In the Shadow of Shakespeare (9 page)

A
lot of information?  Quite Rare? 
 Alice glanced at her watch,
quickly dialed the number which McGill had listed.  It was after hours,
but sometimes these professors worked late.

 “Botany
department.”

 “Jack
McGill please.”

 “May
I ask who is calling?”

 “This
is Alice Petrovka.”

 “Oh
yes, Ms Petrovka.”

Alice
waited not more than a few seconds.

 “Hello? 
Mrs Petrovka?”

 “It’s
Ms.”

 “Oh,
yes, yes, sorry.  This is Jack McGill.  I would like to speak to you
about the rose?  Would you like to meet for lunch tomorrow?  Say
around noon? 

Alice
hesitated. Tomorrow was Sunday.  All she wanted was to lie in her bed and
lounge half the day away reading a good book. 
Anything
but Marlowe
or Shakespeare.

 “Okay. 
Where?” 

 “Do
you know the Lion Theatre?”

 “Yes.” 

 “There
is a little café over in that part of town, that has the best soup and
sandwiches.”

 “Margrites?”

 “You
know of it?”

 “Yes. 
Eat there all the time.”

 “Okay
then.  See you at twelve?”

 “See
you then.”

She
hung up the phone.

 ***

She
would recall that the moon was hanging in the clouds.  It was a full moon,
shining white and yellow like a pearl in the clouds. Candles lined the room and
they flickered across the walls and across his face as he looked down at
her.  There was a roaring in her ears as he disrobed, pulling the white
shirt over his head.  He lay beside her.

A
tear ran down the contour of her face, settling in the corner of her mouth.

 “Nay,”
he whispered, kissing her cheek.  “Don’t cry.”

He
kissed the salt from her lips; tasted her neck, her nipple.  Lower, there
was a rush like a river.

The
sound of the sea was a gentle rocking rhythm.  And as the waves crashed on
the shore, theirs was a momentum – then an explosion – the swollen eastern tide
bursting upon itself, flooding, then receding.  She gripped him tightly as
the water ran between them; circling their legs as tears from the sky.  A
wave of love soothed her, retreating into her heart and she was gently lulled
into sleep.

She
awoke feeling like a stranded starfish in a long dried tidal pool.  Her
arms and legs were splayed out before her and there was a scent of sea in the
air. 
Sex.
There was an inescapable soreness between her
legs. 
 
Opening her eyes, she blinked, struggled to her
elbows.  The sun was beating down on her face, heating it like an egg in a
pan.  She glanced at the clock.  She had overslept.   

Alice
shut the shade and opened the window.  She let the soft breeze blow over
her as she sat on the edge of the bed.  The rustling of the tree tops
soothed her as she tried to make sense of things. 

After
a quick shower she tried to eat some toast.  It stuck in her throat. 
She promptly threw the remains of the bread into the trash.

As
she drove towards the restaurant she felt like she was inhabiting two
skins.  She was living in one world, and at the same time, another world,
which she could not see, or feel, but occasionally, visit, albeit, in a strange
disconcerting way. 

I’m
losing my mind.

She
shook her head.  No, it was different than before.  Before it there
had been a depression, then a quick dip into something dark and strange. 
And then she had met Albert. 
My wizard, he walked me out of it.
 
He had shown her the path through the dark forest; had given her a light, a
lantern back to reality.  But could he help her through this? 

Her
mother had whispered that she had the secret madness of her grandmother on her
father’s side.  She had gone blind, but it only made her sight all the
more penetrating, all the more intense.  Alice knew little of this Russian
grandmother – the one who could feel the weather, the pain of other creatures,
and could see into the future.  Her father was dismissive, “It’s a bunch
of old wive's tales.”  Now, she wondered.

She
parked the car in front of the restaurant next to a blue sedan.  Alice
walked into Magrite’s and saw him sitting by the window reading a paper. 
He smiled, beckoned to her.  She walked over to the table.

