Moritz fumbles uncomfortably around the dressing-room in a disturbingly woolly waistcoat and a pair of oversized breeches, held up by a loosely-fitted belt. Evidently, the state of the school’s finances is aptly represented by the state of the costumes in the Drama department.
In a departure from the traditional Greek theatrical put up at the end of term, the theatrical chosen this year had ended up being the famous Shakespearean tragedy, Hamlet. The play always drew much public attention, which Moritz has absolutely no use for at all. However, in his fear at the prospect of failing out of school, he had sniffed out the extra-credit potential in the show. Amidst a series of rehearsals, Moritz had unveiled a startling wealth of dramatic talent, and was happily on his way to a passing grade.
There is barely an act left to get around to. The beginning of the play had gone without a hitch; a startling and unexpected turnaround from the accident-ridden rehearsals – what a relief for Melchior, long-suffering stage manager, who had become an expert with dealing with missing props, broken swords and hungry actors.
Peering from the wings, Moritz watches on with great interest. Ernst is absolutely spectacular in his role as Hamlet, while Hanschen – poor lad – has just thrown himself into the makeshift river, otherwise known as a large pile of blue crepe, in a poofy candy-coloured dress and all. He is disturbingly, a most stunning vision as an ironic Ophelia to Ernst’s tortured, guilty Hamlet.
As he watches on in frank appreciation of his fellow thespians’ talents, he is gripped by a sudden wave of terror as he realizes that he’s forgotten his singularly most important prop.
“The blood, the fake blood!” he cries as he sees Melchior, a vision of perfect calm sitting at his desk, following the play line-for-line in a neatly annotated binder.
Melchior is used to such disruptions; he rushes over to the prop table, and digs around in the pile of messily arranged items. Moritz joins him in the frantic search, tossing swords, capes and other assorted props around; their eyes rest simultaneously on a tiny ruby-red bottle glistening with promise and perfection.
“Not a whit, we defy augury: there’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come…”Ernst says impassionedly.
“I’m on soon-” Moritz cries, shoving the vial beneath his waistcoat, and straightens his wig once, twice -
“Do break a leg!” Melchior cries as he flings his arms around Moritz’s shoulders. He returns the hug awkwardly at first, before gradually warming into the embrace. With startling forwardness, Melchior bestows a gentle kiss upon his lips, soft but firmly guiding, and the moment seemed to stand still as Moritz melts slightly against him-
Melchior pulls away sharply. His cheeks flush a deep cerise. He all but shoves Moritz out of the curtain and onto the stage, as he slumps against the wall, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.
Flustered from the kiss, Moritz is sufficiently disconcerted as he turns to Ernst and works his way through the lines with startling alacrity. He works his aside with convincing regret; “It is the poison’d cup: it is too late,” he whispers theatrically, gazing into the audience sorrowfully. He has woven a part of his soul into the character, and is prepared for the fall. Ernst lunges forth, sword at the ready.
“Then, venom, to thy work!” he cries, as the tip of his sword connects with the vial tucked well under Moritz’s waistcoat.
Moritz is befuddled, most decidedly flummoxed, to see that far from shattering beneath his coat into a bloody, crimson mess, a sweet – almost ethereal – scent hangs in the air persistently. A dark stain of liquid spreads across his costume. Knowing that he cannot mask the lack of blood and the odd flowery whiff, he doubles over in what he hopes is a convincing spectacle of intense pain and agony. Wildly improvising on the spot, he staggers around, clutching his middle as he croaks, “O, yet defend me, friends; I am but hurt!”, making sure to avert his gaze from his slightly confused-looking schoolmaster before toppling over in a dead faint.
–
Upon seeing Moritz after the performance, Fraulein Stiefel greets her son with great enthusiasm.
“That was wonderful, Moritz…but I was wondering if you might possibly have seen my favourite perfume anywhere? I left it on the table yesterday, and now it appears to be missing. It’s the one in a tiny ruby-red vial, made of sparkling glass, almost…bloodlike, if you look at it closely…”
Gulping slightly, he summons all his theatrical expertise and puts on an affronted, indignant look.
“Mutter, you must have been mistaken. Would I, of all persons, have taken your perfume?” he asks, shaking his head exasperatedly as he runs after his friends, catching up to them while biding his parents a farewell.
The applause and standing ovations are positively fantastic, but there is much still to be done. Melchior, ever the diligent stage manager, is engrossed in the finer details of the clean-up operation. In his haste, he must have missed it, but a smile most certainly played itself out on Moritz’s lips as he gazes upon his retreating form.
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