The Rest is Silence

“That’s it. It’s over,” Astoria said from the backstage shadows, as she stepped into Queen Gertrude’s gown for Act 5. “Good night, sweet ladies.”

“Maybe not,” Kingsley said, fondling the props for Scene 2. “There’s Kickstarter and Lidia’s new influencer gig for Ben Nye makeup. We can still save the theater.”

Bernard made a rude noise. “No one is going to pay for greasepaint tripe.”

“You’re delusional, Kingsley, my dear,” Astoria said. “After this travesty, we’ll be lucky to extricate our own acting careers let alone the theater. There are some things even Shakespeare can’t save.”

Richard, the troupe’s stage manager, looked up from where he was holding book, near the proscenium. “If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now…”

“Shut up, Richard,” Kingsley said. “You’re not helping.”

“Right as always, your majesty.”

“I’m positive this performance will knock them dead.”

“Only way anyone will be in their seats when this is over,” Bernard grumbled, “is if the audience is dead.” Astoria shushed him.

Dialog filtered back to the wings as Hamlet and Horatio discussed Ophelia’s funeral.

Kingsley squinted through the stage left drapes. “Where are we?”

Richard double-checked the script he was following. “Osric is about to exit. The Lord with messages for Hamlet enters Stage Left.” He leaned back and hissed. “Bernard, that’s you.”

“For God’s sake,” Astoria whispered, “someone zip me up.”

Courtney doffed her courtier’s cap as she stepped off stage. “Jesus, is it hot in here or is it just me?”

“What’s the audience like?” Kingsley asked.

“A funeral is livelier,” she said. “The reviews are going to be deadly. Where are the foils?”

Kingsley waved vaguely into the shadows by the fly lines. “In the case.”

“Who gets which one?”

Richard swung his mike down to his lips. “Jimmy. Set change,” he said to the crew over at Stage Right. “Throne room. Go.”

As the lights dimmed, the crew jostled to rotate the thrones into place.

“Let Hamlet choose first,” Kingsley said.

“What do I choose?” Kenneth asked from just offstage as he put on a fencing vest over his black velvet doublet.

“The poisoned foil.”

“Which one is that?”

           “They’re all poisoned. That’s the point.”

Kenneth chuckled. “The point. I get it.”

“Damn dullard,” Richard muttered.

“Sorry, Ricky. What was that?” Kenneth asked.

Richard looked up with an innocent smile as the lights came back up. “I said ‘Kill the bastard.’ You’re on. Go.”

Horatio’s voice echoed through the hall, softening little through the curtains. “You’ll lose this wager, my lord.”

From the wings, Kingsley watched Kenneth strut center stage and strike a pose. “I do not think so,” Kenneth said. He swept an arm around as if to include the orchestra pit to the balcony. “But it is no matter.” And after a dramatic pause, “We defy augury.”

Richard growled. “The bastard’s forgotten his lines again.”

“Damn,” Courtney mused from the prop table. “These swords are sharp.”

Astoria handed Kingsley his crown and a goblet. “Are you ready, my king?”

Kingsley swirled the wine. “Let’s make sure they remember this.”

“I hope it’s a good vintage,” she said.

“You’ll never taste better, my dear.” He took her hand.

Kenneth paced back upstage. “Since no man knows aught of what he leaves, let it be. Let it be. Though it be my hour of darkness…”

“Jesus,” Richard said. “Audio. Audio! Cue the trumpets. Claudius, Gertrude: get the hell out there before he skips to the end of the duel without you.”

Kingsley and Astoria skittered into the scene before strolling to the thrones upstage right.

Courtney followed them out of the wings with the box of poisoned foils. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.”

“Wrong play, kid,” Richard said.

“You are so right about that,” Courtney muttered as she stepped into the light.

Kenneth strode downstage and jammed fists on his hips. “Give us the foils. Come on.”

“Oh, crap,” Richard said. “The idiot just skipped the entire ‘sorry for my mental illness’ speech.” He yanked his headset mike back down. “Jimmy. We might have a curtain call a lot sooner than expected. Where are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?”

“They’re dead,” Jimmy radioed.

“Funny guy. I know that. I mean Sam and Tom. Grab the gravediggers, too.”

“No, I mean they’re really dead.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Polonius found them in the green room. Tennant stopped by and they were drinking.”

“Well, wake them up. Pour coffee down their throats if you have to.”

Jimmy gulped back a sob. “They’re not dead drunk, Richard. They’re dead. They were drinking wine out of Yorick’s skull.”

“Wine? You let them smuggle in wine? They’re flaming alcoholics.”

“Not me. It was the wine Kingsley brought. They just nicked a bottle from the case.”

“You have got to be shi… Anyone else?”

Jimmy stammered unintelligibly before gasping out, “I think Tennant will be okay, but the EMRs are pumping the Ghost’s stomach.”

The sound of blade on blade rang from just beyond the edge of the curtain. Richard scanned the set.

“Bugger me. Tell me that’s not the wine in the goblet Astoria is going to drink from.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

On stage, Courtney’s shout was clear. “A hit, a very palpable hit!”

“Hah,” Kenneth cried out in return. “I prick thee, do you not bleed?”

“A pox upon him,” Richard moaned, “he’s not even in the right play.”

“You tickle me, and I laugh,” Richard bellowed. “Ha! Ha!”

Richard heard a thump and a clatter.

“Here, Hamlet,” Richard heard Astoria say, “take my napkin, rub thy brow whilst I carouse to thy fortune.”

“Hey, Richard,” a voice said in his headset, “this is the lighting booth. What the hell just happened to Laertes? He’s on the floor, and it looks like he’s bleeding.”

“Bring the house lights up. Bring the house lights up!” Richard turned to the stage left crew. “Curtain. Curtain. Curtain.” And he ran out on stage, waving his arms. “Don’t drink that, Astoria.”

Lying on the floor, Laertes raised his own foil and ran Kenneth through the gullet. “Here, have at it, you knotty-pated fool, thou errant, elf-skinned fustilarian. Tickle indeed.”

Kenneth gasped as blood colored his fencing jacket.

Courtney staggered, pulled off her cap, said, “It’s really hot in here,” and collapsed upstage right.

Richard grabbed the goblet from Astoria’s hands.

“The drink. The drink,” she said. “I am poisoned.” And tumbled off her throne the three feet to the floor. Her crown spun acros the apron as her head hit the boards.

Richard ran downstage and yelled at the audience. “Someone call 911.” Only a dozen people still remained. Most looked asleep. The three critics in the front row began slow clapping.

Richard ran back off as the extras began fainting and collapsing on stage.

“O! Cursed be the hand that made these holes,” Kenneth said and dropped to his knees.

“That’s not even in Hamlet, is it?” Bernard asked.

“Close the damn curtain!” Richard shouted.

Kingsley strode to the edge of the stage as the traveler closed behind him and glared at the critics. He finished the wine in Astoria’s goblet. “Write about this you blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things.” He bowed before falling across the footlights. “Aaaand… scene,” he mumbled as he rolled into the orchestra pit.

Richard pulled his headset back on. “Jimmy,” he said calmly. “Get your act together and bring me a bottle of that wine.”

“Hey, Richard, this is the lighting booth again. Is it over? Is there going to be a curtain call? Richard?”