Book Detour to Hell & Paperback

Herrad of Landsberg, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Prologue

While it may be premature to begin my book tour before my debut novel is actually published, I’m mindful the wisdom of Lao Tzu: “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.” I’m also aware that “…no prophet is accepted in his hometown” (Luke 4:24). I don’t claim to be a prophet, but Jesus had a point about getting out of Dodge. Indeed, I’ve already encountered clouds of disbelief among friends when I broke the news about my forthcoming novel. Perhaps I’m partly to blame for hiding my light under a bushel, but I was raised to be modest; self-promotion goes against my grain. Hence, I’m counting on my publisher to proclaim my virtues; my marketing plan in a nutshell.

Besides, it seems only fitting to kick off my book tour in Shakespeare’s homeland, where the Bard is the best thing that ever happened in Britain. Let’s face it, the glory days of so-called United Kingdom are long gone; if you ask me, Queen Elizabeth’s passing was also a death knell for England. Although the Boston Tea Party was tame by today’s standards (or lack of them), it altered the course of world history. Not only did jolly old England fail to hang on to France in the Middle Ages, but they lost their foothold in the New World when their colonies revolted, for good reason. Indeed, King George may go down in history as the Biggest Bungler in British history.

If I appear to be rehashing history that’s all too familiar, bear with me, for these seemingly remote events could have a direct bearing on the fate of my novel. How was I to know that the Brits lost their signature sense of humor? Brexit was just the tip of the iceberg. Who knew that unseen forces conspired to silence me, as I was soon to discover. Discover may not be the right word for stumbling upon a hornet’s nest, as you shall see from my scrapbook. For the record, I wrote this prologue before most of the following unfolded; thus, even I’m eager to see how things turned out.

To ensure that my work doesn’t become dated, I’ll left out any chronological references, but I’ve tried to preserve scraps of evidence which shed light on my predicament. Some names have been tweaked to protect the innocent.

The author (almost)

Andras Bereznay, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Part I: Great Britain

Author’s journal entry, Boomville, Indiana

I have to admit that I’m conflicted about my book tour, which could turn out to be the journey of a lifetime, or a major disruption in my writing career—just when I’m getting started. On the one hand, it’s a dream come true to take to the road and bask in the sunshine which has finally appeared in my life, now that I’ve become (almost) a published author. What could be more enjoyable than talk about my novel to everyone I meet, having some of them actually buy my book, and hearing from the precious few who are willing to give me feedback?

On the other hand, just when I’ve finally hit my stride as a writer, after spending so many years as an apprentice, I have to switch gears and become a salesman. The old adage, “Be careful what you wish for,” couldn’t be more apt. After having finally figured out a writing practice that works for me, with long walks and lots of time alone without any distractions, I have to forgo my cherished privacy to throw myself onto the public, in the hope that enough people will buy by book; all to convince my publisher that I’m worth another gamble. If not, even if my next novel is a masterpiece, no one’s going to touch it with a ten-foot pole. Anywho (as my grandfather use to say) the die is cast, for I have secured my wife’s blessing (no small feat) and bought my ticket to London. Like Orpheus, I don’t dare look back.

Debot at Dutch Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons

British Antiquities Museum

13 Pembridge Park Place

London, UK

Dear Colleagues,

As a veteran pro bono book blogger, I recently received a request to review a novel, The Bard & The Barman: An Account of Shakespeare’s Lost Years. Normally I don’t bother with debut “authors,” who are unlikely to garner any attention, for good reason; like Darwin, I’m a great believer in the survival of the fittest. However, I must admit that I was hooked by the blurb, which suggested that Shakespeare ventured to France. I know heresy when I see it, so I agreed to take a look at the electronic advanced reader copy (eARC), partly out of curiosity, I suppose, but primarily to do everything I could to stop this renegade writer in his tracks.

One of the reasons for my success as a book reviewer is my policy of only publishing reviews of at least one star (based on the Michelin rating system, which doesn’t bother with restaurants rated zero). While it may be unusual to review both books and restaurants, it’s my way of balancing mind and body. As much as I appreciate receiving free books in exchange for my reviews, I have gravitated to spending most of my time reviewing restaurants, which provide perks much more satisfying than books. Suffice it to say that I didn’t waste my time reading the heretical novel by the amateur author, but skimming through it raised my hackles. His disparaging comments about British cuisine are in bad form, and his unremitting enthusiasm for France is over the top. As far as I’m concerned, Frenchifying food with fancy sauces is an affront to good taste. British cuisine is vastly underrated, simply because we don’t try to disguise the fact that produce is grown in dirt–what the French call “terroir,” to make it sound chic.

Without going into the gory details, I should warn you that the atrocious American writer sullies the reputation of the British Antiquity Museum by blaming you for concealing the Chunnel Scroll, and suggesting that BAM was slow to translate the dubious account by the alleged confidant. I must also tell you that there must be a mole within the Museum, for how else could this American interloper have even known about the Chunnel Scroll? I have to say that you have managed to keep a secret very well. Were it not for your mole, who knows when the truth would have come to light? While I refuse to bother reviewing the bogus book, I fear that some of my fellow bloggers may seize the opportunity to make a name for themselves. I wish you well in your efforts to catch the traitor in your midst. Caveat lector!

Anonymous

See page for author, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Email from Burton-Taylor Paperbacks to Merrill Hatlen

Dear Merrill,

My plan to publish your novel in early July has hit a snag, due to an injunction initiated by the British Antiquities Museum (BAM), which claims that your novel besmirches BAM and the Bard. Patently absurd, of course, but they’re a force to be reckoned with. As a small publisher, I can’t afford to hire a barrister, so I will have to serve as my own advocate. Let’s hope the court doesn’t insist on dragging you into this mess. Will keep you posted.

Rich

Email from Merrill Hatlen to Burton-Taylor Paperbacks

Dear Rich,

I confess that British justice has always been a mystery to me, but then I’ve never understood how your democracy and monarchy can coexist. The bigger mystery is how BAM got a hold of my manuscript. I fear that one of the advance reader copies fell into the wrong hands. There’s no such thing as privacy anymore, but I’m shocked by BAM’s combative behavior. There may be a silver lining, since the publicity should be great for my novel, if we can just run the gauntlet. I’ll be glad to testify if push comes to shove. Any chance of settling the matter out of court?

Merrill

Email from Burton-Taylor Paperbacks to Merrill Hatlen

Dear Merrill,

You’re naivete is refreshing, but BAM won’t budge. Remember, you’re an American on their turf, and they will argue that you have stolen their thunder; a blatant lie, of course, but lying is back in fashion. Having publication held up at the 11^th hour is a publisher’s worst nightmare. Believe me, I’ve already tried to reason with them, but they’re going to fight us tooth and nail. While I appreciate your offer to testify, the last thing we want is for you to take the stand. I shudder at how the judge would react to your claim that you just made up the whole story and didn’t have any qualms about putting words in Shakespeare’s mouth. So sit tight, and see if you can drum up some advance reviews. We’re going to need all the kudos you can muster.

Rich

Email from Merrill Hatlen to Burton-Taylor Paperbacks

Dear Rich,

Like the Bard, I’m no armchair traveler, so I can’t remain on the sidelines. As they say, the best defense is a strong offense. Rather than waiting for the Court of Appeals to render their verdict, I want to witness the proceedings, even if I have to remain a fly on the wall. Despite the fact that I don’t have my book in hand yet, I’m going to follow my dream of going to the literary festival in Hay-on-Wye in Wales in May. I know I’m jumping the gun, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to embark on a book tour as a debut novelist. I can’t let BAM stand in the way of my sense of accomplishment. At least I won’t have to burn my work, as the Bard did with Love’s Labour’s Found.

*Infant Shakespeare Attended by Nature and the Passions*,
Benjamin Smith, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Shakespeare Authorship Controversy Takes Novel Twist

On the occasion of Shakespeare’s birthday (April 23), it’s worth remembering that he died on the same day (better known as St-George’s Day in an ostensibly Protestant country). Although this coincidence might seem fishy, Samuel Clemens also died on his own birthday, when Haley’s comet reappeared. Perhaps proof that authors are fond of symmetry. Mark Twain, however, was not a kindred spirit, but a doubting William, along with Sigmund Freud, Henry James et al. More recently, Sir Derek Jacobi and Mark Rylance have stoked the fire.

Just when it appeared that things had died down, another account of the man behind the mask has surfaced, sending shockwaves throughout the Shakesphere. Once again, it’s an American who has butted into British business, following the lead of Delia Bacon, meddler extraordinaire. To be fair, the American author of The Bard and the Barman claims that his yarn about Shakespeare’s “lost years” is pure fiction. For someone who appears be a closet Stratfordian, his portrait of the Bard as a Francophile seems far-fetched indeed.

However, the British Antiquities Museum (BAM) has attempted to suppress publication of the novel, charging that it sullies the reputation of the museum and William Shakespeare. They contend that the book is based on the journal of the Bard’s confidant, which the museum obtained when a workman unearthed the parchment scroll during excavation of the Chunnel. How the novel’s author obtained access to the Chunnel Scroll is anybody’s guess. It seems likely that a whistleblower could have leaked the document, perhaps to protest the museum’s history of looting and hoarding. Or maybe because the manuscript is one of the few native treasures in their collections, the British Antiquities Museum has been even more bullish than usual.

The real mystery is how BAM obtained an advanced reader copy (ARC) of the novel before it was published, suggesting that the manuscript might have been leaked by the debut author desperate for publicity. The author flatly denies this, claiming his book is merely make-believe. “I just connected the dots, going back in time like the Hubble Telescope to see the Big Bang.”

A spokesperson for the British Antiquities Museum contests the author’s claim. “No one, especially a foreigner with a master’s degree in an unrelated field, could have possibly invented such a story. Moreover, the author’s botched attempt to translate Elizabethan English into contemporary parlance is an affront to the Bard and the British public. As stewards of English history, we have been guarding this priceless treasure for posterity and future fundraising campaigns. We’re not about to let a Yankee steal our thunder!” The dispute has been referred to the courts, so cross your fingers, but don’t hold your breath.

Name withheld by request

Liar’s Bench Press

French banknote featuring Henri IV via Wikimedia Commons

PRESS RELEASE

The Bard Behind the Scenes

For anyone curious about Shakespeare’s “lost years,” please keep your eye out for my forthcoming novel, The Bard and the Barman, from London publisher Burton-Taylor. Whether or not my tale does justice to Shakespeare or not, the backstory is fascinating in its own right. The roots can be traced to Plutarch’s series of Parallel Lives, revealing connections between several notable Greeks and Romans. There is little doubt that Plutarch was one of Shakespeare’s sources for some of his history plays, such as Timons of Athens and Julius Cesar.

Who knows what Plutarch might have made of the Elizabethan era, but surely he would have intrigued by the parallel lives of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, including Sir Francis Bacon, John Donne, Christopher Marlowe, Sir Walter Raleigh, and Edward de Vere (Earl of Oxford). Indeed, there have been numerous claims that one these luminaries was the actual author of the Bard’s plays. Competing theories suggest that a group of ghost writers was involved. All Shakespeare skeptics (including Sigmund Freud, Henry James and Mark Twain) agree that the Bard of Stratford couldn’t have written the plays by himself.

Although I don’t want to muddy the waters by advancing an additional candidate, I would like to point out another peer of Shakespeare, King Henri IV of France, who merits consideration for another edition of Parallel Lives. I confess that I didn’t know they were contemporaries until I began working on another novel, Mystery of St-Sauveur, in which the Bard makes a brief appearance, in France, of all places. Putting aside what turned out to be the prequel for my latest novel, let me raise the issues that led me down this path.

Most scholars agree that Love’s Labour’s Lost was one of his earliest plays, which may help account for its flowery language and structural problem—ending a comedy with a death knell. Not only is the courtship of the Princess of France and King Ferdinand of Navarre suddenly suspended, but the romance between three other couples among their respective entourages is postponed. For unfathomable reasons, the Bard left the lovers in limbo, with the hope that they will be reunited after a year of mourning. Hardly a way for a fledgling playwright to win the hearts and minds of London audiences.

If Shakespeare had a sequel up his sleeve, it failed to materialize, and the characters in Love’s Labour’s Lost have been frozen since the 16^th century. We will probably never know whether the lovers were reunited in Love’s Labour’s Won, one of the Bard’s lost plays. Instead, we are left wondering why such a genius ended one of his first attempts at comedy on such a sour note.

Another one of the perplexing things about Love’s Labour’s Lost is that Shakespeare either ignored the Elizabethan prohibition about portraying a living monarch, or thought he could get away with it because English audiences were unfamiliar with Henri of Navarre. In either case, writing a play about an obscure foreign monarch of a minor principality seems like a longshot for a greenhorn trying to storm the London stage.

There is little doubt that King Ferdinand was modeled after Henri of Navarre, for Shakespeare even used the names of two of the King’s courtiers for key characters (Biron and Longueville) in Love’s Labour’s Lost. It’s hard not to wonder what King Henri made of this homage by an obscure English playwright. While it is doubtful that Henri ever saw a performance of the play, there is a strong likelihood that he would have heard about it. Indeed, as a Protestant ruler at the time, surrounded by Catholic countries, he would have developed an extensive intelligence network. He also had good reason to maintain cordial relations with the other prominent Protestant monarch, Queen Elizabeth. Surely, she must have been pleased to have an ally on the Continent, especially the future King of France.

Considering the hostility of the Puritans to the theater, and the vetting process for staging plays for Elizabethan audiences, Shakespeare did a remarkable job of finding favor with Queen Elizabeth and her successor, King James. The Bard’s success in that regard makes Love’s Labour’s Lost even more mysterious, because of Henri’s backstory in marrying a Catholic, Marguerite Valois, resulting in the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. Perhaps Shakespeare had been too young to have heard of the wedding from hell, but by the time he wrote the play he must have been aware of Henri’s scars.

With so few facts to go on, the only way to shed light on this mystery play is to imagine how Shakespeare and Henri of Navarre might have crossed paths. Hence my novel, which turns on their relationship between the budding playwright and the future King of France, Henri IV. Not surprisingly, they were brought together by a woman intent on murdering Henri before he rose to power. As the story of Henri IV would never have passed the censors at the time, I offer my version to you now. If nothing else, you will discover what might have happened to the lovers in Love’s Labour’s Lost.

M. Hatlen

Mythbuster Defends Shakespeare

Fed up with theories about who wrote Shakespeare’s plays, an aspiring writer has set out to debunk the myth that one man couldn’t have done it by himself. Noting that the Bard wrote some of his finest work during the Great Plague, the obscure writer used the Covid Pandemic to write a sequel to Love’s Labor Lost.

“I don’t claim to be in the same league as William, but considering that this is my first attempt, I offer living proof that any fool can write a play. If nothing else, Love’s Labor Found rescues the lovers who the Bard left suspended in time, when the anticipated wedding bells tolled for the death of the King of France. I also dispensed with Shakespeare’s sing-song rhyme scheme, opting for free verse that’s more palatable to modern tastes.

“For my next hat trick, I’ve written a novel, The Bard and the Barman, revealing why Shakespeare had to suppress his own sequel, Love’s Labor Won, which several scholars have written off as lost. While some skeptics may try to use my work to prop up Freud’s supposition that the Bard was a Frenchman, my novel will dash their hopes. Freud’s “Shakepierre” was only a figment of his unconscious. The real Shakespeare had one foot in England and the other in France, straddling the English Channel like the literary giant he is.

“To those who suppose that Shakespeare’s work was actually penned by the Earl of Oxford, Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, or Anne Hathaway, I say, get over it!”

Literary Tides of London

*Latin for Beginners:* Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

American Author Fires a Shot Across the Bow of Shakespeare Scholars

Once again, Americans poke their nose into English history, even if with good intentions. As part of a crusade to give Shakespeare his due, another upstart crow has appeared on the scene, determined to show that there’s no reason look for the fingerprints of any collaborators. The author’s forthcoming novel, The Bard and the Barman, purports to be a memoir by Shakespeare’s confidant, written on a parchment scroll unearthed during the excavation of the Chunnel. The author’s surprising candor is disarming:

“I considered offering an alternative to traditional books and e-books by printing a version of my book on toilet paper, to mimic the Chunnel Scroll. I got the idea from a NPR segment about bathroom protocol on the International Space Station. The story underscored that there is simply no substitute for paper. While many people are perfectly content to read books on a screen, there are diehard readers who are tactile types, like me, who appreciate the feel of paper in their hands and the control it provides to proceed at your own pace.

“Besides, I rather liked that the plot of my story would unfold from the toilet paper spool. Alas, my publisher balked at the printing cost, and suggested that I save my brainstorm for a short story. My point is that if a mere mortal like me could come up with such a novel idea, why should anyone be surprised by Shakespeare’s genius. Look no further for the man behind his words.”

Liar’s Bench Press

ChatGPT 4.0 and Dall-e 3.0, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

American Author Tiptoes Around the Elephant in the Room

In an obvious ploy to drum up interest in his forthcoming novel, The Bard and the Barman, a debut author admitted that he resisted including Shakespeare’s name in the title, in order to reach a wider audience.

“I refuse to be drawn into the authorship controversy, which has nothing to do with the extraordinary body of literature attributed to the Bard (or his surrogates). Whether or not you’re familiar with her/his/their work or not, my book has something for everybody, irregardless of genre or sexual preference.

“While readers who have seen Love’s Labor Lost may gain a deeper appreciation of Shakespeare’s “lost years,” it is helpful to know that the play was a flop. Ostensibly a comedy about courtly love in a tiny principality where the enlightened king challenges his lords to a three-year moratorium on women, his noble intentions go awry when a French princess arrives with her ladies in waiting. Indeed, the Bard keeps them waiting at the end of the play, when the merrymaking comes to a crashing halt with the death of the King of France.

“While some might argue that this ill-conceived play proves that Shakespeare was a mere mortal, rather than an astonishing genius, it provides fodder for fiction. It raises just the kind of questions that Sherlock Holmes or Socrates, might ask: Why would an up-and-coming English playwright chose such an obscure historical figure for a protagonist? Why not write about characters familiar to English audiences? Why go to great lengths to satirize courtly love and then bring the curtain down with a death knell? And why not write a sequel to atone for leaving audiences left hanging out to dry?

“Although I don’t pretend to solve all of these conundrums in my novel, I suspect that the plot of Love’s Labor Lost may have been begged, borrowed or stolen from Miguel Cervantes, old enough to be Shakespeare’s father, but a Spaniard who had good reason for seeing the Bard as a rival, and detested England as a hotbed of Protestantism. Having fled to Italy because of a duel, I wouldn’t put it past him to have challenged the Bard to adapt one of Cervantes’ mediocre plays for the London stage; an act of sabotage targeting Shakespeare and Queen Elizabeth, killing two birds with one stone.

“Consider, if you will, the name of the protagonist, King Ferdinand, obviously a Spanish name and a surrogate for Spain’s King Phillipe II, who also saw himself as an enlightened monarch presiding over Spain’s Golden Age. Whether originated by Cervantes or Shakespeare, the pompous character, Don Armado, provides comic relief. It seems likely that he was modeled after the famous Spanish playwright, Lopez de Vega, Cervantes’ bitter rival. Consider as well the play’s premise, King Ferdinand’s call for celibacy, which make some sense in a Catholic country, but has no tradition in England except for the few Puritans who fled to America.

“I raise these issues without claiming to know all of the answers, but to show that The Bard and the Barman is composed of many layers, like a lasagna. At the same time, I don’t want to call attention to the different ingredients, but to the taste itself. My novel is only an invitation to the feast.”

M. Hatlen

Liar’s Bench Press

DiscoA340, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Author’s journal entry, London

Stuck here on the tarmac at Heathrow, waiting for a gate to open up, due to the transportation strike. The Brits must have caught the virus from the French. I purposely planned to avoid London until later in my trip, as I’m bound and determined to make it to Hay-on-Wye. Now it’s doubtful that I’ll be able to get a taxi. Renting a car is out of the question, as I’d never get the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road. Thank God I’m traveling light, because if push comes to shove, I can hitchhike. Hallelujah, the plane is moving.

Andrew Lih (User:Fuzheado), CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Odd Man Out at the Hay Festival

The appearance of the author of the controversial novel, The Bard and the Barman, created quite a stir yesterday when he showed up at the Hay Festival, uninvited, claiming to be an “early bird.” His explanation, that he was “just winging it,” didn’t go over well with other authors, who complained that the interloper was behaving like an ugly American.

