In the Shadow of Shakespeare (18 page)

The
waiter appeared. 

“A
Corona please.”  Bernie picked up the menu.  “Are you hungry? 
I’m starved.”

Alice
sipped her wine.  She did not pick up the menu.  “A little.”

Uneasy,
she felt at once intimidated and unsure of herself. 
And with Bernie of
all people.

Bernie
looked up from the menu.  “Spit it out. Do you want to talk about getting
fired?”

“No. 
I wanted to know more about…time.  How is time treated in physics?”

“The
chicken
cordon bleu
sounds good.  Maybe I’ll get that.”

“Bernie.”

“Yes,
time.  The proverbial which came first, the chicken or the egg thing.”

“What
do you mean?”

“Well,
without matter you don’t have time, and without time, you don’t have
matter.  So which comes first – time, or matter?”

“That’s
beyond me.”

“Me
too.  That’s why I’m a physicist.  It drives me crazy.  And you
know how I
love
being crazy.”

“Not
me Bernie.”

The
waiter returned with the Corona.  Bernie filled his glass and took a long
swallow.  “Very good.  Just what I needed.  So why all the
interest in time?  Are you writing a play about time travel?”

“In
a way, yes.”

“Hmm.” 
He gave her a searching look.  “Back to the Marlowe man, are you?”

Alice
didn’t say anything, looked down at the table.  “You’re one of the only
people I can talk to about this Bernie.  I just want a connection.”

He
nodded.  “What about Albert?”

“What
does Albert have to do with this?”

“Maybe
you are trying to run away from the here and now.”

“I’m
content to be where I’m at.”

“Okay.
Fair enough.” 

The
waiter appeared and they ordered.  Alice noticed Antoine watching them.

“Well,
it’s ironic, but Bohm’s theory states just that:  the past, present, and
future all exist simultaneously.”

Alice
shook her head.  “But how can that be?  It doesn’t make sense.”

Bernie
took a swig of his beer.  “Okay, it’s like this.”  Taking a pen from
his shirt pocket he began writing on a cocktail napkin.  He drew three
circles with smiles on their faces.  Each circle was slightly bigger than
the other.

“Very
cute Bernie.”

He
smiled.  “Alright.  Perhaps time is like this:  let us say, the
biggest circle is the future.”  He pointed to the figure.  “The next
biggest circle is the present, and the smallest circle is the past.  Are
you with me?”

“I
think so.”

“Now,”
Bernie picked up his pen and drew the circles nested inside of each
other.  “Each level, or layer of time, is separate from one another, but
each level is constantly influencing the other two levels.  So, in this
way, they are inseparable.  Bohm’s theory suggests that time is not only
something that happens in the present and now, but also something that happens
in the past and future, shown by the way the circles represent the
interconnection of past, present, and future.”

Alice
stared at the napkin and Bernie became more animated.

“We
are really beings who live in parallel concurrent nows.  And maybe, just
maybe, sometime in the future, we might even be able to reach into this
superholographic level of reality and pluck out scenes from the past. 
Fascinating!”  Bernie flung his pen down, looked up at Alice.  “Does
this help or did I totally blow you away?

Alice
reached over and pulled the bag she had brought from the antique store onto the
table.  She pulled from the bag what she had purchased from the
store:  a trio of Russian nested dolls. 

Bernie
laughed.  “I believe our spouses would call this a synchronistic moment.”

Alice
nodded.   She took the three dolls apart and placed them side by
side.  “Time is not real then?”

Bernie
scratched his head.  “Well, I think it would be more accurate to say that
our ideas of time…are not reflective of reality.”

“But
what I wonder is how do we access these different levels or layers of
time?” 

He
smiled. “That’s the key.  Who knows?”

“What
about the idea of ritual and connecting with the past?”

“Yes? 
And what about it?”

“I’ve
heard that, at least metaphorically…it might be possible.”

