“Can’t say I’ve heard of that. Sounds like astronomy or something.”
“Science Fiction, actually.”
The eyebrows dropped. “Oh. So you aren’t a real writer.”
Gallatin bit back his first reply, then smiled thinly. “How about you? What is it you do?”
“I’m a lawyer,” the expensive suit noted with obviously forced modesty.
“A lawyer?” Gallatin let his eyebrows rise to match the earlier gesture aimed at him. “So you fight battles in the courtrooms? Confront murderers and get them to confess their crimes?”
“No, not that. My specialty is Patent Law.”
“Oh. So you’re not a real lawyer.” Gallatin left the suit standing, mouth agape, to make his way to the buffet table. He hadn’t quite reached it when another hand thrust into his field of vision.
“Greetings! You’re Paul Randal Gallatin? You’re a good writer.”
Gallatin smiled back at a chunky man grinning heartily through a dark beard. “I like to think so.”
The other man nodded. “As you should. What we think of things matters a great deal. That’s quantum physics, you know.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “And I’m a physicist. Name’s Ivan Grashchev, but call me Ivan Ivanovich.”
“Ivan . . . ? I’ve heard of you.”
“Thank you,” Ivan beamed. “I like your books.”
Paul Gallatin smiled again. “No. Thank you. I didn’t expect to meet a fan here.”
“Then why did you come?”
“Hopefully to generate some new fans. I need every one I can get.”
“Better stay away from the lawyers, then.” Ivan strolled toward the buffet, urging Gallatin along with one hand. “I’m surprised, though. Your books sell pretty well, don’t they?”
“Pretty well isn’t good enough, today.” Gallatin took a deep breath. “The publishers want best-sellers, and nothing but. I’m what they call a mid-list writer. I sell enough to generate some profit, but not enough by their standards.”
“You don’t sound too happy.”
“I’m not.” Gallatin stood beside the buffet, waiting while Ivan shoveled a wad of thin-sliced ham into his mouth. “It gets old. I’ve thought about quitting. You pour your heart and soul into writing, and connect with some people, but it’s like the Red Queen’s race.”
Ivan nodded in understanding. “You have to run as fast as you can to stay where you are? I guess every writer can’t be Shakespeare.”
Gallatin grimaced. “Shakespeare? Don’t get me started. That man never wrote a word.”
“Ah. Are you an Oxfordian, or something more exotic?”
“I’ve never decided. But how can you hand some man the mantle of the greatest writer of all time when we have absolutely no manuscripts in his own hand, and he left a will which didn’t even mention his alleged writing?”
Ivan grinned. “Would you like to write a best-seller, my friend? Be a ‘real’ writer and make your publishers beg for more?”
“Sure. Have you invented a magic lamp I can wish for that on?”
“Maybe.” Ivan grinned wider. “My lab’s in this building, you know. Used to be in the basement, but when scientists win enough awards they move them into nice, clean labs where they can see sunlight and be shown off. Want to come see what I’ve done?”
“Sure. At the very least it might inspire a story.” Gallatin followed as Ivanovich headed out of the room, veering off course slightly to refresh his drink at the bar. An elevator dropped them several stories, then paused expectantly until the scientist slid a card into a waiting slot to trigger the doors open.
The lab looked suitably high-tech, marred only by the mess and tangle of actual science underway. Ivanovich led the way over heavy power cords until they reached a large gleaming box in one corner, its dimensions broken on one side by a small shelf holding a laptop hard-wired in place. “Lovely, isn’t it?” the physicist beamed.
“Uh, yes. What exactly is it?”
“A mass-particle reorientation device. You realize time is just a measurement we apply to particles, correct? So, it’s quit simple, actually,” the scientist explained, gesturing with his drink while his other hand stroked the stainless steel exterior. “You know how every advance in quantum mechanics has occurred?” Without waiting for a reply, Ivanovich continued speaking, even as he began punching commands into the keyboard. “You simply have to believe everything you knew beforehand is wrong. So, lo and behold, I applied that philosophy to the problem of what you would call time travel.”
