In Shakespeare’s shoes

Jill Richardson

There’s a moment, a zillionth of a second, when the collective holds its breath between the last note of a great symphony and the first hand-clap. In that moment Meistro Shem Hylock became exquisitely conscious of a bead of sweat running down his temple and swerving into his eye. It stung and he focused his mind on it, held his breath, didn’t dare move.

Applause exploded around him, appreciating, adoring, calling out for more. He let it wash over him then turned around, arms raised in a gesture of gratitude, knowing he had this audience in the palm of his hand. He could relax and enjoy. He thought fleetingly of the sacrifices he’d made to bring this unadulterated moment of perfection to these people… then dismissed it. The result justified the means.

It seemed the inaugural concert of his famous orchestra in this great city would be hailed a gold-plated triumph. The audience loved him. He’d transported them into another world; woven his magic and the sheer beauty of his music had taken their breath away. That’s what they’d come for and they hadn’t been disappointed. His reputation as the world’s greatest Conductor had been saved and his sponsors would be happy.

He invited the orchestra to stand up and acknowledge the applause then ushered his concertmaster to the front of the stage. Due to the unexplained absence of the orchestra’s resident concertmaster, Will had stepped in at the last minute and his playing had been truly inspired. In fact the whole orchestra had been especially brilliant and Shem decided that tonight there would be no encore. The performance had been perfect. Best to leave it that way. Let the memory of Mahler’s greatest symphony, played to perfection, be the sum total of it.

Shem strode off the stage into a barrage of handshakes and enthusiastic congratulations. The Orchestra’s sponsors swarmed around him like a family of sleek black cats, each one resplendent in evening dress and shiny shoes, each one vying to make himself known to the great man, shake his hand, receive a smile.

Shem walked towards the sanctuary of his dressing room and they flowed down the corridor behind him breathlessly extending invitations to join them for dinner to celebrate the success of their innovative and brilliant marketing plan. He reached the door and turned to face them. Bowing slightly he thanked them for their kindness and said that if they didn’t mind he felt a little tired and needed to have a light supper and get some rest.

“Quite understandable” Said the Sponsors, reverently whispering their goodnights as their prize marketing tool disappeared into the dressing room and gently but firmly closed the door. They smiled and nodded at each other, happy and relieved that their prestigious firm of solicitors would be hailed a leader in the world of music by bringing this great orchestra to their city. It could only attract the right sort of clientele. The gamble had paid off. Give the marketing Manager a bonus.

Shem changed into a fresh shirt and slacks, picked up his overcoat and headed for the door. Outside, several people stood huddled under umbrellas in unrelenting rain hoping to get his autograph. He smiled and signed and smiled and signed, borrowing a pen here, asking a name there until he could hurry across the footpath to the sanctuary of a waiting limousine which slid silently away from the curb, taking him into the night.

Tomorrow would be a day off, it was Christmas day, and for once Shem would neither be travelling, rehearsing or performing. A completely free day and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Christmas came as an unwelcome reminder that his journey to fame and fortune had resulted in a life of emotional emptiness. His day would be lonely and however hard he tried to convince himself it didn’t matter, he was Jewish after all, he felt a resentment towards people who, in spite of contributing nothing worthwhile to the world, were going to be part of a family celebration on Christmas Day. It didn’t seem fair.

The car delivered him to a back entrance of the Belmont Hotel. A welcome bolt-hole away from the prying eyes of reporters, photographers and well-meaning fans who might be lying in wait for him in the Lobby. He felt weary and wanted to start the process of getting through Christmas as quickly as possible. Which made no sense but it was the way he dealt with it. He climbed out of the limo, gave the driver a healthy tip along with warm wishes for a Merry Christmas and hurried down the alley towards a metal door tucked discreetly behind a row of giant dumpsters, barely visible through the sheeting rain.

He reached the door grateful he would soon be nursing a brandy in the comfort of his hotel suite, when a noise made him stop. An instinctive reaction to…what? A cry for help? He listened intently hoping he’d imagined it. But sure enough, through the steady drone of the city, the swishing of the rain and the muffled clangs and yells from the kitchen beyond the door, he heard it again. A low moan.

He looked around and squinted into the night, wanting to get out of the rain but feeling compelled to wait in case he heard it again. Then something caught his eye. Twinkling in a faint shaft of light coming from the lamp above the door he spotted a shoe, a blood red stiletto, peeking out between two of the dumpsters and looking curiously cheerful and out of place in the dismal atmosphere of the alley.

“Damn it.” He muttered, now he’d have to investigate.

He took a step towards the shoe and wiping the rain out of his eyes confirmed that it contained a foot. A foot attached to a long slender leg clad in black hosiery that said classy and and definitely interesting.

