In the Shadow of Shakespeare (17 page)

As
she pushed the hair off her face something in the closet caught her attention –
something shiny.  Intrigued, she got up and opened the closet door. 
A billowy dress spilled out – a Renaissance dress, sewn for a lady – all silk
and lace.  She stared at the dress, then shut the door and lay on the bed,
drifting off into a deep sleep.

 ***

Joannie
extracted the tea bag from the cup.  She gave it a final squeeze, milking
the last remnants of herbs from the bag.  She sat down with her tea and
promptly jumped up to shut the window. 

 “The
wind has shifted.  Now it’s coming from the north.  Damn it, I
thought spring had sprung.”  Joannie sipped her tea.  “You need some
sort of tea for nerves Petrovka.”

 “Maybe
I should just take a pill.”

 “You
might want to after I tell you what’s going down at the high school.”

Alice
looked up from her nails.  “Pray tell Bryant.”

Joannie
shook her head.  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard the rumors. 

 “I’ve
been busy.”

 “It’s
understandable you don’t want to hang with us in the teacher’s lounge with all
the off color jokes that damn jock jerk tells.”

 “I
don’t have much in common with those people.  Sad, I know, they are my
colleagues.”

They
fell silent for a moment.  Joannie got up and shut the rest of the windows
on the first floor.

 “I
think I can guess.  Lay offs right?”  Alice called after her, looking
at the wall.  Her eyes fastened on a movement.  A spider had begun to
crawl lethargically along a window ledge.

Joannie
sat down.  “Yes.  That’s the rumor.”

Alice
sat watching the spider.  Joannie turned toward it with interest, then,
registered disgust.  Alice put her hand on her arm.  “Please. 
Leave it.” 

 “Albert
is trying to buy me off with a new house.”

 “Buy
you off?”

 “Yes. 
He thinks all our troubles will be solved by this house.  He even put a
Renaissance style dress in the bedroom closet.”

Joannie
frowned.  “Wait.  I don’t get it.  He is upset because of these
so called fantasies you’re having…and then he sticks a period dress in the
closet?

Alice
nodded.  “Exactly.  It’s almost as if he wants me to go crazy –
somehow throw me over the edge, and then…rescue me?  I don’t know.”

Alice
looked towards the spider.  She was possessed with an urge to free
it.  Getting up, she placed the spider on her palm, walked outside, and
carefully set it in a patch of sunlight.  The spider moved away, settling
itself next to the wall.

Chapter 23

He
gazed into the mirror.  The image in the before him spoke of wealth and
confidence.  Christopher breathed a sigh of relief.  He had returned
from France trusted and well regarded.  Walsingham had christened him:
“Master Marlowe, a most wonderous spy.”  Smiling, he had promised him
patronage for his poetry; he would introduce him to his young cousin, Thomas
Walsingham.  A most note worthy gentleman, Walsingham had said.  He
had said all of this with conviction, but Christopher could never tell by his
eyes.  Walsingham was one man he could not read. 

He
ran his hands over his arms.  The doublet was made of the finest velvet
–  black, with slash marks showing the red velvet underneath.

 “Come,
come.  If thou coiffest further, ye wilt wear out the fabric.” 
Gascoigne, the painter, ushered him down from the stool.

 “Ah,
ye hast no idea how fine ‘tis this cloth for me.”  Christopher looked
about the room.  “Whereon shall I stand for this portrait, sir?” 
   

“Methinks…here.” 
Gascoigne positioned Christopher in front of the wall.  “’Tis enough light
in front of the window.”  Gascoigne unwrapped his brushes from a leather
cloth.  He began mixing the paints on the table before him.  “I ha’
most of what I need, except some saffron.”   He stood mixing paints,
glancing up at Christopher.  “Twill be black, the background.” 

 “Can
I move?”

 “Nay,
none for an hour.”