Invited writers were especially put off by his arrival via hot air balloon, obviously trying to capitalize on the BBC’s reprise of “Around the World in 80 Days.” The abrasive author quickly drew comments about being “full of hot air himself” and acting like a “showboat.” Shunned by the local booksellers for his boorish behavior, the author began using colored chalk to scrawl excerpts from his novel on the road leading to Hay-on-Wye until he was given a ticket by a policewoman for defacing public property. Hatlen was last seen climbing into the gondola of the hot air balloon, where his ascent was met with cheers of “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Hay Fever

Daderot, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Letter to George Spelvin, Jr. from British Antiquities Museum (BAM)

George Spelvin, Jr.

13 Queen’s Way

Vancouver, B.C.

Dear Mr. Spelvin,

On the basis of our recent Zoom interview, we would like to offer you the position of Rare Books Specialist for the British Antiquities Museum. We are especially keen to have a rover in the so-called New World. Please sign, date and return the attached contract ASAP. Should you choose to refuse our offer, you are obliged to burn this correspondence, per the terms of the non-disclosure agreement. In the words of our founder, “Failure is not an option.”

Cordially,

Sir Reginald Goldcastle, President

Board of Directors

Wilsons Aviation Adventures, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Excerpt from journal of George Spelvin, Jr., resident of Canada

In retrospect, my dream job was too good to be true. As a rare book specialist, I jumped at the opportunity to work for the British Antiquities Museum (BAM), who have an unparalleled collection of rare books, but had yet to find any account of Shakespeare’s lost years. It seems hard to believe that the Bard didn’t leave any books or letters for posterity, especially considering that he must have corresponded with Anne Hathaway while he lived in London for so many years. Maddeningly, there was a persistent rumor about an account of his lost years, known only as the red book, allegedly written by unknown barman who served as Shakespeare’s confidant.

THE MUSEUM, as they referred to the institution among themselves, had gone to great lengths to find even a fragment the red book, partly to justify the exorbitant costs for their relentless search. As their Development Director, Margaret admitted to me, “Having scoured every nook and cranny of the Sceptered Isle, we’re confident that any copies were destroyed or lost. Yet we are left with a nagging feeling that a copy may surface someday. Our greatest fear is that the Americans will steal our thunder, as they did by cornering the market for the First Folio. Not to mention London Bridge, which was a fiasco of historic proportions. But don’t get me started.

“The fact that you’re a Canadian works in your favor. Not only do you revere the Queen, but you can pass for an American if need be. In fact, your territory covers all of North America, which may seem like a tall order, but the odds that any copies of the red book survived are slim to none. Nonetheless, we need someone with your expertise to look for other British books that have found their way across the pond. Stolen is more like it. What you need to understand is that we’re not just collectors, but stewards of the British Empire. Instead of hoarding British antiquities, our mission is to make them accessible to the British public. Hence our traveling exhibits, rather than a mausoleum. Do I make myself clear?”

While I was intrigued by the job, I had some questions of my own. “It sounds like a dream job to me, but if the Museum is committed to public access, why have you haven’t publicized the possible existence of the red book?”

As if in a tag wrestling match, one of the staff from the Intelligence & Acquisitions Department (IAD) responded to my challenge. “Timing is everything, my boy, and I believe that the Museum has been remarkably discreet about the rumored red book. As you can imagine, the Exploitation & Extraction Department (EED) has a vested interest in capitalizing on the rumored account of this glaring gap about the Bard’s youth. The revelation would make BAM the envy of every museum in the world.”

I couldn’t help interjecting at this point. “If I may say so, this job could put me in a predicament, because I’d be looking for a needle in a haystack, hoping that I didn’t find it. If I did, the cat would be out of the bag.”

Margaret was quick to add, “Which is precisely why we had you sign a non-disclosure agreement. Loose lips sink ships, and careers. On the other hand, we’re offering you the opportunity of a lifetime, to collect books on an entire continent at our expense.”

How could I refuse?

Author of Forthcoming Novel Not Very Forthcoming

The forthcoming novel, The Bard & the Barman, threatens to rock the publishing world with yet another book about the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon. Defying the conventional view that readers are saturated with Shakespeare, the author is betting that his new genre, historical friction, will breathe new life into the past.

“Historical fiction suffers from the flaw of foregone conclusions, since readers know the ending before they begin. The relationship between author and reader ought to mimic courtship, with successive conflicts giving way to passion, culminating in mutual gratification. Hence my account of Shakespeare’s ‘lost years,’ which blows traditional lore about the Bard out of the water.”

“Genre preference, like sexual preference, isn’t really a preference at all, but an innate tendency wired into our nervous systems. Thus, readers who love mysteries hate historical fiction, because they already know how it will turn out. That’s why I’ve come up with a new genre which bends the truth by adding twists and turns to add suspense. Narrative flow, like making love, thrives on the element of surprise. Historical friction not only makes use of inherent conflict, but adds fuel to the fire when needed. Likewise, instead of books on demand, I’m starting a new line of books on desire. I’m surprised the romance crowd didn’t think of that first.”

Coming upon the heels of the recent blockbuster, Hamnet, by Maggie O’Farrell and the latest biography, The Private Life of William Shakespeare, by Lena Cowen Orlin, yet another book on the Bard may be a stretch. To his credit, the author acknowledges his debt to his peers. “Who would have guessed that a book about the death of Shakespeare’s young son would be so compelling. Portraying Anne Hathaway as a kind of sorceress, with a falcon on her shoulder was a stroke of genius, upstaging the “upstart crow.”

Hatlen confesses that he didn’t read Orlin’s book, for fear of having his creative mind clouded with facts. “I’m easily distracted, and footnotes would only trip me up.” It remains to be seen whether or not his bold attempt to establish a new genre will succeed, but the publishing industry could use a breath of fresh air right now. Claiming to be one of the oldest debut novelists in the world, the author nonetheless refuses to disclose his age. Like Shakespeare, the author is entitled to his privacy, but why play that card before your book is even out?

Editor-in-chief

The Liars Bench Press

Photo of Chateu Frontenac by Wilfredo Rafael Rodriguez Hernandez, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Journal entry from George Spelvin, Jr.

Try to imagine what it’s like to always be on the lookout for what you’re afraid to find. Which has become my fate, traveling throughout the New World, collecting British books rare enough to be valuable to the British Antiquities Museum. Perhaps my greatest find was a leatherbound ledger listing George Washington as a mapmaker and troublemaker. How many Americans know their first president’s Iroquois nickname, Conotocaurius (town destroyer or devourer of villages)?

Quebec City may seem an unlikely place to search for British antiquities, but I was determined to leave no stone unturned in my quest for rare books. Arguably, the British and the French were complementary sides of the same coin in the New World, and I recalled that Champlain was Shakespeare’s contemporary, and was acting on behalf of Henri IV of France. So when I happened upon a rare bookshop near the famous hotel, Fairmont Le Château Frontenac, I struck gold, even though I left empty handed.

When I told the odd duck who owned the shop that I was looking for a book on Shakespeare’s lost years, he laughed like a Norwegian tailor, with a long, drawn-out wheeze. Then he gave me an earful. “Books are in my blood, young man, so you’re in luck, but you’re not going to like what I have to tell you. According to our family lore, I’m descended from the printer who lost his shirt when he published Shakespeare’s juicy memoir, which was actually ghostwritten by a barman in a London tavern. If anyone believed in ghosts, it’s the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon, so it seems fitting that the tale of his life was told by a ghost writer. Mind you, I’ve never seen a ghost before, except in the mirror from time to time, quick as a wink.

“My great-great-grandfather, or whatever he was, had to leave England when the Queen got wind of the bloody red book about her beloved Bard, which was burned in the streets of London. I’ve heard that the damned book warmed the backsides of a bunch of Brits, but they could learn a thing or two about cold from Canadians, I can tell you that much for sure. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time on such a wild goose chase. There’s rare and then there’s rare, if you follow my drift. Like steak tartar, some people like their meat bloody.”

Clear as mud, but I was undeterred. Instead of dampening my spirits, I was now hooked, because I had the testimony of someone with no reason to lie to me. Why would anyone make up such a far-fetched story if there weren’t an element of truth in it? But it flew in the face of what the Museum had told me, even if I had no reason to doubt their word. On second thought, I began to wonder why it took them so long to see the potential of the Scroll. Something was rotten in Britain.

I debated whether to tell the Museum about my discovery, for I had no proof that the any copies of the red book had survived. Nonetheless, I decided to report my conversation with the book dealer to ensure that they kept me on their payroll. Without finding any clues, there was the danger that BAM might see no reason to retain me.

Ostensibly my boss, though I had never met her, the Museum’s Development Director, Margaret, responded to my email with frosty words. “Your alarming report about the ‘bloody red book’ set off alarms in the bowels of THE MUSEUM. This is not the first time that we’ve heard rumors about the second-hand memoir, but once again, there’s not a shred of evidence. For future reference, you would be more likely to obtain useful information if you had purchased something from the bookseller, instead of milking him for information without some reciprocation. I happen to know a few things about human nature, which is why I work with donors, rather than antiquities. While there’s no point in buying something that is of little interest to our public, some token effort on your part might have encouraged the bookseller to dig deeper into his archives. So a word to the wise, spare no expense when the reputation of the British Empire is at stake.”

Needless to say, Margaret’s haughty tone grated on my nerves. If there’s one thing I abhor besides a vacuum, it’s a know-it-all telling me how to do my job. Of course it occurred to me that I might be able to grease the wheels by purchasing something from the bookseller, but I was only following the Golden Rule. Besides, the old man must have realized that BAM has deep pockets, but he didn’t try to take advantage of the situation to sell me anything. Margaret’s not the only one who knows something about human nature!

My revenge didn’t come swiftly, but I had to stifle a laugh when Margret called me out of the blue; Code Red in BAM’s protocol. “We have a situation here, George. Return of the repressed in Freud’s lingo, but the long and short of it is that someone is threatening to publish a novel implicating THE MUSEUM in a plot to coverup the Chunnel Scroll, containing an account of Shakespeare’s lost years. How they got a copy we don’t know yet. Might be a leak from a disgruntled Museum employee, or maybe the author stumbled upon a copy of the bloody red book. We’ll get to the bottom of this and heads will roll. Nota bene.

“I’m afraid it’s the worst scenario, even worse that our computer model predicted. The so-called author claims that his book is historical fiction, which he pulled out of the air. The equivalent of a five-alarm fire, ignited by an American. In the hope of getting a juicy quote for his book, the idiot contacted every notable British author he could think of: Kate Atkinson, Neil Gaiman, Ian McEwan, and J.K. Rowling, of course. Even tried to get to the Beatles and the Stones. Thank God someone sent us a review copy. We’ll probably never know the source, but it’s a testament to British pride that the mystery person took the trouble to warn us. The biggest donation of my career, but who knows what other surprises might turn up.”

I wanted to interject, “Sorry to hear about the crisis, but where do I come in?” However, I knew that this wasn’t a courtesy call, so I held my tongue and waited for her to come to the point. Sure enough, Margret launched into a spiel reminiscent of Mission Impossible. “As the culprit’s on your turf, we want you to see what you can dig up on this Hoosier, whatever that means.” As a Canadian I had seen enough American television to have heard about Indiana, but the prospect of venturing to the Midwest didn’t grab me, especially in the winter. Suddenly, my plan to go ice-fishing on Lake Superior went up in smoke.

Mission Impossible cast: CBS Television, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Letter from George Spelvin, Jr. to Margaret Knightsbritch

Dear Margaret,

On my way to Indiana to see what I can dig up on the upstart author. Rather than perceiving him as a threat, it occurs to me that his novel represents a golden opportunity for BAM. What if we call his bluff by fashioning a replica of the Chunnel Scroll on parchment, which could be reproduced (with limited editions) to sell to collectors, museums and libraries around the world. Although this venture would entail translating the novel into Old English, it would be easy enough to alter a few details to avoid copyright infringement; indeed, the novel lacks any explicit sex or violence, so perhaps we could spice it up.

The beauty of this scheme is that whether or not we succeed in stopping publication of the novel, the resulting publicity could generate considerable interest in BAM’s replicas. I imagine that major donors would be delighted to obtain first editions of the Chunnel Scroll. I hope you will consider my proposal; I welcome any suggestions you may have. Thank you.

George II

Loose Cannon by Des Blenkinsopp, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Letter from Sir Reginald Goldcastle to Margaret Knightsbritch

Dear Margaret,

Per Mr. Spelvin’s fiendish suggestion that BAM conspire to fabricate the Chunnel Scroll, I can only say that this greenhorn is too clever by half. As much as I appreciate this young man’s sense of initiative, he knows not what he asks, which is tantamount to counterfeiting. Moreover, is runs counter to everything that THE MUSEUM stands for, which is the preservation of English culture. I urge to rein him in immediately. The very thought of having a loose cannon in our former colonies chills me to the bone. Need I say more?

Reggie

Letter from Margaret Knightsbritch (BAM) to George Spelvin, Jr.

George,

Per your proposal, I suggest that you refrain from putting anything else in writing until further notice, but if you can find a translator, that would be very helpful; it’s hard to know who we can trust in the UK these days.

Petard: Pearson Scott Foresman, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Encrypted email from Margaret Knightsbritch to Sir Reginald Goldcastle

Reggie,

At the risk of insubordination, I appeal to your sense of patriotism to reconsider your position and lend your considerable weight to convincing the Board that we CAPITALIZE on the opportunity to fire a shot across the bow of the bloody Americans and hoist the upstart author on his own petard. Unthinkable as it is, we cannot run the risk that the court will cave to the free speech argument and allow the publisher to go to press. In any case, if BAM doesn’t fabricate the Chunnel Scroll, someone else will. Seizing control of the reins at this critical juncture will allow us to control our own destiny. Carpe diem!

Margaret

Reynold Brown, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Letter of resignation from Elizabeth Caldwell Burtlestorm, Secretary of BAM’s Board of Directors

Members of the Board

I never thought I’d live to see such a travesty of justice, in which an ugly American triggered such a heinous act of piracy by my beloved MUSEUM. What is the world coming to, when an unknown writer of no repute whatsoever can rock the foundations of the British Empire with some rubbish about BAM’s efforts to suppress the true story of William Shakespeare’s lost years? Shame on the hapless writer, and shame on BAM for confirming this nonsense about the so-called Chunnel Scroll. Shakespeare must be rolling over in his grave, as will I when I die of heartbreak.

With profound regret,

Elizabeth

Journal entry from George Spelvin, Jr.

I’m a rare book specialist, not a run-of-the-mill private detective, but even I know that there was no such thing as privacy anymore, so I had no trouble finding the upstart author’s home address in Boomville, Indiana. After checking into the Cap & Gown hotel near the campus of Border State University, I decided to walk by the Yankee’s house instead of cruising by in my car with British Columbia license plates—which could have been a red flag. Americans are fond of naming their streets after presidents, so it was easy enough to find Truman Avenue, a tree-lined street with a mix of student rentals and bungalows. I was fascinated to see that Americans inherited the British proclivity for tidy lawns.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see the author sitting on his front porch, since he hadn’t published anything before and retained some semblance of privacy. Indeed, it occurred to me that might be a way for me to get to him. But the truth is, I hadn’t planned what I was going to say to him, because I know a lot more about books than people. In retrospect, I suppose that I should have spent some time observing him in his natural habitat. So I was unprepared when he looked up to see me staring at him, trying to decide how to broach the impasse that lay between us. He said, “Can I help you, young man? You look lost.”

Rather than trying to come up with some cover story, I thought it best to nip the problem in the bud. “I suppose I am, because I’m at a loss to convey to you the magnitude of the mistake you’re about to make by publishing your novel about the Chunnel Scroll.”

“How on earth did you know about my ground-breaking book? What right do you have to poke your nose into my business?”

I was in an awkward position, since I had been sent on a reconnaissance mission, but I didn’t want to be construed as an errand boy. “My name is George, and a little bird told me about your forthcoming book, so I hope I’m not too late. Suffice it to say that I specialize in rare books, which is how I came to hear about the exposé of Shakespeare while he was still alive. You’re four centuries late.”

By now the author was standing up, and I was afraid that he might hurl his coffee cup at me. He said, “If you’ve done your homework, you would know that all of the copies of the book in question were destroyed. Besides, I don’t claim that my account of the Bard’s lost years is true. My version of his life is pure fiction.”

I couldn’t let him get away with this preposterous claim. “An oxymoron if there ever was one. Do you really think that novelists just spin stories out of thin air? What do you think is going to happen when the real Chunnel Scroll comes to light and you’re exposed as a fraud? There’s still time for you to cancel your ill-fated publication before you make a complete fool of yourself.”

I could tell that I had struck a nerve. He replied, “If you’re trying to threaten me, you’re not doing a very good job. I have finally found a publisher who’s willing to stick his neck out for me. Nothing you can say or do can prevent me from publishing my novel. Even if I wanted to, it’s too late to stop the presses.”

As I could tell that nothing would dissuade him, I at least wanted to get something off of my chest. “I can tell that I’m wasting my breath, but don’t say that I didn’t warn you. Don’t you Americans have better things to write about than dead white Englishmen? When are you going to wean yourself from the motherland and create your own literature? Does the world really need another book about William Shakespeare?”

I left Boomtown with a bad feeling, knowing that Margaret would be livid, despite the fact that I hadn’t revealed anything about BAM. Rather than calling her I sent a telegram: AUTHOR WON’T BUDGE. OBVIOUSLY HAS NO IDEA THAT BAM POSSESSES THE SCROLL. LOOKS AS IF A COLLISION IS IMMINENT. I’D LOVE TO BE WRONG.

Author’s journal, London, England

Murphy was right, “Everything that can wrong, will go wrong.” Yet even his dictum didn’t prepare me for the sudden turn of events. If nothing else, I thought my fellow writers would appreciate my stagecraft in making such a dramatic entrance at Hay-on-Wye, but my daring-do was lost on these hacks. I suspect that they were green with envy, and it didn’t help that I’m a foreigner, and an American to boot. Without a book in hand, I was at a disadvantage, like going to a duel unarmed. The Brits aren’t known for being merciful, as Joan of Arc could testify. I had hoped to spend some time in Wales after going to the Hay Festival, but I barely escaped with my life, or at least, my sense of dignity. I must have turned even paler than I am when Rich called to tell me about the court case.

When I told him I’d be glad to take the stand, he advised me to lay low. “I appreciate your offer, but I’m afraid BAM’s barrister would have your hide. I can almost hear him tearing you apart on the stand. ‘Having a writer testify on his own behalf is asking for trouble, your Honor. Novelists trade in fiction, earning their living by lying through their teeth. The better the liar, the better the writer, seducing readers into suspending judgment. You can’t blame a python for swallowing its victim, because they were born to it. Putting a snake on the stand wouldn’t be fair to the victim or the perp.’

Rich had a point, of course, nor was I eager to spend any of my precious time in a foreign courtroom, but I wanted to control my own destiny; hubris, perhaps, but I have always been plain spoken with myself. If ever there was a place to be honest, it’s a journal. Indeed, I’m almost religious about keeping a journal, even if it rarely yields any fruit. There is something about the process that is essential to my work, even if I can’t articulate the value of jotting down the random thoughts that flit through my mind.

The Royal Court of Justice, London by Martin Kerans, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS

_____________________________________________________________________________

IN THE COMBINED COURT CENTRE AT PORTSMOUTH

Before HIS HONOUR JUDGE LURIE

BRITISH ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM [PERSON A]

-v-

BURTON-TAYLOR PAPERBACKS [PERSON B]

MS. POTTS (barrister) appeared on behalf of the claimant, the BRITISH ANTIQUITIES MUSEM

MR BURTON (publisher) appeared on behalf of the respondent, BURTON-TAYLOR PAPERBACKS

MS. POTTS: May I please your Honor; in this matter I represent the Museum.

MR. BURTON: May I please your Honor, I represent Burton-Taylor books. As a small, independent publisher, I cannot afford to hire a barrister. I believe the facts will speak for themselves.

JUDGE LURIE: That is for the court to decide, Mr. Burton. Let us proceed. According to the lawsuit initiated by the Museum, the author of the forthcoming book, The Bard & The Barman, threatens to defame William Shakespeare, the British public and the British Antiquities Museum. Furthermore, the Museum contends that your author has plagiarized a document in the sole possession of the Museum. How do you answer the charge?

MR. BURTON: Stuff and nonsense, your honor. In the first place, freedom of expression is guaranteed in the Human Rights Act. In the second place, whatever relevant document the museum possesses is based on my author’s novel, not vice versa.

MR. POTTS: Objection, your Honor. According to the author’s own, written account, the Chunnel Scroll was entrusted to the museum for safekeeping. Isn’t that true, Mr. Burton?

MR. BURTON: Yes, but…

JUDGE LURIE: No ifs, ands or buts, Mr. Burton. Just answer the question. Yes or no.

