Read In the Shadow of Shakespeare Online
Authors: Ellen Wilson
Alice
felt nothing and tried to remember the stage. Tried to remember Kit
putting his arms around her and whispering in her ear. Trying to remember
his velvet doublet brushing her skin. She stood standing in the busy
street and was left empty. Unfolding her hand in front of her.
There was no other hand. No other vision.
A
man bumped into her, a tourist. And like an automaton she turned and
headed towards London Bridge.
***
The
bookstalls at Saint Paul’s Churchyard was where one would go to find the best
and the brightest of the Elizabethan age. But that was long ago.
The
bookstore was called Gnosis, and as she walked she kept an eye for it.
“If
you go looking for mystery, aye Alice, you will not find it. ‘Tis
everywhere. Unravel the thread.” Kit said.
“Leave
me.” She whispered.
The
map she held in her hand was crumpled from much use. She held it out in
front of her, and recognizing the street, turned left.
There
was a small placard sign over the shop. It was wedged between a bakery
and a print shop. The sign merely said Gnosis. There was a large
stone gargoyle over the sign.
She
pulled on the door handle but it was locked. Noticing a buzzer, she
pushed it. Nervous, Alice wiped her hand across the back of her
neck. She turned and looked towards the street. A pigeon flew over
head.
Her
heart was pounding and a voice came over a small intercom. “Yes?”
ello?
This is Alice. Alice Petrovka?”
“Oh
yes. Come up please.”
There
was a buzzing, followed by a break and release on the door handle. Alice
pushed the door open. The old stairs went to the second floor, and she
walked carefully upward, placing a hand on the side rail.
The
door opened and the silhouette of a man with white hair appeared.
“Hello?
Alice, is it?”
“Yes.”
There
was a smell of old building, books and mustiness.
“Come,
come.”
He
ushered her into the sanctuary. Surrounded by books and dust, Alice tried
to take her bearings.
“Mr.
Cotten?”
“Oh,
aye. Yes.”
She
grabbed his hand and shook it.
“You’ll
be in need of some tea?”
“That
would be most kind.”
He
hurried off towards a plug in pot that would heat water in a matter of
seconds. Alice wondered why the English still didn’t rule the world with
this invention.
He
emerged with the tea. “Best thing since digestives.”
She
sat in a padded chair with the tea. Nibbling on a biscuit she began,
“According to a very famous actor, Sir Laurence Olivier, we are now in the
second Renaissance.” She looked towards a small window of light. “And you
know, I believe him.”
He
nodded and smiled. Alice continued. “And I don’t think Kit would want
anything less than to be proclaimed the real Shakespeare.”
He
laughed. “Of course, dear Alice. The looking glass is upon
us.” He hurried amongst his shelves and came forward with a
manuscript. “At long last.” He handed her a very much used and
fingered first quarto.
She
let it rest on her lap before opening it. Sipping her tea she noticed her
fingers were shaking.
“So
this is it?”
“’Tis.”
Alexander Cotton had laughing blue eyes.
“Mr.
Cotton, there are – ”
“Please
call me Alex.”
“Yes,
Alex. You know I quite expected you to be an old, boring English
snob. Or a snooty eccentric.”
“I’ve
been called an eccentric, yes. Not everyone understands my passion for
Gnosis. You know in the Greek it means knowledge.”
“Of
course.” she said.
“We
do move in the same circles, Alice. You knew Celeste Cecil, and she told
me to contact you if anything turned up. Well it did, and here it is on
your lap.”
“The
play?”
“There
is a message in the margins. In Hamlet.”
She
flipped quickly to the tragedy. “Where? What lines?”
“I
believe he starts at act three, scene two. Line 233.”
Alice
scanned the page, there, starting at ine 233, wedged carefully in the margin,
was a small script:
As
you ask,
Come
find me here, and be my love
You
shalt find me here, up above.
No
longer bootless, but without a soul
Your
other half.
Christopher
Marlowe
In
the end…
“He’s
talking about northern Italy. Here, where it says “No longer bootless.”
Italy is shaped like a boot. “Up above” refers to northern Italy and
where he is staying. With Gonzaga.” She placed her finger on the
words. “He is specifically making reference to the noble family he stayed
with.”
“A
coded message.” he said.
“In
the end.” What does that – ” She quickly flipped to the end of the
book. At the end of the last play was the line:
All
plays herein by the poet and playmaker,
Christopher
Marlowe
Alice
stared at the words.
“He
did it.” Setting the folio aside she looked out the window. Everything
had changed and yet everything was the same. She set the book
aside.
“You
have no idea how much this means to me.” she said.
“There
is much work for you to do, Alice.”
“What
do you mean?”
“They’ll
all come out of the wood work now. The evidence is definitely on your
side – this is a first edition folio, printed in 1623. Shakespeare was
supposed to have died in 1616, and of course Marlowe was stabbed in Deptford in
1593 and thrown in a plague pit in the churchyard there. Or so the story
goes.”
She
sighed and slumped in the chair. “You’re right, Alex. The
Shakespeare industry will hit me full force with its foot soldiers.
Bombers.” A large pigeon flew on top of the gargoyle’s head in front of
the shop. “But does it matter? I have what I want. I have the
evidence.”
He
patted her on the back and picked up her tea cup. “Time will tell,
love. Time will tell.”
