The Playmakers (17 page)

“A turban, too?” said Wilson.

“A big one!’ said Ralph. “Gold with a giant
red ruby in the middle.”

“And what did he do?”

“He just sat there, smiled benevolently,
said, ‘Nice to see you all’ in this huge booming voice, and relaxed
while the fan was raised and lowered above him.”

“A fan?” said Higgins. “Cor, this bloke had
everything!”

“Yes. A fan,” said Ralph. “And that is the
reason I got into trouble.”

“You got into trouble because of a fan?” said
Bartles.

“Well not so much the fan, rather the person
carrying it.”

“What about him, this fellow carrying the
fan?” inquired Wilson.

“Well, it was not a ‘him’ carrying it, but a
‘her’, you see,” said Ralph, starting to blush.

“Ahhh, a woman,” said Higgins, leaning
forward.

“Tell us more, Ralph,” added Wilson
conspiratorially.

“She was standing behind him on the litter -
how those eight men carried it all through Cheapside I will never
know - waving a huge fan over the sultan’s head.”

“What was she like?” said Wilson.

“She was beautiful. Tall, statuesque, noble,
with a superb figure, high cheek-bones, and deep brown eyes.”

“Was she from up near the border, too?” said
Bartles.

“No, no. She was dark, you see.”

“Dark?” said Wilson.

“Yes. Probably from Arabia. Maybe Africa. And
she was wearing the most beguiling smile.”

“So why should this get you into trouble?”
said Wilson, taking a quaff from his drink.

“Because,” said Ralph, leaning forward. “That
was all she was wearing - just the beguiling smile …”

The beer spluttered from Wilson’s mouth.

Bartles shouted “Naked? In the streets of
London? Ralph, you’re joking!”

Higgins the itinerant labourer intoned
despondently, “Bloody hell, and to think I spent all day over at
Watford shifting sacks of beans!”

“I took one look,” said Ralph, “and couldn’t
help it. I said, ‘Praise the Lord, now I’ve seen it all,’ and the
next thing Rebecca had grabbed me by the left ear and dragged me
back in the shop.”

The three men laughed uproariously.

“I tell you, I’m lucky to be here, tonight,”
added Ralph. “Did I fix that broken pot quickly to get back in the
good books!”

Later, witnesses with a clearer view of
proceedings were to state that the beautiful fan-wielding slave,
had, in fact, been wearing an outfit, albeit brief.

But Ralph Luckston was not alone in thinking
he saw a naked woman.

“I make them see what they want to see, and
believe what they want to believe,” said Rufus J. Budsby when his
loyal band of mummers got together at the end of the day to assess
how their first day of promotion had worked out. “And that is what
the name of the game is all about!” He laughed the booming laugh,
which reverberated through Percy Fletcher’s tavern, while Sarah
brought them all a tray of drinks to unwind.

In fact, Rasa had worn a pair of thin sandals
with leather straps that criss-crossed their way up to mid-calf; a
Shakespeare-tailored, close-fitting leather thong that supported a
diminutive gold-fringe skirt; and a gold medallion on a chain
around her neck.

But that was all.

And throughout the procession’s long journey
through the south of London, observers could not help be taken by
the scantily clad, statuesque figure.

It was all they could do to tear their eyes
away from her breasts, bouncing with the rock and roll of the
shouldered litter, and take a pamphlet handed to them by
Shakespeare bringing up the rear.

When they finally put their eyes down, they
were greeted with the heading: “Now that we have secured your
attention …”

The pamphlet went on to say that the young
eminent playwright Christopher Marlowe had written a new work, and
it was about to be presented by the leading repertory group, the
Admiral’s Men.

Readers of the pamphlet were urged to come to
Blackfriars Theatre and “observe for your pleasure and edification,
an immensely powerful play entitled
Tamburlaine
The Great
, a magnificent work set in the exotic land of
Turkey, home of emirs, bodyguards, and dusky slaves …”

By the next morning, advance bookings had
started to roll in.

And in his tinsmith works, Ralph Luckston
listened out vainly every day for the incessant beat of the drum
…

CHAPTER TEN

The spectacular Turkish procession never
actually passed Ralph Luckston’s shop again.

Much to his chagrin.

Each day, Budsby and Shakespeare mapped out a
new route through the streets of London to spread the message about
Christopher Marlowe’s play
Tamburlaine
.
They then set out with Soho gyrating, the drum beating, and
bare-breasted Rasa waving the fan over the head of the mighty
potentate. They even boldly marched beyond the rough and tumble of
the south, heading into the toffier north and west where the real
money lay.

Up there, the occasional nose was sniffed,
the odd hanky was fluttered, even the word
unbelievable
was once or twice heard to be muttered in
well-educated tones. But, just as in the south where the response
was more unabashed, earthy and robust, the final result was still
the same - pandemonium and fascination, which was then translated
into high returns at the box office.

“Mr Budsby, I cannot believe you are getting
away with this,” Mr Mullins said one morning as he diligently
checked the fastenings on the sedan chairs before they set off.

“Get away? With what?” said Budsby.

“Mr Budsby, she’s nearly blimmin’ naked.
You’re lucky you haven’t been locked up or had the priests tie you
to the stake.”

“Ah, Mr Mullins, we are simply taking
advantage of the strange attitudes that pervade the corridors of
moral power.”

“How’s that, Mr Budsby?”

“Mr Mullins, to you and me, Rasa is a
beautiful human being, a woman of unabashed loveliness.”

“Yes.”

“And in our little troupe she is an equal
among all equals.”

“I know, Mr Budsby.”

“And to most outsiders, a mere sighting of
her is enough to make a man’s heart miss a beat and his blood
boil.”

“I won’t disagree with that, Mr Budsby.”