“Time travel?” Gallatin stared at the mechanism. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all. And this little toy, my literary friend, is going to make you and me rich and famous.”
“Rich and famous?” Paul Gallatin laughed. “What are you thinking, we should go back and bet on horse races we already know the results of?”
Ivanovich waved his drink again, this time dismissively. “No. That sort of thing is for people with no imagination. But you and I, we have imagination, right? Tell me, how many copies do you think a book would sell if it proved your belief that Shakespeare was a fraud?”
“There’s been a lot of theories -“
“No theories!” Ivanovich wagged a reproving finger. “Proof. Evidence. Incontrovertible.”
“Ivan, if any such evidence ever existed it vanished a long time ago. You’d have to go back to Elizabethan England . . . ” Gallatin’s voice trailed off as Ivanovich smiled hugely. “My God. You could do it. Find handwriting samples, talk to people who knew, place the real evidence where you could be sure it would survive and where only you knew to look. Even talk to the man himself!”
“Exactly.” Ivanovich typed a few more figures. “It’s all ready. Have a nice trip.”
“What? Me?”
“Of course, you.” Ivanovich swallowed the rest of his drink. “I don’t know the right things. I build machines. You know literature and history and enough about this Shakespeare to find the truth, right?”
“Well, yes, I think so. Maybe. It’s just that -“
“Here’s your chance to live one of your fictions. Then write a book which will be a bestseller, make a few millions, make us famous.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?” Gallatin wavered.
Ivanovich shrugged. “Crossing the street is dangerous. Hey, at least back then you can’t get run over by a car, eh?” He dug in one pocket for a moment, then offered a few coins to the writer. “Elizabethan currency. Not much, but you might need a little.”
Gallatin took the coins, his mind still churning. “Do you always carry Elizabethan currency in your pocket?”
“Only when I know a certain writer is coming to a party. Sometimes even us non-writers can predict the future, you see.”
#
The tavern’s greatroom, its outlines obscured by weak illumination coming through small, heavily-leaded windows, stank of other smells than those which warred outside. Against one wall a table rested, its sole occupant drinking ale.
Gallatin stared, overcome by emotion despite himself. The man slumped in his seat, eyes fixed on the table before him, looked older than expected, but then he’d already seen enough of Elizabethan life to understand how it would age anyone prematurely. Life, too, presented a million variations in appearance which fixed portraits could never capture, especially those done perhaps a century after a man’s death. Gallatin took a few more steps, pausing in front of the man’s table. “Are you William Shakespeare?”
Large, soft eyes looked upward, heavy nose seeming to droop over the bushy mustache. “I am. God’s Breath, man, hast thou not heard that all my worldly debts have been these last few days discharged? I owe no man in this cluttered dung heap more.”
“I’m not here to collect on a debt. I . . . merely wished to discuss your work.”
Shakespeare’s eyes lost their weariness, lighting with sudden enthusiasm. “My sonnets and poems? Venus and Adonis? Lucrece?”
“No,” Gallatin
quickly protested. “Not your poetry. I, uh, admire your plays.”
The playwright frowned. “The plays? The comedies, histories and tragedies? Thou art oddly garbed, and thine accents are outlandish. I did never know my feeblest works were widely hailed. Whence comest thou?”
Gallatin paused, then gestured vaguely. “Oh, from out west.”
“West? Thou are not of Devonshire, surely.”
“No. Further west. The, uh, New World.”
“The New World? Art thou then an Indian such as those the Virginia Company gives report of?”
“You might say that. Yes.”
“Fine apparition! I had never thought to meet the like! Yet, thou resemblest not those Indians of my knowledge, and thou sayest thou hast heard of my plays.”
“Well . . . ” Gallatin cast about frantically for a story to explain himself, then smiled politely at Shakespeare as clichéd inspiration struck. “I was born to English parents, but our ship was wrecked on the wild coast of the New World, and I was left an orphan, then raised by the Indians there. I heard about your works from the Virginia Company settlers who discovered me.”