MR. BURTON: Yes, your Honor.

John Levin, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Author’s journal entry, London, England

I see that I’ve neglected to write down anything about where I’m staying, which is not a Freudian slip, but merely a reflection of my Spartan accommodations, if you can even call my spare cell such a word. Admittedly, it’s cheap, for London, but I was mainly intrigued by the prospect of staying in a replica of a cell in the notorious Clink Prison, which Shakespeare must have passed numerous times on his way to the theater district. There’s even a museum for the prison, touting the instruments of torture at Clink, whose name conjures up the sound of a cell door closing behind you. OK, I just thought it would be cool. It didn’t dawn on me until I closed the door and opened my journal that the place resembled my dorm room from my freshman year at Redlands. Nor did I appreciate the irony of finding myself virtually in prison during my court case. Honestly, I would have given anything to be a fly on the wall in the courtroom, but I wouldn’t have been admitted unless I was prepared to testify. There was no way I was going to cross my publisher by taking the stand. He was the only other person in the world who had seen the potential of my novel, and had put his money where his mouth was, as they say. I trust him completely, and I owe him my loyalty. As a stranger in a strange land, I have a lot to learn. Indeed, I find the quaint signs charming, if slightly off-putting: MIND THE GAP, MIND YOUR HEAD, MIND YOUR MANNERS.

Contest Between David & Goliath Off to an Uneven Start

The court case against the publisher of The Bard & The Barman did not begin well for Burton-Taylor Paperbacks, which had to concede that the British Antiquities Museum possessed an account of the Bard’s lost years, detailed in the Chunnel Scroll. Nor was the publisher able to deny that the novel by a novice writer resembles the account by the anonymous barman. However, the question remains as to why the museum has kept the public in the dark about the existence of such a fascinating glimpse into Shakespeare’s lost years. We wait with baited breath to see how the case unfolds.

The Thames Tidings

COURT CASE (CONTINUED)

JUDGE LURIE: The museum has established that they possess the Chunnel Scroll, but they have declined to produce the document, which they contend is fragile, and contains highly sensitive information about William Shakespeare. By withholding such evidence, the museum must forgo the charge of plagiarism, since the Court has no basis of comparison. In effect, the case comes down to whether or not The Bard & The Barman defames anyone, to the point where publication ought to be suppressed. Thus, it is incumbent upon the museum to show good cause for curtailing freedom of expression. I am not interested in seeing a laundry list of passages from the novel which the museum considers odious. I will give you twenty-four hours to submit three excerpts that most people would agree are defamatory. Do not presume to ask any questions, because I have made it crystal clear that the burden is upon the British Antiquities Museum to back up their claim. Court dismissed.

Even-handed Judge Referees David vs. Goliath

The testy judge in the Chunnel Scroll controversy has narrowed the case down to brass tacks, requiring the British Antiquities Museum to show good cause for preventing publication of The Bard & The Barman by an obscure American author; whether or not the museum hopes to stop publication altogether, or delay the novel’s release for their own purposes, is still unclear. There are ample examples of British books that ran afoul of the law, but eventually found their way into print; Lady Chatterley’s Lover comes to mind of course, not to mention Tom Jones. The version of the Chunnel Scroll which BAM apparently possesses may well be written in Old English, rendering it practically undecipherable for all but over-educated scholars. Thus, the museum may be stalling for time, hoping to produce a readable version of the document. The publication of the novel by the Yankee writer could render the efforts of BAM moot. In short, a great deal is at stake in this riveting court case.

The Thames Tidings

Author’s journal, London

My attempt to surprise my publisher by turning up at his office backfired when his secretary told me that he was in the process of moving to Scotland, and had no idea when to expect him. Was this just a ruse to avoid me and curtail my curiosity about the court case? Crestfallen, I decided to see if I could find a tour of Shakespeare’s London. Clearly, the Bard is still a cash cow for the Brits, with numerous tours via double-decker bus, horse & carriage, and boat, but I didn’t consider myself a tourist. I think of myself as a researcher, endeavoring to retrace Shakespeare’s steps, even if I’m a bit late. I would have loved to spend some time in England to help give my novel verisimilitude, but Covid thwarted my plans. For better or worse, I had to rely on my imagination, which paid off in spades, if not dollars. Sure, an advance would have been nice, but I was glad just to get published.

As I see that I’m drifting off course, I want to record my self-guided tour, which allowed me to proceed at my own pace, starting outside the city gates in Shoreditch—hardly a catchy name. I thought it fitting to begin with The Theater, London’s first building dedicated to the performance of plays, quite a novel pursuit at the time. All that remains of this monument to the early days of drama is a plaque. As a member of Lord Chambers Men, Shakespeare took the stage here, but you would never know that Bard began his career at The Theater without the modest marker. I was sobered by the realization that the Bard’s London looks nothing like the city which he knew so intimately. In retrospect, I regretted that I hadn’t attempted to portray London more fully in my novel, but I would have been forced to pull any description of the city out of my hat. Fortunately, I didn’t spend much ink on London, for I wanted to focus on Shakespeare’s lost years. Turning what I could see of The Theater with my own eyes reminded me that I’m not an alchemist, but merely a writer. Witnessing how little I had to go on, I was glad that I just tried to sketch the city, rather than trying to render it as an oil painting. Another reminder that less is more.

Following a map I found online, I continued along Bankside to the Globe, which was reconstructed not far from the original location—long obliterated by developers. From my perspective, the Stratfordians dropped the ball by allowing the original theater to be torn down, but who am I to throw stones? Ironically, it took an American, Sam Wannamaker, to spearhead the restoration of the Globe; the Brits couldn’t be bothered to preserve the remnants of the world’s greatest playwright.

When I inquired about tickets for the Globe’s current play, Titus Andronicus, the young man practically laughed at me. “Sold out sir. You don’t look like you were born yesterday, but haven’t you learned to plan ahead? Improvisation has its merits, but not at the Globe. Do you realize that you’re standing in front of the most famous theater in the world?”

I was proud of myself for refraining from giving him a tongue-lashing. God knows I can be a curmudgeon, but age confers certain privileges; the young whipper-snapper with the piercing blue eyes and pierced body parts didn’t have a leg to stand on. I was actually relieved that I didn’t have to spend a wad of cash on one of my least favorite plays. Despite the fact that I felt obliged to mention it in my novel, Titus Andronicusdoesn’t rise above bear-baiting in my opinion.

I turned on my heel and headed for the Rose, which predates the Globe by a decade. Sadly, the very place where the Bard began his career has all but disappeared, with a just another plaque and some interpretive exhibits to commemorate the buried Rose; what a shame that such a site should suffer such a fate. Making my way to the next place on the map, the original site of the Globe, I found it heartbreaking to see that it was situated so close to the Rose, just a stone’s throw away. Like lovers buried in adjoining graves, they seemed haunted, with Shakespeare’s words still hanging in the air for centuries.

My train of thought was broken when I encountered a tour group, led by a fetching young woman whose precise diction suggested that she was an actress. “Our next stop is the George Inn, where actors used to perform in the courtyard. Notice the huge balcony, which might well have inspired the famous scene in Romeo and Juliet.” More out of curiosity than anything else, I tagged along, impressed by the size of the courtyard and the period detail of the two-story building. Someone in the group piped up, “Romeo, Romeo, where art Thou,” confirming my bias about gaggles of tourists.

I broke off from the group and began looking for the back entrance of the Inn, which was much more impressive than the humble Bayside Inn which I had imagined. So I was delighted to see that the back entrance of the George Inn would make a perfect location for shooting a movie of my novel. Indeed, I suddenly realized that instead of traipsing around London filled with disappointment by the destruction of the Bard’s haunts, I ought to be scouting locations for the movie I’d like to see on the screen. To my credit, I don’t picture myself as the director of The Bard & the Barman, but I’d like to have some input on the creation of the film, if only as a consultant. Obviously, I’m getting ahead of myself, since my novel isn’t even out yet, but I recall the Boy Scout motto, Be Prepared.

COURT CASE (CONTINUED)

JUDGE LURIE: Let us consider the crux of the case according to the Museum. Mr. Potts, please proceed.

MR. POTTS: Thank you for this opportunity to get to the heart of the matter, your Honor. We believe that the selected passages reveal that the subtle damage which the author has inflicted on the sterling reputation of William Shakespeare. Indeed, I hesitate to read the excerpts out loud, for the are clearly intended to portray him as a womanizer, a closet Francophile, and a provocateur who conspired with a foreign potentate, namely Henri IV of France.

Like a fish story, his reputation grew larger with each lie he told, spinning them into yarns that made him famous. Those of us who really knew him saw a very different side of the Bard, which is why I want to set the record straight. Mind you, it’s not his money that I was after, which he wasted on gambling. I should know, because I was his bookie for a time, placing bets for him while he sat at the bar, sipping warm beer and ogling every woman in the place. As is well known, he had an eye for older women, but he wasn’t very picky when opportunity presented herself. You’d be surprised how many maidens fell for his usual pick-up line, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Will had been taught that mankind was separated from paradise by death, so imagine his surprise when he discovered France, a mere twenty-two miles across the Channel. In truth, the rough crossing proved worse than death, but all his heaving was soon forgotten when the ship landed in Eden. The port of Calais itself was nothing to look at, but he had never seen so many pretty girls in his life. He’d been to London before, when he was ten, long before girls held any interest for him. He confessed that he was in no hurry to get to the village where his French relatives lived, near Bergerac, which is where he cultivated his taste for wine. So he took his sweet time, spending most of the little money he had on French pastry until his pockets were empty.

Even Will was impressed by his own boldness, but you’d be surprised what one is capable of when staring death in the face. At this point, he had nothing to lose, since Henri had good reason to champion his success. The king clearly needed someone to help him realize his ambitions, and here Will was, a native speaker of English with enough wit to gamble for a living, and a gift for embellishing the truth. The part was practically written for him.

POTTS (CONTINUED): We rest our case your Honor. I dare say that heretics have been burned at the stake for less. Surely such damming words ought to be suppressed.

JUDGE LURIE: I will give the matter considerable thought, Mr. Potts. The court will entertain a rebuttal, if Mr. Burton wishes to reply.

MR. BURTON: Thank you, your Honor. I don’t believe that any rebuttal is needed, for how can anyone argue that the author has slandered the Bard in any way. If anything, the novel reveals what a colorful character he was. No one, not even the most strident Stratfordian, has ever claimed that Shakespeare was a paragon of virtue, for it’s clear that he fathered his first child out of wedlock, wasn’t a great actor, and left practically nothing to his devoted wife when he died. The Bard & The Barman is pure fiction, meant to entertain. For anyone who wants to know the facts, there are hundreds of purported non-fiction books about the Bard, who managed to elude his biographers. Freedom of expression is sacred, your Honor, and needs to be guarded at all costs. Thank you for giving me an opportunity to stand up for such a fundamental human right.

Chunnel Scroll Showdown

Although the Judge didn’t say so in so many words, her meaning was clear: time to put up or shut up. Tasked with selecting passages from the novel-in-waiting, the British Antiquities Museum contended that the author denigrated the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon as a skirt-chaser, a lover of all things French (especially women), and a secret agent in league with the devil, in the form of Henri IV of France, whose infamous words still ring in our Protestant ears: “Paris is worth a mass.” We do not have enough space to include these damning passages, nor do we want to be accused of sensationism, so we leave it to the vivid imaginations of our readers to conjure up the (potentially) incriminating words. One can only wonder if the Judge will read the entire manuscript before rendering the verdict, or if she has heard enough to make up her mind. In any case, she has done a masterful job of focusing on the essentials, without letting anything divert the course of justice. Now, all of London is on pins and needles.

The Thames Tidings

Author’s Journal Entry, South London

My paranoia that someone was following me was confirmed when I found an unmarked manilla envelope tucked under the door of my cell, with a note from the manager informing me that my time was up. If this was attempted humor, it went over my head, because I didn’t appreciate being singled out as a persona non grata. “For reasons which remain unclear to me, the police have requested that you find another place to stay, for your own protection. I suggest that you consider staying on a boat along the Thames, where you can deal directly with the owner and avoid email. Nonetheless, I hope you will return to The Clink in the future, when the clouds have lifted.”

As if to underscore the warning, the note was accompanied by a target with my picture on it, obviously taken from the back cover of my high school yearbook; how someone obtained my photo was the least of my worries. The target was riddled with holes, evidently pierced by darts, aimed primarily at my nose (arguably my most distinctive feature.) In some ways, I was grateful that my face was almost unrecognizable, for I looked like a dork, but there was no mistaking the person on the target. In my mind’s eye, I could see the backroom in a London dive, with a gang of hooligans hurling darts at my pimply face.

Mindful that I had been accused of stereotyping the Brits, I banished the image of hooligans from my thoughts. Clearly, someone was trying to intimidate me. My suspicions turned to BAM, of course. What kind of miscreant would cook up such a fiendish plot? Instead of simply using the author photo on the back of my forthcoming book, he/she/they had gone to the trouble of digging up my high school yearbook to smear me. There was nothing to stop my tormentors from posting my photo on the Internet, but were holding that card for the moment, waiting for my next move. The court case seemed tame by comparison. As much as I wanted to continue following Shakespeare’s steps, I needed to find a refuge. The plot against me had thickened and curdled.

COURT CASE (CONCLUDED)

JUDGE LURIE: Having heard what the claimant deems the most damming excerpts from the novel in question, I felt it was incumbent on me to read the entire novel, which kept me up half of the night; I was glad that I didn’t have to pass judgment on War and Peace. The author of The Bard & The Barman was shrewd enough to keep the story short, which certainly helped his case. A good chef, like a good lover, leaves us wanting more, underscoring the pleasure of anticipation. Far from feeling sated, the novel only increased my curiosity about Shakespeare, the man. Rather than defiling his reputation, as Mr. Potts has charged, the novel fleshes the Bard out, portraying him a young man endeavoring to bring complex characters to life on the stage. While I understand the Museum’s reluctance to admit that a foreigner might be able to add to our appreciation of our native son, I see no reason to silence the author. Had the British Antiquities Museum seen the potential for collaborating with the author, rather than trying to persecute him, everyone, especially the British public, might have benefited from the light shed by the Chunnel Scroll.

Although antipathy toward American is understandable, considering the revolting behavior of our former colonies, Americans have saved our bacon, twice, in two world wars. I hasten to add that if it weren’t for Britain, who conquered the wilderness of the New World, Americans would be speaking French or Spanish. As is increasingly evident, Americans remain savages and continue to butcher the English language. To be fair, such history should have no bearing on the case at hand.

The bottom line is that BAM has failed to make a compelling case for suspending publication of The Bard & The Barman. As much as it pains me to see another American poaching on our land, freedom of expression is a hallmark of civilization, as exemplified by Great Britain. As stewards of English culture, the British Antiquities Museum ought to have called attention to the Chunnel Scroll, rather than keeping it a secret. They didn’t do themselves any favors by attempting to suppress publication of the novel in question. If anything, their ill-considered lawsuit only generated publicity for the forthcoming novel, which might well have been ignored by the public.

At this point, BAM can only hope that most people will have forgotten about the Chunnel Scroll controversy by the time the novel comes out. To prevent piracy, I grant all rights of reproduction of the document to the British Antiquities Museum, for non-commercial purposes. To avoid confusion by the public and to delineate monetary considerations, I rule that the Chunnel Scroll and The Bard & The Barman are separate entities. Which came first, like the proverbial chicken or egg, remains a conundrum that is probably unsolvable. Likewise, there seems little doubt that William Shakespeare borrowed ideas from other writers, so I see no point in dealing with any charges of plagiarism. Case dismissed.

Attempt to Suppress Shakespeare Saga Foiled

The Court has ruled that the British Antiquities Museum (BAM) does not have the right to monopolize the account of the Bard’s “lost years” discovered by a workman during the excavation of the Chunnel during the late 1980’s. According to the author of the forthcoming novel, The Bard and the Barman, the story is based on his travels to Europe, where he noted that Henri IV of France and Miguel Cervantes were contemporaries of Shakespeare. BAM claims that the “so-called author” plagiarized the true story which was entrusted to them.

“We don’t yet know how the upstart American managed to get his grubby hands on this national treasure, but his outrageous ploy to twist the truth into a tall tale violates public trust in British institutions. Fortunately, we have blown the whistle before his novel could become an audiobook, which would have been a travesty of the highest order. The Museum has no doubt that we will eventually identify the source of the leak, but in the meantime publication of what purports to be a novel must be curtailed. It’s bad enough that the Americans thumbed their nose at King George. This “novel” would only add insult to injury.”

When asked why the British Antiquities Museum has never acknowledged their possession of the Chunnel Scroll until now, a spokesperson noted, “We have guarded this treasure like a pair of eagles, waiting until the time was ripe for us to share our secret. Now that the story has been leaked, we remain determined to honor the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon by preserving this priceless memoir, ensuring that the original language is retained. Besides, it’s bad enough that most of Shakespeare’s folios have fallen into the hands of foreigners. Surely this account of his lost years ought to remain in British hands.”

Although such sentiment would find wide support in the UK, it appears that the Museum had apparently been hoarding their windfall for years. As one critic noted,

In keeping with the principle of finders-keepers, we submit that the unknown workman who took the trouble to recover the document in question ought to be credited with the discovery. He was right to turn the treasure over to the British Antiquities Museum, even if they confiscated his find. However, there was nothing stopping them from releasing the back story of the greatest dramatist in the world, while retaining the original language. As stewards of such a priceless historical document, BAM has an obligation to share it the citizens of the Commonwealth, rather than sitting on the Museum’s nest egg for decades, which suggests monetary motives.

Although it is unfortunate to have yet another American meddle in British affairs, we see no reason to prevent publication of his novel based on the Chunnel Scroll. As the judge noted, even the Bard borrowed material for many of his plays. Considering that the boundary between fact and fiction continues to blur in such troublesome times, we must uphold the right to freedom of expression, even if it makes us uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, we encourage the respective parties to exercise restraint in licensing the contents of the Chunnel Scroll to manufacturers of sheets, bedspreads, clothes, coffee cups, handbags and the like, lest the public become oversaturated with Shakespearenalia. Just because “content is king” doesn’t mean you can throw good taste out the shop window.

Thames Tidings

Author’s journal, London, England

The dismissal of BAM’s charges should have been good news, but I knew that it was just a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. If anything, the court’s ruling would only infuriate BAM or the cabal hidden in the bowels of the Museum. Having skipped a day writing in my journal because of the turn of events, I need to record my recollections before they are lost forever. My long, winding walk to the Thames is too banal to bear noting, but I purposely took a circuitous route to ensure that no one was following me. Even if I failed to spot them (for I’ve seen enough spy movies to know that surveillance is best conducted via teams), I’m certain that I would have worn my pursuers down by stopping at every place I could think where Shakespeare might have been. The downside of this scheme proved to be the hordes of tourists who were following guides gushing about the Bard, but the upside is that I was able to hide in plain sight. At every opportunity, I joined the throng of tourists and even bought a couple of tickets, in case some disgruntled guide tried to out me. I dare say that I saw more of London than most tourists have seen in a lifetime.

If I may say so, the beauty of my strategy is that I was able to see the Shakespeare sites from several vantage points, including the London Sewer Tour (which takes you under the Tower of London), ending at Tower Pier. Indeed, when I discovered that I could hop on (and off) a boat at Westminster, London Eye, Tower and Greenwich Piers, while repeatedly cruising by the Globe, I was practically giddy with delight. Not only did I see every place in London associated with Shakespeare (according to Wikipedia), I am certain that not even Sherlock Holmes could have tailed me.

For someone who distains tourism, I managed to embrace my enemy, like a Zen master. Rather than fret about finding a place to stay, I put that out of my mind, confident that if I completed my mission, an opportunity would present itself. But I see that I’m getting ahead of myself, because I want to document my impressions of key sites before I get to my discovery further afield.

While I was still in Bankside, I had to visit Southwark Cathedral, reportedly frequented by the Bard and fellow actors, including his brother, Edmund, who’s buried there in an unmarked grave. I was disappointed by the statue of a reclining Shakespeare with a quill in his hand, as if he were lying on down on the job. However, nothing could have prepared me for the beauty of the stained-glass window highlighting characters from several of the Bard’s plays. To my eyes, the predominant image is Prospero, which some people have suggested is Shakespeare’s alter ego. Despite having seen this window repeatedly, I remain enthralled with this astonishing work of art, which had to be recreated after WWII. I felt like a child, searching for faces in a cloud, where I could see Falstaff, Hamlet, King Lear, Lady Macbeth, Puck, Romeo & Juliet and Titania floating above me. I don’t recall ever seeing a stained-glass window with such a secular figure as Shakespeare; having witnessed the destruction of the stained-glass windows in his parish church during his boyhood, I think he would be amazed to see this turn of events.

