by Michelle Ray
I leaned back on the couch and looked at the ceiling, wil ing myself to be as neutral and empty as that expanse. “Gertrude knows that the public wil react badly if this comes out. Could her dear Hamlet become king if he’s found guilty of murder?”
“People forget, and if not, they certainly forgive. Especial y if that someone is powerful and good-looking enough.” I knew he was right. You could drive off a bridge and kil your girlfriend, but if you had gorgeous teeth and your family had a significant enough title, you could go live a happy life in a ducal palace somewhere.
I conceded. “Maybe. But in the end, the public wil need someone to blame, and Gertrude wil see to it that the blame wil fal on me. I know it.” Pinpricks of anxiety spread across my back.
Down below, multiple cars squealed to a stop and van doors clanged opened. I vaguely realized that either the king or queen was arriving, and my body immediately tensed.
I had left the television on, and the sound of my own name made me look up and listen. “We haven’t seen Hamlet or Ophelia in a while. Is anything the matter?” asked Stormy Somervil e, wearing an uncharacteristical y high-necked sweater.
Standing in front of the castle’s gleaming entrance, a dozen and a half floors directly below my balcony, Gertrude explained, “Hamlet and Ophelia have gone on a little getaway together.”
“We heard they’ve been fighting lately.”
“Thus the need for a getaway.” Gertrude winked and disappeared inside.
Horatio exhaled loudly.
A buzzing in Officer Cornelius’s earpiece made me turn around. Once he had taken his finger off his ear, he said, “Ophelia, the queen is on her way up.
Sir, you should go.”
My face went numb, and I couldn’t make myself breathe.
Horatio turned to Officer Cornelius and asked, “Why are you even here?”
“Orders, sir,” he mumbled.
“There are cameras and guards everywhere. How’s she gonna get out undetected?”
Officer Cornelius shrugged and leaned against the wal .
“This is ridiculous.” Horatio looked at Officer Cornelius, then at me. Frowning, he said, “I’m not leaving you alone. I’m hiding in your dad’s office.”
“No. Go. What if they find you?” I stood up quickly. “You’l come back later, though, right?” He nodded as he stood. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked in large strides to the stairwel .
Moments after he left, Gertrude burst into my apartment, silk scarf flapping in her wake. She looked me over, scowled, and announced, “People are starting to ask questions. You need to be seen. Next week should do the trick.”
“What about Hamlet?”
“He’s being sent to England tonight. The incident with your father delayed—” She pul ed out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “The details are none of your concern. We need people to know you are stil around but to see you alone. Eventual y, the public wil assume you two broke up, or we’l tel them you did, and then we can final y end this charade.”
I felt a chil as I wondered what exactly her plan for ending it was.
“In one week, you can go with Horatio for that coffee you wanted so bad,” she said, and clicked away.
While Horatio waited at the counter for his coffee, I sat silently. I let the steam from my cup tickle my face. The feeling mesmerized me. I had begun finding pleasure in little sensations during the weeks that had passed. I had spent an entire afternoon musing over what part of my arm was the most sensitive and found it curious that, for al the tickling that happens with the armpit, it is hardly as ticklish as the inside of the forearm. I also found that poking oneself with a pin, if done lightly, actual y feels more like a tickle than pain.
In that time, I had also grown so used to silence and solitude that it was odd being suddenly surrounded by strangers. They al seemed so loud. They al moved so fast. They were al so fixed on their destination, so serious in their anonymous self-importance. Would it real y matter if they made one bus or the next, skipped work that day, or had an affair with the next person they saw? Who would real y care or notice?
I watched them walk in and out, ordering their very expensive coffees just so, taking secret pleasure in their complex orders. It occurred to me that those decisions at the coffee shop about what flavor and how much foam might be the only element over which those people had any control for that entire day.
Perhaps that was why everyone loved to come for their latte-macchiato-double-shot-light-whipped whatevers.
“Welcome back to town,” a redheaded employee said as she wiped the table next to mine.
