In the Shadow of Shakespeare (14 page)

 “What’s
wrong?” 

 “Nothing,
love.  I suppose I’m just tired.”  He managed a weak smile.

 “Great. 
I get to play the guessing game with everyone tonight?  What?  Tell
me
what you’re thinking.”

 “There’s
a fine line between the psychic and the psychotic you know.”

Alice
felt a crushing vice rap around her chest.  It became hard to
breath.  She looked out the window, watching the street lights flash by
and the headlights approach in the distance.

 “I
just don’t understand.  Your profession tells you to regard the psychic as
a healing process.  And yet you sit here and denigrate me.”

 “But
you have a history of
psychotic,
not psychic disturbance.  Of
course I’m alarmed.  And now this Marlowe thing.” 

Alice
looked over at him.  “You’re jealous.”

“Jealous?
What are you talking about?”

“You
know damn well what I’m talking about.  If it was anything else besides
Marlowe, you would listen to me.  In fact, if it was one of your precious
clients you would be all ears, I’m sure.”  She slumped in her seat.

 “I’m
sorry I ever brought this Marlowe thing up.”  Albert pulled in the parking
lot.

 “It
has nothing to do with you bringing it up.  Did you ever think that it
might be something that I have tapped into?  Some sort of psychic
link?  Can’t you understand that finding this information out about my
grandmother has made me feel good about myself?   Why can’t you
understand that?”  She peered at him in the dark. 

“Of
course it has to do with me bringing it up, or you never would have latched on
to it.”  He picked up her hand.  “Don’t you realize the obsessive
nature you have?  This happened before with that Pirondello play, and then
with Mr. Gronsky.”

 “Pirondello
didn’t come back to haunt me, and Mr. Gronsky was a tyrannical ass.  You
know
that Albert.”

“Yes,
but the point is you were obsessed with the play, and Gronsky, and then you had
the psychotic break.”

 “Well
it was a nice place to be at the time Albert.”  She withdrew her hand from
his, thinking of the blissful feelings she had felt after she had broken
through the paranoia.

“What
are you saying Alice?  That your breakdown was some sort of defense
mechanism?”

“Maybe.”

“I
don’t buy that.”  He took the keys from the ignition.

“Mr.
Big Shot Transactional Analysis is now telling me what I should feel.  I
thought that was the point of transactional analysis Albert, that the patient
is guided by their own intuition, and not lead on by the shrink!”

 “You
have a past – ”

“Look,
Albert, my life is fine.  I am not under the same stress I was
before.  You cannot imprint one circumstance upon another.  I am a
changed person.”

He
shook his head.  “I wish you would talk to Selina.”

“Our
work together is done Albert, I told you that!  Damnit!  Don’t you
listen to me?”  She hit the side of the door with her fist.  “And
what about you?  Are you a changed person?  When’s the last time you
saw Maria?  You never put flowers on her grave.”  Alice felt tears
stream down her cheeks.

“Maria
is dead Alice.  She doesn’t care if I see her.”

“Well,
I care!  And it seems to me you are the one not dealing with things, not
changing.  Look!  We’re still in this damn apartment!” 

“May
I remind you that – ”

“No,
you may not remind me.  I’m sick and tired of being the patient Albert,
while you are the great and sane analyst.”  Alice opened the door, got
out, and then slammed it as hard as she could.  She walked to the
apartment door and realized she didn’t have the key.

Chapter 18

After
dinner they had gone back to Christopher’s room.  Nick began talking of
the theatre in London and of a certain clown, Richard Tarlton, who brought down
the house with his antics.

Nick
laughed, remembering, “And this Tarlton, moving about, suddenly flipped back
after he had recited his lines.  Now, hear me, all the way back, in the
air!  Why, his cap was still upon on his head!  The man is most
fluid.”  He shook his head in amazement.

Christopher
frowned.  “Do ye mean limber?”

 “Aye,
that too.”  Nick lay back on the bed with his hands behind his head.

