“Ophelia,” he proclaimed, to my great apprehension, “can I lie in your lap?”
I looked around with embarrassment, and as I did so, saw my father’s trepidation, Horatio’s concern, and the amused glances of nearly everyone else. “No,” I replied uncomfortably.
In a stage whisper he said, “I mean, my
head
in your lap.”
I whispered back, “Whatever body part you are suggesting, I don’t think so.” I didn’t trust him, and I wanted him to go away.
“Do you think I’m suggesting something dirty?
Moi?
” He leered, then laughed.
“You’re in a good mood,” I said through a clenched jaw.
“Yeah, because I’m ready to give as good as I get. Speaking of bitches, look at my mother. She’s in a pretty good mood, too, and my father’s been dead for only two hours.”
I had had enough and said sharply, “Months. Nearly four months, Hamlet. Enough of this.”
As he rose to tower over me, he asked loud enough for all to hear, “Enough of what? Enough of me or enough of my father’s death? Wow, four months have passed and he hasn’t been forgotten yet? Then there’s hope that a
great
man’s memory might last longer than a year.”
Thankfully, at that moment a recorded trumpet sounded, indicating the show was starting. To my surprise, Hamlet sat back down next to me. It would seem that my punishment was not yet at its end. The recording came from a little speaker set in the corner of the stage, and the sound was intentionally puny, making the fanfare practically ridiculous.
The troupe marched out, yelling, “All hail King Claudius!”
Claudius nodded but did not smile. All five guys were wearing sailor outfits, and the tallest, thinnest one with a twinkle in his eye stepped forward. “Welcome! Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Mike, and we are the King’s Sea Men.”
A couple of people guffawed but quieted down once they realized they were the only ones to find the double entendre amusing… or at least the only ones bold enough to laugh at it.
“What’s this?” I whispered to Hamlet, remembering that these guys, known as the Wit Burgers, usually wore T-shirts with the troupe’s logo plus jeans.
He lifted his eyebrows, not taking his eyes off Claudius. “Mischief,” he whispered back.
Mike continued, “If we shadows do offend / Think but this, and all will mend / That you have but slumbered here / While these visions did appear.”
“What the hell does that mean?” called out one of his fellow comedians.
Tall Mike grinned and added, “All that follows is meant in good fun. We hope you will take it as such.” He winked, and they all ran into new places on the stage, tearing off their sailor costumes as they moved.
Hamlet muttered, “I hope it will be good and fun… but only for some. I’m waiting for the outcome.”
“You’re not making sense,” I whispered.
“Just like a woman,” he said, glowering.
I cleared my throat and stared at the stage.
Mike explained that they would begin with an improvised scene, which would need a purpose. “Do I have a suggestion from the audience?” he asked.
Hamlet cleared his throat, and Rosencrantz turned around. When his eyes met Hamlet’s, Hamlet nodded and Rosencrantz yelled out, “Murder. Murder most foul.”
Gertrude froze, and Claudius glared at Hamlet. Rosencrantz, suddenly realizing he had done something to displease the king, slid down in his seat.
At this point, a guy, clearly meant to be Gertrude ( judging by the blond wig done in a French knot), came onto the stage. He swirled, his skirt flowing delicately, then kissed an actor wearing a crown. I cringed.
“No, no,” minced the “queen.” “Do not kiss me!”
Hamlet stood at this point and asked Gertrude loudly, “Mother, how do you like the act?”
“I think the lady is protesting too much,” she said, her voice light but her smile stiff.
“
Son
,” Claudius said, “I do not find this particularly funny. In fact, it seems rather offensive.”
“No, no, no, they’re kidding.
Poisonously
funny, though, huh?” Hamlet spoke quickly, his brimming emotions impossible to read.
My worry was deepening. I didn’t know what game he was playing or how far he would take it. As usual, my desire to protect him overtook my good senses. Quietly enough for him alone to hear, I said, “Seems a little pointed to me.”
