Time Travelers Never Die - Jack McDevitt [98]
Dave agreed. “How about the assassination of the archduke?”
They looked at each other. Ferdinand’s death in Sarajevo on June 28, 1914, was unquestionably one of the pivotal events in world history. “But,” said Shel, “I’m not excited about watching somebody get killed.”
“Okay. Yeah, that’s a point. I’ll tell you what I’d like to do.”
“What’s that?”
“How about we go see Hamlet?”
Shel laughed. “See it on—”
“Opening day. Your father talked about seeing the first performance of Lear. We could go him one better.”
“When was that?”
They were at David’s place. He got up, walked over to the computer, and tapped the keys. “Somewhere around 1600 or 1601.”
“That’s the best we can do?”
“Nobody knows for sure. But here’s something interesting. Shakespeare never published his plays.”
“How do you mean?”
“They were performed. Not published. The plays we have today were apparently more or less copied. I guess by people at the Globe.”
“You know what?” said Shel. “We could go back and get the originals. Grab one of the scripts. It shouldn’t be that hard. He’s got to give them out to the actors.”
“And then do what with them? Send them to a Shakespearean scholar and ruin her reputation? Let’s just go watch the show.”
“Okay.”
“If we can find out when it was performed.”
THEY needed several trips to get the exact date, April 11, 1601.
The Globe was an open-air amphitheater. Seats were arranged in sheltered compartments at three levels. They were expensive. Cheaper admission could be had into “the pit,” where the general audience had to stand, or sit, as conditions permitted.
The stage was about five feet off the ground. It projected out over the pit. Its rear was protected by a roof, which was supported by columns. The back wall had several doors and curtains, allowing the cast members to move onstage and offstage. It was a cool afternoon, and a substantial portion of the audience, especially in the pit, had brought food and alcohol along. “I wonder,” said Dave, “when the candy counter was invented?”
Several of the actors were handing out copies of the printed program. HAMLET, it said, by William Shakespeare. Dave looked at the cast. All were unfamiliar names, of course. Except one: The ghost was played by the author.
He folded it carefully and slipped it into a pocket.
Shel absentmindedly checked the time, and a young man sitting next to him gazed uncertainly at the watch. “What’s that?” he asked.
No point lying. “It tells time.”
“It’s a clock,” he said. “It’s really possible to make a clock you can strap to your wrist?”
Shel showed it to him. “It’s something new. Picked it up yesterday.”
“Where?” asked the young man. He looked to be in his midtwenties.
“Marboro Street, I think.” Shel turned to David. “It was Marboro, wasn’t it, Dave?”
Dave had no idea whether London even had a Marboro Street. “I think so,” he said.
“Excellent,” said the young man. “I have to get myself one of those. May I inquire your name, sir?”
“Adrian Shelborne.” He went on to introduce Dave.
“I’m pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” he said. “My name’s Ben Jonson.”
Dave almost fell out of his chair. When he recovered, he extended his hand. “The author of Every Man in His Humour?”
Jonson smiled. “The same.”
“Excellent. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Your work is exquisite.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Dryden.”
“My friends call me Dave.”
Somewhere a horn sounded, followed by the mournful wail of a flute. Onstage, a military guard appeared and began walking his post. The flute died away. Something creaked.
The guard turned in the direction of the sound. “Who’s there?”
THE production ran more than four hours. Dave tried