Crossing London Bridge was something of a letdown, not only because I was well aware that the real bridge was now a trophy in Lake Havasu, Arizona, which seems like a travesty, even to an American like me. Yet another reminder that nothing is as it seems. I took some consolation in that fact that Shakespeare never set foot on the bridge in Arizona, since London Bridge has been rebuilt repeatedly (I suppose that’s redundant). I was also disappointed by the loss of other prominent landmarks on the map, such as the Boar’s Head Inn and Cross Keys Inn, where plays were performed before any freestanding theaters were built. I couldn’t even find a plaque commemorating their existence. Made me feel that I was on a bit of a snipe hunt.

Thank God for St. Helen’s Bishopgate church, which somehow survived the Great Fire of London in 1666. I finally had a landmark I could see with my own eyes, even if it was an odd-looking bit of British architecture, with adjoining naves for churchgoers and nuns, perhaps one of the Lord’s few attempts at humor. Its ugliness is redeemed by the fact that Shakespeare was one of the parishioners, which is confirmed by tax records showing that he failed to pay a tax of 5 shillings. I’m not good at math, but I gather that the tax didn’t amount to much. It raises the question, of course, if he was just a cheapskate (from Cheapside) or was protesting the national tax which funded the Queen’s war on Ireland. Notably, none of the Bard’s plays were set in Ireland, which confirms my theory (more like a wild guess) that he steered clear of the Irish question because it was too controversial.

I had to see the First Folio Monument, of course, partly to see the Bard’s bust, but mainly because of its location on Love Lane; I’m surprised that the Beatles didn’t write a song about it, but I’m not sure how much Shakespeare they knew. In any case, the monument to his fellow actors, Condell and Hemings, wasn’t erected until 1896, long after Shakespeare’s death, so I didn’t bother returning there on my whirlwind tour.

Hoping to resume following the Bard’s footsteps, I made my way to Silver Street, where he lived with a Huguenot family, Mountjoy, near St. Olave’s church in Cripplegate. But the church is long gone, with little to see in the neighborhood where Shakespeare lived, except a block of stone with a skull and cross-bones marking the location of the church’s graveyard. Once again, there’s a tangible artifact confirming the Bard’s presence in the area, thanks to a court record showing that he was called as a witness for a dispute involving the marriage of Mountjoy’s daughter; apparently Shakespeare’s memory failed him in court. I was left wondering about his relationship with the daughter, since they lived under the same roof, but that’s probably unfair. Besides, the fact that he lived with a French family supports my premise that he was a Francophile.

Heading back towards the Thames, it was easy enough to spot St. Paul’s Cathedral, one of the most famous churches in the world. Once again, I was a few centuries too late, because the St. Paul’s which the Bard must have frequented was consumed by the Great Fire in 1666. According to almost all of the guidebooks I’ve looked at, St. Paul’s courtyard was the prime location for booksellers, so it seems likely the Bard knew the place well. It’s easy to picture him perusing the racks (or stacks) of books, looking for fodder for his next play, but it’s all in my head. The few remnants of the Bard’s London which have survived are few and far between, as I well know from my hasty pilgrimage.

The little bit of nostalgia that I felt at St. Paul’s was dispelled by the hordes of Harry Potter fans, coming to see the spectacular spiral staircase featured in a couple of films; I know who Harry is, of course, only because I watched one of the movies on my flight to London, before (thankfully) falling asleep. As a novelist, I suppose that I should be heartened by the fact that so many fans come to St. Paul’s to see where a fictional character appeared, but I suppose I’m old school; I hate to see Shakespeare upstaged by Harry Potter. I confess to feeling some author envy as well, because I barely have one book under my belt, and it’s not even out of the oven. It’s nice to know that J.K. Rowling also received a lot of rejection letters, but I may be a match for her in that respect. I dare say I could paper the inside of my house with rejection letters/emails: Thanks, but not our cup of tea.

After the grandeur of St. Paul’s, the Cockpit Pub was disappointing, even though I knew not to expect much from the building that replaced the Old Priory Gatehouse, which is the only place that Shakespeare ever owned in London; once again, following the money trail paid off, as it did for Woodward and Bernstein after Watergate. There is no evidence that William ever lived in the Gatehouse, so perhaps it was just an investment property, but still, what a lark to buy a gatehouse in the heart of the city; clearly, the Bard was cool before cool meant much. Most of his biographers suggest that he was a shrewd businessman, so it’s not surprising that he acquired such a property in 1613 (around the time he allegedly retired). But I can’t help wondering if he bought it as a refuge, a place to get away from provincial Stratford. I was tempted to pop in to the Cockpit for a pint, but I preferred preserving the image of a gatehouse. After all, the opening scene in Love’s Labour’s Found is set in a gatehouse.

My next stop was yet another plaque, commemorating the only surviving letter to Shakespeare, from a Stratford neighbor, Richard Quiney, asking for a loan; I don’t know why I bothered seeing such a minor monument, but it’s another reminder of how little is known about the private life of the world’s greatest playwright. It also underscores the fact that none of his correspondence has survived. How ironic that such a distinguished man of letters didn’t leave behind a single letter. Indeed, without the intervention the friends who preserved his plays in the First Folio, all of his work might have been lost.

Heading for the site of Blackfriar’s Theatre, where the King’s Men performed during the reign of King James, I was reminded that Shakespeare finally succeeded in having his plays seen within the city walls. As far as I can tell, dramatic performances were completely banned in London proper during Queen Elizabeth’s era. Being able to write for a small, indoor theater allowed the Bard more intimate plays, such as The Winter’s Tale and Cymbeline. Previously, performances in Blackfriar’s had been limited to young acting companies, with support from wealthy patrons. In that respect, the King’s Men had the ultimate patron, the King, himself, opening doors long closed to Shakespeare, who apparently lived near Blackfriar’s for several years.

If I had had all the time in the world, I would have explored some other places mentioned in the Bard’s plays, such as Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, and the Tower of London, but I couldn’t bear to see the Tower packed with tourists; I resolved to return another time, to visit the place in my mind’s eye, where Rose was imprisoned in Love’s Labour’s Found. My patience was rewarded when I returned to Tower Pier, when I noticed another tour boat headed for Hampton Court. Consulting my map, I could see that Hampton Court was well beyond London, and I wanted to escape before anyone caught up with me.

Determined to avoid any pursuers, I waited until the gangplank was about to be raised, and handed the ticket-taker a fifty-pound bill. “Keep the change,” I said to him, and he waved he aboard without a word, saving his breath to order a sailor to raise the gangplank. I made sure that no other latecomers caught up with the boat, to my great relief. Once the boat was underway, I realized that I had no idea of where I was going, but Hampton Court rang a bell; tinkled is more like it, for I vaguely recalled that it was the playground of royalty. Hardly a place for an upstart author to find refuge.

Seeing a crew member pouring herself a cup of coffee, I was tempted to ask her when she gave up tea for java, but it didn’t seem like any of my business, so I concentrated on my dilemma. I asked her if there were any stops before Hampton Court. “Kingston Upon Thames,” she replied, “but if you get off there, you’ll have to find another way to the palace. Not a lot to see in Kingston, I’m afraid, but the university is quite nice. Have you ever heard of it?”

“Conjures up Jamaica in my mind, but I’m a writer, so I’m a bit of an odd duck.” If I mentioned that I was a writer in the hope that she’d ask me about my novel, I was out of luck.

She replied, “Then you’ll feel right at home in Kingston, and you won’t find many tourists.”

“Sounds like heaven. I don’t consider myself a tourist; just doing some research on the Bard.”

“How like an American to think they have something to say about Shakespeare after all these years.” My hackles went up, for I suspected that she been reading the Thames Tidings. I thanked her for her tip about Kingston, without getting hooked by her barb.

I have purposely refrained from mentioning English food in my journal, on the off chance that I’ll need to include any excerpts in my sequel. Suffice it to say that I haven’t had any memorable meals on this trip yet, but I haven’t given up hope. The prospect of finding myself in a university town, filled with intelligentsia instead of tourists, perked me up. Indeed, I was gratified to find that I was the only passenger to get off at Kingston, not only because I was certain that I wasn’t being followed, but because I had left behind tourists of all stripes, including those who came to London to visit the grave of Karl Marx in Highgate Cemetery.

Humming a tune about meeting a girl in Kingston town, my heart skipped a beat when I encountered a newsstand, with a pile of Thames Tidings; I was glad to see that my picture wasn’t on the front page. There was no turning back now, so I tried to ignore the smell of Indian food coming from a street vendor parked near the pier, and headed along the path by the riverbank. Seeing a cardboard box discarded next to the bike path, I had the bright idea of using it to make a sign. But what to say? WRITER SEEKING ASYLUM. The words might be misconstrued. Collapsing the box, I tucked the cardboard in my backpack, for Plan B. First, I wanted to see if I could find any houseboats with vacancy signs, but I must have been dreaming. I realized that the only way I was going to find a room to rent was asking people pointblank, and trying to make myself as presentable as possible. How I wished that I had a copy of my book with me, as an opener: “Excuse me, but my novel just came out and I need a place to stay on my book tour.”

Under the circumstances I couldn’t think of a better gambit, so I took my chances, figuring that I could explain my situation if I got to first base. Spotting an elderly couple sitting on the deck of their huge houseboat having a drink, I tried my line, without success. “Neither of us can see well enough to read anymore, laddie. We just wait until the movie comes out, which is cheaper than buying the book. Best of luck to you.”

Hoping to have better luck with an attractive young woman watering her plants on her river barge, she smiled at me, but replied in what I guessed was Dutch; even I could understand it meant no. I was starting have doubts about the advice from the Clink’s manager, but I tried again with a young couple who looked as if they were on their honeymoon. I thought of Anne and William on their cruise down the Avon, of course, which brought a smile to my face. Perhaps that accounts for their receptiveness, but they might have also welcomed the opportunity to make some easy money letting me sleep in their lifeboat. Pleasant as they were, they showed no curiosity in my novel, which may have been just as well, since The Bard & the Barman had become a red flag.

Unfortunately, their lack of curiosity didn’t bode well for their sense of adventure with respect to cuisine, so I quickly brought our conversation to a close by paying them in cash for three nights, noting that the adage that “fish and company go bad in three days.” Leaving my backpack under a tarpaulin in the lifeboat, I made my way to the center of Kingston, where there’s a lovely park across from the campus. The average age of the residents had dropped by twenty years compared to London, so I stood out like the geezer that I have become, despite the fact that I feel as young as ever on the inside. Sadly, the food I had in a pub didn’t merit an entry in my journal, and but I have myself to blame for ordering fish and chips. You’d think that’d be a slam dunk in Britain.

Auteur’s journal, Kingston-upon-Thames (I’ve come to think of myself as an auteur, which suggests something more cinematic than author)

I regretted my decision to spend three nights in Kingston before my first night was even over, because I was awakened repeatedly by the train which crosses right above the town via a steel bridge. The train’s clatter was drowned out by the pounding rain, but the tarpaulin did a remarkably good job of keeping me dry; clearly, the Brits had learned to cope with rain over the centuries, but you have to one how the Romans coped with homesickness. They should have thought about that before they invaded Britain, but I suppose they considered themselves liberators.

I considered taking the morning boat to Hampton Court, since I had paid full fare, but I wasn’t sure that the ticket-taker would see my point of view, and I wanted to avoid any hassles. As far as I was concerned, I was now flying under the radar, so I didn’t want to call attention to myself.

Determined to make lemonade out of lemons, I resolved to follow the train tracks to Hampton Court, but the signs posted on the bridge might as well have said, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT CROSSING HERE. I can take a hint, so I figured that there must be another bridge for cars. Surely there must be a walkway for pedestrians and bikes.

I was pleased to see my reasoning confirmed when I spotted a bridge dedicated to NON-MOTORIZED VEHICLES ONLY. I didn’t know that this meant bikes only in British, so I found myself trying to dodge hordes of cyclists and skateboarders escaping from the university for greener pastures on the other side of the fabled Thames. Staying to the right like the former Boy Scout that I am, I was harassed by cyclists and skateboarders who beeped their horns, yelled at me, and even spit at me; so much for British reserve. When I realized that I was on the wrong side of the pathway, I managed to cross to the other side, but I was confronted by an impudent skateboarder. “If you can’t lend a hand, then get out of the way.” I was surprised that he even knew Dylan, but it didn’t seem right for a young whippersnapper to scold me with the words of my generation. I took comfort from the fact that American music was so pervasive; it neutralized the English Invasion.

Thank goodness (and city planners) for the walking path that appeared in what’s left of the countryside near Hampton Court. I was well aware that I was no longer following in the Bard’s footsteps, but I has discovered that detours were an added attraction to my pilgrimage. Had I followed all of the signs that read SHAKEPEARE SLEPT HERE, I would have missed much of the atmosphere of England, where the journey is its own reward, as they say. In this instance, however, my natural inclination to meander, whether walking, writing or speaking, was dampened both by the weather, and the knowledge that someone was out to silence me. I would have much preferred to wander around the streets of London, following my instincts and my whims. Maps have their uses, of course, but I’d prefer to use them as a last resort. Indeed, I think maps are like first aid kits, only to be used in case of emergency.

Had it been a clear day, I’m certain that the sight of Hampton Court would have prompted me to get out my camera, but it’s not waterproof, and I needed my free hand for my umbrella. I was surprised to see so many tour buses parked in front of the palace, until I realized it was the perfect place to go on a rainy day. I can’t say that I admire British architecture, which may account for my reservations about Downton Abbey, but I must admit that Hampton Court is impressive, looking as if it might be made out of gingerbread.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear several languages spoken among the throng filing into the palatial buildings, for Hampton Court is not so much a place, but a series of connected rooms with ceilings beyond measure. You have to wonder how much wood it must have taken to heat the buildings during the cold, clammy winters. When you also consider the forests which must have cut down to build the English Navy back in the day, it’s astonishing that any trees are left in England.

I was afraid that Hampton Court might have been a setting for another Harry Potter movie, which would account for the large crowd, but they were mainly middle-aged women, drawn to the palace like moths to light. Swept along in their flutter, I was awe-struck by the sumptuousness of the place, from another world in a bygone era; an anti-democratic one. I silently said to myself, ‘So this is why the Brits put up with the monarchy. It provides some kind of surrogate pleasure, letting you in on the secret of a life of leisure. Everywhere you look, you can see how much work it must have taken for so many to cater to so few.’

My musing was interrupted by the sight of so many matronly women lining up for tours. Determined to avoid being led around by the nose, I had to face the fact that I didn’t know why I was there. Having traipsed throughout London in search of clues to the Bard’s life, I couldn’t recall any mention of Hampton Court, yet I had gravitated here for reasons I didn’t understand. Had I tapped into the collective unconscious? Perhaps I’d stumbled upon some mention of the palace while researching my novel, but I had focused on the “lost years,” so I might have missed this detail; meticulousness isn’t my strong suit. In any case, I’d reached an impasse, so I headed for the Information Desk, glad to see that there was no line. All I could hear were the murmurings of the tour guides, speaking in tongues I couldn’t decipher. I now refer to Hampton Court as the Tower of Babel.

I saw no reason to beat around the bush, so I asked the extensively tattooed young woman at the desk if there was any information about performances of Shakespeare’s plays. “Yes and no,” she replied, standing up to look me in the eye. Slightly taller than I am, she must have bent her knees slightly to speak to me in a confidential manner.

“You’re the first person to ever ask me about the Bard, which is astonishing because he actually stayed here, in 1603, during the Christmas Holidays, which is just what King James needed to take everyone’s mind off of the plague. Just think of it, here we are centuries later, trying to distance ourselves from our own pandemic. Parallel universes, if you ask me, but don’t get me started. Let me show you around, because it’s hard to tell which parts of the palace were here during Shakespeare’s time, before Wren gussied it up.”

Without waiting for my reply, she put a sign on the desk, BACK MOMENTARILY, and ushered me into what she claimed were the tyring rooms, where the King’s Men changed into their costumes. I had already decided that I wasn’t going to tell her my real name if she asked me, but she was totally caught up in taking me behind the scenes. Before I could ask any questions, she led me through a back entrance to the stage, facing the Great Watching Chamber, the only theater from Shakespeare’s era that has survived.

“Maddeningly, we know that the King’s Men were paid to perform six plays during the Holidays, including two for young Prince Henry, but there’s no record of which ones. It seems to me that the Bard’s plays might have been over the head of nine-year old, but surely the lion’s share of the plays were Shakespeare’s. Most scholars believe that Midsummer’s Night was performed on New Year’s Night, but they can’t even agree on the dates of his plays, so we’re left hanging. But just imagine what it must have been like for Shakespeare to look out into the audience, seeing the King and his young, Danish wife, Anne and their son. I’ll wager he missed seeing Queen Elizabeth, but he must have been pleased to have the young royal family hang on his every word.”

I was stagestruck, of course, awed by standing in the very room where Shakespeare’s plays must have lit up the audience with his latest work. My guide must have seen that I was spellbound, and let me drink in the sight of the empty theater. She could have had no idea how much this meant to me after spending so much fruitless time in London. I broke the spell myself by finally speaking, “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought, so which of his plays do you think were performed in that extraordinary year.”

She didn’t hesitate, “My first thought was Hamlet, of course, with the Queen and Prince of Denmark in the audience, but it could have upset the royal family and it was totally out of season. It that respect, Twelfth Night would have fit the bill, as would Merry Wives of Windsor, if only for the reference to Christmas. My guess is that the Bard would have matched his latest work with an old chestnut, such as Henry V, balancing comedy with more sobering fare. I daresay that James would have appreciated the reminder of the value of strong king and a united kingdom.”

“Well considered,” I replied. It didn’t seem like the right time to mention my own supposition, that The Taming of the Shrew would have been timely, with the passing of the Queen. By now, I had seen my guide’s resemblance to Rose, so I couldn’t help myself. “My hunch is that you’re an actress at heart, so I wonder if you could cite a line or two from Shakespeare. Just so I can hear how his words must have sounded in this theatre.”

I almost fell out of my chair when she stepped on stage and began speaking, “The quality of mercy is not strained…”

Sensing that I was on a roll, I pushed my luck by asking her to read from a scene from a contemporary play, inspired by Love’s Labour’s Lost. “The Princess had postponed the four prospective marriages for a year and a day, but the interval has been transformed into centuries.”

As my guide didn’t raise any objection, I handed her the manuscript for my novel, which I’d been carrying in my backpack. Dogearing the page that I had read so many times, trying to get it right, I handed it to her and sat down in the front row. Her tattoos seemed appropriate for a reincarnated Rose.

Welcome guests from the Kingdom of Navarre.

Tis a year and a day since last we met,

As I went into mourning for my father,

Losing any good reason to rhyme……

“Thank you so much,” I said to her. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

Descending from the stage effortlessly, she handed me the manuscript. “You’re welcome. I gather that this is your first play, and perhaps your last. I’m afraid you don’t have an ear for cadence, but you write from the heart. If I were you, I’d turn my hand to prose. I’m Katherine, and you are?..”

I had planned to reverse the letters of my name to Llirrem if anyone asked me, but I couldn’t utter the cipher while looking her in the eye. “Merrill,” I said.

“Don’t tell me you’re Merrill Hatlen, the upstart writer.”

I showed her title page of my manuscript, glad that it was safe in my hands. I could almost see the daggers in her eye, à la Rose.

Katherine retorted, “I can’t believe you passed yourself as a Shakespeare aficionado, pretending to be interested in his work, when all you really care about is your outrageous novel. How dare you waste my time and ask me to read your pathetic attempt at drama. Get out of here before I call security!”

There seemed little point in pleading that I loved Shakespeare and considered myself a Stratfordian. I had no doubt the Bard wrote his own material, even if he borrowed freely from others. Why the Brits couldn’t stomach the notion that he was a Francophile was beyond me. Henry V married a French princess, so what was the British hang-up about foreigners? Perhaps that explains why King James had such a rough time, as a Scot with a Danish wife. Seems to me that the English may have double standards, because soccer stars from anywhere are welcome. Writers are another matter, unless you’re Bill Bryson, who is now practically English upper crust. I left Hampton Court with my tail between my legs.

I wisely opted for Indian take-out this time, washed down with a pint of Bass ale, which could have been colder, but hit the spot. I turned in early, pulling the tarpaulin over my head after glimpsing a few stars, despite the light pollution. I had the good sense to get some ear plugs, which made all the difference in the world. There was also something comforting about sleeping in a lifeboat, as if I was ready for anything.