“Especially if she is wearing something, how
shall I put this, on the diminutive side …”

“Absolutely, Mr Budsby, absolutely, ” said Mr
Mullins enthusiastically.

“But, ironically, those who police such
matters and who would normally shut us down in the name of moral
propriety, see no reason to.”

“No?”

“Because they don’t see her.”

“Don’t see her? How could they not see
her?”

“The don’t see her … as a real person, Mr
Mullins. They see her only as a person with dark skin.”

There was silence as Mr Mullins pondered this
assessment. Finally he sputtered, “You mean ..?”

“I mean Mr Mullins, that these puritans,
these zealots that are convinced their message is the only message,
and are never backward in driving it down people’s throats,
consider our beautiful Rasa a second-class citizen. A savage. A
pagan.”

“Ah, I see. A native, whose normal state is
one of undress?”

“Exactly, Mr Mullins. Despite the fact that,
among other things, she speaks the Queen’s English probably better
than half the population.”

“So, they haven’t come near you?”

“Precisely. Not a word. Amid the ooohs and
aaahs, and the occasional husband being pulled out of the crowd by
a concerned wife, by and large, the spreaders of the given word
have left us alone.”

“Amazing.”

“Yes, but it is interesting to ponder what
their reaction might have been if our little Emily, she of the
white skin and of the northern borders, had played the role instead
…”

And so saying, the big man signalled the
drummer. At the first beat, Rasa slipped out of the door of the
tavern, lithely climbed aboard and demurely took up her position.
The hired hands bent their backs, lifted the mighty weight, and the
crowd-pulling entourage set off again.

Inspired by what they had seen trouping
through London day after day, the crowds flocked to the Theatre,
turning
Tamburlaine
into a triumph for the
young Cambridge graduate. With its powerful language, exotic
Turkish setting, and potent story line,
Tamburlaine
quickly and easily lived up to the
expectations dangled so enticingly by the entrepreneurs.

“Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare,” said Marlowe as
the trio stood at the back of the old wooden theatre and took in
the enthusiastic applause at the end of yet another triumphant
performance. “Your efforts leave me breathless. No one has
experienced the interest and size of crowds that you have
conjured.”

“It is our pleasure, young Master Marlowe,”
said Budsby, rubbing the silver cap on his stick. “But the
important thing is, you have delivered the goods.”

“Yes, Chris. Look at them,” added
Shakespeare, waving his hand across the crowd, “they are standing
and clapping because of what they have witnessed on stage. Rasa may
well be in the back of their minds …”

“And, so too,” added Budsby, doing a little
hop on his dainty feet, “may my brilliant impersonation of a
potentate!”

“But at the end of the day,” continued
Shakespeare, smiling, “that only serves the purpose of getting them
in here. Then it’s up to you, to fulfil the promise, and give them
something to applaud.”

“And,” added Budsby, “you have done it, young
man, through your genius! My God, I wish I could write like
that.”

“It is brilliant, Christopher,” added
Shakespeare. “And, I have to ask you. Where does it all come from?
The ideas, the story, the words?”

At first Marlowe was lost for something to
say. “Er, well,” he said slowly and seriously, “it’s hard to say. I
guess it all started at Cambridge, when I was studying for my Arts
degree there.”

“Aha, a Cambridge man! A man of my own
heart,” said Budsby enthusiastically.

“You studied there, too?” said Marlowe,
brightening.

“Of course. Is there any other place for
study?” added Budsby.

Shakespeare was taken aback. “Mr Budsby?” he
said, frowning at this startling revelation from his mentor. “You
studied? At Cambridge?”

“Naturally, my boy.”

“And what did you study, Mr Budsby?” added
Marlowe, warming to the topic.

“I studied the faces of the students as they
watched Viktor the Supreme defy gravity,” Budsby replied. “I
studied the faces of the tutors as they watched our late lamented
Hercules display what is achievable by mixing brawn and brains.

“ And,” he added, lowering his voice into a
conspiratorial tone, “I studied the faces of the professors when
our delicious Siamese twins burst onto stage in their flimsy outfit
so provocatively designed by my inordinately skilled friend Mr
Shakespeare here. That is what I studied.”

Shakespeare began to laugh, and Marlowe
dropped his earnest academic look and burst into a huge smile.

“My campus is the University of People, Mr
Marlowe,” continued Budsby with an air of conviction. “My course is
The Human Condition. And I am seeking to graduate in the Study of
the Crowd.”

“And what were your findings?” said Marlowe
enthusiastically.

“The look of awe,” said Budsby. “I found the
look of awe on every face in the crowd, showing that even a
university city of well-read, high-brow academics can be captivated
by the performance of a band of simple, travelling mummers. And you
know what my conclusion is? That in life, entertainment is the one
true leveller. That when we are sitting in the darkened seats of a
theatre, or a hall, or a tavern, we are all the same, no matter
what clothes we are wearing, or how much money is in our pockets,
or what school we went to.

“When the lights are lowered and the show
goes on, and our faces are turned to the stage, we are all
one.”

“Mr Budsby,” said Marlowe appreciatively.
“What an absolutely splendid analogy of life!”

“Well, you have proved it here tonight,
Christopher, as we do on the road, and now also at Percy’s Tavern.
Through your genius, a diverse mixture of people from all over
London, and from all levels of society, and from opposing religious
backgrounds, become united for two hours. Would that this be the
way of the world, permanently and universally, we would all live in
a kindlier place.”

There was silence. Marlowe blushed, and
Shakespeare clapped a kindly hand on the shoulder of his father
figure.

Shakespeare thought to himself how he had
learned many things at the feet of the master since that day the
image of the little gargoyle materialised beside him as he washed
in the icy stream. But this! Well, this said it all.