The
waiter brought their dinners, setting the plates before them.  Alice
looked at the shrimp in front of her.  It smelled of the sea. 
Thoughts of Britain came drifting before, after, and into her.

Chapter 25

The
street was moving, full of people.  It had stopped raining, and the sun
shone brightly, warming the cobbled streets; steaming the puddles. 
Christopher kept his head up, proud to be a man of means, able to afford his
velvet doublet and fine wool hose.  Strutting proudly, he felt his foot
sink into something.  Horse manure.  Disgusted, he lifted his boot
and scraped it on the ground, trying to knock of as much as he could.  A
beggar boy walked by, laughing at him.  Christopher smiled and motioned
him over.

 “Cleanest
mine boot boy, and I shall give ye this two pence.”  He reached in his
pocket, holding up the coin.

The
boy nodded and Christopher pulled off his boot, handing it to him.  The
boy ran off with the boot, and Christopher watched him as he ran over to the
blacksmith’s shop trying to secure a rag. 

It
wouldn’t do to smell like the street when he saw Sir Francis.

Christopher
had asked Nick to come, but Nick had begged off, complaining that he wasn’t
feeling well.  The water in France had given him the runs.  He too
had just come from France, mopping up after the Baines fiasco.  Nick had
said that Baines had been powerfully angry when he had been thrown in
jail.  He had known he had been routed out by a spy and was bent on
vengeance. 

He
thought about this as he carefully balanced on his right foot, waiting for the
boy to return his boot.  Hearing footsteps, he looked up to notice a
gathering of women watching him.  They had come from their perches to
cluster in front of him.

 “How
now, bootless bawcock?”   A woman yelled.

The
group erupted with laughter. 

Clearly
the leader of the group, a small blond woman stood with hands on hips, ready to
shout another epithet at him.  He recognized her as the prostitute who had
placed his hand upon her breast.  Christopher frowned, anxious for his
boot to be returned.   He looked around for the boy.

“M’lady,
a boot and a bawcock shall be matched.”  He smiled thinly.

“Comest
thou then, dare ye put a bauble in the bawdy house.  Bliss bestowed on
such small change.”  She winked, and the group laughed again.

Christopher
swallowed, a larger group of town folk was gathering around the women. 
“M’lady, I cannot make beef of such a kindly poet.  And that thou
art.”  The boy returned with his boot.  Christopher gratefully
dropped the coin in the boy’s hand and  pulled his boot on. “I shall
go.” 

The
woman glared at him.  “Yea, go to.  Thou art none for women, thou art
attired for a man. 
Pricked
for him, thou art.”  She stared at
him, a sly smile spreading on her lips, while the crowd jeered. 
Christopher was reminded of a cat and he was once again a mouse, cornered; he
gulped, thinking of Sir Francis.  He would be late.

He
folded his arms across his chest, and glared at the woman, who gladly took on
the challenging gaze.  A little girl picked up a stone, and aiming it at
Christopher’s head, let it fly.  He placed his hand on his head; warm
blood met his hand. 

The
crowd was becoming vicious – leering, laughing, and threatening him by pushing
closer.

Christopher
strode forward and pulled the woman forward by the elbow into her house. 
He shut the door on the laughing crowd and pulled the woman close, peering into
her face. 

 “Thou
hast coveted me before.  I know ye; I remember.” 

The
sound of a crying infant met his ears.  He turned toward the sound and
noticed a small cradle by the door.  The woman pushed away from him and
went to the baby, unlaced the front of her gown, and placed the babe at her
breast.  She sat on the bottom of the step leading to the upstairs room
and looked up at Christopher, standing in front of the door. 

“I
know ye too, thou art Christopher Marley, playmaker.  Playmaker of
Tamburlaine.
 
How dost thou feel Christopher?  Now that thou hast no more trouble with
money?  Now that ye stomach is full?”  She looked down at her
babe. 

He
sat next to her on the step, noticing a sore on top of the baby’s head. 
Goody
would have a certain cure.
“What is your name?  And your babes?” 
The room felt damp and smelled of rot and human waste. 