“A remarkable tale. Come, then, good fellow, and share my table.”
“Thank you.” Gallatin sat, casting about for a means to direct the subject away from Indians and back to Shakespeare’s alleged plays. “I hope to see one of your performances while I’m in London.”
His words seemed to amuse the playwright. “Thou hast come fair late for such. On occasion in time past did I prance upon stage, but no more. Two nights hence Stratford-bound I shall be.”
“What? Ivanovich’s machine didn’t get the right year?”
“I know not -“
“I’m sorry. I got here when you’re leaving London? Your theatrical career is over? What about your plays?”
“What of them? My rough tales profited me well enough to earn a goodly life in Stratford if well-husbanded, but I hold no desire for further labor in similar manner.” Shakespeare’s mouth worked in mild aggravation. “Best thou should ask of my true art, such as found great favor with the Earl of Southampton.”
“You mean your poems?” Gallatin forced a false smile. “They’re, uh, very good.” Shakespeare brightened again. “But that’s too bad about your not writing plays anymore. How does the Earl of Oxford feel about that?” he added with forced nonchalance.
“I assume it matters not to him and his. The old Earl is dead some years gone, and with the younger I have but small acquaintance. Art thou Oxford’s agent?”
“He’d like to see your plays,” Gallatin suggested casually. “In manuscript. He doesn’t have any.”
William Shakespeare shrugged. “Manuscript? If thou seekest plays, thou wilt find foul papers in plenty at the Globe Theater amongst the other tools of my theatrical company of old.”
“Foul papers? But those are just rough drafts, right? Drafts that many actors have written on? What about a complete, finished play? I haven’t been able to find one of those.”
Shakespeare shrugged again, his eyes revealing more than a hint of disinterest. “I cannot claim surprise in that. Nor do I know of such Oxford might purchase, nor why he should care.”
“Such a manuscript would be valuable,” Gallatin protested.
“Of value? Thou again speakest of manuscripts where I labored on plays only. Such are not art. They brought profit, but I care little for their fates now.”
Gallatin couldn’t hide his surprise this time. “You don’t care about the rights to your plays? You don’t own any of them any longer?”
“Own? The foul papers rest with my theatrical company. I have no claim there. My sonnets and poems hold my art. Hast thou read Lucrece?”
“Yes. Of course. A while ago.”
“Many have done the same,” Shakespeare noted proudly. “Though,” he muttered, “much criticism I gained for Venus and Adonis. Too popular with the masses, ‘tis said. Is this so ill? Lucrece proved a graver labor yet found favor as well, so happy result met my perseverance in the face of sneers. But I have tired of the labor, the eternal endeavor to please both critic and reader, and so made shift to sell the drafts of those fine works, my sonnets and poems.” Shakespeare drained his tankard of ale before fixing a hard look on Paul Gallatin. “Hast thou never despaired or been in sore need?”
“No. Not at all. I’m a writer myself, in my own land.” Gallatin thought desperately, all his preconceptions thrown off balance. “I’m sorry you’ve decided to stop writing, but I’d be very grateful if I knew where to find a copy of your plays, in your own hand.”
Shakespeare laughed suddenly. “Mine own hand? Thou art indeed new to London!” His mirth changed, becoming tinged with embarrassment as he looked away. “Unlettered at birth was I and even now I write but little.” One finger tapped his balding head. “Herein lies the baseless fabric of my pageantry. Others scribed the words, midwives even as to Minerva from Jove’s brow.”
“You didn’t write down your own plays, not even the foul papers?”
“Is this so remarkable? I spent my youth at labor, and in similar fashion my adulthood. Such leaves little time for simple labor such as placing word upon page. A man must eat, and work dawn to days-end to earn that meal, unless fortune grants leisure for more.”
“But writing was your job!” Gallatin protested suspiciously. “Why couldn’t you find time to draft plays?”
