The Fool

*The second story in Freckled Whelp, based upon Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare.

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The Fool met Viola at a crosswalk, as the light turned emerald-green.

“How now, wit, whither wander you?” he asked. The Fool cocked his head to the side. The little bells on his hat jingled merrily.

Viola knew this one. Memories from high school English came trickling back into her mind. “I do wander everywhere,” she said, “swifter than the moon’s sphere.”

The Fool shook his head. “Not Midsummer, I’m afraid. As You Like It. You should have answered, ‘Mistress, you must come away to your father”. That is, if you had wished to answer correctly.”

Viola looked around. A man was talking on his cell phone beside her. A woman pushing a stroller tapped her foot. They all seemed much too absorbed to take any notice of the Fool.

“Why would I call you ‘mistress’?” Viola asked.

The Fool waved his scepter, with a little doll’s head on the end. “Because you are playing the Fool. And wouldn’t you like to play the Fool?”

Viola laughed. “I think that role is taken.”

The Fool grinned, expectation gleaming in his dark, round eyes. “Good Madonna,” he said, “give me leave to prove you a fool.”

The white figure which meant it was all right to cross replaced the red hand. Yellow taxis and buses with advertisements on their sides stopped. “I’m sorry,” said Viola. “I have to go.”

“Wise,” said the Fool. “Very wise. Though wise men and women oft prove themselves fools.” The Fool sauntered away, humming thoughtfully with the jingling of his bells. “Perhaps some other time,” he called back.

Viola crossed the street. You meet all sorts, she thought. And it was nice for something interesting and strange to happen every now and again, just so long as it was a good something, a something that just tilted your world, rather than leaving it in a permanent state of topsy-turvy. Viola thought about upside down things, fruit bats and somersaults, as she walked through the honking, vrooming city to Illyria Literary Agency.

Viola was good at her job, and regularly received praise and commendations. It was a steady sort of work, exciting when you started it, and not necessarily dull once you got used to it. It wasn’t, at least, like being an accountant or an executioner. Not that there were so many executioners nowadays. But Viola imagined it was something like being an accountant, in that both professions got repetitive fast.

Illyria Literary Agency was located in a tall gray building, with tiny blinking windows and several other businesses and organizations within it. Viola took the stairs to her office on the fourth floor, partly because it was good to get the exercise, and mostly because she hated riding in full, silent elevators, staring straight ahead with nothing to say to the person next to you.

“Hi, Mal,” she said, when she reached the fourth floor. Mal was their secretary, a sour-faced older woman who liked to read thick books about World War II or Theodore Roosevelt.

“Hi,” Mal answered back, not looking up from her computer screen.

Viola tapped Mal’s desktop. “Is Olivia Blanche here?”

“Who?”

“Olivia Blanche, my 9:00.”

“No one’s here yet. It’s only 8:30.”

Viola blinked. “But I thought it was—”

“If you ask me, you’re often far too early,” said Mal. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “It makes other people self-conscious. It’s best to be ten minutes early, exactly—only that.” Mal was full of unsolicited, but good advice.

“Well, I’ll just wait in my office,” said Viola.

Normally the floor was buzzing with a low level of chatter, but it was currently silent, and it gave Viola the same odd kind of feeling one would get from sitting in a school in the summer. Or from looking at an empty chair at the kitchen table, one where someone always sat, and never would again.

Stop it, Viola told herself. She shut the glass door of her office—the whole thing was glass—glass walls, glass door, glass windows, well, obviously glass windows—and sat down at her desk. There was nothing else to do. She checked her email.

There was one message about a mandatory HR meeting—they had those about once a year. One message from her mom—Viola had told her not to contact her work email—about the wedding of one of her brother’s ex-girlfriends. Ex- not because they had broken up, but because her brother had died. His was the empty chair.