Awakening in time to see the sunrise, it occurred to me that I could return to Hampton Court to see the gardens, but I had burned the bridge there and had no desire to provoke Katherine’s wrath. As much as I dreaded returning to London, I couldn’t leave without visiting the Tower of London, which played such a key role in my novel. I decided to catch an early train so I could get to the Tower before the tourists arrived. I reasoned that no one in their right mind would waste a rare sunny day indoors, when there were so many places to play outside.

As might be expected in a university town, there were few people about when I made my way to the train station, where I bought a ticket from a machine, avoiding the possibility of being recognized. I disguised myself with a Covid mask and dark glasses, confident that I would just be another anonymous face in the London fog. My ophthalmologist had sold me on smart spectacles, which double as dark glasses in bright light; she sealed the deal when she mentioned that the transitions technology was designed to defend against retina recognition. Privacy means a lot to me, and I no longer had to worry about losing my shades.

Watching the landscape out the train window, I got up from my seat to see if I could find the stairs to the observation deck, but I was disappointed; I gathered that the English love affair with double decker buses doesn’t extend to trains; what a pity. I much preferred the view from the boat I took to Kingston upon Thames, which provides some sense of how much water has flowed under London Bridge. Nonetheless, the train whisked me to Tower Pier in minutes, giving me a head start on any tourists bent on going to the Tower of London on such a glorious morning; dare I say Gloriana, in homage to Elizabeth I?

My pleasure in hurrying down the uncrowded streets (I doubt if London’s streets are ever deserted) only increased when I discovered that I was the first person at Tower Gate; not for long, however, as a double decker tour bus disgorged a horde of what I assumed were tourists. I was wrong, and not for the first time in my life. Turns out that the first hour of every Tuesday is reserved for the Friends of the Tower. Obviously, complaining would have been useless, nor was I willing to just stand and watch the parade of spectators pour through the gate. The whole point of getting there early was to have time to explore the Tower in the hope of finding the place where Rose might have been imprisoned.

Peeling of a few bills from the roll of funny money which I got at Heathrow (where they probably shortchanged me), I joined the Friends, pocketing my card and trying to reassert my spot at the head of the line. Too late, for as soon as the bell began ringing in the Tower, the crowd surged ahead of me; I was lucky that they didn’t trample me underfoot, because the concept of respect for elders has obviously been eroded; more water under the replacement bridge.

Although I hate to consult maps, the one I received with my member card was marked in red: INSIDERS MAP TO THE TOWER OF LONDON: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. As much as I would have loved to explore the labyrinth which makes up the Tower, self-guided tours weren’t on the menu, so I was forced to follow the horde in front of me, straining to follow the boring guide; he sounded like a robot, just repeating a script. From the back of the pack I couldn’t hear what he said about St. John’s Chapel, which is one of the places I really wanted to see, so I lingered behind, popping in to explore the MUST SEE for myself. It’s an intimate place which must have had thousands of visitors since it was built in 1521, ranging from royalty to riff-raff. As I walked down the aisle towards the alter, I could also sense the footsteps of the worshipers who preceded me over the centuries. Taking a seat in the 3^rd pew, I looked up to admire the simple cross on the stone altar, illuminated by the small window at the back of the church.

My reverie was interrupted by two security guards who approached me from both sides, obviously to prevent any escape. The men looked like identical twins to me, reminding me of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but it was the one on my right who broke the silence. “Are you going to go quietly, or do we have to use the straight jacket?”

It seemed like an overreaction for just falling behind and communing with the spiritual realm. I said as much, reaching into my pocket to show them that I was card-carrying member of the Friends. Tweedledum seized my wrist, yanking me up from the pew. He said, “Your behavior in the Tower is the least of your problems. The British Antiquities Museum has deemed that you pose a threat to national security. You are banished from the City of London, and if we catch you inside the city gates you will be expelled from the country. Do I make myself clear?”

“Roger wilco,” I replied, if he understood radio lingo.

“Whatever,” he said. “Follow me and don’t try any funny business.”

Sounded like a line out of a movie, but I did as I was told, happy to be escorted down some back stairs behind a hidden door in stall in a gender-neutral bathroom. I suspected that other prisoners had descended these stairs as well, faring worse fates than I did. Following footsteps isn’t always fun.

Letter from George Spelvin, Jr. to British Antiquities Museum

Dear Margaret,

I’m deeply disappointed by the court’s ruling, but at least we now have full title of the chunnel scroll. Nor do I see any reason to abandon the field to the American; delaying tactics are called for. I suggest that BAM consider acquiring the publisher’s printer before is bloody book is out. Not only would this intervention delay publication, but we could steal the author’s thunder by coming out with our own novel, adding some spice if you will: The Bard & the Barmaid: An Account of the Plot Against the Queen. I picture a genuine femme fatale, Scarlet (whose real name is Juanita) who’s a spy for the Spanish; her father is an English nobleman who had an affair with a Spanish countess, so Scarlet is perfectly bilingual (and bisexual). Her mission is to assassinate Queen Elizabeth I, with the blessing of the Pope, who is determined to restore England to Catholicism.

I realized it would be quite challenging to cook up this story in time to beat the Yank to the punch, but (bibliophile that I am) I’ve been teaching creative writing online during the pandemic, and I’m confident that my students could whip up something which will titillate the public. Rather than going the conventional route of having a solo author, I’d farm out a chapter to 12 students, giving them a couple of weeks to produce 15-20 pages; that’s really just around a page per day, which is definitely doable. I propose paying them $1,000 each, as a work for hire, so BAM would retain full control.

On second thought, it might be better to cook up a limited liability company (LLC) to secure copyright and retain the royalties—which could be donated to BAM anonymously. In fact, I rather like the idea of having an anonymous author, or perhaps just an initial: X. As for the plot, each chapter would feature an attempt to knock off the Queen, orchestrated by Scarlet, who worms her way into the Bard’s affections to obtain clues about the Queen’s machinations and movements. For my chapter (#13), I can imagine Scarlet’s scheme to poison Eliza with face powder; if I may say so, a nice counterpart to the Gunpowder Plot against King James. I look forward to your response.

George II

Auteur’s Journal, Bankside, England

As if to underscore the seriousness of the situation, Tweedledum and Tweedledee led me out of the Tower through Traitor’s Gate, where I found myself facing the Thames; I was afraid that they were going to push me into the river, but they were obviously under orders to make sure I left the city. I was surprised that they walked me all the way across Tower Bridge, but they must have seen a golden opportunity to stretch their legs on a warm, sunny day, which I imagine is quite a rarity in dreary old London.

Relieved to find myself back in the theater district, where make-believe is appreciated, I considered returning to Kingston upon Thames, as I had already paid for three nights; but I was a marked man. The goons at the Tower must have spotted me via CCTV even before I entered the Tower. To avoid disrupting the tour, they had bided their time, waiting to cut me out of the herd, like cowboys. As I considered my options, I noticed that the roadway on Tower Bridge was raising to allow a barge to pass, with it’s huge pile of hay. For a moment, I considered leaping onto the barge, knowing that the hay would cushion my fall, but I was no longer a spring chicken. Wisely, I resisted the impulse to take the leap, but the sight of the hay stayed with me; I could almost smell the hay.

Seeing a water taxi arrive at Tower Pier, I quickly made my way down to the quay and bought a ticket to Greenwich, without even knowing where it was; digging out a map seemed like cheating. It was adventure that I craved, so I was disappointed by the short boat ride, which made me feel like a tourist, not a traveler. Stepping ashore, I looked for a sign to the Royal Observatory, which turned out to be closed for repair. It was too nice a day to go to be inside, anyway, plus I didn’t really care about seeing the inner workings. I was content to just stand at the epi-center of time (at least in the West). However, the very thought of time reminded me that that I had unfinished business in London. I still had yet to meet my publisher, nor was I clear about next steps. We had cleared a hurdle in court, but I sensed that the steeplechase had just started; writing my novel had been the fun part.

Fearing for my safety, and knowing that my publisher was under surveillance, I was at a loss to know how to contact him; for all I knew, he might be hiding in Scotland. I prided myself on being one of the few people on the planet without a cellphone, but I soon discovered that all of the quaint British phonebooths had disappeared. Surely there ought to be a song, “Where have all the phonebooths gone?” Even if I could call Rich, I’m certain his phone was tapped, making it all too easy for the spooks to trace my call. Knowing that I needed to keep moving to avoid drawing attention to myself, I walked along Carnaby street, trying to lose myself in the crowd.

Passing a florist shop, it occurred to me that I could send flowers, which seemed like an appropriate way to celebrate our victory in court. Although I had trouble understanding the young woman who took my order, I wrote down the address and my message: MEET ME AT SPEAKER’S CORNER THIS AFTERNOON IF YOU CAN. ROSE. The florist rolled her eyes when I ordered a single white rose, but she was glad to take my money. (In retrospect it’s obvious that Great Britain never got on board the EU, because they never adopted the Euro; pound Sterling it is and ever will be.)

Walking through Kensington Gardens, I came across the bronze statue of Peter Pan in the Memorial Garden, which I took as a good sign; proof that fictional characters can take on a life of their own. As I approached Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park I could hear the raised voices of the speakers, which I found intimidating. Not only would it be hard for me to be heard above the crowd, but they might be put off by my American accent. The question was, would they recognize me as the Yankee author of The Bard & The Barman, or had they even heard of the Chunnel Scroll?

I didn’t realize that speakers had to bring their own soapbox, so when I saw one sitting on the ground, I assumed it was up for grabs. That was my first mistake, for as soon as I stood up on it, I was accosted by an irritated oaf. “Friggin foreigners,” he protested, bumping me off my pedestal. As I didn’t have time to go find my own box, I stood on top of a picnic table, which apparently irked some bystanders who shouted me down even before I began. Determined to at least read a passage from my manuscript, I turned to the few listeners within earshot. “Let me set the scene for you. Young Shakespeare is trekking through the Pyrenees, accompanied by a monk he’d met along the way. “ There’s no good reason for recording the deafening silence which greeted my recitation, nor the hoots and howls of laughter. I thanked my lucky stars that tomatoes weren’t in season. Luckily, rain from a passing cloud scattered the spectators; I felt lucky to escape with my life.

Unaccustomed as I was to reading out loud, I began to walk around Hyde Park to get some practice, knowing that no one was going to listen to me anyway. People figured I was just another nut, sounding off. Who knows what might have happened if Rich hadn’t shown up, finally, when I had almost given up hope. Taking a look at me, he didn’t bother to ask me how things had gone.

“You’ve made a start, that’s what counts. I admire your pluck, but let’s face it, the well has been poisoned by the media. We were vindicated in court, but the court of opinion is another kettle of fish; we have to carry on. If we let BAM intimidate us, we might as well fold up our tent. So let me break it to you man to man: the printer I’ve been working with for years has been bought out by a conglomerate, so we’re up the creek without a paddle, as you Americans say. At this point, print on demand is the only way to go. The good news is that BAM won’t be able to buy up many copies of your book, because each copy has to be custom ordered. So they won’t be able to burn your books. I wouldn’t put it past them to resort to pulp parties, but print on demand should take the wind out of their sails, no pun intended.”

Clearly, I knew nothing about the book business, so I was glad to have Rich in my corner. He agreed that it probably wouldn’t hurt for me to pitch my book in other parts of England, far from the affairs of London’s city slickers. He cautioned me about the process of getting the word out, “It’s a marathon, not a sprint.” His way of letting me know not to count on any royalties, I suppose. “By the way, the rose was a nice touch, but why don’t you just send me postcards from now on. As long as you keep moving, no one’s going to be able to track you down.”

Having barely survived my first foray at the Speaker’s Corner, I meandered through Kensington Gardens, contemplating my next move. It was a pleasure to see sailboats and swimmers in the Serpentine, and artificial lake which looked as if it was one of God’s creations. So I was startled by the sign for Rotten Row, which turned out to be a place for horses. The sight riders on horseback reminded me of hay, of course, but I wondered whether the horses were confined to Kensington Gardens.

Seeing the stables in the distance, I walked along the trail, making sure I wasn’t in the way—and trying to avoid the manure. Seeing an elderly man about to mount a horse, I took the liberty of picking his brain. “Excuse me, sir, but can you tell me how far you can ride on this trail?”

“Depends on how much time you have. I have all of the time in the world, so there’s nothing stopping me.” I appreciated the man’s optimism, but he hadn’t answered my question.

I said to him, “Could you ride all the way to Stratford-upon-Avon?”

“When I was a boy you could, but they’ve paved half of the countryside. London keeps on growing, why I don’t know. Too many damn people, as far as I’m concerned. I prefer horses, who follow their instincts. If you ask me, humans could use some horse sense.” With that, he mounted his horse with surprising alacrity. It didn’t seem like the right time to tell him about my hunch that the Bard was also a horseman, so I bid goodbye to him and watched him ride away without another word.

I had enough horse sense to know that it was too late for me to learn to ride a horse, especially in one of the largest cities in Europe. But there was nothing to prevent me from following my hunch. If Shakespeare could afford to buy a gatehouse in the heart of London, he could have found a safe haven somewhere, if only to escape the plague which repeatedly struck the city. While he was at it, why not find a place where he could meet up with Anne, halfway between London and Stratford? As intrigued as I was with this possibility, it seemed like a futile quest. I was convinced that the Bard had gone out of his way to cover his tracks. Moreover, the anti-Stratfordians had every reason to erase any evidence that Shakespeare ever existed, so they would have eliminated any clues about his whereabouts. Besides, searching for a needle in a haystack would take me far afield. I was here to sell books.

By now I knew that BAM must be aware of my plan to visit the settings for the Bard’s plays, so I needed to do something unexpected. I headed for Paddington Station to catch a train to Oxford, where the intelligentsia might appreciate me. I refused to be intimidated by the CCTV anymore. I suspected that photos of me in my Covid mask and dark glasses would be everywhere. But no one would be looking for an ordinary man of advanced years. They would never guess that beneath my unremarkable visage was a living, breathing author. Had I been carrying my book, I could have given myself away. Print on demand was going to make my fortune, slowly, but inexorably.

P.S. Couldn’t resist buying a newspaper to hold in front of my face on the train, but I found another article about me (see below); must have been Rich’s idea, because I don’t recall talking with a reporter.

Yankee Butts into British Business

Taking a breather from his book tour before it’s barely begun, a virtually unknown American author has put his foot in his mouth again. Ostensibly coming to Greenwich to see the epicenter of the civilized world, Merrill Hatlen has suggested that Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) be revised to Greenwich Brexit Time (GBT), to reflect Britain’s independence.

“It seems to me high time to abandon the archaic, monocultural reference to B.C. and A.D. and replace it with a secular system, in accord with the vital importance of the momentous historical shift that Brexit represents. Henceforth, I propose that the world recognize B.B and A.B. as the turning point in the Western World. Resetting clocks across the globe would obviously require some careful planning, but I’m sure that the community of Greenwich could meet the challenge.”

While Hatlen makes a good point, it seems premature for someone without any qualifications to suggest such revolutionary idea, especially an American who has barely set foot on our soil.

Greenwich Meantimes

Author of Forthcoming Novel Not Very Forthcoming

The forthcoming novel, The Bard & the Barman, threatens to rock the publishing world with yet another book about the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon. Defying the conventional view that readers are saturated with Shakespeare, the author, Merrill Hatlen, is betting that his new genre, historical friction, will breathe new life into the past.

“Genre preference, like sexual preference, are not really preferences at all, but innate tendencies wired into our nervous system. Thus, readers who love mysteries hate historical fiction, because they already know how it will turn out. That’s why I’ve come up with a new genre which bends the truth by adding twists and turns to add suspense. Narrative flow, like making love, thrives on the element of surprise. Historical friction not only makes use of inherent conflict, but adds fuel to the fire when needed. Likewise, instead of books on demand, I’m starting a new line of books on desire. I’m surprised the romance crowd didn’t think of that first.”

Coming upon the heels of the recent blockbuster, Hamnet, by Maggie O’Farrell, and the latest biography, The Private Life of William Shakespeare, by Lena Cowen Orlin, yet another book on the Bard may be a stretch. To his credit, the author acknowledges his debt to his peers. “Who would have guessed that a book about the death of Shakespeare’s young son would be so compelling. Portraying Anne Hathaway as a kind of sorceress, with a falcon on her shoulder was a stroke of genius, upstaging the “upstart crow.”

Editor-in-chief

The Liars Bench Press

Auteur’s Journal, en route to Oxford, England

Turns out that the train for Oxford doesn’t leave from Paddington, but a helpful porter redirected me, which is a nice way of putting it; I heard him mutter under his breath, “Friggin foreigners,” which appears to be the latest expression in London, eclipsing “brilliant.” I’m glad to put London behind me and spend my time in a place with a smaller scale. I plan to scout the city to find some good spots to do some readings; I never really found my rhythm in London, so I’m going to practice in the first cemetery I find, where I’m certain not to be heckled.

Upstart Author’s Book Tour Off to a Rocky Start

When an American author embarked on a book tour to promote his novel about Shakespeare, The Bard and the Barman, he was obviously unprepared for England’s chilly climate—and the chilly reception to his yarn. A self-described “triple-threat” as author, filmmaker and photographer (i.e., dilettante), Hatlen figured he could turn his tour of the UK into another book and a documentary. Suffice it to say that nature and the natives rained on his parade.

Trying to take advantage of the London tradition of free-speech while standing on a box in St. James Park, he was soon shouted down for butchering the King’s English while reading aloud from his book. Saved from an angry mob by a sudden squall, he retreated to the Tube for shelter. Realizing that reading out loud would likely lead to more trouble, he kept his mouth shut and tried selling his book to passersby. Arrested for doing his business without a permit, the fledgling author turned tail and tried to purchase a ticket to Oxford, hoping a university-educated population might be more receptive. He’s in for a bumpy ride.

Thames Tidings

Auteur’s journal, Oxford

As much as I wanted to visit every Shakespeare site (play setting or biographical connection) I didn’t want to make myself a sitting duck for BAM’s dirty tricks. At this point, I had no reason to believe my life was in danger, but BAM’s tentacles are far reaching. Obviously, I need to steer clear of London, but when they discover I had eluded their surveillance, they’ll be calculating my next move. Remembering “Wee Willie” Keeler’s dictum, “Keep your eye on the ball and hit ‘em where they ain’t,” I resolved to use the element of surprise—an essential tactic in love and war. It was just a matter of time before the authorities discovered I was in Oxford, so they’d probably figure I was on my way to Stratford, just a few miles away.

I wanted them to believe that I was still intent on visiting the Bard’s play settings, even though there really wasn’t much to see. Sooner or later I was going to have to go to Scotland, in Macbeth country, but it was anyone’s guess how I was going to get there; even I didn’t know. I rather liked the idea of skirting Stratford without actually setting foot there, until I was good and ready. Anne Hathaway’ Cottage came to mind, just a mile away on the family farm. I was intrigued by the prospect of reading the passage in my novel about the Hathaway family. This recitation might create quite a stir in Shottery. Then, instead of walking the mile to Stratford, I would disappear. Where to, I didn’t know, any more than I can tickle myself. The answer came to me unbidden, like manna from heaven: the Bryson Line.

Once again, I see that I’m getting ahead of myself, for I have yet to record my impressions of Oxford, where I wasn’t received with open arms. For starters, I got lost because I didn’t know the Oxfordians call the Thames the Isis River, where it passes through town. How was I to know that such a well-educated populace took geography into their own hands when it suited their fancy.

I got off on the wrong foot with the proprietor of the B&B I stayed at, with a view of the prominent memorial for three protestant martyrs, Hugh Latimer, Nicholas Ridley and Thomas Cranmer, who were burned at the stake in the 16^th century, shortly before the Bard was born. When the little old lady (i.e., even older than I am) pointed out that my room had a view of the monument, I couldn’t help telling her about my novel.

“As it happens, intolerance is a major theme of my novel, about Shakespeare’s lost years. Perhaps the memorial is a sign that I was meant to be here.”

She responded, “You won’t last long here if you spout off such Stratfordian nonsense, laddie. Bardolatry, we call it in Oxford. Mind your tongue and watch your step.”

In retrospect, I should have explored the town before renting a room in her B&B, but it was pouring rain when I arrived in Oxford, so I checked into the first place I could find; haste makes waste, as they say.

While I was in Oxford it dawned on me that the Bard might have passed through here many a time on his way to and from Stratford, fifty miles away. I suspect that he would have been able to cover the distance on horseback in a day, though he might have had to change horses along the way; finding a stable in his era wouldn’t have been a problem, when people relied on horse power. Anne might have ridden through Oxford as well, but more likely in a carriage, since it would have been dangerous for a woman to travel alone. When their children were older, it seems likely that Oxford might have been a good place for a family outing, but this is mere speculation. What’s undeniable is that Shakespeare would have had good reason to leave London on several occasions, especially during the plague—which struck repeatedly during his lifetime.

