Juliet's Answer

by Glenn Dixon

  “Like this,” Desiree said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like us.” She held my gaze. “C’mon now,” she said. “Don’t make me spell it out for you.”

  I searched her face, looking for more, but she was inscrutable.

  “I think if I did that quiz,” she went on, “I’d probably score about fifteen—because I don’t really believe we have as much control as you think we do.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Like Claire, for example,” she said.

  I clenched a little. It still hurt to hear that name. “What about her?”

  “Once Claire found out she was pregnant, she didn’t have a lot of options.”

  “I’ve thought about that. I suppose it was like dominoes. She had to do what she had to do.”

  “You’re a guy. You have no idea. It was a lot harder for her than it was for you.”

  “Yeah, I know. I get that.” I put the envelope of pizza down on the ledge beside me. Suddenly, I didn’t feel hungry anymore. “All I’m saying,” I said, “is that you have to believe you have some control over your own life. You have to believe that even if fate takes something from you, it’s up to you to get beyond it. It’s up to you to find the happy ending.”

  Desiree had finished her own slice. She crunched the paper into a ball and looked around for a garbage can. I watched her for a moment.

  “What?” she said.

  “Nothing.” Actually, I wanted to ask her about before—when she said there was something more she needed to tell me.

  “It must be almost three,” she said. “We should probably get going.”

  * * *

  Desiree and I crossed the Piazza delle Erbe, past the Roman statue and the fruit stands, and walked down the Via Cappello to Juliet’s house. I knew the shortcut into the courtyard but I wanted Desiree to enter under the archway. The passageway, maybe five meters long, is almost a tunnel. It’s thronged with tourists, but it still feels magical to emerge from the darkness and find yourself in the ancient courtyard.

  When we arrived, Desiree angled her camera up at the famous balcony and clicked off a burst. I’d told her it wasn’t real but it didn’t matter. It was beautiful. In fact, it came to me just then that if Romeo were looking up at this balcony, he would indeed be facing east. It is the east, he says, and Juliet is the sun.

  “Look up there, above the passageway where we entered. Do you see it?” I said.

  Desiree raised her camera and zoomed in on the coat of arms above the entrance. The carving was worn with the years and no bigger than a dinner plate, but it was the ancient insignia of the Cappello family. “That, at least, is real,” I said. “That’s how they know that this was the house of the Cappello family.”

  “Looks a bit like a bowler hat,” she said.

  “It is a hat, or a cap, I guess, and it’s been up there for seven hundred years.” I checked my watch. “We have some time. Do you want to go inside?”

  “Is it less crowded in there?” The courtyard was swarming with people.

  “It’s usually pretty empty.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Things were much the same as last year. An older woman took our euros and I showed Desiree the original statue of Juliet up on the landing, the right breast cracked like a broken vase. We clomped up the wooden stairs and at the top came into the large room where, supposedly, Romeo and Juliet first met.

  “I never really did get a chance to tell my students about all this,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. It seemed like there was such a difference between what was real and what was just a story.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I followed her across the plank floor to where a massive fireplace stood. Two high-backed chairs stood in front of it. “Well,” I said, “it’s like Juliet’s statue—actually I didn’t realize until after—it’s one of the main points of the story. Everyone forgets about that.”

  “The statue?’

  “Lord Montague—Romeo’s father—says he will put up a statue of Juliet, to honor her, and I suppose to show that the fighting between the two families is over. That’s the happy ending.”

  Desiree adjusted something on her camera. She walked to the corner of the room to get it all into the shot. I trailed behind her. “It’s not that happy an ending,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “I guess not.” I sighed quite audibly.

  She peered at me over her viewfinder.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe it’s what Shakespeare was trying to say all along. Maybe you have to go through some sort of hell before you can come out on the other side. Before you can change your thinking and yourself.”

  She tucked her head down again and snapped off a shot.

  “What I mean,” I said, “is that it’s the same for me. It took a disaster for me to finally let go of a love that was never going to happen, to finally come out on the other side.”

  She straightened and faced me.

  “And then,” I said, “you came along.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Destiny.” In the soft light, she grinned and bent again to check the settings on her camera.

  “You know,” I said, “the balcony is right over there.”

  A Venetian archway just off the main room led into a little side room. And there a door opened onto the famous balcony. “Shall we?” I asked.

  “Go out on it?”

  “Yes.”

  We emerged into the sunshine, Desiree blinking in the light. From the balcony we could see out over the rooftops. Beside us, a sweep of ivy crept up the wall and over us.

  Someone called out below. Then a chorus of voices echoed.

  “What are they saying?” I asked.

  “They want us to kiss,” she said.

  I leaned forward and gave her the slightest kiss on the lips.

  “Can we go now?” she said.

  “Okay.”

  Just inside, she stopped. She looked angry. “That’s not the real one,” she insisted.

  “The real what?” I asked.

  “I’m not kissing you just because I’ve been told to.”

  I laughed.

  “Don’t make fun.”

  “I’m not. I think it’s kind of sweet.”