I stared at her blankly before realizing what she meant. Perhaps it was my look of shock or the close proximity of a regular citizen that tipped him off, but Officer Cornelius strode up next to me.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked her.
“You and Prince Hamlet have a good trip?”
Cornelius stepped closer to my side.
I looked at him, and he nodded subtly. “Uh… yeah,” I said.
“Too bad you couldn’t go somewhere to get a tan.”
I nodded slightly.
“Hey, mind if I take a picture with you?” She pul ed out a camera, handed it to Officer Cornelius, then put her arm around me. I was too stunned to nod or smile. I did, however, notice other people taking our picture as wel .
“Thanks.” She smiled pertly before going to wipe a table across the store.
Cornelius raised his eyebrows and backed away while I stared out the window and wondered if Gertrude had planted her or if she just happened to ask.
Horatio sat, but I didn’t acknowledge him. “Ophelia?” He waved a hand at my face.
“What? Oh, sorry.”
“You’re freaking me out. Where’d your mind go?” he asked.
I shrugged, not wanting to discuss the girl quite yet.
“Now I’ve got two of you on my hands.” He sighed.
“What do you mean?” He suddenly looked real y uncomfortable, and I realized he was talking about Hamlet again. I felt a pain run across my forehead, and I steadied my breath. “You talked to him? How is he?”
Horatio looked over my shoulder at Officer Cornelius, who was standing by the door. Horatio leaned closer and whispered, “I can’t believe you want to know.”
“Me, either,” I said weakly, not sure why this time I was curious rather than infuriated. Maybe it was habit. Or maybe Gertrude’s tears had made me wonder if the trip to England was part of a sinister plan.
He squinted at me as if measuring whether or not I real y wanted the information. I nodded my assent, and he looked down at his own cup, picking at the cardboard sleeve wrapped around it. In a low voice, he continued, “Bad. Confused. Unpredictable.” I felt nauseous but also like something in me was reaching out for the Hamlet I knew and loved. Part of me was worried for him just then, wanted to be with him and talk to him as much as another part of me wanted to hurt him and his family.
Horatio looked around and then whispered, “He says Claudius wants him dead, but he has no proof. Things are… this can’t end wel . I’m real y getting nervous, Ophelia.” Horatio looked over my shoulder.
Officer Cornelius walked up behind me and cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir, but I have to get her back.” Horatio looked as if he were going to protest, but I stood up immediately. Al I needed was to get either of us into trouble and end the possibility of a second outing. Even an outing used to manipulate the public was better than being locked away. I would do what I had to do to get out. And to stay alive.
Francisco: You were seen having coffee with Horatio. That’s not what I call imprisonment.
Ophelia: That took weeks to achieve.
Francisco: Even so.
Ophelia: A guard was with me, and you know it.
Barnardo: So is that when you worked on your plan for escape?
Ophelia: That’s when I worked on my cappuccino.
21
“So here you are just before yo
ur disappearance. It’s a little fuzzy, because it was taken on a camera phone, but that is you, right?” Ophelia, looking a little bewildered, nods. “Wow. Look at that picture! I didn’t know one like that existed. That’s… that’s scary, actually.” She starts to laugh, and the audience, feeling this gives them permission, giggles a little, too.
Zara tilts her head slightly and smirks. “So the rumor was that you went crazy.” Slightly amused, Ophelia says, “I do look crazy there, but I was, well, distressed, to say the least.”
“This is during the time you were being locked away?”
“Yes, and after Claudius threatened to kill me.”
Zara looks out at the audience with feigned shock. As the women and men gasp and mutter, nearly undetectable satisfaction registers on Ophelia’s face. Zara allows them their moment and then turns her attention back to Ophelia. “It was just an act?”
“Yes. I needed what came next to be believable.”
Right after Horatio and I got back from having coffee, Marcel us walked in and asked to speak with me alone. I took him into my room, where he explained, “I know it’s been a while since you asked, but things got crazy around here. I wanted to let you know that I checked into the video you asked about, the one with, uh, you and Hamlet,” he began. He tugged at his gun belt, and the handcuffs jangled. “No one knows anything about it.”
