Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (35 page)

I speak Hamlet’s first line:
“A little more than kin and less than kind.”

There is a rustle and murmur of discomfort from the audience as they realize that Hamlet is not Geoff, and not even a man. I press on. I calmly stride across the stage. I
address Claudius and Gertrude with twisting, clever words. This is my play. I set the pace. I take command of the show. And soon I feel the audience settle. They are with me. And why not? I am Hamlet. Who better than me to know his anguish and the cold edge of his madness?

When I meet Gertrude’s eyes, I see Carla’s approval behind them. When I verbally joust with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Jason and Jeremy sharpen their delivery, and we banter at a quick, comic clip. The audience laughs; they’re enjoying this. When I encounter Ophelia, I understand that Hamlet has no room for gentleness in his life, and I do not back away from his harsh rebukes. My every line and gesture are sharp and clear, more real than real life. No one in the cast holds anything back. Each of us is at our very best.

At intermission, Mr. Gabor comes into the dressing room and wraps me in a bear hug. People tell me how good I am. It isn’t easy to get away, to sneak backstage to make the switch. The stage swords are mounted on a trolley in the far corner. No one will even notice the new swords until the props girl wheels them out for the duel. And of course, by then, it will be too late.

In the wings, just before the second half, Ian slinks up to me and whispers in my ear, “I’ll see you onstage, Hamlet.”

I reply, “Look out for me, Laertes.”

Our first confrontation is at the site of Ophelia’s grave. Laertes attacks Hamlet, blaming the prince for the death of
his drowned sister. He leaps on me, bellowing with grief and rage, and we wrestle, rolling across the floor. I fight hard, but Laertes pins me down. He grabs my throat and tries to strangle me. Hamlet shouts at him, warning him off:

Does Ian hear the edge in my voice? Does he sense the danger then? I think he enjoys it. My anger spurs him on. It gives him something to play against.

The scenes move swiftly after that. King Claudius preys on Laertes’s lust for revenge, and the scheme for Hamlet’s demise is set in motion. Which brings us, finally, to act 5, scene 2. The duel scene. The climax. The trumpets sound, the drums roll and the royal court of Denmark assembles on the stage: King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, Osric, Horatio, Laertes and Hamlet.

Laertes and I prepare for the duel. We strap on our white, padded fencing gear. King Claudius jauntily takes our hands and clasps them together in a show of sportsmanship. As we shake, I glance into Ian’s eyes. I see the cold thrill of anticipation there; he is so hungry for the fight. He meets my gaze and squeezes back hard. In that instant, we connect—two sides of the same blade. Yin and yang. Darkness and light.
For a second, I almost lose my nerve, but then we break, and the play moves on.

I deliver my soliloquy on madness to Laertes, and as I do, Osric wheels the trolley onto the stage. He’s staring at the swords bewildered. I boldly call out my line,
“Give us the foils.”

There are four swords displayed on the cart: two stage swords and two rapiers, the ones I’ve taken from Ian’s sanctuary. I see the shock register on Ian’s face. He immediately recognizes his grandfather’s swords gleaming brightly under the stage lights. He almost falters on Laertes’s next line:
“Come, one for me.”

Hamlet replies,
“I’ll be your foil, Laertes.”

Ian catches the challenge in my voice, and his eyes light up as he puts it together. He knows that only I could have made the switch, but he still thinks this is just a game. He smirks as he says,
“You mock me, sir.”

“No, by this hand,”
Hamlet replies.

Ian and I lock eyes. Every line we speak is straight from the play, but everything is double-edged.

Claudius discusses his wager on our duel. Laertes replaces his flimsy stage sword on the cart. He says,
“This is too heavy. Let me see another.”
Ian reaches for one of his grandfather’s rapiers. He cuts it through the air with a fierce swoosh. The audience sucks in a breath. Carla looks nervously from Ian to me. Her eyes bug out, but what can she do? By now, the entire cast and crew understand that things have taken a dangerous
turn. At the back of the auditorium, way up in the lighting booth, Mr. Gabor must know that we’re headed for trouble.