Viola didn’t know why she was thinking about that. Maybe it had something to do with the Fool. Maybe he was playing with her. Maybe he’d even wound back time. Fools had a sort of magic, didn’t they? Viola could have sworn that she was supposed to have gotten to work at 8:50, with little time to do anything, certainly not to think, to wonder, to dwell on things she made a point not to dwell on. But fools were always doing that, merrily dragging discomfort into the light of day. Perhaps that was why they had died out. Along with executioners.

Viola continued checking her email, careful to show that her inside would not infiltrate her outside. Her thoughts would remain just that—thoughts. Airy nothing. That was another Shakespeare thing, wasn’t it?

There was a message from her boss, Duke Orsine, about her meeting with Olivia Blanche, wherein he reiterated how crucial it was that Viola secure this contract, how Blanche was truly a gold mine for young adult romance, how fantastic it would be to snatch her up, while her debut novel was still on the bestseller’s list and she was between agents.

Duke had signed the message with a heart. That wasn’t appropriate, Viola knew, but they had gone on a few dates, so maybe it was. It wasn’t anything serious. At least, they weren’t going to go to HR and declare that they were in a “workplace relationship”. But he was nice. He didn’t ask her about herself, or her life. He allowed her to put on a mask, and play-pretend at being happy. Maybe if she did that enough, her outside world would consume her inside world, mash it between its teeth and swallow it into darkness.

Viola clicked out of her email. She typed into the internet search bar “renaissance festivals near me”. The search yielded nothing. The nearest one was a state away. Maybe the Fool had simply been a hallucination, and she was just going insane. Viola began to scour the internet for sightings of fools, court jesters, harlequins. Nothing recent, it seemed.

Her phone rang, and Viola picked it up.

“Your 9:00 is here,” Mal said.

Viola glanced at the time on her computer. It was 9:12. Olivia was over ten minutes late, not that that really mattered when she was the one being courted.

“Tell her to come in.”

Viola stood and smiled as Olivia Blanche entered her office.

“Hi, it’s so great to meet you, Viola.” Olivia’s words were strained, but maybe she was just nervous.

The first thing Viola noticed was that Olivia was very beautiful, more beautiful than the photo on her book’s jacket had led Viola to believe. She was the kind of beautiful that made Viola feel a little embarrassed on her behalf, because it must be difficult to go about in the world always being the one lighting up a room. Also, it was a little alarming that she was a writer, and not a model or a siren.

The second thing Viola noticed about Olivia was that there was a strange air of weariness about her. Beautiful weariness, but weariness still.

Viola smiled. “Hi, Olivia, I’m so glad you decided to meet with me today. Shall we get started?”

“I’d love to,” Olivia said. She seemed to brighten up, just a bit, as she sat down.

“So,” Viola said, “you have a finished draft.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re no longer working with your former publisher, is that correct?”

“No, I’m not. Because they wanted me to publish the book.”

Viola kept smiling, though her lips felt a little tighter. Duke had told her about this, but she couldn’t yet gauge how serious Olivia was.

“Well, publishers typically do want to publish things,” Viola said with weak laugh. Olivia did not so much as smirk. Shows what Fools know, Viola thought. Clearly, I am not a jester.

“And this was why your former agency let you go, right?” said Viola.

“Right. But I still need an agent, for my last book—which will also be my last book, I guess.” Olivia tucked her hair behind her ear. “It’s only for a little bit, just until the awards season is over.”

“Right.” Viola pressed her fingers together. She didn’t mention that Olivia’s books were not typically the kind that won awards.

“But Olivia, you do realize that we wouldn’t be able to take you on as a temporary client. I think Duke filled you in. While we’re very interested in working with you, it would have to be with a focus on your next book.”

“Yes, I know that,” Olivia said, “Duke was very clear. I just thought that maybe you would be a little more flexible.” She coughed. “But if you can’t be, that’s all right. I can’t be either. Flexible. I’m not publishing it.” She coughed, a second time. “Anyway, that’s only half of why I came here.”

“I’m sorry? Why else are you here?” Viola smiled again, she hoped warmly enough. “I don’t mean to be rude, I’m just curious.”

