Thieves Of Mercy

less of action.

As far as his own country was concerned, his notion of a theater was the stately, elegant, but not ostentatious Charleston Theater on Meeting Street in his native Charleston, South Carolina.

Along with the Charleston Theater, Charleston was home to the Dock Street Theater, or was until it burned down. The Dock Street Theater was believed by many to be the first theater built specifically for the purpose in the United States. When the Dock Street burned, any number of other theaters-houses of culture, venues for the great works-sprang up to take its place. Fire and decay had claimed most of them. But the Charleston Theater still stood as a monument to Southern culture.

That was, to Bowater’s thinking, further proof that Charleston was indeed the hub of all that was worthy and good in both the Confederate States and the United States, and that the farther one moved from that shining core of civilization, the more dark and barbaric things became, until, at last, you found yourselves among Mexicans in California.

And so the Tilton Theater of Memphis, a good six hundred miles distant from Charleston on a rhumb line, nearly a third of the way to California, was about what Bowater expected. With its peculiar smell and peeling flocked wallpaper, dirty, cramped box office, worn carpet in the lobby, and pools of an unidentified viscous substance on the floors to which his shoes stuck, it was a place best suited to minstrel shows or burlesque. Bowater imagined its boards saw more of that sort of thing than they did the Bard.

With some apprehension Bowater accompanied Mississippi Mike Sullivan through the lobby and into the house. The theater was crowded, a rough-looking bunch, and Bowater wondered if they knew what kind of entertainment was in store for them.

Sullivan moved like a Wabash-class frigate through the crowd, shouldering it aside, and Bowater followed along in his wake. Behind Bowater, Hieronymus Taylor thumped after them, panting in his effort to keep up.

Sullivan did not stop until he was at the front row, where he found three seats together, once he had ejected two people who were already there. He was grinning widely, enjoying himself.

Having discovered the pleasures of being a man of letters, Mississippi Mike was now eager to scarf down the other fruits of civilization.

“Here, right up front, where we can see this Hamlet good and proper,” he announced, and Bowater and Taylor took their seats. Taylor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead. He looked pale and his hand shook.

“Now, Sullivan,” Bowater explained, “you should understand, with Shakespeare, sometimes the language can be a little hard to follow.” Bowater’s chief hope was that Shakespeare’s language would be so foreign to Sullivan that he would not notice the striking similarities between Hamlet and the plot of Mississippi Mike, Melancholy Prince of the River, that Bowater had been feeding him.

“Aw, hell, Cap’n, language ain’t no problem. You should hear how some a these dumb-asses along the river talks. If I can understand them ignorant cusses, reckon I’ll have no problem with this here burlesque.”

Bowater was going to point out that Hamlet was not exactly burlesque, but he realized that any interpretation was possible with the Theatre Troupe of the South, so he kept his mouth shut.

They were ten minutes in restless anticipation before the house lights dimmed and the footlights came up and the sentinels Bernardo and Francisco came from stage right and left. They were wearing costumes reminiscent of Roman soldiers, which Bowater guessed were left over from an Easter pageant. Horatio and Marcellus soon joined them onstage, and hard on their heels, and moving like a somnambulist, the ghost of Hamlet’s father.

The white greasepaint on his face made him look like the inverse of a minstrel, and it occurred to Bowater that it would have been funny to cast a black man in the role, for just that reason. A black man in whiteface. But clearly the Theatre Troupe saw nothing amusing in their production of Hamlet.

Mississippi Mike jabbed Bowater in the ribs. “You was right, about the ghost,” he said in a loud whisper.

“What?”

“About the ghost. You said folks loves to see ghosts in things, and I reckon you was right. See, they got a ghost too.”

The ghost drifted around the stage, wide-eyed, looking more confused than vengeful, and then drifted off at the sound of a stagehand doing a rooster call, stage right.

Claudius, Polonius, Laertes, Gertrude, and Hamlet came and went upon the stage. Mississippi Mike squinted up at them, shook his head every once in a while, trying to follow the story line. Hamlet, with great moans of dismay, sawing the air with his arms, expressed the wish that his too, too solid flesh would melt, and Bowater wished it would too, and soon. He decided that the Theatre Troupe of the South was creating as grand a parody of Hamlet as Mississippi Mike’s.

From back in the darkened house came a low buzz from the audience, a general restlessness, the occasional loud voice or shout of derision. As Bowater had guessed, the entertainment was not what that crowd had expected. The mood was growing volatile as it dawned on the audience that the play contained no burlesque and that the next act would not be a minstrel show, just more of the same, men in stockings and big hats.

Horatio entered, stage left, and said, “Hail to your lordship,” to which Hamlet, exhausted from his ennui, said, “I am glad to see you well, Horatio! or I do forget myself.”

Mississippi Mike’s elbow struck again. “They gots a Horatio too, ’cept he ain’t a darky. I guess when you come up with some good ideas like we done, you ain’t gonna be the only one’s gonna think of it.”

“No doubt. It wouldn’t surprise me if there were even more things in common with our book. It’s perfectly normal.”

Mike listened for a minute more, then asked, “What in hell are they all talkin about?”

“I’m not sure,” Bowater said. “Something about a king.”

Mississippi Mike nodded and turned his big face back to the stage. He squinted and shook his head through the next few scenes, and Bowater was beginning to think the big man might just sit through the whole show and never have a notion of what was taking place on stage.

It was around Act I, Scene 5 that things began to go sour. Bowater, finding the ghost no longer amusing, stole a glance at Sullivan as Sullivan stared and frowned at the stage. Sullivan turned and looked at Bowater, too fast for Bowater to avert his eyes, and Sullivan said, “If I ain’t mistaken, that there ghost was goin on about some murder and poison and some such, and I could just swear I heard somethin about incest and marryin a queen what was that Hamlet’s mother. You thinkin the same as I’m thinkin?”

“I am thinking nothing,” Bowater assured him.

“Hmm. All right, you just let me do the thinkin, then.”

Sullivan turned back to the play, and Bowater could see he was judging it in a different light now, scrutinizing it for similarities to his own literary efforts. He heard Taylor whisper, “So how you likin her so far, Sullivan?” and Sullivan say, “I ain’t sure, Chief, I ain’t so sure.”

Act I gave way to Act II and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern made their appearance. Sullivan shifted uncomfortably, frowned, opened his mouth to speak but closed it before he did. Act III rolled around and Bowater was not certain he could stomach much more of the Theatre Troupe of the South, but he was kept firm in his seat by Mississippi Mike Sullivan, who looked more and more as if he was about to explode. Hamlet ran his sword through a hidden Polonius and Mike turned to Bowater and said, “Goddamn! Do you see what’s goin on here?” He did not whisper.

“There do seem to be some similarities, but you know, Sullivan, there are classic plots that are often resurrected-”

“Classic, my Royal Bengal.” He turned back to the stage, just as Claudius was instructing Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to escort Hamlet to England, and that was the last straw. Sullivan leaped to his feet, pointed an accusatory finger at the stage, shouted, “You dirty dogs! Where the hell you get your hands on that? You answer me!”

The confusion on Hamlet’s face was well worth the price of admission. The generally loquacious Dane was at a loss for words. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

“You give me some answers, now!” Sullivan advanced on the stage. Bowater glanced over and met Taylor ’s eyes and Taylor smiled as if this were the most amusing thing he had ever seen, which it might have been.

Bowater leaped to his feet. “Sullivan, let’s forget this and-”