The Tragedy of Arthur_ A Novel - Arthur Phillips [112]
“That? Are you kidding? Have you even read the play? He gave it to you. Have you read it? What sort of person—How can you back out now?” She was very angry, which triggered my own anger in response.
“You didn’t want to do it at all. You told me you wouldn’t do it.”
“Yeah, but you did do it. He counted on you. You promised him. He was making it up with you. I didn’t need that. And he wrote the will before you two made your—You can’t take the will as an insult. You and he hadn’t yet—Besides, you have Glassow to deal with now. If he thinks you’re degrading the value of our shared property? He’ll sue you. You think he’s in this for your reputation? Or literature? You debunk his money at your own risk. Mom could probably use the money, too, you know. If you care. You can keep my share if it soothes your issues.”
“I’m not negotiating for more money. Thanks. And I don’t have issues.”
“Have you read it? Really read it? You didn’t notice that it’s about you?”
“Oh? So you agree he wrote it.”
“You chuckleheaded, whinnying, braying ass. It’s about you, like a dozen other books I can think of. So either Dad wrote it for you, or he asked you to make it famous because he recognized you in it. So don’t come wailing that he didn’t know you. He gave you this, this everything. What do you still want?”
(That’s an illusion, of course, a trick of perspective, the idea that the play is in any way “about” me. It can equally be said to be about a man born in Stratford in 1564—maybe on April 22 or 24, by the way—or about an apocryphal boy king in Dark Ages England or about my father or his idea of me or my grandfather or Dana in armor or or or.)
“Who wrote the play, Dana?”
“You promised Dad.”
“But it’s a fake. It’s a crime.”
“What a Puritan prig! What do you care?”
“My reputation?”
“You believe your press kit now? Your reputation? From those novels?”
“Nice.”
“Sorry. But come on. Seriously. I don’t care who wrote it. It’s beautiful. I’ve loved it since we were ten. Dad gave it to me first anyhow, you know. It’s not yours to humiliate. It’s beautiful. It’s part of my life now. More than Measure for Measure. More than Cymbeline. More than Pericles. Henry VI. It’s better than Edward III, you shit, which everyone is canonizing as fast as they can, and that doesn’t even have his name on it. What’s wrong with you? Seriously, answer that: what is wrong with you?”
“He gave it to you first? That’s grotesque. He gave you a forgery. With his father’s forged dedication. An heirloom of bullshit. How can you forgive him for all that?”
“Forgive him? I don’t think—It’s not an issue here.”
“And you know that this is all a scam. For money. He’s dancing in Shakespeare drag to make money.”
“But he didn’t sell it when he was alive. He sat on it. If he forged it, he forged it for you. It’s his love for you.”
“So you admit it’s a forgery.”
“I don’t care. You’re going in circles. If Shakespeare wrote it, then you’re a dick. You’re going to lose Mom a pile of money, and you will go down in literary history as that moron who couldn’t tell the real thing when he read it. Or if Shakespeare didn’t write it, then you’re still a dick, because you’re throwing Dad’s love for you—and for me, by the way, if you care—back in his dead face. And why? Because your feelings are hurt? You want me to tell you that Angelica is as good as Othello? Fine: ‘Arthur, Angelica is as good as Othello. Dad thought so, too.’ Good enough? No? You have to kill both fathers at once: that’s what this is. You’re the first person ever to suffer from a double oedipal complex, and one of your dads is four hundred years old. Quick: muster up a grievance against Sil and you could do a triple lutz. Man. If Dad wrote it, he’s got you bound up but good. You have to say Arthur isn’t good enough to be Shakespeare, don’t you? And you hate Shakespeare! Or are you going to say Arthur’s not bad enough to be Shakespeare?”
“It’s a fake.”
“It’s a gift.”
“If it’s a gift, why didn’t he admit he wrote it?”
“You are such an ingrate! He had Shakespeare write a play about his boy! Like when