Another groan, louder this time, urged Shem to do something and quickly. Peering cautiously between the bins he saw the crumpled body of a woman. She lay on her side, moaning softly and as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could see blood oozing between her fingers. Her hands were clasped protectively over her face. He cleared his throat so as not to startle her.

“Can I help you?” He said.

“Bugger off” came a slurred reply.

Shem was taken aback. Here he was trying to be a white knight and the damsel in distress didn’t want to be rescued.

“Perhaps I can phone somebody for you. An ambulance….?”

“Just bugger off.” This time through gritted teeth.

Shem tried again.

“Look, I can’t just leave you here. You’re obviously hurt and I have to do something to help…”

“Why?”

“Well, because that’s what people do.” He said.

He felt confused. He wasn’t used to being rejected. He squatted down beside her thinking that maybe she’d be more accepting if he got down to her level.

“Look, just let me help you.”

This time she didn’t speak but parted her hands revealing a pale face smeared with blood. She had a nasty gash on her forehead and Shem winced. He started trawling through his pockets searching for a handkerchief and looked up to find her staring at him with an expression of, he wasn’t sure… annoyance? Surely not.

He tried to smile reassuringly and wanted to say “I’m not going to hurt you.” But decided that was probably what axe murderers said before they went to work, so opted for.

“Can you sit up?”

She tried to push herself up. He reached out to help but she glared at him and snapped.

“I can do it myself” Then collapsed sideways into a filthy puddle.

“Shit!”

“Look” Said Shem. “I’m going to have to help you.” He cautiously reached out and touched her shoulder.

This time she didn’t react so he helped her into a sitting position. Then he sat back and waited for her to make the next move.

She pushed a strand of blood-caked hair out of her eyes, and looked at him.

“Okay?” he said

“Do I look okay? What’s it to you anyway?”

Shem ignored both questions and valiantly continued.

“Where do you live? I’ll order you a taxi.”

She gave a short laugh.

“Nowhere. I don’t live nowhere…anywhere. I used to live with the creep who did this to me. Don’t think I’ll be going back there in a hurry.”

“Certainly not.” Said Shem shaking his head and offering her the handkerchief. She took it and dabbed at the cut and wiped her eyes. With the help of the sluicing rain she cleaned up quite well.

“I’ll go to a Women’s Refuge.” She muttered.

“Good idea. Where is it?” said Shem.
“I don’t know, I mean I’ll find it somehow. They don’t give out their address….Look, I’ll be okay….

“The police would know.” Said Shem, thinking this was the best idea he’d had yet. “Where the Refuge is I mean.”

The girl looked startled and said.

“Look just forget it. You don’t understand. The cops….they’ll ask questions and then there’ll be hell to pay.”

Short sharp sobs started to punctuate her words.

“If you think I look bad now you should see what the bastard dishes out when he’s really pissed off.” She hugged her arms around her body in a gesture of somebody bracing for an assault.

“Okay, okay” said Shem, raising his hands in supplication.

“ So what are we…you, going to do. I’ve run out of suggestions.”

She said nothing, just noisily blew her nose.

Suddenly Shem scrambled to his feet. He pointed dramatically into the sky where fifty floors of building soared into the murky night.

“ Look” He said. “See the top floor? That’s where I live. Well, temporarily. We’ll go in and get you cleaned up and then decide what to do.” He tried an encouraging smile.

The girl looked sceptical.

“Its alright.” said Shem trying to sound reassuring.

For some reason he hoped she would take up his offer. There was something about her he liked. He could see she was trying to weigh up the risks.

“Okay” she said.

It seemed she’d decided he was probably a decent bloke and not a serial killer.

Shem helped her to her feet. She was wobbly from the concussion. He wrapped her in his overcoat and almost carried her through the door to the service elevator on the other side of the corridor. The lift clunked to a halt and a waiter emerged hauling a trolley loaded with dirty dishes, “Eve’nin Mr Hylock” he said and smiled, thinking the great man had got himself a bit of crumpet for the night, although she didn’t look like his type at all. Bit of a mess.

“Evening Chris” said Shem and noticed the girl looked visibly relieved because somebody knew him by name, which in her mind would have to give him some credibility.

“Do me a favour will you.” Said Shem. “ Bring up hot tea and toast and scrambled eggs…and a First Aid Kit”

“Sure thing Mr Hylock” said Chris, wanting to ask if he should add some champagne but not being cheeky enough to suggest it.

The room was enormous and luxurious. Shem propped the girl on a sofa, fetched pillows and put a blanket over her. He knew damaged people felt better with a blanket around them. She laid her head back on the pillows and closed her eyes in obvious relief.

“My name’s Shem, Shem Hylock.” He said gently.

The girl opened her eyes and smiled.

“ Portia.”

