swag with sheepskin lining, habitué of a network of backyards, couches and bolt-holes—browsed the tobacconist’s shelves with all the unhurried curiosity of a man sheltering from the weather. He whistled through a dark curtain of mustache and studiously did not look at the window that divided the warmth of the shop from the sleety cold of the street. For on the other side of the glass, balancing precariously on Guy’s garbage-bag-covered swag, with dreadlocks of wet fur swinging sideways in every bitter gust of wind, stood Brown Houdini-Malarky, his single dark eye full of entreaty.

  Brown—street terrier born under the constellation of Canis Major, wearer of a shabby blue bandanna, skilled practitioner in the persuasive art of Voo Dog, lightning-fast thief of park-bench lunches and masterful demonstrator of an inexhaustible bladder—was not a handsome dog. His shaggy head and long-furred ears were out of all proportion with his skinny body and short legs. His too-long tail was bald, except for a grubby tassel of fur at its tip. An overshot bottom jaw meant that even when Brown’s mouth was closed, his stained teeth were clearly visible across his face. From a distance, they resembled a line of clumsy stitches. All things considered, and in no small part because of the sewn-up eyelid on his left side, Brown had the look of a cemetery dog-corpse, recently exhumed.

  Brown shivered. Guy had been in the shop for some hours, and it had been raining the whole time. Now Brown was soaked to the point where water was trickling down the runnels of bare skin between the matted clumps of his coat. Although he remained ready to let go a volley of possessive barks in the direction of anyone who so much as looked at the plastic-covered bundle beneath his feet, Brown felt himself in this moment to be very, very close to the raw end of the deal.

  It was true that it had been Guy who’d procured this morning’s excellent breakfast of bacon rind and toast crusts, and equally true that Brown now owed several weeks’ worth of comfortable nights to the sheepskin lining of Guy’s swag. But Brown felt that he was more than paying his way. Who, after all, was responsible for Guy’s recent busking prosperity? Left to his own devices, Guy would have been lucky to keep himself in Jack Daniel’s and Champion Ruby. Even when Guy bagged the prime spot in the railway station, he pulled only the loose change of do-gooders who felt sorry for him and of men who carried wallets and didn’t want the weight of coins in their pockets. But with Brown beside him—prancing on hind legs, howling in a crisp, yappy tenor—Guy was seeing some genuine appreciation. Notes! $10 here, $5 there; even uni students would part with a couple of bucks.

  Guy and Brown had met on a train, recognizing each other instantly as part of the Brotherhood of the Ticketless. Brown liked trains for the potential of discarded sandwich crusts, and for the occasional one-ride stand. He wasn’t above a bit of coochie-coo and scratching behind the ear from time to time, just as long as it ended with him trotting out through the train’s open doors and going his own sweet way. But Guy, as well as scratching Brown’s ears, had inspected the tatty blue bandanna, reading the words written there in permanent marker.

  “Brown Houdini-Malarky,” Guy had read, and chuckled. “Well, that’s a name and two-thirds.”

  Guy had pulled out his whistle, and its tinny notes had sparked Brown into song.

  “Nice tune, Brother Brown!” Guy had said, and played on, the dog howling in accompaniment. Three train stops and half a hot dog later, the two had struck up an alliance. One that was now, a few weeks down the track, beginning to sour.

  Brown shook himself uselessly. He stared through the window at Guy and amped the power of his Voo. You will leave the shop now. You will leave the shop now. You will leave the shop now. But Guy merely turned his back, casually slipping a refill bottle of Zippo lighter fluid into the water-stained pocket of his jacket, and Brown made a vile canine cuss against the glass, which appeared to be blocking his thought waves.

  One more night, he told himself. Then he was quitting Guy. Brown wouldn’t miss the man, but he would miss the man’s nice, comfy sheepskin-lined swag. Guy allowed Brown to sleep on a corner of it, and even this small degree of luxury was enough to cause Brown to slip into dreams about having a home of his own: one with devoted humans and a cushion-lined basket, a bowl of bickies on auto-fill and a packet of jerky treats that the humans would bring out in response to the most elementary Voo.

  What was he thinking? Bloody hell. The swag was making him soft. One more night. That was all. Then he would turn tail and disappear without notice into some gloomy alleyway, alone again. Independent. Free. For he was Brown Houdini-Malarky—and he was no bastard’s watchdog.

