One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [13]
“Did she really take Hamlet into the RealWorld?” asked Carmine, excited by my mentor’s audaciousness.
“Among others.”
“And defeat Yorrick Kaine?”
“That, too.”
“What about the Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco? Did they really have to delete two weeks of his diary to make everything okay?”
“That was the least of her worries. Even Thursday had occasional failures—it’s inevitable if you’re at the top of your game. Mind you,” I added, unconsciously defending my famous namesake, “if Samuel Pepys hadn’t set Deb up in a pied-à-terre in the backstory of Sons and Lovers with Iago coming in for halfcosts on alternate weekdays, it would never have escalated into the disaster it became. They could have lost the entire diaries and, as a consequence, anything in Nonfiction that used the journal as a primary source. It was only by changing the historical record to include a ‘Great Fire of London’ that never actually happened that Thursday managed to pull anything from the debacle. History wouldn’t speak to the council for months, but Sir Christopher Wren was delighted.”
We walked back out into the courtyard. The king and queen invited us around for a “pre-reading party” that evening, and I responded by inviting them around for tea and cakes the following day. Thus suitably introduced, we made our way out to the street again.
“So how do you want me to play you?” asked Carmine.
“You’re not playing me, you’re playing her. There’s a big difference. Although I’ve been Thursday for so long that sometimes I think I am her, I’m not. I’m just the written her. But in answer to your question, I try to play her dignified. I took over from the other written Thursday—long story, don’t ask—soon after the Great Samuel Pepys Fiasco was deleted—even longer story, still don’t ask—and the previous Thursday played her a little disrespectfully, so I’m trying to redress that.”
“I heard that the violent and gratuitous-sex Thursday had a lot more readers.”
I glared at Carmine, but she simply stared back at me with big innocent eyes. She was making a statement of fact, not criticism.
“We’ll get the readers back somehow,” I replied, although I wasn’t wholly convinced.
“Can I meet the real Thursday?” asked Carmine in a hopeful tone of voice. “For research purposes, naturally.”
“She’s very busy, and I don’t like to bother her.”
I was exaggerating my influence. Despite overseeing my creation, the real Thursday didn’t like me much, possibly for the very same reasons she thought she might be improved. I think it was a RealWorld thing: the gulf between the person you want to be and the person you are.
“Look,” I said, “just play her dignified—the individual interpretation is up to you. Until you get into the swing of it, play her subtly different on alternate readings. Hamlet’s been doing it for years. Of course, he has twenty-six different ways of playing himself, but then he’s had a lot of practice. In fact, I don’t think even he knows his motivation anymore—unless you count confusing readers and giving useful employment to Shakespearean scholars.”
“You’ve met Hamlet?”
“No, but I saw the back of his head at last year’s BookWorld Conference.”
“What was it like?” asked Carmine, who seemed to enjoy celebrity tittle-tattle.
“The back of his head? Hairy,” I replied cautiously, “and it might not have been him. In any event, keep your interpretation loose, and don’t telegraph. Let the readers do the work. If you’re going to explain everything, then we might as well give up and tell everyone to stick to television and movies.”
“Were there any goblins?” asked Pickwick as soon as we walked back in.
“I didn’t see any. Did you, Miss O’Kipper?”
“No, no, not a single one.”
“Mrs. Malaprop,” I said, “we’ll be having royalty for tea tomorrow. Better bake some silver and have the buns