Falling for Hamlet

by Michelle Ray

  Looking at Gertrude’s silver casket, my father’s favorite curse sprang to mind: “May the curse of Mary Malone and her nine blind il egitimate children chase you so far over the hil s of Damnation that the Lord himself can’t find you with a telescope.” Inside I smiled a little. See, Dad? I thought. You did teach me something useful.

  My amusement faded as my gaze drifted to Hamlet’s casket, the most elaborate, the one most bedecked with flowers. Hamlet tucked a buttercup behind my ear. Hamlet shoved his sunglasses on top of his head. Hamlet strummed his guitar. Hamlet whispered words of love. Hamlet held me down.

  Hamlet cal ed me a whore. Hamlet kil ed my father. Hamlet stabbed my brother. Hamlet. Hamlet. Hamlet. Damn him. Damn his name. Damn his memory.

  Damn the sweet pain I couldn’t shake. I closed my eyes, wil ing the thoughts away. “Good-bye, sweet prince,” I whispered to myself. No. No more of his name. No more of his memory.

  “Sweet is the wine, but sour is the payment,” my father told me each time I chose pleasure over reason. Too bad my choice cost him so dearly. My lip began to quiver, but I forced my face to remain stony lest some cameraman catch my grief and broadcast it to the world. I wouldn’t give them what they wanted. I could hear every sound too loudly and yet understood none of it. Horatio whispered something, but I didn’t hear his words. I was sweating and cold, detached and overwrought. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t stand.

  Horatio’s sudden absence left a cavern of cool air around me as he moved to the podium. I tried to focus my thoughts on him and his words about Hamlet, the Hamlet we once knew. Hamlet. Hamlet. My old self heard Horatio’s words and agreed: Hamlet had once been wonderful. My new self wanted to reach into the air and tear the kind words apart. Hamlet would be remembered as a charming prince who lost his way under the pressures of grief and conspiracy. I would remember him as the murderer of my very soul. Hamlet. Hamlet. The sharp end of his name curled my lips.

  I became aware of silence. I looked up. Horatio was standing at the podium so stricken that he could not continue to speak. He laid his head on his arms, and the wrinkled papers shook in his hands. His father rushed forward and covered the microphone, whispering private comforts to his bereaved son. Taking the papers out of Horatio’s hands, his father completed the eulogy. The final story drifted around me while I focused on the father and son and how the father held the son as if bearing up the world. A father and son had led us to this moment. A father’s absence. A son’s rage. A daughter’s grief.

  Fathers and sons. Fathers and daughters. Lovers and deceivers. There was no escape.

  26

  “How has your return to—well, life—been?” Zara asks, a laugh in her voice.

  “Oh, much better than expected.” Looking directly at the audience, Ophelia adds, “And I have the great people of Denmark to thank for it.” The morning the movers were set to come, agents from the Denmark Department of Investigations barged into my apartment. Oddly, it was their suits that scared me more than their guns. Anyone who could do dirty work in a tie had methods of getting information I didn’t want to know about.

  They grabbed my cel phone and went searching for my computer, but I explained that no one had returned it, or my old phone, after my last imprisonment. When they asked me to go with them, I refused. A man, who introduced himself as Special Agent Barnardo, stepped forward and put his stubbly face close to mine. His receding hairline made his forehead look enormous, and he smel ed like mint gum and shaving cream, which struck me as funny given the stubble. “You’re coming with us. You can walk out, or we can force you. I would suggest you make it easy on yourself.” I had passed being safe and was sick of fol owing orders. “Screw you,” I hissed, and braced myself for what I knew would come. He cuffed me and dragged me out of the apartment.

  I was brought to DDI headquarters, a soul ess poured-concrete building with harsh fluorescent lighting and lots of locked doors. Al of my panic was gone, replaced by irritation and disbelief. They put me in an interrogation room, questioned me for a few days while recording every second of it, and then released me. I left unsure of what they would find, and not sure that I cared. I was wrung out and felt utterly disconnected from everything and everyone around me.

