Falling for Hamlet

3



“So what was it like jetting all over the world with the royal family?” Two dome-haired women exchange wistful glances. Ophelia catches them, as does Zara. “Sounds like a fairy tale,” she says, beaming.

“Well, we didn’t actually go that many places.”

“Come now, Ophelia.” Photos are projected of the two families in Africa, China, and Paris. “What are all of these?”

“Official business,” Ophelia answers, her mouth drawn into a line, though she fights to turn it into a smile. “My father had to go, and sometimes he brought me and my brother along.”

Not to be hindered, Zara presses, “So did you and Hamlet ever get away? Just the two of you?”

“Once.”

“When you and Hamlet went to Florence? Last summer, right?” Ophelia nods. “Was that trip as romantic as it looks in this picture?” Zara winks and the audience oohs as a striking photo is shown of the couple on a flight of marble steps. They look tan and happy with their arms around each other, each wearing sunglasses and sandals, casually fabulous.

Ophelia smiles, relaxing a little. “Yeah. That was a great trip. That picture was taken our last day.”

“Was it a good day?”

“Perfect, start to finish.”

“So, Dad, what do you think?” I literally held my breath as I squeezed Hamlet’s hand. It had been a few weeks since my argument with Laertes, and things had been going so well with Hamlet. We had never been so at peace, never had so much fun. My father had seemed to notice and had been less wary of our being together. So when I asked if Hamlet and I could go on a vacation alone, I was fairly confident he would agree.

He nodded gravely. “Yes, that sounds fine.”

I clapped excitedly. “Thanks, Dad.”

“A few things first, though,” my father said, scooting forward. I felt Hamlet shift in his seat, but I elbowed him subtly and kept smiling. “It goes without saying that you will have separate rooms. And you need security with you at all times, even if they’re in plainclothes. You can never be too careful.”

“Polonius, we know,” Hamlet said with a sigh.

“Do you?” my father asked him, squinting and leaning farther toward us. “Has Marcellus told you about the latest rash of threatening mail your father has been getting?” Hamlet grew very still. “I thought not,” he said, leaning back again for emphasis. “And please, please remember that when you are abroad, you are representatives of your kingdom. Ambassadors, as it were. Thus, let me be clear”—and he leveled his gaze at Hamlet—“that you should behave accordingly.” Hamlet was fighting a smirk. “Plus you will be in charge of my daughter. See that neither of you embarrasses yourself, your parents, or Denmark.” His last words built to a crescendo, and I swear if he had pulled out a flag, I would not have been altogether surprised.

Once we were in the hall, Hamlet muttered sarcastically, “Well, that was fun.”

“Hey, at least he’s letting us go.”

Hamlet rolled his eyes and said, “I can’t wait till you’re out of high school and we’re free to do what we want.”

“You’re followed everywhere. We’ll never be that free.”

“Being followed doesn’t bother me. Neither do the tabloids. You’re the one who has to stop caring what everyone thinks.”

I was going to argue, but instead I started to laugh as a thought occurred to me. “We could scandalize everyone and run through Florence naked.”

Hamlet’s mouth twisted. “If you would agree, I would agree.”

Thing is, I knew he would. How he could be immune to public scrutiny amazed me.

“Maybe next time. Let’s go pack,” I suggested.

The trip was incredible. It was the first time Hamlet and I had slept in the same bed for a whole night, and to be honest, it was almost too shocking to enjoy. I couldn’t believe that my dad had allowed it. I mean, he kind of didn’t when he asked us to get separate rooms—which we got, though Hamlet’s bodyguard, Marcellus, not I, slept in the second room. Did my dad really expect us to be in one of the most romantic places in the world and then, like, not stay together? Maybe he did, but if so, that was a little naive. I was worried that he would find out, but Hamlet rightly asked, who was gonna tell? The hotel staff was paid for discretion, and Marcellus never divulged secrets.

The first night, Hamlet slept and I stared at him, unable to believe my luck, foolishly listening for the sound of my dad or brother coming down the hall. Old habits die hard. By the second night, even though it was still pretty unbelievable, I could at least relax and appreciate a boyfriend who wanted to sleep with his arms around me and who told me he loved me before we both drifted off. If it was possible, I fell in love with Hamlet even more that night and each day of the trip.

As for the sights, I was overwhelmed at seeing Michelangelo’s chisel marks still in The Captives and Raphael’s subtle brushstrokes. The Ghiberti doors were glorious, and Brunelleschi’s cathedral dome transcendent. Vespas coughed shrilly and constantly, a sound I will forever associate with intense joy. Everything was perfection.

Our room overlooked the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio, a bridge of unmatched romance and allure. Three times a day I insisted on walking across, taking note of how the vendors and the pace of life changed. When not sightseeing, I sat with my colored pencils and pad, staring out the hotel window, so enraptured by how the sun painted the city anew that I kept forgetting to sketch it. But I remember how each morning pink light kissed the bridge awake. Midday, its yellow and burnt-umber stucco beckoned. At dusk, the river looked like liquid sapphire, and the buildings, though plunged into darkness, seemed to glow from within as if fighting off the coming night.

On our last full day, I sat drinking espresso on the balcony of our room, watching and listening to the city already in motion. Hamlet was completely hungover from a party we’d attended the night before and was lying on a lounge chair with his eyes closed. We had planned on going to the Museo Firenze, but he looked so wrecked that I decided to leave him alone. As I slipped on my sandals, he asked where I was going.