Shakespeare flushed, making as if to rise, then collapsed as if deflated. “Rough are thy manners, son of shipwreck, but tell truth and shame the devil, ‘tis said. I depart this city and this old accustomed life, wherefore it mattereth not an thou knowest this truth I tell thee, as few others know but good Ben Jonson could confirm of his certain knowledge. I cannot read nor write well, but only with greatest labor, for the words and letters swim before mine eyes in disorder. God Himself hath willed this, it seems, that I should speak fine words but never see them in form I can grasp with comfort.”
“There’s no surviving copies of your written manuscripts because you couldn’t write easily? The signatures are poorly scrawled and mis-spelled for the same reason? Why didn’t I ever think of that?” Gallatin faltered, momentarily at a loss for words. “You’re dyslexic.”
“I like not this, for I know not this word, and had not known this matter concerned others,” the playwright muttered angrily.
“No, I’m sorry,” Gallatin offered hastily. “Very sorry. The evidence was there, I just didn’t consider all of the possible explanations. I just believed what I wanted to believe.”
Shakespeare smiled softly, mollified. “In that thou art but one with all of humankind. True knowledge of past or present is oft of less merit than that history which we desire to be so.”
Gallatin looked down before glancing at the playwright again. “I was also jealous, I suppose. Your writing is so . . . so unparalleled.”
“Ha!” Shakespeare laughed with obvious delight. “Too rare is such praise, even from those guided by wishes unknown.”
“You must have heard that kind of praise a million times.”
“I say again, stranger to London thou art, and despite your claims unaware of the artist’s lot, it seems.” Shakespeare made an angry face, rubbing spilled ale into the table surface before him. “My praises come too rarely, and then in main from those groundlings who flock to my plays. Plays! Works of no merit. I care for such fantasies not at all. Yet for my sonnets, art in truth, the self-anointed judges of great art oft time care but little. Not an artist of grave subject am I, they say, looking to Venus and Adonis. Upstart crow, said Greene, the fine University man.”
“But that last was only one criticism, years ago.”
“So thee, who claims status as an artist, forgets the words of those who flay thine art?”
“Ummm, no,” Gallatin admitted. “No matter how small or how long ago, I tend to remember criticism more than praise.”
“Just so. Yet in mine heart, I oft wonder if I am a true artist, or if here sits
a mere dreamer of speculations.”
Gallatin froze, his mouth open, then snapped it shut. “Speculations? Critics look down on you, and you question your own merit, because you write speculative fiction?”
“Fiction? If such is the like of mine plays, then this is well known man!”
“What sort of speculations are you talking about? All the plays? But there’s brilliant work in them. A lot of brilliant work.”
Shakespeare eyed Gallatin with slight suspicion, then shrugged again, smiling briefly. “It seems thou hast some sympathy as an artist, after all. In truth, I have imagined tales both strange and wonderful. Tales of magicks, tales of wondrous strange creatures trafficking with men and women like unto ourselves, of other lands far removed in time and place from this our own. I have given words to heroes of legend, and recast legends to suit my fancies.”
“Yet the histories are looked down upon, too?”
“Ah, yes,” Shakespeare nodded. “Even there I framed events in such wise as to make them mine own, adding figures to the stage historical, all uttering such words as I wished them to speak. Yet this is not writing of worth, ‘tis said. Not like my sonnets. In truth, some such plays met with the pleasure of the Court for obvious reason, but any writer must toil at commerce to earn the means to art.”
“Yes, yes, I understand all that. Better than you know. But why haven’t all your works been published?” Gallatin pressed. “Surely your critics don’t control the presses.”
“Why this question? Folios I have commissioned of Lucrece, and of Venus and Adonis. Both have seen several editions.”
“I’m sorry. I mean your plays. Why haven’t they been published?”
Shakespeare shook his head wearily. “Thou still thinks my plays deserve folios? Who would make purchase of such low art? Yea, with the masses, as I said, my plays find favor, and money enough in measure, but such labors possess little merit in the world’s eyes. Why, the world would mock me should I commission folios of plays, and little profit would it avail me if attempted. Too few moneyed followers of low art have I to inspire printers to work on such speculation, too little chance of earning them the large sums they seek in return for their labors.”