“Maybe it was sent to Gertrude or Claudius personal y.”
Marcel us shook his head. “I don’t think so. Any threat, even the smal est or most personal, is dealt with by security. Not even VanDerwater knew.”
“Maybe he’s lying. VanDerwater’s your boss, so—”
“No, he’d tel me anything involving Hamlet. Far as I can tel , it never existed.”
“Wel that’s just perfect,” I said, and sank onto the bed and rubbed my temples.
“I thought you’d be relieved no tape like that was kicking around.”
I blinked back tears. “I would if I hadn’t—” I swal owed hard and finished our conversation with, “Thanks for checking into it.” He nodded and left the room.
Horatio came in to find me and flinched as he noticed the painted wal . “What the hel is that?”
“A self-portrait,” I mumbled.
He squinted and tilted his head, studying my work of art. “It’s… uh… a little twisted.” When I started to sniffle, he added, “No, it’s not that bad.” I shook my head. “It’s not that. It’s— ugh.” I fel back onto my bed, staring at the wal of eyes and at my desk, where my computer, phone, and framed photos of Hamlet once sat. “There was no sex tape. They lied. And my father died thinking I was a total slut, and I screwed over Hamlet for nothing. Oh yeah, and my dad’s dead.” I rubbed my forehead, as if the motion could erase memory and pain.
“You look like you need a drink.”
I nodded and sent him into Dad’s office to see if he could find the bottle of vodka my father had hidden behind a volume of tax laws. My father didn’t know I knew that he nipped at the bottle before important press conferences, and he didn’t know that I snuck some before public appearances that involved large crowds. Its lack of odor was perfect for both of our purposes.
Back in my room, I held out the vodka, but Horatio declined because he planned to drive back to school. Horatio and I sat in my room while I drank, and we talked about everything. For once, Horatio didn’t suggest prudence when I reached for the bottle. And reach for the bottle I did. The last thing I remember is tel ing Horatio how pretty I thought the sun looked as it set over the river.
I don’t recal what happened that evening in Gertrude’s office, but I was shown the video weeks later when officers from the Denmark Department of Investigations were piecing al of these strange and disparate events together. I’m not sure what purpose Gertrude had in instal ing cameras in the official offices. Then again, maybe she didn’t even know they were there. I wondered: If there were cameras in as many places as I later found out there were, how had secrets been kept at al ? Yet the biggest, most important moments of the prior year had been kept out of reach of the lenses. Clearly people familiar with the systems had perpetrated the dirtiest deeds, and the surveil ance was not meant for them.
On the video I am seen in loosely hanging flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt, drifting into Gertrude’s offices looking at no one in particular.
“Ophelia? Is that you?” asks Gertrude.
I appear not to see her but turn my head, dreamily searching the room. I ask, “Where is the king of Denmark? We were supposed to meet and talk about Hamlet, and then I was going to show him my painting, but I can’t find him anywhere. He was a good man, a good king. I miss him.” I kneel and look under her desk. “I missed him at the coffee house, and I’ve looked everywhere.”
Gertrude looks thoroughly uncomfortable and sends her secretary out.
Claudius walks purposeful y into the room reading some paper or other and stops in his tracks. Once he figures out it’s me, his expression changes, and he lets his hand, along with the papers, drop to his side. “Look at her,” he says in astonishment. “Is she this upset because of her father?” Gertrude shrugs and drifts to Claudius. They huddle together in conversation and amazement.
My head snaps at the sound of his voice and I wander over to him, chanting one of the limericks I’d been writing with Horatio, an activity begun once I’d finished about a quarter of the bottle of vodka.
There once was a girl named Ophelia,
Who asked, “Hey, what’s the deal-y-uh?”
She knew Hamlet loved her,
But a split did occur,
And then he killed her dad.
I take Claudius by the face and slap his cheeks playful y. “I can’t seem to make the last part rhyme. The last line should rhyme with the first, but my name is tough. Maybe I need a new opener. What rhymes with ‘murderous prick’?” I laugh and then turn away, pul ing at my T-shirt as if confused by its very presence.