“I really want to make the museum before we leave. I’ll just go myself,” I said cheerfully.

He slapped his face a few times and hoisted himself up. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’m coming. Seeing the new sculpture gallery is what you wanted most from this trip, right?”

I nodded, touched that he knew without my telling him.

He took my hand, put on his sunglasses, and led me outside.

A skeevy-looking photographer with too-tight pants followed us from the hotel to the museum and trailed us to the entrance. Marcellus started to go after him, but Hamlet told his bodyguard to let him handle it.

Hamlet let go of me and calmly approached the photographer. He said, “Listen, we really want to enjoy this alone. Take our picture now if you want, but don’t follow us in, okay?” To my surprise, the guy agreed, snapped a few posed pictures and a few of us walking inside for good measure, then sat down outside, leaving us in peace.

Inside, the cool stone structure was dark and moody. Arm in arm we walked through the halls with their vaulted ceilings, cluttered with paintings that were centuries old. The velvet overstuffed benches looked inviting, but I felt I did not even have a moment to sit. There was simply too much to see, and I wanted to get to the new sculpture gallery before it grew too late or Hamlet grew too bored. He kept checking his watch as it was. Marcellus touched his earpiece and turned to Hamlet, nodding. I was afraid they were deciding to leave, so I quickly suggested we skip the illuminated manuscripts and go right to the new wing.

As we exited the elevator and approached the exhibit, I was surprised to see the glass doors closed and museum guards standing in front of them. My stomach sank with disappointment and I slowed my gait, trying not to seem too upset.

Hamlet looked at me proudly. “They closed it for us for the rest of the afternoon. I knew you’d want it quiet up here.”

I was speechless and pulled my arm tighter around his. He did this for me. Me! Hamlet had done sweet things in the past—sent flowers, written notes and poems—but this was the most romantic thing he’d ever done. And the fact that it wasn’t jewelry but a unique experience he knew I would treasure made my legs go to jelly. It’s a memory that I still hold dear, even though it’s hard for me to think of Hamlet now.

The guards nodded at Marcellus and opened the doors. The gallery itself was a work of art: tall glass walls with ethereal curtains fluttering all around. The dreamlike quality of the room made the white marble statues seem to breathe and sway. I let go of Hamlet’s hand and roamed around one of Aphrodite, marveling at her milky perfection.

Hamlet followed behind, and I noticed he was looking at me rather than the art. I stopped and cocked my head. “What?”

“Happy?” he asked, beaming.

I walked up to him and whispered, “Thank you for this.”

He shrugged modestly and said, “I know you love great art.” Then he squinted and asked, only half joking, “Do you just love me for my money and power?”

I put my hands on his shoulders and said, “I love you because you think of doing things like this and you try to make me happy.” I kissed him and continued, “Hey, you’re just some guy who happens to live in my building, right?”

He laughed appreciatively and added, “But having this all to ourselves is pretty nice.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding, “pretty nice.”

There was a sudden click-clack, and when I turned I saw Gertrude rushing toward us, silk scarf flapping, giant sunglasses perched on top of her head. “Darlings!” she shouted, opening her arms wide.

“Mother?” Hamlet asked, befuddled.

“You’re kidding,” I muttered.

“I knew it was your last day and I thought, ‘Well, it’s been ages since I’ve been to Florence,’ and I simply had to see what the fuss was all about with this gallery.” She turned around once and said in faux astonishment, “Fabulous.” Then she took Hamlet by one arm and me by the other and said, “I simply must take you both to lunch now. I heard about a divine little place for pasta.”

“Pasta? Imagine,” he said slowly. “That’s… um, it’s really late for lunch.”

“Dinner then. Shall we?” she asked, and drew us toward the entrance.

I stopped walking, and my pulling against her nearly made her trip. “Gertrude, we’re not ready to leave.”

She sniffed, her face impassive but for the fire in her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“What she’s saying is—” began Hamlet.

“I was pretty clear, Hamlet.” My head was light from defying her. It wasn’t my habit, but I was sick of her trying to come between me and Hamlet, which she had been doing since she realized we were back together. “We’re not ready to go.”

“You might not be, but what about my son? He hates art.” She turned to him and, in her sweetest voice, said, “Keep me company, Hamlet. You know I despise eating alone.”

He worked his arm out of her grip. “Ophelia wants to stay. We’ll catch you back home. Tomorrow.”

Her lips curled around her teeth as she said, “Fine,” and clacked out stiffly.

My hands were shaking from the confrontation, and Hamlet squeezed them. Kissing my cheek softly, he whispered, “She’ll get over it. Let’s go find a Donatella.”

“Donatell- o,” I corrected.

He winked at me, and I realized he was teasing. For a guy who professed to not care about art, he knew quite a lot about it.

Barnardo: Gertrude showed up and ruined your little getaway.



Ophelia: Yes, she did.



Barnardo: Is that when you tried to come up with a way to get rid of her?



Ophelia: I didn’t try to—She was intrusive my entire life.



Francisco: So you must have hated her.



Ophelia: No. It was just how it was. To be with Hamlet was to be with Gertrude.



Francisco: How romantic.



Ophelia: Not like that. Jesus.