Shem realised she hadn’t reacted when he’d told her his name. It was a treat to be with somebody who didn’t know him. Didn’t expect him to behave in a particular way. Didn’t expect him to be more than he actually was.

“What happened?” Asked Shem solemnly.

She sighed and picked at the blanket.

“Boyfriend lost it. See…I had to work late being Christmas Eve. Customer wanted two swans and an angel for tomorrow. …” She paused, and seeing Shem needed a bit more detail said.

“Sorry. I’m a sculptor. Ice. I make things out of ice.” She frowned.

“Anyway, he didn’t believe me when I said I had to go to the Belmont to deliver the swans because he thinks I’m having it off with Lenny …he’s a chef here…but he’s away on holiday at the moment. And anyway I’m not….” Her voice trailed off.

Shem made an effort to look sympathetic.

“Well anyway, when I was leaving, I always use the service entrance…he was waiting for me in the alley and said I’d he knew I’d been with Lenny and we had a row and he bashed me up and left me behind the bins. That’s when you came along.” She paused.

“ He’s done it before. This time I’m not going back.”

“Absolutely not.” Said Shem. “Its appalling.”

“Yeh well, that’s life.” said Portia.

There was a moment of silence as they contemplated what to do next.

“ Look” said Shem “Why don’t you make use of the bathroom and get cleaned up. Then we can decide what to do for the best.”

Portia looked uncertain.

“Its okay, you can lock the door.” Said Shem adding “It might make you feel better.”

Shem looked at her and thought how pretty she was.

“A shower would be great.” She said suddenly. “Thanks”

He helped her to the bathroom and she assured him she’d be alright. He showed her the fluffy white bathrobe hanging on the door and the drifts of luxurious towels. “Use as many as you like” He said.

She said “Thanks.” Again and closed the door. She didn’t lock it.

Room service arrived and Shem helped himself to tea and toast and munching contentedly, realised he didn’t feel weary any more. Tired yes, weary no. Life seemed more interesting with Portia in it.

When she emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, he thought she looked like a goddess, swathed in a white robe with a towel wrapped around her head. She was dabbing at her forehead, the bleeding seemed to have stopped and the blood had congealed in a dark red gash across her beautiful, yes he thought, beautiful face.

She sank gratefully onto the sofa and let Shem serve her eggs and toast which she ate on her lap, sipping tea and watching him steadily across the top of her tea cup.

“This is good.” Were the only words she spoke but her eyes said.

“Wonder how long before the subject of payment comes up. No free lunches and all that. Never are.”

They finished their food in companionable silence and Shem yawned.

“You can stay here if you like. That room over there isn’t being used.”

Portia decided the waiter knew she was here so she could probably risk it.

“Okay” she said and felt genuinely grateful because she wouldn’t have been capable of going anywhere right now.

Shem didn’t help her into the bedroom. He didn’t feel it would be appropriate, so he stayed where he was and watched her walk unsteadily towards the door.

“Good night.” She said “And thank you.”

“Goodnight.” He replied.

Sunlight streaming through the window woke her the next morning. It was an effort to remember where she was. Her surroundings were sumptuous, the sheets were fresh and smooth as silk. The door was still closed. She sat up painfully and slipping on the bathrobe shuffled towards the door. She opened it and walked into the sitting room. It was full of flowers. She saw a note on one that read.

“ To Meistro Shem Hylock in appreciation of a magnificent performance.”

There were cards attached to all the bouquets, saying much the same thing. A larger note, neatly folded and propped against a gorgeous vase of red roses said

“Portia” in an elegant flowing script. She unfolded it and read.

“Merry Christmas.” She’d forgotten it was Christmas Day.

“Gone for run. Call for breakfast if you’d like some. I’d be honoured if you’d join me for Christmas Dinner but if you can’t I’ll understand. If you have to leave I’ll understand that too.”

She smiled. “Really sweet.” She thought. Yes she’d love to join him for dinner although clothing could be a problem. Cross that bridge later.

She phoned down for coffee. It arrived and she took it into the bathroom. A soak in the tub would help her aching bones and a tub this luxurious should not be wasted. About to shut the door, coffee cup in hand she had a thought. She returned to the table and wrote on the bottom of Shem’s note.

“In the bath. Had coffee. Dinner would be lovely. Thanks.

P.S. Merry Christmas to you too.”

The bath was heavenly. She drifted in and out of dreams, savouring the smell of the bath oil, the soap, the shampoo, the coffee. She heard Shem come back. A cup clattered onto a saucer, a teaspoon tinkled, she envisaged him drinking his coffee, waiting for her.

When she went back into the sitting room he was relaxing on the sofa, surrounded by sheets of music, pen in hand, arms waving. He stopped when he saw her, and smiled.

“Good morning. You slept well?”

“Yes, thank you. She felt a bit awkward. The subject of clothes weighing upon her mind.