  After my release, I moved into my new antiseptic apartment, anonymously beige and thoroughly inoffensive, and became a relative recluse. People tried to make contact, but I screened al cal s, and for weeks saw no one except for Horatio’s family and my lawyer.

  My lawyer looked across his desk and tapped his pen on his legal pad. “Ophelia, everyone’s been clamoring to hear what happened. An interview on Zara could help you quiet things down.”

  I shook my head.

  Sternly he continued, “And it could help your case. If the DDI decides to put you on trial, you need a sympathetic jury. You have to get your version of the events out there.”

  “Zara is going to ask al kinds of personal questions. I don’t want everyone knowing al the details of my life,” I said.

  “The people already know the majority of what happened.”

  I grimaced. “Not the most personal stuff.”

  “Tel as much as you feel you can. And leave out parts that wil make you look bad.”

  “So lie?”

  “Weeeel , tel the truth as much as possible—albeit a patriotic version of the truth. Try to pin everything on Claudius. The public wants to believe that Gertrude was an innocent bystander. And Hamlet was deeply loved by his subjects, don’t forget.” When I winced, he added, “The people need to see you as sympathetic and remorseful. And like a regular teenage girl. Only more glamorous. You have to go on Zara. This show is important for your image.” I dropped my head and clutched my stomach. I whispered, “I don’t want to be a public figure anymore.” He peered over his glasses and reminded me, “It doesn’t matter what you want.”

  Barnardo: We’re gonna let you go. For now. But we’ll be watching you. Someone out there knows something, and we’re going to find it.

  Ophelia: Let me know when you do.

  Barnardo: Are you always this mouthy?

  Ophelia: No. You just bring out the best in me. (A door opens and closes.)

  Francisco: There’s a lawyer out there with Horatio. You can talk in our conference room if you’d like, or you can just leave.

  Ophelia: Parting is such sweet sorrow and all, but I think I’ll get out of here. Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.

  Francisco: We’ll see you around.

  Ophelia: Can’t wait.

  Zara crosses her legs and sits back. “So now what? Are you going on tour? Planning to write a tell-all?” Ophelia sighs and folds her hands in her lap. “No. I just want to put this all behind me.”

  “Will you be going to college?”

  “Yeah, in Paris, actually. I’m going to stay in my brother’s apartment. His university called and offered me a spot in their freshman class. Elsinore Academy gave me a pass on everything, once they found out why my grades had dropped, so I get to start with a clean slate. I’ll work hard. Like I used to.”

  “Political science in your future?” Zara asks with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Uh, no. Art history. Maybe I’ll move to Italy someday. Spend time studying the masters. Get a job in a gallery. I don’t know.”

  “Will you be looking for romance?”

  “Oh God, I don’t think so. I think I’ve had enough for a while.”

  Zara smirks. “You never know. I hear those Parisian boys can be very romantic. Maybe some Romeo is waiting for you.” Ophelia shrugs and forces a smile. “I’m not looking for romance. I’m not looking for anything but time. I’m asking your viewers to please, please leave me alone for a while so I can get my life together.”

  “You heard it here, folks,” Zara says, holding Ophelia’s shoulder while staring sternly at the camera. “I don’t want any pictures or stories popping up about my dear friend Ophelia. If someone is fool enough to do it, I’ll find you, and there will be consequences.” Th
e audience titters. They might be smiling, but they all know she’s serious and powerful enough to make good on such a threat.

  “One last question before I let you go,” Zara says. “Do you think the DDI has enough evidence to put you on trial?” Ophelia answers quickly. “They have no evidence, because I didn’t do anything wrong.” Then she pauses for a second, and her forehead wrinkles.

  She continues, “You know, my dad had two favorite sayings. One is from the Buddha, I think: ‘Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.’ ” She smiles sadly at the audience. “Perhaps an even more fitting proverb is: ‘Truth fears no trial.’ If I am put on trial, all I can do is tell the truth.”

  Zara shakes Ophelia’s hand as she says, “Well, thank you so much for joining us today.”