It seems likely that Oxford would have been on a carriage route, making it easy for Anne to meet the Bard half-way. Initially, I pictured the two of them in a love nest in the Thames Valley, far from the pestilence which darkened London. On the other hand, they would have had no privacy in a village, where their comings and goings would have been quite visible—as would their repeated absences. Although they might have been the talk of the town, they were a married couple, so there was hardly any shame in their arrangement. Tongues might have wagged about the couple abandoning their children, but most parents would only envy the Shakespeare’s for having some time to themselves. I resolved to test my “theory” by walking from London to Stratford someday, when I had all the time in the world, like the gentleman I had met in the stables on Rotten Row.

As much as it seems plausible to me that Anne & Will had a hideout in Oxford, I soon realized that the town was much too dangerous for them. Anyone who’s ever seen Inspector Morse on the BBC knows that Oxford is the murder capital of Britain. Moreover, the undercurrent of antagonism between the local intelligentsia and the auto workers union is palpable; the sharks and the jets come to mind, which is why I avoided the westside. Granted, Oxford might be quite different than in Shakespeare’s time, but I suspect that human nature remains the same.

Out of the Frying Pan and into the Fire

After offending Londoners by reading (dreadfully) from his novel, The Bard and the Barman, an American author made things worse by pitching his controversial novel in arguably the most dangerous place in Britain–as fans of Inspector Morse can testify. Oxford doesn’t suffer fools, as Hatlen found out the hard way. For someone who pretends to be familiar with Shakespeare, the author should have known that there is credible evidence that several of the Bard’s plays were written by the Earl of Oxford.

Needless to say, Oxfordians turned out in droves to heckle Hatlen when he tried selling his novel (without any copies in hand) on campus. News of the interloper spread like wildfire among the students, who wouldn’t have bought his book anyway, but were outraged by the author’s ignorance. Seeking refuge in the chapel, he was turned away by the vicar, who gave Hatpin (the non de plume given to him by the students) a tongue-lashing. “Do your homework!” May other authors take note.

Attempting to leave via train, the author was a sitting duck for students from the School of Journalism, who easily cornered him for an interview. Asked why he was leaving so soon, Hatpin was at least honest.

“I seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot, so I need to come up with a Plan B. I never realized that there would be so much resistance to the fact that Shakespeare was a Francophile. I always thought the Brits had a sense of humor.”

The author bolted for the train when it arrived, but discovered that he was standing on the inbound track, so he had to use the underground passage. Amateur video recorded his futile effort to catch the train. No one bothered to stick around to see where he was headed. Hatpin has a lot to learn about publicity.

The Oxford Loafer

Auteur’s journal, in retreat

Glad to get out of Oxford, but am beating a retreat to the coast. I really wanted to head for Stratford and Shottery, but that’s just what BAM would expect. Instead, I’m going to attempt a variation of the Statue of Liberty play by faking a pass and running a double reverse. Just the kind of trick that Bill Bryson might play on his readers. I’m going to call his bluff by cutting through the heart of Britain via the Bryson Line, which starts in Bognor Regis, running straight through England to the coast of Scotland. Seems like a long way around the barn, but the authorities will never suspect that I’m following in Bryson’s footsteps, rather than the Bard’s. Gotta keep them guessing.

The Book Tour from Hell

When the author of The Bard & the Barman (M. Hatlen, aka Hatpin) embarked on his UK book tour, he tried to follow the example of fellow American, Bill Bryson, whose travelogue, The Road to Little Dribbling: Adventures of an American in Britain, he found so amusing. Based on a map of the Bryson Line, from the south of England to the north of Scotland, Hatpin began his tour in Bognor Regis, which proved to be a mistake.

While Bryson hadn’t exactly poisoned the well, his comment that the town “has seen better days,” may have been impolitic. Finding a chilly reception, Hatpin scrapped his plan for a public reading, and decided to skip Brighton (one of many of Bryson’s detours), leaving town with his tail between his legs.

Hatpin’s decision to strike off on his own only compounded his mistake in following Bryson’s lead. Far from the urban areas which are used to gawkers, England’s hinterland can be inhospitable to writers, whose uncalloused hands betray their aversion to physical labor. In Hatpin’s case, he set himself up for trouble by making fun of Brits and claiming that the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon was a Francophile. For the many inlanders who have never been to the ocean, the very thought that Shakespeare ever left the Sceptered Isle unthinkable.

Apparently doing his best to stray from the path that Bryson had beaten, Hatpin headed for towns large enough to have bookstores, hoping to sweettalk the owners into ordering his book before news of his whereabouts reached the heartland. Daunted by the challenge of driving in the UK, the author was forced to travel by bus and train. Trying to strike up a conversation with locals, Hatpin was startled to find that he had trouble understanding what he considered his native tongue. Americans have a lot to learn.

Bognor Register

Auteur’s journal, Bognor Regis

I first suspected that there might be more to Bill Bryson than met the eye when I saw the cover of The Road to Little Dribbling, revealing the sheepish look on his face. The marvelous blue sky in the photograph also hinted that he had his tongue in his cheek, as if sunny days were a common occurrence in Britain. Despite these clues, I fell for his fable about the “Bryson Line,” the shortest distance from the south of England to the north of Scotland. In retrospect, I should have known better, because most walkers and hikers prefer to meander.

Why on earth would any traveler in their right mind cut through the heart of England, missing most of the interesting landmarks and steering clear of the sea until arriving at Cape Wrath at the tip of Scotland? Can you imagine venturing across Great Britain without visiting the southwest to see Lyme Regis, Penzance, and Tintangel? Surely your route would include Stonehenge, despite its distance from the Bryson Line; Bill was having none of it.

Ignoring the off-putting title of the first chapter (“Bugger Bognor”) of his travelogue, I began my quest to follow the Bryson Line, thinking of Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road. I admired Bryson’s candor, “…Bognor has seen better days,” but I couldn’t help thinking of my grandmother’s advice: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything.”

After the bus dropped me off near Bognor Regis I tried to ignore the pouring rain, but was soon forced to seek shelter in what passes as a café in England. I hesitated to order tea because I had no idea when I’d come across a restroom on the Bryson Line. However, it seemed like a cheap way to dry out, so I took the plunge. The extensively tattooed young woman who took my order seemed perplexed by my request. “I’m sorry to tell you that Earl Grey died a long time ago, of gout. Black or green tea?”

I ordered the green, figuring it would be better for me. She said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

I was surprised that she could tell from my accent, because I had hardly said anything. “From across the pond,” I said, “Indiana Jones country, near Chicago.” Either she had never heard of Indiana Jones or could care less. “We don’t get many Yanks around here,” she said.

I responded, “I’m surprised that more Americans don’t pass this way. Bill Bryson put this place on the map, you know.”

“Bugger Bryson,” she said. “His name is mud around here, so if I were you, I wouldn’t let on that you’re an American. Pretend you’re Canadian. Besides, Bill Bryson’s seen better days.”

Having the good sense to heed her warning, I decided not to follow Bryson’s detour to Brighton, the first of many of his departures from his route. Indeed, he leap-frogged around the country like the genre-jumping author that he is. Determined to follow the Bryson Line, even if he didn’t, I headed for Blenheim Palace, which is uncomfortably close to Oxford.

From reading his fascinating book, Shakespeare: The World as Stage, I knew that he was well versed in the Shakespeare authorship question, but he hadn’t revealed which camp of heretics he favored. It was now clear to me that Bryson didn’t buy the leading candidate for the real author, the Seventeenth Earl of Oxford (Edward de Vere). Indeed, had Bryson been in the Oxford camp, I doubt that he would have gone to Cambridge first.

It was only when I walked along the banks of the Isis (aka Thames) that the parallel between Bryson and Shakespeare revealed itself to me. Even some of the true believers in the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon acknowledge that he might have collaborated on some of his plays, and there are several theories about the various groups who co-authored Shakespeare’s plays. Clearly, the Bryson Line is a play on words, alluding to the Bard’s “magic circle.”

In what amounted to an epiphany, the scales fell from my eyes, revealing the cosmic connection between Bill and Will. Anyone who has delved into the Shakespeare authorship controversy knows the fundamental objection: no common lad from a backwater like Stratford could have acquired the breadth and depth of knowledge to become the greatest playwright in the world.

Although Bryson appears to be well traveled, it seems impossible that he could write with such authority about entire countries on four continents, produce two dictionaries, write a fascinating biography of the Bard, and publish a definitive book on the human body. Not only did Bryson write A Short History of Nearly Everything, he created an illustrated version. How it possible that one man could master so many genres?

Indeed, for his next incarnation I wouldn’t be surprised to see him doing stand-up. It’s certainly tempting to want to know who writes his material. As much as I’d love to find out who’s in Bill Bryon’s Brain Trust, the proof is in the pudding. Whether or not Queen Elizabeth and Francis Bacon had a hand in Shakespeare’s plays, or the Queen’s and Kevin Bacon’s fingerprints can be found in Bryson’s books, I’m happy to just sit back and see their stories unfold.

Auteur’s journal, Blenheim Palace

The very sight of Baroque Blenheim Palace put me off, because of its monstrous size. Despite being beautiful in its own way, everything about the place is ostentatious. Why Bill Bryson bothered to include it on his route I have no idea, but it’s everything Iowa isn’t. It seems fitting that such a great man as Winston Churchill was born in a place larger than life. However, the thought of traipsing through the Palace with a herd of tourists gave me the willies. I was ready to bolt from the place when I caught sight of the Water Terrace Gardens in the backyard, as it were. Having seen the Italian Garden in the front of the building, I assumed that it was the main greenspace, but I was wrong.

Wending my way to the rear of the Palace, I was amused to think of young Winston playing hide & seek in such a labyrinth. And when I came across the wonderful pools in the Water Terrace Garden, I could almost picture him sailing a boat in the pond. The voice of a palace guard wiped the smile off of my face. “May I see your ticket, sir?” When I explained that I had no interest in seeing the inside of such a gargantuan place, he seemed to take offense. “The property is reserved for people who contribute to the upkeep of the Palace; gawkers can go elsewhere. You are standing on hallowed ground, where the Duke of Marlborough defeated the French.”

I replied, “Then why hire a French architect to design this garden? Seems like a mixed message.”

Glaring at me, he said, “You obviously don’t know the French very well. Just because Lafayette took your side during the American Revolution doesn’t mean you can trust the French. The Statue of Liberty was just a ruse, like the Trojan Horse. He who doesn’t know history is condemned to repeat it.” I saw no reason to waste my breath on this pompous fool, who obviously didn’t know who I was; but in this case, that was a blessing.

I excused myself, “Excuse me, but I have to see a man about a horse.”

Walking across the gravel of the huge parking lot, I was tempted to see if I could find a place to rent a horse, in order to test my theory about the Bard’s commute, but I regained my composure. Returning to the bus stop, I tried to make sense of the posted bus schedule, but none of the places listed rang any bells with me. On a lark, I crossed the road and stuck out my thumb, hoping that hitchhiking wasn’t illegal in Britain.

I must have waited for at least half an hour, watching cars whiz by, but I didn’t blame them. I haven’t picked up hitchhiker in years, when it used to be a way of life. When a Morris Minor pulled over, I was thrilled, knowing that it had probably been made in Oxford. A middle-aged man with a distinctive moustache rolled down the window, “I’m only going as far as Warwick.”

“I’m following the Bryson Line,” I said, as he opened the passenger door. He’d never heard of Bill Bryson, a reminder of how few people pay any attention to authors, but the driver seemed to get a kick out of the Bryson Line. “He must be havin’ you on, because there’s no such thing as a straight line in Britain. It’s a country of twists and turns.”

I immediately thought of Oliver Twist, of course, which got me thinking that maybe I should follow Dickens’ lead and serialize my novel; something I needed to discuss with my elusive publisher. When the driver asked me about Blenheim Palace, I told him I thought it was over the top. “You can say that again,” he replied; I was glad that I hadn’t offended him. But when he asked what I was doing in England, I hesitated to tell him about my novel; surely no one would take offense at my quest to follow the Bryson Line.

“I can tell that this Bryson fellow has hooked you with his blarney. You American’s seem to have a soft spot for nonsense, like Mark Twain, who must have been a born liar. Let me give you a piece of advice. If you really want to see this country, you’ll have to depart from the straight and narrow. Take a lesson from our rivers, which meander hither and yon. If I had all the time in the world, I’d follow the tow paths that used to run throughout the country, before automobiles ruined the landscape.” With that, he pulled over to the side of the road and told me to get out. “You need to find your own way in the world. These damn roads only get you to hell quicker. Get on your own two feet while you still can. You have to keep moving. That’s the secret of life.”

I saw no reason to argue with him, especially because it seemed like sound advice. So I thanked him and started walking under the bridge we had just crossed; there was a sign for the Evenlode River, but I wasn’t sure if it was just another name for the Thames. Spotting a trail marker along the river, I went to investigate and was surprised to see a cluster of houseboats moored by a park. When I discovered that it was a group of young people on a Harry Potter pilgrimage, I realized I’d taken a wrong turn. How was I to know that there’s a magical tree near Blenheim Palace? At least my instinct to flee had been spot on, but I had obviously headed in the wrong direction.

By now I realized that the Bryson Line provided the perfect cover story, allowing me to avoid any mention of my book tour or the Bard. My biggest quandary was whether or not to get directions to Stratford, which was obviously a detour, and might lead me astray in my attempt to hide the real reason for my trip. I was also afraid that the youngsters might ask me about Harry Potter, so I pulled out my AAA map of Britain, on which I’d drawn the Bryson Line. None of them had ever heard of it, of course, but they found it curious that anyone in their right mind would want to traipse along “Britain’s backbone,” where there’s so little of interest.

I remarked, “My guess is that Bill Bryson assumed that everyone knows about the Bard’s birthplace, so perhaps he wanted to suggest an alternative root; I confess I’d like to visit Stratford-upon-Avon.

One of the Harry Potter fans said, “Don’t you have a replica of Stratford in America? The last place you want to go in Britain is Stratford, which might as well be Disneyland. That’s what’s so great about Harry Potter. No one’s figured out how to bottle him.”

I wanted to say, au contraire, but I was out of my depth. I’ve only seen one of the movies on a plane, but it’s just a faded memory. It was tempting to feel complacent, because my quest was based on a real person, not an imaginary character, but I realized that I had author envy. Rowling had tapped into an archetype that dwarfed any character I’d ever written. Besides, the Bard’s stock and trade was make-believe, so why didn’t I applaud the phenomenon of Harry Potter?

Pretending that I wasn’t really a writer, I pointed to my map, asking for directions to the next place along the Bryson Line, Ashbourne. None of the Potterites had heard of it. The consensus was that I should just follow the Evenlode River, which connects with the Avon. From there I could head north, hitchhiking to Scotland, or catching a train if I didn’t want to get wet.

Thanking them, I began walking along the trail that skirted the river, figuring I would just walk for awhile until I could find a good place to hitchhike; I just needed to keep moving. Once I got to the Avon, it couldn’t be far to Stratford, and then I could double back to the Bryson Line. However, I soon found that I was woefully unprepared for this jaunt through the countryside, where there are so few people—or places to eat. I felt better after eating a bag of peanuts, which I always carry in case of emergency, but walking only made me hungrier. Seeing a boat float by, I had half a mind to beg for food, but I wasn’t starving, just hungry.

Coming to another bridge, I realized that I might be able to catch a ride. At this point I didn’t care where I was going, as long as I could find some food. Mercifully, the weather was partly sunny, so I wasn’t worried about rain. Seeing a lorry headed west, presumably towards Stratford, I stuck out my thumb and was delighted to see the driver pull over. The hardy-looking fellow said, “Don’t get many hitchhikers these days, but you look harmless enough. For an old man, you’ve got balls.”

I expect this was meant as a compliment, but it seemed like a low blow to me. When he asked me where I was headed it seemed easier just to answer Stratford, rather than to give him my spiel about the Bryson Line.

Fortunately, the driver as a man of few words. Better yet, he didn’t ask many questions, so I didn’t have to lie about the real reason for being in Britain. He must have assumed that I was just another tourist, because when we drove through Stratford, he dropped me off at the Bard’s birthplace on Hensley Street. I thanked him and gave him a banknote (I’m not sure how much) for gas, without any objection. As I climbed down from the lorry, I was well aware that I might be under surveillance again, especially in a place as popular as Stratford. I quickly put on the Aussie sun-hat that was tucked away in my backpack, even though it made me look like a tourist.

For once in my life, I was delighted to see a long line of tourists lined up for the Bard’s birthplace, because it just meant more work for the poor sods who have to scan CCTV; even if it’s all automated by now, someone has to crunch the data and my Aussie hat might help disguise me; obviously, my expensive sunglasses offered little protection. Avoiding the queueI thought to myself, ‘Been there, done that.’ My smugness quickly evaporated when I realized that here I was, in the epicenter of the Shakesphere, without any copies of my book to sell to the multitudes of Bardolators. I took some comfort in the words of Yogi Berra, “It ain’t over till it’s over.”

Reminding myself that I still had something up my sleeve, I crossed Stratford as nonchalantly as I could, heading for Shottery, on Anne Hathaway’s own turf. Indeed, admiring her “cottage,” you have to wonder if Will wasn’t a very shrewd dude, marrying an older woman with some serious real estate. Not only is the Hathaway Cottage a gorgeous mansion, but it came with several acres of land, including a variety of orchards. Let’s face it, the Bard was a lucky man, to say the least.

Since most tourists are unwilling to walk the mile to Shottery, I practically had Anne Hathaway’s cottage to myself. Even though that defeated the purpose of my expedition, to give people a sample of my work (chumming, it’s called in fishing), at least it was an opportunity for me to read out loud; I needed all the practice I could get. As I approached the cottage, I was glad to see a handful of tourists coming and going. In keeping the adage, “It’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission,” I saw no point in asking anyone if I could read. Pulling out my tattered manuscript, I stood on the steps and began to read my passage about Anne’s family, before I chickened out:

So the Bard wasn’t surprised when Anne suggested that they live with her parents, who had a large house and a spacious garden, where she spent a great deal of her time. She seemed to relish being outside, thriving on fresh air and vigorous work. Leaving her mother to run the house, Anne carved out a niche for herself. In that respect, they had no problem sharing the property with her parents, who had worked out their own rhythm. Her father, who was a bookkeeper, kept to himself, while his wife ruled the roost. Indeed, Will was quite sure that Anne inherited her independent streak from her mother, who was sensible and strong-willed. Unfortunately, Anne’s mother didn’t have much sense of humor, as he discovered when they began living with her parents.

Will supposed that her parents could be forgiven for failing to appreciate his habit of reading passages from “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” which he hoped might liven up their dinners. As Anne’s father always insisted on reading scripture before every meal, it seemed to the Bard that some leaven would help balance a steady diet of Biblical references. Although her parents humored him by listening to excerpts from his play, they proved to be a difficult audience. It was her father who suggested that Will might make better use of his time by writing historical plays, with some “meat and potatoes” as he put it. “It’s all very well that you can dream up diversions for a foreign king, but most us prefer tales with some moral purpose.”

Will soon realized that the sequel to “Love’s Labour’s Lost” would have to wait, in spite of his promise to Anne. As much as he dreaded the thought of writing a historical play to placate her parents with something of substance, he began working on the tragic tale of Titus Andronicus, the ill-fated Roman general, whose cruelty begets horrific revenge. The Bard was determined to produce a work of Biblical proportions, in which an eye for an eye is taken quite literally. If nothing else, his play quieted Anne’s parents, who ended up practically begging him to turn his hand from bloody murder to comedy again.

The few passersby did just that, passed me by as if I were invisible; it seemed to me that I might as well have been a ghost. I was reminded of all of the buskers I had passed by, ignoring their amateur attempts at singing, and glad that I hadn’t paid to attend one of their concerts. I was tempted to berate the gawkers, but held my tongue. How is it possible that people who had come from the four corners of the earth to see a writer’s birthplace could just dismiss a fellow writer? I suppose that I should have counted my blessings, for no one shouted me down or thew anything at me. But I preferred the scorn heaped upon me in London to being ignored in Shottery. It seemed the unkindest cut of all.

I tried bucking up my spirits by telling myself that I might have had better luck with a real book in my hand. I was doubly frustrated by the difficulty of contacting my publisher; clearly, I could be sending him flowers very often, especially because I had to make myself a moving target. But it seemed pointless to continue by book tour without a book in hand, so I asked a couple of Shotterians if there were was a local bookstore; they directed me to Stratford, of course, as if this should have been obvious. I was tempted to ask if all the books in Shottery had already been burned, but that seemed like a cheap shot.