Christopher
cleared his throat and went to his desk, inserted a key and opened a
drawer.  “Ye asked what I ha’ been workin’ on Nick?  Here
‘tis.”  He handed his manuscript to Nick.

Nick
flipped through the pages.  “Marry Kit…’tis long.  What say
you….ah,”  He turned to the first page, to the title of the play.  “
Tamburlaine
?” 
He looked at Christopher, a quizzical expression on his face. 

 “Timur
the Lame.  I ha’ been readin’ the Turks.  He was a great lord, except
lame.  Now, mind you,
my
Tamburlaine, is not.  As a warrior he
is strong and undefeated.” 

 “And
what say you now, Kit?  Will ye be ta’en the play to London?”  Nick
smirked at him.

 “Aye. 
Deo favente
.”   Christopher retrieved his manuscript, placed
it in the desk drawer and locked it.

 “Certes,
with God’s favor.  But I see ye plan to be no man of God, nay Kit, you aim
to be a playmaker?”

Christopher
smiled, pulled the tie on his robe tighter.  “ ‘Tis true.  A poet is
what I’ll be Nick.  But I aim to make money at my labor, and a poet needs
a patron.  Marry, not being gentle is my plight. And being noble fares
better than naught.”  He frowned, scratching his leg.  “Ah, this
cloak scratches so. The roughest wool, ‘tis all my mother could afford.” 

Nick
sat the edge of the bed.  A smile crept across his face.  “Verily
Kit, I cannot not change base stock into gold.  I’m no alchemist. “Tis
rough you are, not gentle.”  He laughed.  Christopher threw a pillow
at his head.

 “Fie
Nick, you light minded giglet.  I ha’ the same brain as any noble,
perchance e’en better.  In the main, thou wilt see my plays in
London.  Thou wilt
see
.”  Christopher’s eyes gleamed.

 “Ha! 
But I know a way to make this wealth thou art craving.  On the morrow Kit,
on the morrow
.”

Christopher
looked at him, doubtful.  “What say you Nick?  Prithee tell me the
length of it.”

Nick
stood and went to the door, listened for a minute, then came back to the
bed.  He sat next to Christopher.

 “Ye
know of Walsingham?”

Christopher
frowned.  “The man of state, Sir Francis?”

 “Aye,
the very one.”

Nick
leaned closer to Christopher and explained.

Chapter 19

Alice
didn’t plan on driving over to Mimi Serna’s, but after finally locating her
house the pending visit became an obsession.  She drove around the block a
few times, working up her courage.  She wondered what she would say to
this woman. 
Will she tell me I’m crazy?

Getting
out of the car she walked across the street to the house.  In the window
there was a small sign of a palm with an eye in the middle of it. 
Hand
of seeing
?   She knocked on the door.

 “Un
momento!”  Someone yelled from inside.

A
small boy of about eight answered the door.  He had a crew cut and was
dressed in a Batman shirt and a pair of jeans.  He stared at her.

 “
Es
su madre...,
” 

He
nodded.  “Ma!”

Mimi
quickly appeared at the door, a load of wash in her arms.  Alice was
slightly taken back.  She wasn’t sure what a psychic would look like, but
Mimi Serna did not seem to resemble one at all.  Dressed in black slacks
and a white shirt, she resembled a waitress or a receptionist.  She had
dark hair that was held back with a barrette and she wore glasses. 
Where’s
the turban, the bright colors…

Alice
shook her head, embarrassed at the thought.  Mimi smiled.

 “Can
I help you?”

 “A
friend of mine mentioned you, said I should pay you a visit…”

Mimi
nodded, and ushered her in the door.  “Come in, let’s go to the office.”

Office?

 “I’ll
be out in time for supper.” Mimi said.

“Okay
ma.”

She
nodded at the young boy, and he ran up the stairs.

“Down
here.”  Mimi started to descend the basement stairs. 