“I wanted to meet you,” Olivia said. “Because your brother died. And my brother died.” She paused. “And he was the person who I wrote for. I can’t write if he can’t read it. And this draft I had finished…he really loved it. He told me that someone else needed to read it, before he—and I thought you would be a good someone. Because we’re the same.” Olivia delivered all of her words into her lap, blinking quickly.

Viola said, “We’re not the same,” a little more coldly than she meant to. She froze, then blinked. “I don’t talk about my brother,” Viola added, in a more socially acceptable tone.

“I know,” said Olivia. “Duke told me everything. When I told him about my brother. Sorry, I’m so sorry.” Olivia reached for a tissue just before Viola pushed the box towards her. Olivia took one. “It’s just—” she blew her nose— “it’s the only thing I ever think about. I can’t write, I can’t sleep. I don’t know what I am anymore. Everyone thinks I’m okay, because I can still go the grocery store and jog and go out. But I’m—I’m not ever okay.”

Viola was very sorry that her walls were glass, and that the people arriving at work were glancing in her direction, watching Olivia with concerned expressions as her thin shoulders shook.

Viola stood and crossed over to rest her hand on Olivia’s shoulder, blocking everyone else’s view of her. “It will get easier,” she said, which was only half a lie. Sometimes, it was true. Sometimes the present overpowered the past. But then other times, when the past infiltrated and smothered the present, it was worse than ever before. Christmases and birthdays and polite conversations would never get easier. Therapy and phone calls and thinking late at night would.

“Grief is funny like that,” Viola said.

Olivia nodded slowly, mechanically. Viola could tell that Olivia didn’t believe her—that it would get easier, that grief was funny at all. She had probably heard people say this a thousand times before. But this time must have been worse, because Viola knew what Olivia had lived, had lived what Olivia had lived, and Viola knew that every word she said to Olivia meant absolutely nothing.

Viola squeezed Olivia’s shoulder, quickly, briefly, and Olivia removed her hands from her face, and looked up at her. Olivia’s face was red and snot was running down her nose and she was still beautiful. It must be awful, Viola thought, a chill going through her body, that she can’t even be ugly when she’s crying.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said again. She reached into her bag and pulled out a large stack of papers, clipped together. “Can I leave the draft with you at least?” she asked. “You don’t have to read it, I guess, not if you don’t want to, or if you don’t have the time. But if you change your mind, maybe, if you—?”

“I’ll read it,” said Viola.

Olivia looked so relieved, the manuscript clutched in her shaking hands. “I’m sorry,” she gulped, “that this couldn’t work out. I’m really sorry.” She picked up her bag, slammed the manuscript on Viola’s desk, opened the door, closed it gingerly, and left.

Viola watched Olivia through the glass walls, as Olivia wiped her nose with the tissue, gave Mal a weak smile, which Mal faintly returned. Then Viola sat back down, and stared at the large stack of paper now taking up a corner of her desk, as she dialed Duke’s phone number.

He picked up on the second ring. “Hello, how’d the meeting with Olivia go? Did we woo her?” Duke always spoke quickly, and usually ended with a joke. Viola guessed that it was a way of controlling the conversation, something that Duke might not have even realized.

“No,” she said. “It didn’t work out.”

“Oh. God, what a waste of time.”

Viola took a deep breath. “You told her about my brother.”

Duke was quiet. “Yeah. I did. I forgot about that.” He cleared his throat. He laughed nervously. “Look, I’m sorry, I should have told you about that, and I should have told you about Olivia’s brother. I just didn’t think you’d agree to the meeting if you knew.”

“I would have.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” said Viola. “I can handle it. I just need to be in the loop. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Right. Sorry. Yeah, I should have told you. Next time, though. Next time, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Okay,” said Viola. “Thank you.”

“Like, I probably should have told you how Olivia and I met. It’s not a big deal, just probably should have told you, a professional courtesy—we’re not exclusive, so I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but—”

“You were on a date,” Viola surmised. She felt her head start to throb.