Hamlet roughly ran his fingers through his hair and took in the actors onstage, who made to carry on with the scene after the unintended interruption. “Stop, stop. Do the next one,” Hamlet called out, full of excited rage.
The troupe froze and looked at one another, then bowed and regrouped. After a moment, Mike announced, his voice faltering, “W-we call this game the mousetrap.”
The game went like this: All of the men were supposedly at a cocktail party. One guy was selected to go beyond earshot while the audience suggested maladies the other comedians would have. The actor who had left would come back in knowing only that he was supposed to play a doctor and that he would have to figure out the sicknesses of the players, then suggest cures.
Two actors stepped forward wearing crowns, the “king” seeming to be stuck to the “queen.” To remove the unwanted “king” from her back, the “doctor” suggested poison, at which point all the actors sang a lullaby and the “doctor” pantomimed pouring poison in the ear of the sleeping “king.” Once the poisoned “king” had fallen to the ground, the “doctor” took the crown and put it on his own head. Then he asked the “queen” to marry him, at which she squealed in delight, knocked the “doctor” to the ground, and kissed him passionately.
“Enough!” roared Claudius, rising.
The actors froze.
“Turn on the lights! Let’s go. And take them away!” he bellowed, pointing at the comedians who looked ready to piss themselves.
“Lights, lights, lights!” shouted my father, and the house lights popped on.
I slipped out the side door in time to hear Claudius shouting at Gertrude, “I told you Hamlet was trouble. I told you to get him out of here, but you insisted on keeping him close. Enough is enough. He goes to England tomorrow!”
Gertrude might have argued against it, but I don’t know. The elevator doors opened and they were whisked away.
I stuck my head back in the side door of the theater to see what was happening. There was an intense commotion as the rest of the audience rushed down the aisles, some chatting excitedly, some nervously, about the bizarre situation they’d witnessed. Tara’s mother had her daughter by the arm despite Tara’s protest that she’d left her pink canvas bag.
Hamlet leaped onto his velvet seat and called out to Horatio, “Did you see that?” He crossed the theater by walking on the armrests. “Did you see Claudius’s reaction?”
“I did. He totally freaked out at the poison part,” I heard Horatio say.
“No doubt about it. He killed my father. I knew it!” Hamlet shouted as he leaped onto the stage. He checked his back pocket, and he and Horatio disappeared behind the curtains.
As I exited, I was nearly knocked over by a crowd of royal guardsmen running in. I ran for the elevators, but all were full and moving to other floors. I put my fingers in my ears to drown out the sound of the college comedians being dragged roughly down the back stairs.
After all was quiet, I decided to look for Hamlet. I know. I should have just gone home. But I wasn’t making the wisest choices at the time, so this idiot move should come as no surprise. The way I figured it, if Hamlet really was leaving town, I ought to say good-bye. I didn’t think he wanted to see me, and I wasn’t sure I really wanted to see him, but it seemed like the right thing to do. I couldn’t leave things the way they were. Maybe I should have, but how could I turn my back on someone with whom I literally had a lifetime of history? Claudius hadn’t said how long Hamlet would be in England. It might be long enough for us to forgive each other. Maybe not. Either way, I spent the better part of an hour searching.
I had been looking everywhere I could think of for Hamlet and finally stopped at a conference room door, convinced I heard his voice. He sounded angry, so I was afraid to go in. Then I heard what sounded like a chair being thrown, and I found myself propelled inside to make sure Hamlet wasn’t in danger. When I entered, I saw he was standing alone by the large window. Rolling chairs were all over the room, some pushed away from the table, some overturned, like cockroaches stuck on their backs.
“Hamlet?”
He spun around to face me. “Get out of here. Haven’t you done enough damage already?”
I considered walking out, but my guilt kept me rooted. Checking on him was the least I could do. “Where’s Horatio?” I asked.
“Why? You gonna screw him, too?”