I snatch up the other rapier and feel the weight of it in my hand. It hisses wickedly as I slice it through the air. Hamlet says,
“This likes me well.”

Claudius toasts to Hamlet and drinks. Ian and I don our fencing masks. We strike our positions: salute, en garde.

The first bout is fast and neat. Ian and I perform it flawlessly. After a burst of rapid exchanges, Laertes forces Hamlet back. He slashes low, at Hamlet’s legs, and I deftly jump over his sword. Laertes thrusts his rapier at my shoulder, but Hamlet spins around and lunges. I jab underneath Laertes’s arm for a quick touch to his waist. Hamlet calls out triumphantly: “One.”

Laertes:
“No.”

Hamlet:
“Judgement!”

Osric:
“A hit, a very palpable hit.”

Laertes sneers:
“Well, again.”

We move apart and take up our positions. In the second round, the choreography is more acrobatic. Laertes slices his rapier at my head and I duck, narrowly escaping the blow. The air whistles; the audience gasps. I think about Geoff and how he hated this part; how he always cringed, terrified of Ian. My anger swells as I hunt Laertes across the stage. Our swords blaze beneath the lights. I jab and strike with a hit to his side. My blade grazes Ian’s vest. His eyes widen at the closeness of my attack.

Hamlet:
“Another hit. What say you?”

Laertes:
“A touch, a touch. I do confess ’t.”

Two points for Hamlet. None for Laertes. I catch my breath. Laertes seethes with rage. He is desperate to hit Hamlet now. Just one nick of the poisoned sword and Hamlet will die. We separate again.

Meanwhile, Queen Gertrude picks up Hamlet’s goblet and innocently sips from the poisoned wine.

Hamlet calls out,
“Come, for the third, Laertes. You do but dally. / I pray you pass with your best violence.”

Laertes scoffs at my challenge.
“Say you so. Come on.”

We play the third bout, pressing each other back and forth across the stage. Finally, we smash our swords together and hold tight, leaning our bodies full into it. Osric cries out,
“Nothing neither way.”
He pushes us apart; no points scored.

Laertes scowls. Hamlet turns away to wipe the sweat from his brow. And this is Ian’s cue to leap out and attack. Laertes shouts, “
Have at you now!
” He lunges at Hamlet, going for the hit. Ian’s rapier passes so close to my arm that I almost feel the kiss of the blade.

I gasp, as if Hamlet’s arm has been cut. Quickly, I crush a fake blood capsule against my skin. Hamlet wheels around, wounded and furious. He will not suffer this unprovoked assault. If Laertes does not play by gentlemanly rules, nor will he. The fight is on.

Hamlet charges at Laertes. Laertes thrusts his sword at my stomach. I grab his blade with my free hand while he wrestles my sword away from me. In the scuffle, we exchange rapiers; his sword is now mine, and mine is his. We leap apart, swords poised, all according to the choreography.

It isn’t until I hear Carla gasp that I see the blood dripping from my fingers. I’ve sliced my palm on the razor-sharp edge of Ian’s blade, and blood gushes from my wounded hand. The audience murmurs sounds of distress. Can they tell the difference between real and fake blood? Or do they think this is all part of the show?

Now I feel the flaming pain, but I don’t care anymore because I am done with this play! I am off the page. I am unleashed! I, Jules, leap at Ian Slater, shouting out my unbearable rage.
“O villainy! Ho! Let the door be locked. / Treachery! Seek it out.”

The cast gawks. They’re confused. They think I’ve blown my line. Wasn’t I supposed to hit Laertes in the arm? Shouldn’t Claudius be speaking now? Carla scrambles to get us back on track. She blurts out,
“The drink, the drink! I am poisoned.”
She swoons, dying, collapsing on the floor, but no one watches because the play is over and I am attacking Ian for real.

He flings off his mask. I rip off mine. He howls, and his wolf eyes glitter as he charges. Our rapiers fly up into the air. I will have justice! I will have my revenge!