Christopher
stood still, settling his eyes on the movement outside the
window.    His thoughts once again turned toward France and what
he had accomplished.  He was promised by Walsingham that the mission would
take no longer then a month, but as he sent reports back to England, Walsingham
pressed him to stay further. 

 “This
Baines,” Walsingham had said.  “’Tis sneaky.  He may be dealing in
doubles.  You must watch, till thou knowest.” 

Walsingham
had concerns that Richard Baines, who had been sent to the sanctuary in Rheims
to gather information on Catholics, was a double agent, working at once for
England and France. And although Baines worked for the Privy Council,
Walsingham was sure that he had been singled out by the Archbishop, John
Whitgift, who was also on the Privy Council, for his own political and
religious purposes – purposes that conflicted with Walsingham’s. 
Walsingham had sent Christopher to France because he was a new agent and Baines
did not know who he was. 

Once
in France, Christopher had carefully monitored Baines's movements.  He had
disguised himself, with help from a monsignor also working for Walsingham, as a
novice priest.  He sat in the back of the cathedral at Rheims and
carefully watched the imposing figure of Richard Baines kneeling in the front
pew.  Christopher took out his rosary and fingered the beads, alternating
an Our Father with a Hail Mary per bead.  Peering out from behind his
woolen hood, he watched as the figure of Baines rose from the pew and then
genuflected in front of the cross.  A young priest entered the sanctuary,
and Baines rose up to greet him.  He kissed the priest on both cheeks and
then softly on the lips.  The priest placed something on the altar and
then left.  Baines watched him go and then turned his eyes to Christopher.

Holy
Mary, mother of God

Pray
for us sinners, now

And
at the hour of our death  Amen.

Christopher
switched beads, and felt Baine’s eyes on him.  He looked up. 

 “Dost
thou believe…priest?”  Baines's eyes sought his.

Christopher
made the sign of the cross and then rose from the pew.

 “You
wish to speak with me Father?”

 “Aye. 
Speak to all initiates I must.  I pray thee, we meet in my quarters after
sup. Converse we will…and pray together.”

 “We
shall then Father.” 

 “Give
you good morrow.”  Baines clasped his shoulder, rubbing his fingers along
his back, down, then lightly across his buttocks.  He patted him, and
turned to leave.

Christopher
watched him walk the aisle.  Baines did not turn around. 

 “Will
ye be clasping thine arms the entire day?”

Christopher
blinked, and the face of Gascoigne came into focus.  He had unconsciously
folded his arms in front of himself when he was thinking about Baines.

 “Sir,
shall I put mine arms down?” 

Gascoigne
looked at him, then at the canvas.  “Nay, keep thine arms the way they
are.  Methinks it suits you.  And the look upon thy face, barely a
smile – keep that look upon ye face.”   Gascoigne began to paint.

Chistopher
let the face of Gascoigne fade again from focus – thinking of his play,
Tamburlaine
. 
He decided then he would take it to Phillip Henslowe – to the Rose Theatre.

Chapter 24

Alice
took her hanging plants from the window and carefully set them in the box by
the door.  She was pleased that the philodendron had gotten so long. 
She examined one of its long stems, remembering when it had been nothing but a
cutting that Joannie had given her.  Looking around the room she realized
she was almost done cleaning up.  School was out for the summer.

The
afternoon sun was high in the sky when she heard the knock at the door. 
She had decided to spend some time reading, with her feet propped up on her
desk, and wasn’t entirely surprised when she opened the door to Mr. Bonham, the
principal.

 “Hello,
Alice.”  He cleared his throat.

 “Hi. 
Pink slip time?”

Mr.
Bonham blushed.  “Well, yes, to be so blunt.  We won’t be renewing
your contract.  I’m sorry Alice, but you know the school had been under
pressure – budget cuts and all.  We have had to let some other teachers go
also.  Fine teachers.  Excellent teachers.”  He fingered his
tie.  Alice noticed it was covered in lettuce heads.  She thought of
gardening. 