I crossed my arms forcefully and gritted my teeth. I had gone in there to check on him to be a good friend, and this was how he repaid me? His words were as powerful as a slap, and I wanted to hurt him back. “What do you care what I do or
who
I do, Hamlet?” The shock and deepening anger on his face egged me on. “You’ve made it pretty damn clear that you hate me. And apparently, you never loved me. So why would I wait around? I’ll screw whoever I want whenever I want. You did.”
“Liar.” He growled.
Hamlet climbed onto the conference table and sat down. He stared at me like a vulture, his chin low, glowering from under his brow. But I stood my ground. Then he reached behind his back, lifted his shirt, and pulled out the gun, the one he’d had in my room weeks before.
I froze, wondering if I was going to get shot for telling the truth. “Jesus, Hamlet,” I managed. “Are you still carrying that around?”
He laid it on the table between his feet and stared at it, then rubbed his face hard and shook out his hair. Tapping at the gun with one finger, he said to himself as much as to me, “I had the perfect chance to use it.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but a soft gasp was all that came out.
“But I didn’t,” he said. “I couldn’t. Claudius was right there, right in front of me. After the show, in the chapel. No security. No secretaries. On his kneeeees. And I thought,
Well, he’s alone. Just get it done.
“But then I,” Hamlet continued, tapping the gun harder, “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t shoot someone who was praying. It was too disturbing. As if shooting someone isn’t disturbing, right? Maybe I just don’t have the balls to kill someone.”
Hamlet picked up the gun and pointed it at his own heart. “And I don’t know if I have the balls to kill myself. But someone’s gotta go.”
My heart pounded, and I wasn’t sure if I should run for help or keep talking to him. I didn’t want to leave him with a gun pointed at his chest. “Hamlet,” I said, forcing my dry mouth to speak, “killing Claudius… or yourself…” I couldn’t think. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Liar,” he said, but he lowered the gun and rested it on the table. Then he began spinning it. Every time it slowed down, he’d spin it again.
I couldn’t make my body walk closer to his, not with that gun between us. “Hamlet, don’t.”
He slammed his palm onto the gun. “Maybe you should take this,” he said, and slid the gun across the table at me.
I shook my head, unable to speak.
He kicked over another chair as he jumped off the table, then rounded the corner and came toward me. Standing so close I could feel his breath on my face, he whispered, “You should’ve taken it while you had the chance.” He reached across me, his arm grazing mine, grabbed the gun, and shoved it under his shirt. Then he walked out without another word.
He was right. I should have taken it.
Barnardo:
You said Hamlet wouldn’t speak to you, but, in what’s left of the surveillance tape from before the show, he’s seen whispering to you. Part of his plot again?
Ophelia:
He wanted to humiliate me.
Barnardo:
By doing what?
Ophelia:
Suggesting I—do lewd things with him in front of everyone.
Barnardo:
And did you?
Ophelia:
Are you always this rude, or do you just hate women?
Barnardo:
Watch it.
Francisco:
What did you think of the show?
Ophelia:
Funny.
Francisco:
It’s pretty insulting to the queen and the king.
Ophelia:
Yeah.
Barnardo:
You don’t seem too upset.
Ophelia:
They deserved it after what they did, don’t you think?
Barnardo:
What else did they deserve?
Francisco:
(pause)
Again with the silence.
(pause)
Take her back to her cell.
“What happened after the improv show?”
Ophelia looks down. “I’d rather not talk about this.”
Zara tilts her head and croons to the camera, “We’ll be right back after a word from our sponsors.”
Later that evening, I was making dinner when the elevator doors opened. Marcellus and a guard I didn’t recognize were standing inside. Marcellus stepped forward while the other man remained. “Ophelia, you need to come with us.”
“Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Please come now.”
I put down the knife I was using to cut tomatoes and turned off the burner for the pasta. My heart quickened, but I tried to tell myself that it was nothing. Since the king’s death, however, nothing seemed like nothing anymore. I followed Marcellus into the elevator, and he pushed the PH button. So we were going to Gertrude.
Ugh,
I thought.
What now?
I looked up and saw my pinched face in the mirrored ceiling. The guards looked straight ahead. I wished they would say something.