Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'Not good,' I replied slowly. 'I can't dissuade an assassin from trying to kill me, Hamlet isn't safe here but I can't send him back and if I don't get Swindon to win the Superhoop then the world will end. Goliath somehow duped me into forgiving them, I have my own stalker and also have to figure out how to get the banned books I should be hunting for out of the country. And Landen's still not back.'

'Really?' she said, not having listened to me at all. 'I think I've got a plan for dealing with that annoying offspring of Pickwick's.'

'Lethal injectio

n?'

'Not funny. No, my friend Mrs Beatty knows a dodo whisperer who can work wonders with unruly dodos.'

'You're kidding me, right?'

'Not at all.'

'I'll try anything, I suppose. I can't understand why he's so difficult – Pickers is a real sweetheart.'

We fell silent for a moment.

'Mum?' I said at last.

'Yes?'

'What do you think of Herr Bismarck?'

'Otto? Well, most people remember him for his "blood and iron" rhetoric, unification arguments and the wars – but few give him credit for devising the first social security system in Europe.'

'No, I mean . . . that is to say . . . you wouldn't—'

But at that moment we heard some oaths and a slammed door. After a few thumps and bumps Hamlet burst into the living room with Emma in tow. He stopped, composed himself, rubbed his forehead, looked heavenward, sighed deeply and then said:

'O! that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!'1

'Is everything all right?' I asked.

'Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter!'2

'I'll make a cup of tea,' said my mother, who had an instinct for these sorts of things. 'Would you like a slice of Battenberg, Mr Hamlet?'

'O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable – yes, please – Seem to me all the uses of this world!'3

She nodded and moved off.

'What's up?' I asked Emma as Hamlet strutted around the living room, beating his head in frustration and grief.

'Well, we went to see Hamlet at the Alhambra.'

'Crumbs!' I muttered. 'It – er – didn't go down too well, I take it?'

'Well,' reflected Emma, as Hamlet continued his histrionics around the living room, 'the play was okay apart from Hamlet shouting out a couple of times that Polonius wasn't meant to be funny and Laertes wasn't remotely handsome. The management weren't particularly put out – there were at least twelve "Hamlets" in the audience and they all had something to say about it.'

'Fie on't! O fie!' continued Hamlet, ''tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely—!'4

'No,' continued Emma, 'it was when we and the twelve other Hamlets went to have a quiet drink with the play's company afterwards that things turned sour. Piarno Keyes – who was playing Hamlet – took umbrage at Hamlet's criticisms of his performance; Hamlet said his portrayal was far too indecisive. Mr Keyes said Hamlet was mistaken, that Hamlet was a man racked by uncertainty. Then Hamlet said he was Hamlet so should know a thing or two about it; one of the other "Hamlets" disagreed and said he was Hamlet and thought Mr Keyes was excellent. Several of the "Hamlets" agreed and it might have ended there but Hamlet said that if Mr Keyes insisted on playing Hamlet he should look at how Mel Gibson did it and improve his performance in the light of that.'

'Oh dear.'

'Yes,' said Emma, 'oh dear. Mr Keyes flew right off the handle. "Mel Gibson?" he roared. "Mel ****ing Gibson? That's all I ever ****ing hear these days!" and he then tried to punch Hamlet on the nose. Hamlet was too quick, of course, and had his bodkin at Keyes' throat before you could blink, so one of the other "Hamlets" suggested a Hamlet contest. The rules were simple: they all had to perform the "To be or not to be" soliloquy and the drinkers in the tavern gave them points out often.'

'And—?'