At first, we’re almost evenly matched, my polished anger against his superior strength and skill, but soon the advantage of my surprise attack is gone. Ian is by far the better player. He forces me back, and I stumble against the trolley, sending it crashing to the floor. Ian drives his sword at my chest, but I swing my rapier up to meet his.
Smack!

My lungs are on fire. I can’t keep this up. I’m flagging badly. Blood spurts from my open wound, speckling the stage with a crimson spray.

Ian feints left. I flick at his hip. He reads my attack, parries and cuts. I ward off the blow, but he surges against me. I stagger backward as his sword swoops down. I raise my weapon, but I am too slow. My wrist snaps back as his sword connects.
Crack!
My rapier flies out of my hand. It spins wildly across the stage, like the flashing spokes of a silver wheel. Claudius ducks and tumbles over his throne. Carla shrieks. Ian laughs. I stand on the stage, frozen and disarmed. Ian and I stare at each other.

Ian points his sword at my chest. Will I feel the blade? Will he actually do it? I see the cold gleam in his eye, but I do not flinch. I am prepared to meet my destiny.

Ian springs forward across the stage, but he is so arrogant in victory that he doesn’t see Carla’s foot kicking out. As he runs, his foot snags on hers. He trips and falls. The rapier goes flying. It twirls upward like a ribbon of light, and I snatch
it by the hilt in midair. Ian hits the ground and rolls onto his back. But before he can move, there I am, leaning over his flattened body, the tip of my blade upon his throat.

I hold the sword to his bare white neck. And now, everything slows down. I hear the buzz of the stage lights, the rasp of my breath, the splat of my blood as it hits the floor. And even though my chest heaves and my hand pulsates in a rhythm of pain, inside, I am serenely calm, like a golden Buddha on a lotus flower.

My rapier wobbles in my trembling hand, the sharp tip nudging against Ian’s throat. His skin dimples, and a little pucker of flesh oozes a drop of glossy red. Not because I press, no, but because Ian gives a shudder. Fear, or just the instinctive urge to move away from the blade? A nick. I don’t intend to cut him. I don’t move. I hold my position. Even when the blood blooms at the tip of my sword and trickles gently down his neck, I remain very still.

We all stand in our Shakespearean frieze, in poses of shock and disbelief. In the gap between the beats of time. I have all the time in the world. I am a warrior. This is my time. The choices are mine to make now. The threads of fate lie in my hand, and everyone must wait to be released. What will I do?
That is the question
. I look down the length of steel into Ian’s shocked face. What is Hamlet supposed to do? What can we hope for in this sad, strange, imperfect world?

I listen, and from the shadows, Hamlet whispers,
“Let be.”

Let be. What wisdom in that? What justice served? What dignity there? Hamlet gives me a melancholy smile.
“There is a / special providence in the fall of a sparrow.”
Let it go.
“Let be.”

Around me, the dust dances in the cold white beams of light, like the dust clouds from a sand mandala, like the sand from the Rajasthan desert. Even ordinary dust sparkles in the stage light. It is all a play, a play within a play, tragedy or comedy, just an illusion.

I drop the sword and walk offstage.

From the wings, Fortinbras stumbles onto the broken set. He speaks in a shaky voice,
“Where is this sight?”

Horatio replies,
“What is it you would see? / If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.”

In the wings, Mr. Gabor reaches for me. Around me I see sparks of light.

My mother appears and takes me in her arms. Everything is shining bright.

“It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue”

I think it’s common knowledge that without my fast footwork, Julia Epstein would’ve had more than twenty stitches in her hand to worry about. Mar and Deb still can’t believe I had the guts to trip Ian.

“That was so amazing,” Mar says.

“What made you do it?” Debbie asks.

I shrug and give them my most humble smile, but the truth is, I didn’t even plan it. I just stuck out my foot. Maybe I have great instincts. Anyway, it did put an end to the fight. And now, everyone’s treating me like a hero! Ma and Pa can’t stop bragging to the family, and Papa says the school should give me a gold medal for bravery because if it wasn’t for me, someone could’ve been really hurt. Not that Ian was going to skewer Julia or anything—he’s a fencer, not a killer—but still, the whole fight was totally out of control. And the thing is, Julia started it.