The
porch swing creaked quietly as she listened to the cicadas in the trees.
They droned on in their hazy, late summer way.
Alice
felt that the end of summer always had a quiet, dying quality to it. The
sun had reached its zenith, and everything green and vegetative was exploding
in ripeness. But that was it. Nothing was growing anymore.
She
pushed the hair from her forehead. The warmth of the late afternoon sun
hung in the trees.
Joannie
pushed through the screen door with their drinks.
“What’s
wrong with you, Petrovka? I leave you for two minutes and you get all
morose on me.”
“I’m
fine. Just thinking of the upcoming meeting with Jim. You don’t
think I’m losing it do you?”
“No.
If you recall I was one of the few people in your corner when you did
lose
it.
Apparently this Cruise guy is too. Very good looking, I might add.”
Joannie winked. “Love the dark hair and blazing blue eyes. What a
great combo. Too bad he’s not a she.” She laughed. “Does he
have a sister?”
Alice
took a sip of her lemonade and winced. “I can always count on you,
Bryant, for cutting edge humor and drinks. Holy moley. What is the
ratio of vodka to lemonade in this?”
“Oh,
probably like one to one. As you know my math skills never fail me, even
though I no longer have a job where I can use them.” She took a sip of
her drink. “Ahh…just right. So back to this Cruise guy. I
must say I was totally floored when he contacted me.”
“I’m
sure he was very nosy.”
“To
say the least. But that’s the thing. I finally said, after
tip-toeing around with his secret agent thing for a while, “You like her, don’t
you?” He tried to play it off, then decided he would have to come over and
speak to me in person. Man, those British guys really like their tipple,
don’t they?”
“I
suppose. So what did he say?”
“Well,
he brought over the Moet and Chandon. Can you believe it?
Champagne!” Joannie clinked her glass against Alice’s. “Cheers. He
said we needed to toast a job well done, so we put back a few.”
“Bryant,
please. Cut to the chase already.”
“He
said he could tell a true psychic because he was a bit psychic himself so he
never doubted you. But he said he would chalk up the heavy duty feelings
for you due to saving you from that psycho…big adrenaline rush and all.
So he’d just leave it be.”
“Hmm.
Is that it?”
“Pretty
much. Awfully nice man, at first I thought, oh no, another British guy.”
She frowned. “You know what I mean?”
“I
think I’ve had my fair share of all things British.”
“Yeah,
I know what you mean. But, I could tell, Petrovka. He was really
sincere.”
“Sincerely
nosy is what he is.”
“Sure,
it amazes me what he knows.” said Joannie. “But there’s more to it than
that. And I do think he cares.” She finished the rest of her
drink. “Time for another. Need a refresher?”
“No.
Still working on this.”
Alice
silently moved the swing, watching as a young couple walked by. She
thought of Renita and Dion and wondered how they were. With a pang she
realized she left no forwarding address for them.
Joannie
banged the screen behind as she sat down with her drink. The swing began
creaking.
“The
thing is Petrovka. We’re free.”
“Yes.
Free from Albert, that nasty job, and –“
“Hire
me as an actor. I’m ready to try my hand.” Joannie said.
Alice
laughed. “There is that. My theatre. Which, of course, I have
to speak to Jim about.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m really not
looking forward to that.”
“Do
you think he’ll give you a hard time?”
“I
don’t think it will be too bad. Maybe I’m making too much of it.
Really, it all will be a bunch of paperwork. He’s stepping off the board
and signing off. At least I won’t be bothered with
that
anymore.”
“Yeah,
what a numbskull.” Joannie said. “I can’t even believe he pulled that.
Right when you were down and out. What a major jerk!”
“He’s
got a few issues.” said Alice. “You find out who you’re friends
are.” She jiggled the ice cubes in her drink. “Truthfully, there
are some things I’m not sure I know how to be free of, or want to be free of
even.”
“Such
as?”
“I
know you will never know, no one will ever know what I experienced.
I
don’t know if want to be free from Kit.” She stared down the street. She
could no longer see the young couple.
“You’re
right. I don’t know what you experienced. That’ll be tough. But
you’re in the here and now, Petrovka.
The here and now.
”
“I
hear you.”
“So
what’s the alternative?”
“I
don’t know. I just…don’t know.”
She
couldn’t resist because she still had a key. And although she wasn’t
scheduled to meet with him for a few weeks, she found herself back in the place
she knew she would have to come to to complete the ritual.
Alice
was determined. After speaking with Bernie again about linking the past
and the present with ritual, she felt that this would be her last chance.
Kit
had been haunting her. Night after night she had been having dreams of
him reaching to her, telling her to come to him.
At
first she had went for long walks. She had ate good food, avoided stress
and stayed away from all things Shakespearean. The theatre she began
studying was from the twentieth century. Anything that smacked of the
Renaissance had to be avoided.
But
it was useless. She was plagued with a deep longing that could not be
quenched. She dutifully went to meetings, out to lunch with friends and
co-workers, and kept her apartment tidy.
And
that’s when the dreams started. At first she had gotten up, rinsed her
face with water, and went back to bed. When that didn’t work, she began
to stay up and read novels. When that didn’t work she began to read the
plays. And then the sonnets. One sonnet in particular had caught
her eye:
What
is your substance, whereof are you made,