“Hello
Ms. Petrovka.  Sit, sit.”

She
sat.  She could tell he was accustomed to being in charge.  Instead
of the casual attire most people wore on the weekends, he was dressed in a
Kelly green sport coat with a white polo shirt underneath.  She thought of
Ireland and leprechauns.  He
looks
like a leprechaun, Alice
thought, suppressing a laugh.  He was short and compact; had reddish blond
hair, and slightly pointed ears.  His blue eyes twinkled at her.

He
pulled a small cooler out from under the table.  “You have heard of the
War of the Roses?”

“What? 
You mean the movie?”  Alice was taken back.  She thought of easing
into things with some small talk, not an instant quiz.

“No,
no, no.  The history.  The Tudor-Lancaster war?”

“Oh,
yes, vaguely.  Shakespeare refers to it in some of his history plays.”

“Exactly. 
And what we have here,” He pulled the rose from the cooler, setting the cooler
underneath his feet. “is the merging of those two warring factions.  It
was thought to have been a myth, but then you produced it.” 

Alice
looked down at the rose he had placed on the table.  “I’m sorry…Mr.
McGill, I don’t follow you.”  She felt like a dumb undergrad, not getting
the professor’s clues during an important lecture.

“Please,
call me Jack.”

“Okay,
Jack.  I’m all ears.” 

“The
war of the roses was symbolized by the White Rose of York, or
Rosa alba
Maxima
, and the Red Rose of Lancaster, or
Rosa gallica
“Officinalis.”  As a sign of reconciliation, the victorious House of Tudor
chose a new type of rose with inner white and outer red petals as its heraldic
symbol.  Do you follow so far?”

Alice
dutifully nodded her head. 

“No
rose breeder has ever succeeded in creating a rose of that heraldic
symbol.  The closest anyone has ever come was with developing a plant that
contains both reddish pink and white flowers.  And at times, there are
even flowers combining both colors in one, but…never this.”  He placed the
flower in front of her.

“So,
what is the significance of this?” Alice said. 

The
waitress approached them, smiling.  “Can I get you something to drink?”

“What
would you like my dear, it’s on me.” 

“Oh,
that’s thoughtful, Jack, but I can pay for my own meal.”

“Really,”
McGill straightened his tie, “I would like to pay for this.  I asked
you
to lunch.” 

Alice
nodded.  She felt like she had been doing a lot of nodding,
agreeing.  “Yes, you did.  Okay, you pay.”

“Would
you like anything to drink?”  The waitress looked from her to McGill.

“I’ll
have a Cutty’s.  Neat please.”  McGill said.

“Just
water.”  Alice still felt like a fried egg.  Sixteenth century
hangover, she thought. 

The
waitress went to the bar to get their drinks.

“What
I’m trying to impress on you is that this rose is quite rare.” 

She
looked up from the menu. 

“I
don’t suppose your gentleman will be dropping any more of these in front of
you?”  His eyes twinkled at her.

My
gentleman dissolved into the mist.
 Alice felt a creeping antlike
anxiety rise up her neck.  She scratched her shoulder.  “I’m afraid
it was one of those strange…coincidences.” 

What
could she tell this guy?  She was harboring a secret about roses that she
planned to divulge to the world?  She didn’t even know why she brought the
damn thing in herself. 
To make sure I wasn’t crazy.  To verify
his presence.
  She had verified it alright.

McGill
had been studying her.  “I don’t want to disturb you Alice.  I merely
wanted to fill you in on your wonderful find.  However you may have come
by it.”

She
stared at the rose and thought of Kit Marlowe. 
What do you want from
me?  What should I do?
  She felt inextricably pulled into the
mystery, as if she couldn’t help herself.  It was if she knew him somehow;
had been with him before.  Lost in thought, Alice didn’t notice when the
waitress came and brought the drinks.  She ordered in a daze, something
with chicken. 