  “Just remember: That one didn’t count. That’s not the real one.”

  We descended the wooden steps and emerged into the courtyard. The crowds had shifted enough that nobody recognized us as the couple up on the balcony a few minutes before. I heard my name being called, then saw Anna standing by the letter box, waving at us. Had she seen us on the balcony? I didn’t think so. Beside her stood Soa, grinning and waving. It took a moment to register. “Soa!” I cried.

  “Who?” said Desiree.

  “It’s Soa. Soa has come back.”

  I pushed through the crowds, dragging Desiree along with me. We edged around one last group and arrived at the letter box. “Soa,” I said, “what are you doing here?” She looked the same. High cheekbones, blond hair dyed copper at the tips, a jangle of bracelets on either wrist.

  “I have come,” said Soa, “for Juliet’s birthday.”

  “Desiree,” I said, tugging her in close beside me. “This is Soa. She was here last year writing letters with me.”

  “Hi,” said Desiree.

  “Soa has agreed to read a letter at the ceremony,” said Anna. “If we can find a Czech one.”

  “Of course we can find a Czech letter,” said Soa. “There are sixteen million of us.”

  “Probably we should open the box now,” Anna declared. She dangled the key over the padlock and Soa snatched it from her. The same old Laurel and Hardy show.

  “Wait,” said Desiree. “Let me take a photo.”

  Soa waited a moment, then clinked off the padlock and swung the letter box open. Anna shoveled out the letters into a canvas bag. We escaped
through a door to the right of the letter box. The owners of that shop were the keepers of the key, and Soa dropped it off. Then we were through and back on the street again. Anna walked ahead, swinging the bag of letters as she walked. Desiree and Soa stepped along with me.

  We crossed the Piazza delle Erbe again, and it was all so much like last year. On the other side of the square, up between two ancient buildings, I could see the whale bone hanging like a sword over the pedestrians.

  “How are your studies going?” I asked Soa.

  “They are going,” she said. “I am still working on my master’s degree.”

  “What are you studying?” asked Desiree.

  “Italian language and literature,” said Soa.

  They sprang into step together, ahead of me, chatting away like two old friends.

  When we got to the new office, we poured the letters out onto the wooden table and began to sort through them. We worked quietly, pulling letters out from the piles, one by one, pens scribbling, heads down.

  “Listen to this one,” Soa said, breaking the silence. “Dear Juliet, I am sure my boyfriend is seeing other girls. My friend Angela says she saw him at a movie with another girl.”

  “Save yourself some sorrow, sister,” Desiree said.

  “Yeah, dump him,” Soa agreed. “Immediately.”

  “But you can’t write that,” I said.

  “Okay, okay,” said Soa. “How about ‘Dear Linda, you must be careful in love. You must find out the truth, but most of all, you must guard your own heart.’ ”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Desiree. “Very diplomatic.”

  “How do you come up with this stuff?” I asked.

  Soa became serious. “I think a lot about it. I think you need to know yourself first before you can fall in real love—and before someone can fall in love with you. It’s like once you are in love with yourself, then others can follow your example.”

  “That’s actually quite brilliant,” I said.

  Desiree drew a hand up to her locket. “To thine own self be true,” she said.

  “And,” I continued, “it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”

  I fumbled for a moment, reaching inside my backpack. “Maybe now is a good time,” I said, “for a more difficult letter. We read this one yesterday.” I placed the letter from Fiona, the girl with cystic fibrosis, on the table.

  Desiree turned pale.

  “We don’t know how to answer it.”

  “Read it,” said Soa.

  I read the whole thing aloud and ended with those powerful two lines: “All my love is on these two sheets of paper. Treat them well.”

  I pulled out a blank sheet of stationery and squared it in front of me.

  “First of all, you must say that we all read her letter,” said Soa.

  “Okay,” I said and began to write.

  “Probably,” said Anna, “you can write that this is the saddest letter we have ever read.”

  “Maybe not saddest, maybe another word?” said Desiree.

  “Most beautiful?” I glanced up at her.

  “Most poignant,” Desiree said, and with that word, the rest of the letter came to us line by line. In the end, we had this:

  Dear Fiona,

  We have read your letter. I hope you don’t mind, but we shared it amongst ourselves, all the secretaries of Juliet. It is the most poignant letter any of us has yet read. And for some time, we didn’t know how to answer. What we can say is this: You remind us how fragile and precious our time is here on this earth. So treasure every moment. Sing with your deepest heart, every note. Cherish your time with Danny; he sounds like a good man. Our hearts go out to you, and may you have many years of happiness.

  “How should I sign it?” I asked.

  “You should sign, ‘The secretaries of Juliet,’ ” Soa advised.

  “Yes,” I said. I penned the words in the best handwriting I could manage. “This one is from all of us.”

  Of all days in the year

  A couple of days before Juliet’s birthday, we were called in for a final meeting at the old office. I was hoping we’d be dressed up in medieval costumes to look like the characters in the Zeffirelli film. Instead, when Desiree and I arrived, Barbara stood guard at the front door with a clipboard and a pained expression. She passed a letter to me, the letter I’d have to read out loud in the square. My name was penciled in at the top, spelled wrong.