  “Thank you for having me,” Ophelia replies, taking both of Zara’s hands in her own. “It’s been a real pleasure.” EPILOGUE

  Being led step by step through my darkest times, it occurred to me that not everything important was caught on surveil ance tape or in text message.

  There was so much more to us and to that time than what anyone would ever see, both good and bad. I have years of happy memories that can’t easily be erased. And though those rosy memories sear my insides as much as the painful ones, they’re al here to stay.

  If I were interviewing myself, I’d ask, “I understand you have some gentle feelings about Hamlet. Does that mean you forgive him?” I would say, “No. I don’t think I could ever do that.”

  “Then what?” I would ask myself. “What have you learned?”

  And I wouldn’t know. I’d probably be flippant and answer, “Never get involved with royalty,” but that wouldn’t capture it.

  I’d have to think about it, and I wouldn’t say anything on the spot, especial y not during an interview. I try not to answer so quickly anymore. I try to think before I speak, though that’s easier said than done.

  If given time, I could create a list of things I’ve learned, things I wish I’d learned before I al owed myself to disappear into Hamlet’s love and his family’s vil ainy. But I didn’t, and I’m learning to forgive myself for that.

  I’ve learned that al happiness and al answers can’t begin and end with one guy. I need to be by myself for a while, because it’s too easy for me to put everyone else’s needs and wants ahead of my own.

  I’ve learned that no gift is worth keeping a secret for, and that no photo is so bad it should turn me into a liar.

  I’ve learned that I don’t mind lying to people I don’t trust.

  I’ve learned to trust very few people.

  I’ve learned that I behave better when I’m sober.

  I’ve learned that good behavior is sometimes overrated.

  I’ve learned that peach bridesmaid dresses suck.

  I’ve learned not to believe everything I see on TV (actual y, I knew that before) and that I never want to be in a position to be interviewed about anything ever again.

  I’d say I should listen to my parents, but it’s too late for that. On that note, I’ve got to forgive myself a little, because it wasn’t al my fault. I’m not sure I’l ever convince myself, but I’l try.

  I’ve learned that I do believe in ghosts.

  And I’ve learned that coffee, when it has just the right amount of milk and sugar in it, is about the best damned thing on the planet.

  The rest is silence.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My inspiration for Falling for Hamlet came after seeing a magnificent production of Hamlet in Washington, D.C. It was set in modern times, which I loved because the focus was not on fancy costumes but on the story. Hamlet was just a confused, depressed guy walking around in a hoodie, being betrayed not only by his enemies but by everyone he loved and trusted. And it was the first time I felt real y bad for Hamlet.

  The one element that did not sit wel with me, however, was Ophelia. The actress playing her was fine, yet I could not reconcile a modern girl losing her mind the way she did. As I walked out of the theater, I asked myself, “What would make a teenager today go crazy?” By the time I reached the subway, the question had morphed into “What if she didn’t die at al ?”

  Because I planned to make my story modern, the triggers for Ophelia’s actions had to change, and I wondered how Shakespeare’s questions of rank, family loyalty, and duty transferred to today. Her brother, Laertes, for instance, speaks with Ophelia early on about the consequences of losing her honor.

  In Shakespeare’s day, purity was everything to a young woman’s future, but not so these days. That said, shame stil exists, and even if what causes it might be different, the desire to avoid humiliation leads many of us to do things we never thought we would do — like betray someone we love.

  Much of Hamlet is about power, and I knew my version needed a setting with a strong hierarchy. In addition, I felt there had to be an awareness on the part of the characters that the public was watching. Shakespeare brought this theme into Twelfth Night, when he wrote, “What great ones do the less wil prattle of.” In other words, commoners loved gossiping about the rich and famous. We stil do. Whether it’s about celebrity weddings, breakups, or who’s wearing what, we stil care. In transferring Hamlet to now, I considered setting it in a place like Hol ywood or the business world of New York. But I felt strongly that keeping Hamlet a prince was important because hanging over al the family drama is a fight for the crown. And in looking at gossip magazines, most specifical y at Princess Diana’s tabloid-bait sons, it occurred to me that the royals stil make great press. In deciding to do this, I wondered what it would be like to be the nonroyal girlfriend of one of them, and to feel the pressure not only of everyone judging you so publicly, but of the prospect of becoming a queen.