“Yeah,” said Duke. “You guessed it.”

“Lucky me.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Like you said—we’re not exclusive.” Viola pressed her lips together, and wished, again, that she didn’t have glass walls.

“And look,” said Duke. “She told me she was going to publish a new book.”

“Before or after you told her about my brother?”

“Um—after.”

Viola sighed and smiled. “Yeah. I think she tricked you. She wasn’t ever planning on having the book published. She just wanted to meet me.”

“What? Why?”

“She wants me to read the book she’s written. The unpublishable one.”

Duke half laughed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“She’s grieving. Nothing makes sense.”

“Well, are you going to read this unpublishable manuscript?”

“I don’t know. Yeah.”

There was silence again. “You know,” said Duke, “I really value you a lot. I really need you. So don’t beat yourself up about this. Under any other circumstances, you would have signed her. And you don’t need to read the manuscript. I know how it might make you think about him—”

“I feel like I should,” said Viola.

“Viola,” said Duke, slowly, as if he were talking to an idiot. “You don’t have to do anything.”

…

On her way home that day, Viola stopped at the corner where she had seen the Fool. She stopped for a good five minutes. She felt silly after two minutes, and stupid after three, but she could manage feeling stupid for 120 more seconds, because it gave her time to think. She wanted that time, now.

The Fool never showed, and her shoulder was starting to ache from the manuscript in her messenger bag. So she walked the rest of the way home, thinking still.

Viola wasn’t planning on reading Olivia’s story that night, if she was planning on reading it at all. But she found she could only distract herself by flipping through television channels for so long. Viola poured herself a glass of red wine and sat down at her kitchen table. She made sure it had only one chair, so there was never an empty spot, big enough to swallow the room. She read the title page. The book was called What You Will. Cute, Viola thought.

Duke would have been pissed, because the story definitely would have sold. It wasn’t the kind of story that Viola would have read, personally, but it would have sold. It was similar to Olivia’s last book, a sort of spiritual sequel—if the story had enough depth to have a spirit. It was light, it was airy. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe not. It really didn’t matter very much, if it was critically meaningful, because Viola could tell that it was the kind of story that would have mattered to a lot of people.

That was mostly thanks to the heroine. She was endearing, clever, resourceful. She had gotten herself marooned in a strange land, and because she was so utterly undaunted by the shipwreck, and plucky as could be, she journeyed into this new world in the disguise of a boy. She turned the end of her life into a rebirth.

At least, that was how Olivia wrote it. Viola wondered if it was equally possible that the shipwreck had so shaken the heroine, shaken her to her very core, that it forced her to shed who she was like a snake shed its skin, like Edgar becoming Poor Tom in King Lear.

“Edgar I nothing am.” That was what he had said, if Viola remembered correctly. There was a Fool in King Lear too. No matter how wretched and tragic things were, there was always a Fool.

Viola placed her glass of wine, half-sipped, on the table when she finished the draft. It was too bad, she thought, that the only person who would read it couldn’t really appreciate it, couldn’t fully fall into it without reservation, without thinking so, so much. Well, that wasn’t true, Olivia’s brother had read it, and had supposedly liked it. Maybe he had understood it in a way Viola could not.

Viola thought some more, and then found herself dialing Mal’s phone number.

She answered on the third ring. “Hello, Viola. You woke me up.”

“Yeah, I know it’s late, I’m sorry. Listen, do you know how I can reach Olivia Blanche?”

“You have her email.”

“I know, but in case I can’t reach her by email?” Because people don’t always check their emails when their brothers die, Viola didn’t say.

Mal sighed. “I’ll send you her contact information in the morning.”

“Great! Thank you!”

“Yep. Good night.”

“Um, wait, Mal.” Viola wasn’t sure what she was going to say, but Mal was still on the line, so she had to say something. “Do you know anything about fools?”

“What?”