Mr.
Bonham leaned against her desk.  Alice crossed her arms in front of herself.

She
didn’t care about this anymore, and because of Mr. Bonham’s lettuce tie she had
begun to think of gardening and of roses.  She wondered what had become of
the rose expert, Mr. McGill, and her rose.  She wished she had pressed it
between two sheets of paper, setting a book on it, preserving it forever. 
But nothing lasts forever, she thought. 
Or does it?

Mr.
Bonham elaborated on budget cuts and Alice though of lettuce heads.  She
tuned into the conversation when he looked at her intently and expectantly. 

 “I
know why I’m getting fired Mr. Bonham, and it isn’t because of budget
cuts.  I see what is happening to this school.  The character has
changed; the agenda has changed.  It’s not designed for free thinking
anymore.  No, you don’t want us to promote independent thinking.  You
want us to teach for tests.”  Alice took a breath, not quite sure she
would go on. 

Mr.
Bonham blushed again.  “Alice, that’s not correct.  We value you, and
we think you’re an excellent teacher.”

“We
value me, Mr. Bonham.?  Just who is
we
?  Do you mean the
school board values me?”

“Why…yes,
of course.”

“Well
if they value me so much, then why didn’t they give me tenure two years ago?”

“The
board, like any school board, felt you had to prove yourself.  Any school
district is like that.”  Mr. Bonham nodded, pleased with his
performance.  He reminded Alice of a peacock, ready to preen. 
What
a smug bastard
.

“These
school board members, two of them are on my theatre board also.  I know
what they’re looking for…I know.”  Alice swallowed a lump in her throat.

Mr.
Bonham looked uncomfortable.  He adjusted the tie around his neck. 
He assumed a mournful face and stuck out his hand.  “I’m sorry
Alice.  Truly sorry.”

“Truly. 
The pleasure was mine Mr. Bonham.”  Alice turned her back on him,
unwilling to shake his hand. 

She
heard the door open, then close behind her. 

Alice
walked over to the wall where she had hung a picture of the class after their
performance of
Othello
.  The pain in her chest brought tears to her
eyes.  They all looked so happy and proud.  Her trio – Alberto, Dion,
and Renita, had rejuvenated her as a teacher.  And she had rejuvenated
them.  She would never see them again now. 

The
sudden loneliness gripped her like a vice.   Picking up the phone she
quickly called Bernie. 

 ***

The
late afternoon sunshine spilled onto the tables in the front of the window, but
did not touch the table that Alice sat at in the corner. Alice lay her package
she had purchased at Ballard’s antiques on the chair next to her.  She looked
around for Margrite, but did not see her.  A waiter pulled the blinds down
to shield the restaurant from the sun.  The restaurant was shrouded in
semi-darkness.  He approached her table and lit the candle in the center
of the table. 

 “Will
anyone be joining you tonight, mademoiselle?”

 “Yes,
a gentleman.  Thank you.”

 “Would
you care for something to drink?”

 “A
glass of chardonnay would be fine.”

Alice
watched the waiter walk over to the bar and give her drink order to the
bartender.  The bartender was someone that Alice recognized, an older man,
probably in his late forties, dark hair and eyes, with a moustache.  A
good looking man, Alice thought.  He and the waiter began laughing at some
joke he had told.  He caught Alice looking at him and winked at her. 
She looked away.

The
waiter came back with her chardonnay.  He placed it in front of her along
with a little note.  Alice unfolded the note.

Beautiful
mademoiselle,

My
name is Antoine.  I shall forever be enraptured by your loveliness, and
continually at your service.  The wine is on me.  Please, do not bid
me adieu.

Alice
felt his eyes burning through her as she read the note.  She quickly
looked up, meeting his gaze.  He winked and blew a kiss. She began to
laugh.  Bernie walked into the restaurant, spotted Alice, and sat
down. 

 “What’s
so funny?”

Alice,
still laughing, looked towards Antoine, who smiled knowingly.  “Oh
nothing.”