  Indoors, Guy was inspecting a row of decorative bongs, patiently tolerating the hostile gaze of the shopkeeper and hazing out Brown’s Voo. So long as Guy avoided eye contact with the bedraggled dog at the window, he could keep his mind clear of the thought that he should leave the shop and go buy a burger. The shopkeeper had his radio tuned to that crappy community station, and when the announcer’s voice burst out of the closing bars of the song, it was like a spurt of warm melted cheese right down the earhole.

  “I-I-I-I’m Rrrrrick Rrrrrrevenue,” he intoned, his “I” getting the full four-tone treatment, “and tha-a-a-a-at was Juice Newton with, well, I don’t have to tell you, do I? But I do have to tell you that the time is two thirty. The dental hour, as my dear ol’ da used to say.”

  Guy wondered whether or not the radio announcer was going to be able to keep himself from explicating.

  “Two thirty? Tooth hurty?” the announcer said, following up with a goofy chuckle.

  Nope, Guy thought.

  “And now, it’s time for the ssstarrrrs, as written by that sssuper ssstar of the celestial sphere, the Star’s very own L-l-eo Thornbury.”

  Guy half heard something about Geminis and chance flirtatious encounters, a snippet of Virgos finding conditions ripe for retail and renovation.

  “And to all the fine Aquarians out there, Leo says: You are on song, water bearers. With Jupiter casting its largesse about in your career sector, you are at last starting to see results for all the many years of hard work you have invested. Enjoy the acknowledgment and acclaim that rightfully come your way. Take a bow, Aquarius! And, last of all, for the fish people. Pisces…”

  But Guy’s Aquarian ears had tuned out.

  Jupiter casting its largesse about, he pondered. At last starting to see results for all the many years of hard work you have invested.

  Well, if that wasn’t a sign, Guy thought, he didn’t know what was. He thought of all that he had lost, over the course of his life, at the blackjack tables at Jupiter’s casino in Queensland. But had he lost his money? Or had he, as the astrologer had just suggested, merely invested it? Results, the astrologer had said.

  Jupiter, oh Jupiter! The great sky god was calling him north, and promising him a thunderbolt right into the hip pocket. On song…take a bow, Aquarius!

  Guy glanced at the filthy weather beyond the window and tried to imagine the warmth of the Queensland sun on bare skin, the sensation of toes toasting in the sand instead of turning numb inside boots. What better time to go north than in the heart of a grim southern winter? Well, maybe the beginning of a grim southern winter, but that ship had sailed. Anyway, he liked the idea. Liked it a lot. Busking business had been brisk of late and there was enough coin in his pocket for him to buy a razor, even a whizz in the chair at
a $10 barber’s shop—tidy himself up a bit before he and his thumb hit the roadside—and he’d still have just enough cash in his pocket to sing his little duet with Jupiter.

  But if he were to shoot through, Guy considered, what would become of Brown?

  Guy turned to meet Brown’s gaze, and the instant his two eyes locked with the dog’s single one, he found himself thinking: I will leave the shop now. I will buy a large burger, I will remove the meat from the bun and give it to Brown. The bells above the door chattered as he passed beneath them, pursued by a disgusted grunt from the shopkeeper.

  “Good boy,” Guy said, as Brown leaped off the swag, and Brown—doggily hardwired as he was for praise and affection—wagged his tail without meaning to. Guy hefted his swag and looked down at Brown. Guy had grown very fond of his little mate, but he could hardly take him on the road. Who’d pick up a bloke with a grubby one-eyed mutt at heel?

  But, Guy decided, he’d be buggered if he’d leave the little chap undefended in the city. So as Guy set off for the railway station burger joint, a plan was forming in his mind.

  Half an hour later, warmer and almost dried out, his belly full of beef patty, Brown was sleeping on the floor of a westbound train, his toothy chin resting on his front paws. When he woke, it was with the dreadful sensation of something tight around his neck. It was Guy’s belt, fixed as for a collar and leash. Not only that, Brown could smell that place.

  No, he thought. No! But it was unmistakable.

  Brown growled, cursing Guy as a bootlicking betrayer, the human equivalent of a steaming pile of cat shit, but the man dragged him easily out through the train’s open door onto the platform, where the scents of misery and concentrated dog intensified in his nostrils. And then there were the sounds, drifting through the layers of diamond mesh fencing and over the bare-earthed exercise yards. Brown heard a pack of Staffordshire bull terriers calling each other motherfuckers through the bars. Some border collie was having a psychotic episode, yelling, “Sheep! Sheep! Sheep!,” and a batch of mangy Chihuahua pups were whining for their mother. Brown snarled at Guy’s ankle.