However, inspiration struck when I spotted a barbershop. To my credit, I didn’t hesitate to ask to have my beard shaved off, even if I waffled about losing my mustache as well. No one in recent memory, not even my wife, has seen me clean-shaven, but I knew that I had to establish a new identity. By now, I understood that CCTV photos of me must be circulating throughout the dark web, depicting a wooly geezer with glasses. They wouldn’t be looking for a clean-shaven distinguished gentleman; I would just have to forgo wearing glasses in public, even if it curtailed by ability to read signs.

Fortunately, I don’t need glasses to read, so I bought a newspaper to see if the Chunnel Scroll controversy had died down. Unfortunately, The Stratford Barb, had gone the way of most newspapers suffering from shrinkflation, featuring infomercials from some news conglomerate. Skimming through the rag took me less than a minute, but I was startled to see my name mentioned in a letter to the editor. Saving it for my scrapbook, I continued walking towards Stratford to find a bookstore where I could order a copy of my book. It was time for a showdown. Walking into the center of town, I felt like Gary Cooper in High Noon, even if I didn’t look the part.

Letter to the Editor

I am writing to your highly esteemed newspaper and your loyal readers to warn you of an impending visit by an obscure American author to promote his fictious exposé of William Shakespeare, The Bard and the Barman. Indeed, “author” is too strong a word for an aspiring writer who freely admits that he is not an authority on the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon, but has written a provocative account of the Bard’s “lost years.” A little bird told me that the cheeky novelist is planning to embark on a tour of the English-speaking world, so be prepared.

Despite the fact that the novel hasn’t even been published yet, he has already given public readings, billing them as “previews of coming attractions,” in a feeble effort to call attention to his forthcoming book and himself. While I must admit that I found his tall tale intriguing, I advise your readers to avoid the interloper at all costs. Can there be anything worse than an American trying to impersonate the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon? Silence is golden. Need I say more?

Anne Halfhearted

Stratford-upon-Avon

Auteur’s journal, Stratford-upon-Avon

Feeling naked without my beard and moustache, I meandered around Stratford looking for shops with books in the window, because I couldn’t read the signs. As I wanted to keep my interactions with strangers to a minimum, I didn’t ask anyone for recommendations about a good bookstore, but I suspect that most of the people milling around downtown were tourists. Nonetheless, it didn’t take long to find Bard’s Books, which sounded promising; even the sound of the bell when I entered the shop was reassuring. I said to myself, ‘Eurkea.’ The woman behind the desk was giftwrapping a book for a customer, leaving me free to browse without any questions.

Finding the fiction section, I was amazed to see how many books I’d never heard of. How nice it would have been to see my novel on the shelf, sitting next to one of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novels. Neither of us made the cut, however, perhaps because we’re both Americans. Understandably, British bookstores focus on native writers, but considering the diversity of restaurants in England, I don’t see why Bard’s Books couldn’t carry some token Yankees. To be fair, I only looked in the H’s, so I might have missed my fellow American authors. My search was cut short by the woman who must have owned the shop, because she seemed very knowledgeable about the book trade. Indeed, more information than I wanted to know. I didn’t reveal my identity, of course, but simply asked her about ordering a book.

“Ah, the novel by the upstart American,” she said. “Good to see you supporting your fellow countryman, but I hope you’re not in a hurry. Books on demand is a misnomer, if you ask me. Printing books one at a time isn’t very economical, to say the least. Ironically, this cumbersome process is only necessary because there’s so little demand for such books, by debut authors without any name recognition. Publishing has always been a dog-eat-dog world, but nowadays it’s hard for publishers to put food on the table for anyone.”

I wanted to say, “except booksellers,” but I held my tongue. She, on the other hand, gave me a tongue-lashing. “If you’re serious about ordering a copy of this amateur novel, I’ll be glad to take your money, but I should warn you that it’s going to take awhile. Even before Covid, it’s been difficult for printers to get paper, and pipeline issues are even worse in Britain. You need to understand that finding trees in the Old World is almost impossible, since so much timber was felled to heat the mansions of the aristocrats. Not to mention the old growth trees cut down for the British, French and Spanish navies. The forests have never recovered. Honestly, it would be faster to order a book in America or Canada, and have it shipped to you. Believe me, I hate to turn down your business, but I’m just telling you the facts of life.”

As I appreciated her candor, I reciprocated by admitting that I was the author. Besides, what choice did I have? I paid her in cash, asking her to notify my publisher when the book came in. Obviously, I couldn’t wait around in Stratford, where I was in danger of being discovered by BAM and their cronies. I doubted that the bookstore owner would blow the whistle on me, which would have been in bad form, but spending anytime in the Bard’s birthplace seemed fraught with peril. Curious to see what was playing at the Royal Shakespeare Theater, I walked down to the river, and was amazed to see that the theater had been transformed since I had last been here, several years ago. The location, of course, on the bank of the Avon, is magnificent, and the renovated building, designed by a female architect, is an absolute jewel.

I must confess that my heart dropped when I saw the line at the box office, but I didn’t hesitate to join the queue; I had no idea what was playing, but it didn’t matter. It was the Royal Shakespeare Company, for God’s sake; I would have been happy to see Titus Andronicus. Overhearing the conversation of the people in line, I couldn’t help noticing that everyone was a foreigner. Obviously, the British only came to Stratford after the tourist season. I realized that the chance of getting a ticket on short notice was a longshot, reminding me of the jerk at the Globe who berated me for not planning ahead.

Fortunately, there were multiple ticket windows, so I soon found myself at the head of the line. I stepped to the window, confident that my clean-shaven appearance and elderly bearing would work in my favor. “Any chance of getting a ticket for tonight’s performance,” I asked. The young man replied, “Not a snowball’s chance in hell, sir, if you’ll pardon my language.”

I wasn’t about to give up. “Then why are all of these people in line, if you don’t have any tickets? What about standing room, only?”

The young man must have been having a bad hair day. “I don’t know when you were born, monsieur, but standing-room-only is passé. Nowadays we have fire marshals, who don’t tolerate patrons standing in the aisles.” I realized that buying a beret had been a stroke of genius, for the young man assumed that I spoke French. I quickly realized that I could create several identities, merely by changing hats; clothes don’t make the man, hat’s do. As he continued his rant, I took some satisfaction in knowing that I was holding up the line. He said, “The people in line had the foresight to purchase tickets for August, before the French tourists invade our country. I’ll be glad to sell you a ticket for later in the summer, but if you’re not going to buy a ticket, please get out of the way.”

I can spot ageism when I see it, and it wasn’t the first time on this trip that I’d been told to get out of the way. But I saw no point in wasting my time, until I picked up a program to see the shows for the summer season. Deciding that I could use a beer, I made my way to the bar on the roof of the theater. I was glad to see that it was too early for most people to imbibe, so I ordered a pint of Bass ale, and sat down at a table to admire the view of the Avon; a scene made for a postcard. Leafing through the program, I almost fell off my chair when I saw what was currently playing: Love’s Labour’s Lost. Too good to be true, but I was out of luck. My only possibility of getting a ticket was finding someone with an extra ticket to sell; I’d have to be Johnny on the spot.

In the meantime, I needed to find a place to stay, on the off chance that I’d be able to snag a ticket somehow. From the crowds of tourists, I realized that Stratford was probably booked up. On a lark, I decided to follow the Avon to see if I could find another houseboat to stay on, but this notion didn’t pan out. I even considered seeing if I could find the Fox & the Hound, where Anne and Will honeymooned, but I had my doubts about the barman’s veracity. Even if his story was true, it was doubtful that the place still existed. But it occurred to me that there might be other taverns with rooms to rent, if only to accommodate trysts.

Sure enough, as I continued walking along the Avon, I came across a place that sounded perfect, the Pen & the Parchment. It even looked like some place that the Bard might have frequented, as I could picture him sitting by the window, watching the rain fall while he scribbled in his notebook. However, my fantasy evaporated when the proprietor gave me the bad news. “We’re full up, sir, booked solid until next year. You might try the Rose & Crown in Warwick, but it’s a hike, or you can take a taxi.” It was one of those times when I wished I had a cell phone.

“Is there a payphone around here I can use?” I asked.

The friendly chap started laughing, as if I had told a good joke, but I took him up on his offer to use his cellphone, even dialing the number for me. The long and short of it is that I walked all the way to Warwick, eight miles away, figuring that I could catch a bus or taxi to Stratford in the evening, in the hope of getting a spare ticket. Recalling that the first person to pick me up hitchhiking was going to Warwick, I regretted that he dumped me off in the middle of nowhere, even if he had good intentions.

After finally arriving in Warwick, I was pleasantly surprised by the well-preserved market town, which sits upstream on the Avon. I would have liked to poke around the place, but as soon as I checked into the Rose & Crown, I hitchhiked back to Stratford, knowing that the early bird gets the worm.

Suffice it to say that I spent two nights hoping and praying that someone would have a ticket to spare, but I struck out each time. Indeed, I abandoned my fallback, which was to have a leisurely dinner in Stratford if I didn’t find a ticket, because I couldn’t bear the thought of missing the performance of a play that meant so much to me. I hated to admit it, but I had never actually seen the play, just the movie by Kenneth Branagh, whose musical version was such a breath of fresh air. Cleverly, he softened the ending with footage of the characters embroiled in WWII, suggesting that they survived the ordeal. I suspected that seeing the actual play would be harder to take, for there was no way to avoid the shock of the ending, leaving the audience hanging in mid-air.

Rather than considering my visit to Stratford a waste of time, I reframed my experience, seeing it as an opportunity to assess my portrait of the place in my novel. It was too late to do anything about it, of course, but I liked to think that I could learn from my mistakes. While writing my novel, I had some qualms about suggesting that Stratfordians tried to exploit the town’s connection with Shakespeare, but I found the place even more mercenary than I had imagined. If anything, the townspeople had outdone Disney in creating what amounted to the cradle of English civilization. Wondering what effect this fabrication might have on Stratford’s children, I made my way to King’s New School on Church Street.

I waited until late afternoon, to ensure that the kids were gone, as I was certain that a stranger would be suspect. Luckily, the headmaster was still there, writing on the chalkboard. Evidently, he didn’t hear me enter, for he wrote “zany,” which I happened to know was one of the words coined by Bard. Not only that, but it’s from one of Biron’s speeches in Love’s Labour’s Lost, which is how I knew its origin. I couldn’t help myself.

“Excuse me, sir, but do you mind if I ask what you’re doing? I’m a writer, so I’m fascinated with words.”

Startled, he turned around and answered, “As was the Bard, sir. I dare say no one has ever invented more words than Shakespeare, over 1,700, despite quibbles by some scholars. Local legend has it that he wrote a new word on the blackboard every day he was in school here, for seven years, we think, but there are no records to prove it. Apparently he was an early bird, always the first to turn up at school, where he would write a word on the blackboard. He never admitted that he’d written the word, but everyone knew he’d invented it, because he always came up with the best definition. Take zany, for example, which he used as a noun, to describe a clown’s assistant in Love’s Labour’s Lost. It’s morphed into an adjective, but the word wouldn’t exist without Will.”

I couldn’t help asking, “So how long has this game been going on? Surely, teachers must have known that Will was the mystery writer.”

He couldn’t answer my question, but claimed that generations of teachers had followed the Bard’s lead by writing one of his words on the blackboard each day. It provided a fruitful opportunity to build vocabulary and to remind students of their heritage. I couldn’t help wondering if the legend had been cooked up by a bunch of Stratfordians, but I had to admit it made a good story.

Mindful that I only had one more chance to see Love’s Labour’s Lost before it closed on Saturday night, I knew that I couldn’t strike out again; I had to make my own luck. I considered pitching an idea to the Stratford Barb for a story about the coincidence of a lifetime, discovering that the Bard’s problem play happened to be playing in Stratford while I was here, but the letter to the editor had poisoned the well. Then it hit me, how about posing as a reporter from Rolling Stone? I’d seen this gambit used effectively in a couple of movies, Almost Famous and The End of the Tour. Surely, a press pass from Rolling Stone would get me in to the theater. Glad to find out that there was a Western Union office in Stratford, I sent my telegram post haste: CHUNNEL SCROLL CONTROVERSEY BOILS OVER IN BARD’S BIRTHPLACE. AUTHOR OFFERS SCOOP IN EXCHANGE FOR PRESS PASS. URGENT!

While I waited for their response, came up with a back-up plan: making my own press pass. I popped into a couple of bookstores, hoping that they might carry magazines, but the clerks looked at me as if I were a madman. However, one of them told me to try the magazine stand near the train station, which catered to “friggin foreigners.” Sure enough, the newsstand had a copy of Rolling Stone, from March. When I asked the squirrely-looking middle-aged man about getting a discount, he said, “Hobson’s choice, sir. Take it or leave it.” If I live long enough, I’m going to write a story about Hobson, who ran a livery in Cambridge during Shakespeare’s lifetime, because I think they would have hit it off.

I took my copy of Rolling Stone to the public library, hoping to be able to scan the cover, but when I asked for change to use the scanner, I ran into a snag. When I showed the magazine to the librarian, with fuchsia-colored hair, she rolled her eyes at me. “That’s copyrighted, sir, so I can’t give you change in good conscience.”

“Fair use in this case,” I countered. Trust me, as an almost published author I appreciate copyright, but there are exceptions to the rule. I’m only copying a fraction of the magazine, my action is not going to undercut their business, and there’s a method in my madness.”

I don’t think I won her over, but she made change for me. Since I was on a roll, I asked her if there was a sign shop in Stratford. When I told her that my wife and I had our license plate made by a shop in France, she replied, “You’re not in France anymore sir, but your best bet is XpressCopy on Hensley Street. However, I should warn you that forgery is a crime in Britain.”

Forgery seemed too strong a word for what I had in mind, as a explained to the cool young man at Xpress Copy, who grokked my scheme for fabricating a press pass from Rolling Stone. Embedding my scan of the magazine cover as a watermark, he overlaid the text I wanted with a groovy font, and laminated what looked like a real badge; I thought the rawhide lanyard was a nice touch. I especially liked the titled he suggested: JOURNALIST EMERITUS. Based on my experience as a volunteer photographer for the Lotus World Music & Arts Festival, I made sure to include the words: ALL ACCESS; I now possessed a carte de blanche. I walked out of the shop ready to play my role.

Still hoping that Rolling Stone might come through, I stopped by Western Union, but there was no response. Philosophical fellow that I am, I figured that no news was good news, so I headed for the theater. I couldn’t take the chance of getting turned away away at the door, so I bought a ticket for the backstage tour. For once in my life I was glad to find myself in a gaggle of tourists, making it easier for me to slip away in the bowels of the theater without being seen. The attractive tour guide spun the story of the theater’s overhaul with considerable pride, highlighting the visionary female architect, whose design featured a stage surrounded by the audience on three sides; an old idea, borrowed from the Elizabethans, but rendered with a modern sensibility and a woman’s touch, if I may say so.

As much as I would have enjoyed getting the full tour, and hearing more of the guide’s anecdotes about the Royal Shakespeare Company, I spotted a good hiding place when we entered the dressing rooms; however, it occurred to me that the actors might need to relieve themselves before going onstage. So I bided my time until we passed through the balcony, where I noticed a unisex water closet near the top of the stairs. Hanging back from the group, I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. I hesitated to turn on the light, for fear that someone would notice the illumination under the door, so I sat on the toilet in the dark. In retrospect, I wish that I had brought something to read beside my manuscript, but I did have the foresight to bring a tuna sandwich, soggy as it was by the time I got hungry. To pass the time I imaged myself reading my novel to an eager audience in the Coliseum. Indeed, my book was so compelling that I lost track of time, so it was fortunate that someone tried the door. I was aghast to see that it was almost showtime.

Pulling out the press pass which I’d concealed under my shirt, I looked in the mirror, which transposed Llirrem Neltah into my real name. With my camera slung around my neck, I thought I looked the part, if a bit over the hill. There was no point in trying to find a seat of course, for the final performance was sold out. Besides, sitting in the audience would have spoiled the moment. I relished the idea of being behind the scenes, documenting the performance of Love’s Labour’s Lost for posterity, not for Rolling Stone. I doubt if many people have delved into the play as much as I have, so it was quite a thrill to find myself in such circumstances.

Stepping into character, I made my way down the stairs from the balcony, against the flow of playgoers heading for the balcony. Determined not to be deterred by the tide, I managed to find my way to the dressing rooms. The women’s dressing room was off limits, of course, even with my all access press pass, but as I hurried towards the men’s dressing room I passed a lovely woman who might have been a princess, although still in her street clothes. Happily, she didn’t give me even a passing glance. I raised my camera to try and get a shot of her entering the dressing room, but someone behind me, said “Excuse me,” and a bevy of beauties paraded by; the Princess’ ladies in waiting, no doubt. I blasted away with my camera, knowing that no one else would appreciate shots of the actors out of costume, but it didn’t matter; I looked like a real photographer.

Entering the men’s dressing room, surrounded by bright lights and mirrors, I faced the challenge of keeping my reflection out of my shots, and making sure that I didn’t get too much skin. I suspect that men are inherently less modest than women, but this was just a hunch, so I tried to be discreet. I was especially interested in capturing the faces of the actors as they applied their make-up, which I figured would make a good series of photos. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, the actor who played Biron turned around and waved me off, but he obviously thought I was a real journalist; I would have crossed myself, if I were a Catholic, but I thanked my lucky star that my luck held.

As the lights dimmed to signal the start of the show, I exited the dressing room, trying to guess the route the actors would take to enter the stage. Had I continued on the backstage tour in the afternoon, the guide might have walked us through the stage entrances, but by then I was probably sitting on the can. Now, at curtain time, I was in a quandary about where to see the action without being in the way; at least I no longer had to worry about taking photos, because cameras were strictly prohibited during the show.

The only thing that made sense to me was following the lead of the Princess, who suddenly stepped out of the dressing room followed by her ladies in waiting. Glad I could see them with my own eyes, instead of peering through my camera’s viewfinder, I was amazed to see their transformation. They looked as if they were part of a wedding party, but from four hundred years ago, when women dressed to the hilt. Watching them heading for the stage entrance, I could have pinched myself, to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Suffice it to say I stood in the wings throughout the play, enthralled by the performances, which breathed life into the Bard’s perplexing play. I was happy to be a fly on the wall with a press pass.

I half-hoped that someone might invite me to the cast party, which I’m sure would have been a blast on closing night, but my ploy to pass myself off as journalist had worked too well. I actually considered taking some more photos now that the play was over, but it seemed pointless to push my luck and risk exposure. I had succeeded in finally seeing the play that had altered the course of my life, so it was time to quit while I was ahead. Making my way past the cast members who were being congratulated by friends and family backstage, I passed the actor who had waved me off. He turned to me and said,

“Since when did Rolling Stone start covering Shakespeare?”

What could I say? “The Bard is everywhere these days,” I replied. “I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed.” Probably a poor choice of words, especially to a man with a way with words such as Biron.

He replied, “Something’s rotten in Denmark.” As if on cue, a police woman came in the stage entrance. As she approached me, everyone turned to look, because she was clearly not in costume. “Let’s step into the hallway, shall we?” I complied, knowing that the jig was up.

Looking me in the eye, she said, “I don’t know how you managed to worm your way into the theater, but you were caught on camera from the get-go. You weren’t ejected sooner because they didn’t want to interrupt the performance. If it were up to me, we’d lock you up, but the sheriff doesn’t want to pay for your food and lodging. You are to report to the courthouse at 10:00 tomorrow morning. Do you give me your word you will show up?”

What choice did I have? I agreed, raising my hand to add gravitas to my word; she confiscated my camera, anyway.

Escorting me out the door, she said, “I hope you have a good reason for trespass, forgery and identify theft.” I replied, “It’s a long story.”

“Tell it to the judge.”

There’s little point in mentioning that I missed the bus and had to take a taxi back to Warwick, famous/infamous for its imposing medieval castle, eventually acquired by the owners of Madame Tussaud’s; this may explain the heavily waxed mustache of the taxi driver who chewed my ear off on the ride back. I’ve only included it in my journal to add some local color, which has nothing to do with me.

Storytelling is challenging enough when you have a receptive audience, or a reader who wants to get their money’s worth for buying your book. Judge Blackwell didn’t give me any slack. When I tried to explain my actions, he repeatedly cut me off, making it impossible to find any rhythm. Consequently, my tale was abbreviated, which usually serves the teller and the listener well. For someone in the legal profession, he wasn’t a good listener, unless he was speaking. In other words, he liked to hear himself talk.