Claudius turns to Gertrude and asks in a low voice, “She looks drunk. I thought the guards cleared her apartment.” Gertrude replies, face strained, “They did, but Horatio’s been visiting her. God knows what those clods you hire to protect us let him bring to her.” Gertrude then tries to take me by the hand and lead me out of the room, but I pul back and look at her intently.
I say to her shakily, “Is everything set for the funeral? I can’t think of anything but my father in the cold ground. It makes me cry just to think of it.” I grab Gertrude and begin sobbing on her shoulder. She stiffens and pats me on the back like a child hater who is given a baby to hold.
A door opens, and Horatio rushes in, stopping short when he sees me. I look up at Horatio and quickly step away from Gertrude as if I have no idea why I’m near her. Swiping under my wet nose and eyeing her suspiciously, I walk over to him and say, “My brother wil know of it. My brother…” Then my gaze drifts back to Gertrude and Claudius and I say, “Thank you for your good advice. I wil fix the rhyme, but after the bal . My father says it’s for charity, and we’re expected. He hates when I’m late!” I curtsy and continue. “Good night, ladies. And gentlemen. And kings. Wait—where is the king? Dead, too, I think. We wil need to find him.” I curtsy again and say, “Good night,” as I walk out of the room somewhat grandly, though my steps wobble every so often.
Claudius says to Horatio, “Are you responsible for this?”
Horatio’s only answer before he leaves is, “I should make sure she’s okay.”
Claudius turns to Gertrude. “We can use this. It’s time to get Laertes home.”
Gertrude appears uncertain as she looks in the direction I disappeared.
He continues as he paces, “The people are beginning to whisper about Polonius’s absence, and I’m afraid we can’t keep his death a secret much longer. We have to act quickly, and I think this is the best option.”
Gertrude wrings her hands. “Yes, we should get Laertes on a conference cal .”
Claudius says, “Dial,” as he b
uzzes the secretary and asks her to get Horatio and me back. Claudius and Gertrude face the large monitor on their wal , and Laertes, clearly having just returned from the gym, answers.
I couldn’t bear to watch him learn of our father’s death, and that part was skipped. Agents Francisco and Barnardo either took pity on me, or they felt that that part was not enlightening enough to force me to watch. My guess would be the latter.
When the video started up again, it showed Horatio walking me back in. I see Laertes’s face, and I run to the screen and kiss it, then wander away.
Then, Lord help me, I offer up another poem. “I’ve got it!” I declare, and stand very straight as if ready to recite an important work.
There once lived a prince in Denmark
Who killed my dad on a lark,
He said, “Didn’t mean it,
Now get me some peanuts,”
But then I was locked in a pit.
“Darn,” I say, my hand wiping away at an imaginary board. “ ‘Peanuts’ sounds sil y, and the last line has to rhyme with the first. I have to start over again.” I begin writing words in the air with my finger. As my hand passes my face, I take a great interest in my thumb and study it.
Laertes asks, “What’s wrong with her? And why did she say she was locked in a pit?”
“She’s raving.” Gertrude reassures him. “We aren’t sure why she’s behaving so oddly, but we’re bringing in our doctors to have a look at her. We think it’s grief. This only started after Hamlet kil ed your father. Though for some time now, Hamlet has been absolutely horrible, even violent, toward her. You must have heard. We thought perhaps seeing your face might help—”
My brother cal s out, “Ophelia!”
I turn and look glassy-eyed at the screen, then pick up a pen from Gertrude’s desk. With it, I quickly draw a plant up the length of my inner arm, saying,
“There’s rosemary. That’s for remembrance.” I walk over to Horatio and scrawl a similar image on his arm, saying, “Please remember.” Then I turn to Gertrude and grab her hand. She tries to pul away, but I hold tight and scribble a flower on her palm. “And that’s pansies, that’s for thoughts.” I kiss her on the cheek and then stumble over to Claudius.