“Like in Shakespeare. Like court jesters.”

Viola heard Mal drumming her fingers on the side of the phone. “I know that I’m surrounded by fools.”

Viola laughed, louder that she meant to. “Mal, that’s funny,” she said. She wiped tears from her eyes. “You have to be careful, though, because maybe that means you’re a fool too. Because you are the company you keep.”

“Good night, Viola.”

Viola managed to stop laughing, with some difficulty. “Good night, Mal. Thank you for picking up. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Mal, and she hung up the phone.

Mal, Viola decided, would have done very well in one of those books about steel-hearted men that she loved reading, just like Olivia would have probably fit right in one of her young adult romances, about willful heroines who continued on. Duke could have fit into any story; everyone liked him, and no one would ever ask him to leave. Viola wasn’t sure what kind of story she belonged in. Amid car horns and nighttime clamor, there was a tinkling of bells.

Viola ran to her window and opened it. Below her, lit by a single yellow streetlight, was the Fool. He was dressed in the same red-and-gold-patched costume, the same coxcomb hat, wearing the same knowing smile. He waved his stick at her and jerked his head. He jingled.

Viola wrapped herself in a coat and headed down the stairs—she always took the stairs—then stopped halfway and made for the elevator. She didn’t want to keep the Fool waiting.

She opened the front door of her building and the cold air bit at her bare feet. Viola wondered if the Fool was cold, or if he was resistant to it, as he was immune to the jeers of a fickle crowd. He could dance with tomatoes flying through the air; he could sing silly songs above the wind’s harsh blow.

“How now, Fool?” said Viola, because it felt like the right sort of thing to say.

“Well,” said the Fool, “very well, thank you.” He looked well. He always looked well. 

“Have you given thought to my offer?” he asked.  “May I prove you a Fool?”

Viola crossed her arms. “I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and care for nothing.”

The Fool was very still. There was a strange, rippling reflection in his dark eyes, like the moon mirrored in a lake. “Not so,” said the Fool. “I do care for something. But I speak of nothing—for who else will?” The Fool grinned at Viola crookedly. “And you? Will you speak well of Fools?”

Viola thought over his question, turned it over and upside down. “To do it well craves a kind of wit,” she said. “It is a practice as full of labor as a wise man’s art.”

“Aha!” cried the Fool. “And you think yourself wise enough to play the Fool?”

And Viola realized, with only a little surprise, that she did.

…

Viola went to Olivia’s house in the morning, as the sweet smell of rain spread over the city streets.  “Heigh, ho, the wind and the rain,” Viola sang. No one stared, because only Fools stood out in storms like these, and Fools did not stare at other Fools, they were much too busy. They milled about her, unseen by the world, rainbows in puddles, rain drops dribbling clumsily down. There were all different kinds of Fools, and she was a new breed entirely.

Viola splashed through the streets, and was shocked that she had never before realized how remarkable they were, how remarkable and funny and sad and musical everything was, if she really considered it long enough, if she spoke of it well. Her brother would have loved it; she couldn’t wait to tell everyone in all the wide world.

Viola took the elevator up, up, up, to Olivia’s floor. She knocked on her door jauntily, to a little tune that had been running through her head.

Olivia gaped when she saw her. “What are you wearing?” she sputtered, in lieu of a greeting.

“Motley,” said Viola. “I’m a Fool now, I’ve decided.” The bells on her hat shook as she spoke.

Olivia stood still for a moment. She looked down, then back at Viola. She smiled, and then she laughed. She laughed until she cried. She still looked beautiful, even more than before. She looked like she was weeping sunshine and rain.

“I’d love to be a Fool,” Olivia said, and though she said it softly, the wish seemed to explode out of her, uncontrolled and vulnerable.

Viola nodded seriously. She leaned in, to whisper, to confide, to tell Olivia the only truth she was positively, absolutely sure of, the truth of speaking of everything and nothing all at once.

“It’s so very high fantastical,” she said.