The
basement was comfortable and refinished.  A carpet was on the floor, and a
litter box and dishes of cat food and water lay against the wall.  
Mimi led her to a door and opened it.

“My
name is Mimi, by the way.”

“I’m
Alice.”

“Hi
Alice.”

The
room was small.  There was a table with two chairs up against the wall and
a bookshelf full of books.  She picked up a thin volume of poetry by Dylan
Thomas, set it back in its spot, scanned the titles of other books – a novel,
House
of the Spirits
, by Isabel Allende, how fitting, Alice thought.  There
were novels by Alice Walker and Barbara Kingsolver, Raymond Carver and Stephen
King.  A whole row of books on Tarot and astrology.  A book on car
mechanics stopped her.

“Car
mechanics?”

Mimi
laughed, sitting down at the table.  “Sure, why not?”

“It
just seems strange sitting here amongst the literature.  So practical
somehow.”

“Yes,
well I’m a single mother and believe it or not we have no mechanics in my
family, so here I am.  A psychic, car mechanic.”  She laughed
again.  “But my main job is nursing, over at Lansing General.  I work
the cardiac unit.  What about you, you like to read?”

“Oh,
yes.  I’m an English teacher over at the high school.”

“Ah,
that
English teacher.”

“What?” 
Alice’s face fell.

“The
talk about you.   In a good way.”

Alice
smiled.  “Teaching is something that comes natural to me, you know, like a
life process – like living….,” Alice looked towards the small window to the
outside, “and like dying…what is that poem?  Oh yeah, “Time held me green
and dying / Though I sang in my chains like the sea.”

“Dylan
Thomas.
 
'Fern Hill.' ”  Mimi
said. 

Alice
nodded.

“My
favorite,” Mimi said, “Is – The force that through the green fuse drives the
flower / Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees / Is my
destroyer.”

“Yes,
Dylan was great.  Wasn’t he.”  Alice sat down opposite Mimi.

Mimi
was looking at her strangely, focusing, then, unfocusing.  She took her
glasses off,  put them on again, peered at her.

“
Quod
me nutriet, me destruiet
.  Yes, that’s it.”  Mimi took her
glasses off, rubbed them on her shirt.

Astonished,
Alice could only stare at her.

“It’s
quite a bit like Dylan, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well,
yes…how did you know?” Mimi shrugged.  “What nourishes me, also destroys
me.  The message is for you not me.  I’m only the antennae.  I
pick the stuff up and broadcast it.” 

Alice
slowly nodded.  “It’s Kit Marlowe’s saying.  He had it painted in a
corner of his portrait.  You can find it all over Shakespeare’s works too
– it’s in the sonnets, in the plays – everywhere.”

Mimi
frowned.  “Well, whatever it means, it’s all over
you,
Alice. 
You literally vibrate with it.”  Mimi placed a small bundle wrapped in
velvet in front of her.  “Now, let me tell you what I usually do.  I
read the cards and see what type of impressions I get.”

Mimi
took the Tarot cards out and shuffled them.  She placed them in front of
Alice.  “Please cut the deck in two.”

She
dutifully separated the pile into two halves.

Mimi
placed the cards together.  “The reason I use cards in guiding my
intuition is because the cards tell a story.  They use ancient symbolism
that is contained in our unconscious, but we have access to it when we see and
use the symbols.  It is like a memory banked that we can tap into.”

Alice
nodded.  She was well versed in symbolism.  Her work as a writer and
in the theatre had taught her there were no coincidences.  There was a
purpose behind everything.  Albert felt the same way in his psychology
work.  They used to talk about the symbols they found to be inherent in
their work.  But all that was over now, Alice thought.

Mimi
lay the first card down.   It was an image of two people united
together.  Cupid rose above them with his bow, aiming an arrow towards
them. 

“The
lovers,” Mimi said.  “The sign of Gemini.  It is the journey of the
twins.  Someone you feel very close to is reaching out to you.”