  Barbara lifted up a second letter, handing this one to Desiree. Desiree stared at the paper for a moment and was about to protest when someone else crowded in behind us and we were pushed forward into the foyer. The place was swarming with people and the chatter was boisterous, like a cocktail party in full swing.

  “Well,” said Desiree, flapping the paper, “looks like I have to read a letter too.”

  “It just means they like you.”

  “Very funny.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m terrified of speaking in public.”

  I started reading my own letter. The first sentence was littered with mistakes. “Damn,” I said. “Look at this.”

  “It’s been translated,” Desiree said, leaning in to me to read it. “Badly. I can probably fix that for you.”

  “What did you get?” I asked.

  Desiree scanned her letter. “The usual. A young woman pining for love.” She looked around the room. “Who are all these people?”

  “I have no idea.”

  There were a few other men in the room, something I’d not seen before, and with them stood Giulio Tamassia. “Hey.” I nudged Desiree. “Over there. That’s Giovanna’s father. He started the Club di Giulietta.” Giulio stood imperiously, presiding over a conversation, a bright red tie draping down his chest. Almost as if he’d heard me, Giulio’s gaze traveled across to us. Manuela stood beside him. He whispered something to her, then broke from his group and edged around the table, moving toward us, his eyes locked on Desiree.

  “Boun giorno,” Desiree said as he rounded on us.

  “Buon giorno,” I echoed. Giulio all but ignored me.

  “Sono Desiree,” Desiree said, extending her hand.

  “Piacere,” said Giulio. He shook her hand flamboyantly. I stepped away, bumping into the photocopier machine behind me. Giulio rested his hand on her forearm and said something that made her laugh. He looked over at me once, frowning, and he leaned in closer and said something quietly. She chuckled again.

  Barbara swept into the room then, clapping and calling for everyone to quiet down. Giulio excused himself and went back to where he’d been standing before.

  “What was that all about?” I whispered.

  “He said he was glad that I was here.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “He asked where I was from. If I’m from an Italian family.”

  “That’s it?”

  She paused. “He asked about you too.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked if you were really a teacher of Shakespeare.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “That, yes, you’d been a teacher for almost twenty years. I think he was impressed.”

  “He didn’t look like it.”

  Barbara clapped again and the room settled. She read out the names of the letter readers from her clipboard, and, one by one, people stood to be acknowledged. She read my name and then Desiree’s, and we raised our hands gamely. There were many more people in the room than just those reading letters though. I’d never seen the office so crowded.

  Anna appeared behind us. “Buon giorno,” she said. “You have your letters?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Standing near Giulio was another man, a stout man, dressed as if he’d just arrived from Oktoberfest. He stroked his manicured beard and plucked at his suspenders theatrically. He was clearly trying to catch my eye.

  “Anna, who’s that guy? He keeps staring at me.”

  “
He will be your actor,” said Anna.

  “My what?”

  “And Desiree, your actor will be Edvige.” Anna gestured to an impeccably dressed woman with a silk scarf around her neck. She smiled at us.

  “But what do you mean, actors?” I asked

  “Ah,” she said. “You will read the letter in your language, then your actor will read the translation in Italian.”

  “Do we get to wear costumes?”

  “Costumes?” said Anna. “No, that is not on the plan.”

  Barbara was about to start again. She raised her clipboard, but before she could speak, Giulio slipped in behind her and said something into her ear. She stopped and Guilio stepped forward. The room hushed immediately. He spoke a few words directly to me, pinning me with his eyes. Of course, it was all in Italian, so I didn’t understand anything. When he finished, everyone in the room was staring at me. It had gone completely silent.

  Giovanna spoke up. “Glenn,” she said, “my father says you should read from Shakespeare—in the piazza.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. He thinks it is a good idea.”

  Giulio waited. He looked like a grandfather who had just given some important advice, and was watching now to make sure it had sunk in.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  Giulio tipped his head as if to say, See, wasn’t that easy? and before I could say anything more, Barbara broke in, moving on to the next topic. Desiree laid her hand on my arm. She squeezed it once. “Shakespeare,” she whispered. “You will be reading from Shakespeare.”

  Barbara described the rest of the program. Manuela’s daughter would perform a ballet. There’d be artists and musicians, and the birthday celebration would go on all afternoon.

  When the meeting finally ended, everyone streamed out into the parking lot, some to smoke cigarettes, some to chat, others to escape in their cars or on their bicycles. Manuela bustled toward me with another of the men I’d seen in the room. I’d seen him standing by the front door, a bald man with a little notebook in his hand. He’d stood apart from the others as Barbara issued her orders.

  “Glenn,” said Manuela, “may I present Mr. Jenkins.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Jolyon Jenkins,” he said, “with the BBC.” He stepped forward to shake my hand. He wore a beige vest with pockets running up the front, the kind you see fishermen wearing, or maybe war correspondents on assignment.