 
He
reached in his pocket and pulled out a coin.  Picking up her hand he
pressed the coin into it.  Her fingers clasped around the coin, holding it
tightly.  A tear squeezed out beneath her clenched eyelids. 
Christopher gently wiped the tear from her cheek with the edge of his
sleeve.  She hugged the baby closer to her.

 “My
name is Mare MacPhaine. And this is Mary.  I named her after
myself.” 

Christopher
smiled.  “From Scotland are ye?  The Clan Gunn?” 

Her
eyes widened.  “How do ye know?”

He
rose from the step.  “There are things I know from travels I have
taken.  Perchance we meet again, Mare, I must take my leave.  I am
expected.” 

Mare
rose quickly and placed Mary over her shoulder, rubbing her back. 
“Expected?  In that attire thou is won’t to see none but Sir Francis; he
lives at the end of the street.  That I know.”  She smirked at him.

Christopher
froze, his hand on the door knob.  “’Tis true Mare.  I have business
I must speak of to Sir Francis.”  He felt his mouth go dry. “I still am
hungry Mare.  There is naught to be had…being a scholar.”

“I
can help ye Kit.  I know of people that travel with secrets.”  She
implored him with her eyes, searching him.

Christopher
opened the door, letting himself out.  “I aim to be back.  Whether
thoust know of Sir Francis, or not.  Take care of Mary.”  He nodded,
shutting the door behind him.  Wondering what had just taken place. 

The
light outside hit him like a wave, making his eyes water.  He strode
quickly into the street, past the houses of the poor  and of those in
ill-repute.  A dog ran out, snarling at him, and a woman pulled the dog back,
apologizing.  As he walked the scenery quickly changed; the streets became
cleaner and there was less human discord.  Housewives carried baskets with
bread, nodding to him, taking in his velvet doublet.  He looked to be a
gentleman, or a man of means.  He scratched the back of his neck, feeling
otherwise, as if the dust and grime had settled on his skin.  Canterbury
had not left him.  He was the son of a shoe-maker.  

A
gypsy hovel lay at the end of the street proper.  He stopped and stared at
it.  Should he go?  Should he risk talking to the proprietor? 
Sir Francis was close.  He was surrounded by those who knew and those that
would know.  The radiating influence of his intelligence web was the
thickest where he lived; he was nestled as a spider in the middle of it. 
Christopher glanced around.  No one seemed to notice
him.   

He
walked over to the hut.  A woman opened the door before he could knock and
pulled him inside.  The room was dark, lit only by a candle.  He
noticed through the flickering flame that something lie on the table.  A
plate with some sort of leaves on it. 

He
turned to the woman and recognized her.  It had seemed so long ago as he
had walked the street with Nick and had come across this woman.  This
woman who had pulled his gut, his very will, with her eyes.  Now her
deeply set eyes warmly regarded him warmly.

She
pulled a card from her dress –  the card of The Lovers, handing it to him.

“Dost
thou not speak?” 

She
shook her head no. 

A
small man waddled into the room from the back of the house. 
A
dwarf. 
Christopher looked at him curiously.  The dwarf was
lighter skinned than the gypsy, and fair-haired.  He was dressed in a
green gerkin with a metal linked belt, and wore a small slouched cap of a
darker shade of green.  Christopher glanced down at his feet, expecting to
see small slippered feet, but the dwarf had on well made leather boots. 
Christopher could make out fine stitches on the exquisitely crafted boots.

“What
say you cobbler’s son?  Fine boots, eh?”  The dwarf winked at
him. 

“Ah,
that they are, sir.  That they are.  And so small.”

The
dwarf frowned.

“I
mean the fine stitching.”  Christopher quickly added.

The
dwarf climbed upon a chair, and standing, beginning rubbing the leaves on the
plate into a fine powder.  He pulled from his pouch a small bag, and
poured the herbs into the bag.