toward the stage, to locate seats as close to the action as possible. Richard now added, “History books say no one was hurt in the fire, except for one poor chap who, and I quote, 'Found his breeches afire so that it would have broiled him if he had not, with benefit of a provident wit, helped himself to some bottled ale to quench the flames.' “
Jessica laughed even harder at this image.
“The theater was rebuilt sometime after the fire, but again it came under destruction when in 1642 the Puritans, finding it offensive, demolished her as the breeding ground of the Devil that she is, you see.” Guiding her to her seat, he added, “If you look closely, the reconstruction is not entirely complete. There's still scaffolding at the rear and some finishing touches are being applied. Only last year did the plywood stage get replaced with the oaken one we now have. Still, even unfinished, the theater has enticed some 150,000 visitors annually, a figure that
is expected to triple by the year 2001.”
In a balcony built overlooking the stage, an actor began hurling insults at the audience, his own patrons. “Ya've paid full fair to sit on a wooden bench to hear buffoons wail out their sorrowful lives here? Are ya' daft, ya' citizens of London? 'Aven't ya' a telly for that, the telly and soap operas? Are ya' daft?” he venomously shouted and tossed confetti at the front rows.
A female, acting as his wife, came out on the balcony to scold him, telling him to leave the paying customers alone and to come away with her, to help her prepare for the show.
“Ya're all daft!” he called back. “Ya' could be sittin' at the Coat of Arms down the street having a pint!”
“Shut that big hole of yours!” replied the wife.
“I'll not be aggrieved by ya', woman, not in public and not in private!”
And off they went, arguing, only to be replaced by an aged man with a white, flowing beard who talked to himself about the alignment of the stars, the heavens, and the meaning of life there on the balcony.
“It's a tradition with the Globe, the stage balcony rows,” explained Richard. “Keeps the audience entertained and in a good mood before curtain rise.”
“How many people does the theater seat?” asked Jessica, curious.
'To cover the cost of an opening, ticket sellers have to fill the seats, some 1,394. Five pounds buys the rights to be a groundling.”
“A groundling?”
“See those people up front, all on their feet in the pit ahead of us?”
She nodded.
“Groundlings. They have a right to space on the floor, standing or sitting. We, by comparison, have tickets for a seat in the terraces, a bit more costly at sixteen pounds, but well worth it for these seats.”
They had found their seats and settled in. Richard said in her ear, “The season began in May with the Globe ensemble of actors performing four plays in repertory. Performances run till late September. Playwrights other than Shakespeare are performed here from time to time as well.”
“Such a splendid idea… to revive the Globe.”
“We Britons can't take all the credit in reviving the Globe,” Richard confessed. “One of your American actors, Sam Wanamaker, established a trust to raise funds for the project. Construction began in 1993, the year Wanamaker died at age seventy-four in fact.”
“I've seen Wanamaker on the screen and on TV.” Jessica pictured the ruddy-faced, tall Wanamaker.
“The project is still several million dollars short, and was ten million short when the Globe opened in '93.”
As if hearing Sharpe, and as if on cue, a new character atop the theater at the balcony yelled down to the patrons to open their pocketbooks. “You critics among you who said the theater would never survive! You dig the deepest and pay treble for those seats you now have! Come along, out with it! There are jars and wretched fellows milling about who will take your donations!”
“We're still paying for her, but she is grand, isn't she?” asked Richard. “Right down to her Norfolk reed roof, the oak beams, the hand-turned balustrades.”
“Yes, it's a fantastic recreation,” Jessica agreed when suddenly thunder roared all around them, yet the source could be traced to crude sounds being created behind the stage.
“Even the sound effects are authentic to their time,” he explained. “That's heavy metal shot, cannonballs, rolled about in a metal washtub to simulate the sound of an approaching storm.”
“So there's actually no sound equipment?”
“None but what human hands and minds can create. There's no electricity, no lights, actually. Look around you.”
“So that's why we're here so early.”
“The performance ends with nightfall, just as in Shakespeare's day.”
“It's a totally 'rough' experience.”
“Exactly. The only thing not authentic is that we, the audience, aren't allowed to bring in overripe fruit and vegetables to throw at the actors.”
Jessica's behind already felt sore on the hard wood “terrace” seats. Taking her mind off the lack of creature comforts, Jessica noticed other buildings standing about, also with Tudor construction and thatch roofs. “What goes on there?” she asked, pointing.
“Just opened the final phase of the project, two museums, or rather one an educational center, and a three- hundred-seat small theater designed from blueprints left by Elizabethan architect Inigo Jones. Plan is to have them all operational by 2001 and have a gala millennium party alongside the 401st performance on the Globe stage at the same time.”
“What an undertaking! It's magnificent,” she conceded.
“The theater itself is fully operational now, and will support the cost of its operation. I firmly believe that, as a member of the board of trustees.”
“Ahhh, no wonder you know so much about it.”
“It's become a passion, something to give myself over to so that I am not wholly swallowed up by my job, as in the past.”
She thought momentarily of how her own work had swallowed up relationships, such as her and Jim Parry's irreconcilable problems, which prompted her to say, “Something all of us in law enforcement must… guard against.”
“Something indeed… When I allowed my job to consume me, well… for my troubles my wife gave me my walking papers.”
“Divorce. I'm sorry.”
“You see, too much time devoted to my work, not enough to the ones I love.”
“I'm so sorry for any pain you've been put through, Richard.”
“Pain, depression, you can say the whole gamut came down around me. Had to take some time off, get back my focus, regroup. The Globe project, when it came along, well, it worked as a lifesaver for me.”
Jessica settled in comfortably, excited at the same time. Then the curtains, faithful to history, were hand- pulled back to reveal the opening scene in Lear. She soon learned that Richard hadn't exaggerated in the least about the method of “special effects” here. Sounds and sights were indeed faithfully reproduced, even the firing off of a cannon like the one that burned down the original Globe.
King Lear had always held a great fascination for Jessica. Especially interesting to her was the tragic tyrant who, when he had eyes, could not see, and when blind, could see. The play, she believed, actually represented a metaphor for all mankind, the blind lives we all lead.
At the close of evening, walking from the theater, Sharpe asked if she'd like to see the Thames from Blackfriar's Bridge. She accepted, and they made the short stroll to the center of the bridge overlooking the river and nearby massive St. Paul's Cathedral by moonlight.
While there he reached out, took her hand in his, telling her, “You are an extraordinary woman, Jessica Coran. I've not met anyone like you before.”
“Funny,” she replied, squeezing the hand that he'd placed in hers. “I've been thinking the same thought about you, Richard Sharpe.”
“Perhaps we should do something about our feelings?” It came out as a question. He added a warm smile.