“You have already disgraced the name of William Shakespeare with your scurrilous novel, which I’m glad to say I’ve never read and never will; it ever even materializes. Now you have compounded your errors by sneaking into the Royal Shakespeare Theater, fit for the Queen, God rest her soul, but not for the likes of interlopers like you. Not to mention posing as a journalist, which is a questionable profession to begin with. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rolling Stone magazine sues you for defamation. I half have a mind to have you locked up in jail for a month to teach you a lesson, but the sooner we’re rid of you, the better. How do you plead?”

I responded, “Guilty, your honor, but with the best intentions in the world. I only wanted to see the play that has altered the course of my life. Had I known earlier that Love’s Labour’s Lost was playing in your magnificent theater, I would have paid good money to see it; but since the play was sold out, I didn’t deprive the theater of any revenue, so no harm was done. Under the circumstances I had no choice but to circumvent custom.”

Judge Blackwell was having none of it. “Alliteration rolls off your tongue all too easily, as do lies from a liar. Let me point out that the circumstances were of your own making; you failed to do your homework, plain and simple. Circumventing custom is a glib way of saying bad faith, in the Sartrean sense. Do you catch my drift?” I nodded in the affirmative, without saying anything, since I knew he wanted to hear himself talk, but he threw me a curve ball. “What do you have to say for yourself before I sentence you?”

“This is an existential moment for me, your honor, calling into question the very reason for being here, now. I believe that you would have some compassion for me if you were to read my novel. I would be glad to read it to you myself, but that might make matters even more woeful. In my defense, I ask you to consider the Lord’s Prayer, ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those you trespass against us.’

The judge was unmoved. “Tis a pity that we don’t live in a bygone era, when I could have had you drawn and quartered. But that would be expensive and messy, so you’re lucky to leave here alive. However, in the name of the King, I find you guilty on all counts, and I banish you from the Emerald Isle forever. You have three days to leave our storied land. If you turn up again, like a bad penny, I’ll have you locked up, not in the Tower of London, but on the rock of Gibraltar, where you will spend your days doing hard labor. Get out of my sight!”

I tried not to take his judgement personally, for I knew enough about psychology to recognize projection when I see it. Judge Blackwell had painted me with a broad brush, depicting me as the quintessential ugly American. I found his characterization of me particularly unfair, since I hadn’t raised my voice anytime I could think of. If anything, I should have spoken louder when I read in public, but they might taken me to task for butchering the King’s English. The judge had been right about one thing; I was lucky to leave Stratford-upon-Avon alive.

Author of the Bard & the Barman Banished from Britain

Stratford judge throws the book at the upstart Yank for posing as a journalist and sneaking into the Royal Shakespeare Theater to see Love’s Labour’s Lost. His photos were confiscated and given to the Royal Shakespeare Company in partial compensation for damages. As a RSC spokesperson noted, “It’s a pity that the old codger stooped so low, because his photos were pretty good. He should have stuck with photography, instead of trying to be a novelist. I’m glad to say that our security cameras caught him in the act, but we opted to hold off having him arrested until the performance ended. It’s a sad state of affairs when foreign intruders fail to pay for the privilege of visiting the Bard’s birthplace.”

Hadrian Wall Eye

Auteur’s journal, Warwick, England

I didn’t dare hitch back to Warwick, for fear of being recognized. But I resolved to let my whiskers grow back, which were practically the only hair left on my head. The bus depot would also be a dangerous place, so I forked out some more bills bearing the faces of dead monarchs. After checking out of the Rose & Crown, I consulted the bus schedule and discovered that I had an hour to kill. I figured that I might as well grab an early lunch before I hit the road.

Knowing that I only had three days left in Britain, I popped into a pub with a terrace overlooking the Avon. Having discovered that smoking is still permitted in British pubs, I was determined to eat outside, so I was especially pleased to find a free table; it’s not every day you can savor the sunshine in such a cloudy country. When no one came to take my order, I went into the bar, where my attention was arrested by a program on the telly. A reporter was standing next to the mayor in a field, with a hamlet visible in the background. “We’re here in Castuberry in Devonshire, where the mayor claims that the Chunnel Scroll was unearthed, rather than neighboring Bertramdale, which disputes the claim. Would you like to make a statement, sir?”

She held the mic up towards his face to catch his reply: “Absolute rubbish, I’m afraid. Appearances are deceiving, my dear. While it may look as if we are standing in an empty field, underneath our feet is the tunnel connected to the Chunnel, proper. Our unneighborly neighbors should know better than to claim the Chunnel Scroll was concealed in their public latrine, which has been bricked up for years; it smelled to high heaven. Here in Castuberry we appreciate the importance of catering to the needs of British passersby, who can be hard-pressed to find any water closets in this neck of the woods. Even the locals use our facilities when they’re desperate, unlike the French, who receive themselves wherever they please. That’s why our ancient latrine is still intact. Say what you will about the bloody Romans, but they built things to last. No wonder the prescient barman buried his scroll in our village. We intend to add some signage to mark the spot for posterity.”

The reporter turned to the mayor and spoke into the mic. “Do you have any idea why the British Antiquities Museum kept the scroll secret for so long?”

The mayor replied, “No comment.”

I would have borrowed a candle from Bill Bryson and said, “Bugger BAM.” I ordered fish & chips for old time’s sake, and went outside to pace the deserted terrace, mulling over my next steps. Truth be told, I was relieved to end what turned out to be a wild goose chase and Bill Bryson’s notion of a snipe hunt. It could have taken me weeks to visit all of the sites in the UK connected to the Bard, but what was the point? To say that I’d been there? Who cares? As much as would have loved to visit Thawdor Castle in Scotland, there was no evidence that Macbeth or King Duncan had ever been there. If I were the Thanes, who still own the castle, I would have grown tired of people knocking on the door to ask about Macbeth. Suddenly, “Let bygones be bygones,” sounded like good advice.

As for the Bryson Line, it at least provided me with a good cover story, but with my cover blown, it seemed pointless to try to connect the dots on an imaginary route. Finishing my fish & chips, which probably wasn’t the best thing to order so far from the sea, I headed for the bus station, eager to go just about anywhere, except London, where I would have been a sitting duck. All I knew is that I needed to keep moving, biding my time until I could get my hands on my book. Rather than pulling out my map, I bought a ticket for the bus to the end of the line, in Luton. I’d never even heard of the place, but it didn’t matter. I asked the man who sold me the ticket if I could get to the English Channel from Luton.

Shaking his head, he said, “Only if you have all the time in the world, old fella. You oughta get yourself a map.” Reluctantly pulling out my AAA map, I managed to find Luton, but there was no sign of Castuberry or Bertramdale. I expect that mapmakers sometimes miss places, or don’t have room to include every damn place there is, so I consoled myself with the thought of the oral tradition, which predates maps. Whether or not I was able to find Castuberry within three days, my journey would take me closer to Shakespeare Cliff, which is the only place I had to see before I left Britain; I also took comfort in knowing that the Sceptered Isle didn’t include Ireland, so there was nothing to prevent me from visiting the land of malarkey.

Letter to George Spelvin, Jr. from BAM

We have him on the ropes, but he’s a slippery fellow, so there’s no telling where he’s headed. In any case, his time in Britain is almost up, and he has yet to sell a single book! All the more reason to deliver the coup de grâce, so we can watch him twist in the wind. In meantime, we need to have you develop a marketing plan for promoting The Bard & the Barmaid in North America. I doubt if many people have even heard of the Chunnel Scroll on your side of the pond, so you’re going to have to drum up business. As soon as our book comes out, Hatpin’s novel will be old hat. I gather you haven’t been able to dig up any dirt on him, but don’t bother. He’s managed to discredit himself on his own!

Margaret

Auteur’s journal, Cap-le-Ferne

While I waited in the bus station in Warwick, an elderly lady sat down on the bench with me, obviously interested in striking up a conversation; I doubt that she was trying to pick me up, since I was wearing my wedding ring, but I’m out of practice when it comes to flirting. When she asked me where I was going, I told her Shakespeare Cliff, near the White Cliffs of Dover.

“Oh my,” she said, you’re in for quite a ride. If I were you, I’d take the train to Folkstone. Get yourself a sleeping car, and you can hop on at Stratford and wake up to see the white cliffs.” It seemed like sound advice, but required getting a refund on my bus pass. The thought of having to return to Stratford was appalling, but when I realized that I could save the cost of a hotel by sleeping on the train, I took her advice. I had just enough time to exchange my pass and buy a ticket to Stratford before the next bus.

The long and short of it is that I took the train, via a circuitous route to avoid going through London, by heading down to South Hampton and cutting east towards Dover. In fact, I almost slept through the stop for Folkstone, but woke up just in time. The city has seen better days, for the tourist bureau claimed that Queen Victoria came there when it was a fashionable resort. I gathered that the Chunnel curtailed the shipping trade, but that might have been a blessing in disguise. Instead of getting overdeveloped, like so many places, Folkstone has retained some character.

With the clock ticking, I wanted to make sure I made it to Shakespeare Cliff before I became a wanted man. Acting on the suggestion of the woman at the tourist bureau, I took the long-distance pathway, the North Downs Way, which runs along the coast. The wind kept most of the clouds away, making for great walking high above the sea. Coming to the village of Capel-le-Ferne (sounds French to me), I found myself on the top of the White Cliffs of Dover, offering a spectacular view of the ocean and a glimpse of France. It seemed like a perfect place for me to stay for my last days in England.

Other than the amazing view, there’s not a lot to see in Capel-le-Ferne, except the Battle of Britain Memorial, but the village square proved to be a lively place, with a café and some pubs. Forgetting that pubs weren’t smoke free, I popped into one of them to ask about places to stay. Writing the address of a guest house on a cocktail napkin, I told the waitress that I’d be back for a drink in the evening, since I figured I could sit outside in the fresh air and watch the sunset. Checking into the guest house, I was glad to see that the young Asian woman who ran the place didn’t recognize me; or if she did, she was still happy to have my business. She told me that I was wise to stay in Capel-le-Ferne, because there were no facilities in Shakespeare Cliff.

I had been close to Shakespeare Cliff when I passed through Dover, of course, but I had purposely waited until I left Britain to see the place. I wasn’t disappointed, because it was obvious that the Bard must have departed for France from here. Why else would the place been named after him? I doubted that it was mere coincidence that Shakespeare Beach was the closest place to France in the U.K. In any case, it seems plausible to me that Shakespeare must have walked along the beach at the foot of the cliff, mindful of France, which he could have seen on a clear day.

After waiting so long to see Shakespeare Cliff, I had hoped to find the beach deserted, so I could commune with his spirit, but the author of our lives had other ideas. A black Labrador Retriever came bounding up to me with a stick in his mouth, dropping it in front of me. Picking up the stick, I hurled it into the sea, just as a couple of children came running up the beach. The dog plunged into the surf, retrieving the stick and proudly presenting it to the children. As it was a perfect stick for writing in the sand, I grabbed an even longer stick and tossed it to the dog, while the children cried in glee.

Leaving them to play with the dog, I sauntered down the beach to a large expanse of sand, where I spelled out THE BARD & THE BARMAN in huge cursive letters. Curious to see what I was up to, the children ran down the beach with their dog. As it seemed pointless to tell them about my novel, I just told them I liked to think big, like Christo and Warhol; but they seemed bored by my spiel, and didn’t stick around to watch the sea wash away my words. How a reporter found out about my sand-writing, I’ll never know, but someone must have tipped them off about where I was staying. When I got a call at the guesthouse, I was reluctant to answer, but curiosity got the best of me; it usually does.

Yankee Draws Line in the Sand

An American author (whose name doesn’t merit mentioning) was practically tarred and feathered when caught writing in the sand by Shakespeare Cliff, using a stick apparently taken from a Labrador Retriever at the beach. Accosted by the owner of the dog, the curmudgeonly man claimed that he was a plein-air writer who liked to see his words “writ large.”

“In the tradition of artists like Christo and Andy Warhol, who understood that bigger is better, I’ve kicked my writing up several notches, to rope in new readers. The kids who see me writing on the beach probably won’t buy my book, but their parents might. Years from now, when they grow up, they’ll be able to tell their children about seeing a man writing his heart out on the beach.

“When I tell people that I’m writing big enough for God to see from the heavens, they get it. They understand that I’m channeling Tibetan monks who devote themselves to sand painting that appears to disappear. Yet the beauty they create continues to radiate towards the heavens. Art is eternal.

“I find that racing the tide only increases my creativity, prompting a torrent of words that surprise even me. Knowing that the sea will wash away my words only adds to the joy of writing as large as I can. The thought that some Martian may see my words in the reflection of the sun gives me pause. But not for long. Look out Amazon, because there will always be people with bigger, bolder ideas.”

Editor’s note: The Folkstone Flyer reluctantly includes the author’s comments to show just how swell-headed he is, and to warn readers against buying any of his tripe.

Auteur’s journal, Cap-le-Ferne

I managed to end my phone interview just in time to see the sunset from the terrace which was deserted because of the wind, happily driving any smokers away. In the tradition of the condemned, I suppose I could have ordered anything on the menu at the Captain’s Table, but I figured that I had one last chance to get a decent plate of fish & chips in England; I was not disappointed, as fresh fish made all the difference in the world, with imported lemon, of course, but the food was pretty damn local. I also think that the waitress was glad to have an excuse to get some fresh air on the terrace. I took the opportunity to ask her if she’d ever heard of Castuberry or Bertramdale, but she told me she’d never heard of them, so I began to wonder if I wasn’t on another snipe hunt.

Taking advantage of Internet access at the guesthouse, I sent an email to my publisher, asking him to post it in a few newspapers to see if I could find an actor or two to serve as my proxy. Just because I was banished from Britain didn’t mean I couldn’t market my book, even if I had to do it in absentia. I didn’t tell Rich where I was going, not only because I was afraid someone might intercept my email, but because I hadn’t made up my mind. It seemed stupid to skip Ireland, when I was so close, but France was closer. I decided to sleep on it, waiting to see which way the wind was blowing.

HELP WANTED

Mature actors needed to play the part of an American author on a book tour throughout the UK. Requires ability to impersonate the speech of William Shakespeare and his rustic barman. Temporary position, involving public readings in indoor and outdoor settings, signing books and responding to questions. Improvisational theater experience required. Must be able to mimic American speech during chit chat with curious readers. Employer pays peanuts, which are even harder to trace than bitcoin. Call or text: (16) 423-1564.

Auteur’s journal, Devon

I’d hoped to return to Shakespeare Beach for a solitary walk along the sand, but I awoke to find the White Cliffs of Dover engulfed in fog. Undaunted, I knew there was only one thing to do: follow the Bard’s route across the Channel to Calais, where he landed the first time he went to France, according to my authoritative novel. It might have been more interesting to retrace his later trip in a fishing boat, but any chance of finding someone to smuggle me into France vanished in the mist. Besides, I wanted to relive the Bard’s delight in finding himself in paradise, at least for a teenage boy.

Any thought of trying to find Castuberry or Bertramdale had gone out of my head during the night, which is just as well, for it seemed cruel to indulge the specious claims of tin-pot mayors about the Chunnel Scroll. It was flattering to know that my fiction had taken root in reality, but I was resistant to having my work exploited. However, nothing was going to stop me from seeing Shakespeare Cliff for the last time in my life. Returning to the trail, which was obscured by fog, I headed for Dover, where I knew I could catch a ferry. I was certain that foggy weather wouldn’t curtail the voyage to France; if anything, I figured that lack of wind would make the trip calmer, even if I couldn’t see much.

Mindful that I was walking along not just any cliff, but the White Cliffs of Dover, I tread carefully, following the signs for the well-marked trail, which cut inland for a ways, before emerging in Dover. It was eerie walking through the city streets, with sounds muffled by the fog. Losing my way at one point, I had to ask for directions to the harbor, which made me feel like a tourist. Knowing that food would cost a fortune on the ferry, I decided to buy a sandwich with me, so I poked around the city to see what I could find. I wasn’t in a hurry, and I knew that I would never set foot on English soil again. It was easy enough to find a sandwich shop, so I ordered tuna, even though that wasn’t very adventurous. I figured that a simple sandwich would be easy to keep down, in case we encountered some weather on the way to Calais.

Finally seeing a sign for the harbor, I headed in that direction, wondering why the town didn’t use colored lines like they do in hospitals. As I walked past a bookstore I was curious to see the display in the window, with copies of the same book arrayed on a triangular bookcase, making me think of a tree. Drawing closer, I was dumfounded: THE BARD & THE BARMAN. Entering the shop, a handsome middle-aged woman greeted me. “Can I help you, sir?”

I replied, “Madame, you have no idea how much it means to me to see my book in print. How on earth did you obtain so many copies?”

“Bookstore owners and printers look out for each other, so I pulled some strings. You look nothing like the photo in your book, you know.”

I explained to her that I didn’t have many photos of myself, so I gave the few I had to my publisher. He picked this one because he thought I looked like the Bard, and made me look a lot younger.

She said, “Then you’d better think twice about growing a beard, because he’s clean shaven in most people’s minds.”

Picking up a copy of my book, she handed it to me so I could see what it felt like. Having never been a father, it’s a close to picking up my child as I was ever going to get. I said, “It feels like a real book.”.

“It is,” she replied. “Print on demand has come a long way. To be perfectly honest, I doubt if any publisher could afford to print a bunch of books, because your novel isn’t exactly mass market, to say the least. I’m only carrying your competition because some readers buy potboilers.”

She handed me a hardback, with a glossy cover featuring a gorgeous woman, dressed in black, with flaming red hair, and a huge X overlaying the image. The title, in scarlet letters, read: THE BARD & THE BARMAID. Not only had BAM beaten me to the punch, they added insult to injury with a lurid description: The gripping memoir by the Spanish spy who used the Bard in plots to kill the Queen. For mature adults only. There was no mention of BAM, nor the author, who was listed only as X.

She remarked, “Absolute rubbish, but there’s a market for pulp fiction, and my customers are all over the map. As you can see, I believe that your work is going to pan out in the long run. You must have had fun writing it, and fun is contagious, especially after a pandemic. Whoever tried to steal your thunder miscalculated, because we British don’t care for copycats. And now that you’ve been banished, I predict that your novel will sell like hotcakes.”

As if to prove her point, I bought a dozen copies of my book, and she added an extra copy to make a baker’s dozen. It was all I could carry, but now I was ready for anything. After bidding me goodbye, she had some words of advice.

“If I were you, I’d see about getting your novel translated into French, but there are thousands of ex-pats on the Continent who will get a kick out of your yarn. You can forget about northern France, which has the same weather we do. So if you’re looking for ex-pats, follow the sun, and remember that birds of a feather flock together. You’d be surprised how many places in Europe have English language bookstores, thanks to the vision of Elizabeth I and King James, as you well know.”

As I turned to go, she kissed me on both cheeks and bid me bon voyage. “One more bit of advice. Book tours don’t sell books, people do. You’ve already gotten a great deal of publicity because of your mishaps, but now what you need is word of mouth. So reach out to people, but keep writing!”

I boarded the ferry to Calais knowing that the Bard must have passed this way before, on his maiden voyage to France. He must have watched the White Cliffs of Dover disappear as his ship crossed the Channel, wondering what future awaited him beyond the Sceptered Isle. I didn’t have the luxury of such thoughts, since I was still engulfed in fog; which may be the story of my life.

Macron Strikes Again

Rumor has it that Macron and his Macaroons plan to capitalize on the recent revelation that Shakespeare was a Francophile and was friends with Henri IV of France, who was obviously the inspiration for the Bard’s problem play, Love’s Labour’s Lost. News of Shakespeare’s surprising role in French history provides Macron with a welcome diversion from the latest loss in the Tour de France, which hasn’t had a winning rider since 1985, while the signature event was won by a Brit six times during the last decade! Adding insult to injury, this year’s winner was a flatlander from Denmark, which is as flat as a macaroon. Plans are underway to stage a Tour de Bard, retracing Shakespeare’s travels in France, based on the recent novel, The Bard & The Barman: An Account of Shakespeare’s Lost Years. Although the novel hasn’t been translated into French yet, stories of the Bard’s French escapades are spreading like wildfire in France.

As if the French didn’t have enough holidays already, there is talk of designating the Bard’s birthday (April 23) as a national holiday. In homage to Martin Luther King, WS Day will be billed as a “day on, not at a day off,” allowing volunteers to scour the French countryside for traces of the Bard’s forays in France. To ensure that no cyclists steal France’s thunder, the event will be limited to boating, horseback riding, and walking, in keeping with the Bard’s modes of transportation. Such provocation could rekindle the Hundred Years War.

International Herald Tribute

Book Detour to Hell & Paperback

In the Clink

TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS

Preview of Coming Distractions

Author seeking beta readers for “Book Detour to Hell and Paperback”

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