  Many of the scenes are direct translations of Shakespeare’s words. Making Shakespeare’s lines sound modern was no easy task, and my friends, agent, editor, and copy editors al cal ed me out when the words of the characters sounded too old-fashioned. At times, I made a joke of it, like Ophelia saying, “Primrose path of dal iance.” She’s trying to sound smart while talking to her brother, but then I felt I had to fol ow it with a col oquial translation so readers knew what I meant. Other times, I had to get a bit creative, like Hamlet scribbling “To be” and “Not to be” on a notebook — a line I’d original y cut because having him say it out loud sounded too clunky.

  I considered changing character names. However, I decided to keep them because I wanted you, the reader, to recognize the characters and see how their actions matched the original. Although it’s odd to read “Laertes,” “Horatio,” etc., in a modern context, I hoped that readers would grow accustomed to it. I tried to keep the characters similar, too, like having soldiers’ names become the guards and so on. For Ophelia’s friends, however, I used contemporary names to make a distinction between these two worlds.

  While I took liberties with the story — namely that Ophelia stays alive — I tried to stay true to the general structure of Hamlet. The interviews, of course, were not in the original, but the basic plot fol ows the structure of the play. One chal enge was that Ophelia is in just a few scenes of Hamlet, so I had to think of ways for her to see, or at least hear about, the action. Technology helped. I also had Hamlet bring her with him to scenes she did not original y witness. Hamlet begins after the death of his father and remarriage of his mother, but I wanted readers to see what things were like before their world fel apart. I also added a life for Ophelia outside of the castle — an interest in art, attraction to other boys, and friends not afraid to comment on her behavior and choices. I wanted to give her a depth that Shakespeare did not. But heck, his play isn’t cal ed Ophelia, so I can’t blame the guy.

  My purpose in writing Falling for Hamlet, besides entertaining myself in asking the many “what if” questions, was the hope that readers would become more interested in Hamlet. If you’re familiar with the original, I hope this book has provided you with an entertaining twist o
n a great story. If you don’t know Hamlet, I encourage you to see it. Note I didn’t say “read it.” As I say to my students, Shakespeare is meant to be performed, not read. Do as you like, but even I, who do this a lot, am chal enged by the original text. My recommendation: If you can’t go see a stage production, or even if you can, rent one of the many great movie versions — or a few different ones. Hamlet is a story people love to tel in their own way, so whether you see the modern one, an Elizabethan one, the uncut version, or one that’s super short, enjoy. Then try another Shakespeare. And another. The man could tel a story.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Jonathan, who told me “once upon a road trip” to start writing down the stories I had in my head, and who kept me going when I considered giving up.

  To my sweet girls, who were sometimes quiet enough for me to write.

  Love to my parents, who first introduced me to Shakespeare, and who made me appreciate learning of al kinds.

  Thanks to the Rays, the best in-laws a girl could ask for.

  To Amy, who made me admit to being a writer, and to Kim, for taking me under her writerly wing.

  Thanks to my friends and family for support and encouragement. Special thanks to Shari, who liked it first, and Keren, Amanda, Valerie, Phyl is, and Bil y for approving and suggesting. And love to Lauren, my trusty reader who never hesitates to tel me when something sucks.

  To my Westlake teachers and Tufts drama professors, who gave me an incredible education in literature and in life.

  To the Hudson Val ey Shakespeare Festival for inspiring me annual y with awesomely creative takes on great works, and to D.C.’s Shakespeare Theatre Company for inspiring a new way to look at Hamlet.

  Thanks to my agent, Ammi-Joan Paquette, who believed this would happen, and to my editor, Alvina Ling, for making it so. Thanks, as wel , to Pam, Bethany, and Connie at Little, Brown for assistance and for suggestions that helped improve the story.

  To my teacher buddies, who spend each day trying to make kids better thinkers, readers, learners, and people.