The
veil had been getting thinner.  At times it was as if she was watching a
movie of him.  She could see him laughing, interacting with actors on the
stage, or sitting in a tavern, talking with his fellow playwrights.  There
was even a time she had been sitting by himself in a room somewhere. 
Crying. 

Alice
snapped back to attention.  She found her self nodding as McGill
elaborated on the history of the rose. 

“…so
due to centuries of breeding, the original botanical relationships between rose
cultivars are far from clear.”  McGill sipped his whiskey.

The
waitress returned with plates of food.  She put the chicken dish in front
of her.  She felt as if she could not recall the last fifteen
minutes.  Time seemed to sometimes speed incredibly fast, and then at
other times slow to a mere standstill.  She glanced at her watch.

“Ah,
steak.”  McGill dug into the bloody piece of meat. “Am I keeping you from
something?  I feel as though you have been distracted.” 

“I’m
sorry.  It’s just that, well, I wonder what all of this has to do with
me.  Of course, it’s very interesting, but really, I just
found
the
rose.  No more, no less.  I’m not in anyway interested in getting in
the rose business.”

“I
realize that Alice.  But just let me add this –,”  he waved his fork
at her, “if you did know of the plant that produced this rose, a person would
probably be willing to pay thousands of dollars.  Perhaps
more
.”

Did
you here that Kit?  Maybe next time you’ll leave me an entire plant.

Alice
held McGill’s gaze.  “If your suggesting this is some sort of bribery
Jack… it’s not.  I don’t have any tricks up my sleeve.  I was just
curious as to what type of rose this was.” 

He
shrugged.  “I can understand your curiosity.  But yes, it is hard to
believe you don’t know something more.” 

“No
more, no less.  You can keep the rose if you like.  I was just
wondering about the significance as to why breeders would take the time to
develop such a thing.”

He
looked up from his steak.  “To merge the competing factions I suppose.”

“A
synthesis?”

“Sure. 
A combining of the impossible.”

She
smiled.  “
What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose, By any
other word would smell as sweet.
” 

“Shakespeare?”

“Yes,
Romeo and Juliet
.  A combining
of the impossible.”

The
owner of the restaurant, Margrite La Mer, approached them.  She was
smiling, holding a tray full of deserts. 

“Alice,
try one of my éclairs.  I have made them fresh this morning.”

“I’m
stuffed.  Your food is so good I never leave room for desert.”

Margrite
set the tray down and waved a finger at her.  “Tut, tut, you must always
save room for desert.  You Americans with your Atkins – counting all those
calories.  How are you to live?  Maybe your gentleman friend would
like a treat?  Eh, sir?”  She held the desert in front of him. 
“On the house.  You tell me if you like, then I will keep the recipe the
way it is.”

She
set an éclair before McGill and he promptly took a bite. “Magnificent, madam,
magnificent.”  He nodded his head enthusiastically.

Margrite
turned to Alice.  “Mercer tells me you are ordering Renaissance costumes
for your Shakespeare and Marlowe plays.  How wonderful!  I am so
anxious to see
The Jew of Malta
at your theatre.”

“Yes,
I will be picking them up tomorrow.”

“Good,
good.  I will see you soon Alice.”

Alice
nodded.

“You
own the Lion?”  McGill said.

“Yes.”

“No
wonder you were so quick quoting Shakespeare.”

 ***

She
had shrugged off any further mention of payment; telling McGill she was happy
she could be of service in the light of such an important find.  McGill
had seemed unbelieving. 
Thinks I’m some sort of rose extortionist.
 

Alice
drove slowly home, taking the old neighborhoods with their old fashioned street
lamps.  She passed some girls playing jump rope.

Her
thoughts kept coming back to the strange symbolism of it all.  When McGill
had told her that there had never been a successful cultivation of this mythical
Tudor rose she had felt a sense of apprehension followed by euphoria.  She
wanted to tell McGill that he would never again find his special rose, that it
was developed especially for her.