“We have to find you something to wear I think, no?” said Shem, his appreciation of her situation taking her by surprise.

She noticed for the first time he had an accent. Austrian? Italian?

“Well, I suppose so.” She looked around for her clothes. They weren’t there.

“I sent them down for cleaning” he said. “Back in an hour or so, but I’m not sure they’ll be much use.”

“No, probably not.” She looked casually around the room . “Have you seen my handbag?

Shem nodded towards a table. “Over there.”

“This man thinks of everything” thought Portia casually putting her hand to a gold chain around her neck and running it through her fingers until she felt a little gold key. “ He is gentlemanly to a fault.”

“Thanks.” She said. “I’m very grateful. Won’t be a minute.” And picking up the bag she retreated to the bedroom and gently shut the door behind her. Once alone she took off her chain, slid the key into the lock on the flap of the bag and flipping it open, quickly checked the contents. It looked okay. This would be a good Christmas Day.

Shem easily solved the problem of Portia’s wardrobe. He simply arranged for the shop in the lobby to be opened for half an hour so Portia could choose something to wear that evening. She chose a black raw silk pants suit and a white satin shirt with a red tie to go with her shoes. A little red handbag finished off the outfit very nicely. She arranged her pale blond hair so it covered the gash on her forehead, now covered in bandaids, and emerged from her room a transformed and perfectly breathtaking woman.

They ate Christmas dinner at Balthazar’s. An intimate restaurant in Little Venice owned by one of Portia’s friends. She’d phoned and asked for his very best table but when they arrived Shem politely rejected the table overlooking the canal, saying he would prefer to sit at the back of the restaurant where there would be no distractions. He wanted to give Portia his full attention. He thought he was falling in love with her.

That night Shem didn’t ask Portia to share his bed but she did so anyway. She felt grateful and intrigued by him. Afterwards she lay quite still and stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. As a precaution she set the alarm on her wristwatch for 6 a.m. and drifted off to sleep curled up against the comforting warmth of Shem’s quite delicious body.

Portia slipped out of bed the minute the alarm woke her. She had several things to do.

First she had to call her agent to confirm the completion of her last job.

“Did you follow the instructions?” he said sharply.

“To the letter.” Said Portia crisply.

“Thank Christ” Said the agent then got cross and demanded to know where the ‘ell she’d been…he’d been worried sick. She laughed, and he growled that he was happy she was “Still wiv us.”

“And don’t forget the parcel. The client was very specific. ‘ave you got the necessary?”

Portia said she had, but it was Boxing Day and her van would have been towed so she’d have to courier it in the morning.

“Okay”, said the agent. “But its important it gets to ‘im tomorrow. Remember we don’t get paid until the client gets the parcel and it’s already late.”

“I’m aware of that.” said Portia tartly. “Its under control.”

She hung up and immediately phoned the Hall Porter for a box, some sticky tape and plenty of bubble wrap “For a particularly fragile gift.” Unlocking her handbag she reached inside and carefully removed a plastic bag. It contained a hand. A left hand. The client had specifically asked for the left hand, the one with the ring on the middle finger.

Curiosity made her examine the ring more closely. It carried a barely readable inscription. “Toni and Bella for ever: 14 February 2001.” She stroked the fine blond hairs on the back of the hand and admired its elegance. He’d been easy to spot. Tall, devastatingly handsome and drunk. He’d told her his name was “Toni” when she’d slipped onto the bar stool beside his. He couldn’t believe his luck. This leggy redhead would suit him just fine. There was a briefcase lying on the bar with the letters T.L. embossed in gold across one corner.

“Toni who?” said Portia, running her fingers over the letters.

“Toni Lorenzo…the Toni Lorenzo”

“Gotcha.” She thought. “Creep.”

Whatever he’d done she was sure he deserved what was coming to him. As he ran his hand up her thigh she’d felt it tremble when it reached its goal. She’d removed it with a smile that said “Later” and placed it back on the bar. Curious to be looking at it now. Stiff and cold. Like a dead leaf.

The rest of him had gone into the hotel dumpsters. She always used them because they were emptied twice a day. She’d expertly chopped him into pieces once he was deep frozen, which, although it made the cutting up harder, meant no blood would be spilt in her cold room. The pieces were just the right size to fit into the delivery boxes she used for her ice sculptures and once loaded into the back of her van it had taken three cautious trips to the dumpsters to get rid of him. The problem had been the last bit. His head had been unexpectedly heavy and as she’d heaved it into the bin she’d slipped, smashing her forehead on the side and passing out. Which was when Shem had found her. She smiled at the irony of it and hoped he’d believed her story which she reckoned had been pretty ingenious under the circumstances.

She finished wrapping the parcel then took it down to the Hall Porter, asking him to courier it next morning to the address on the box. She paid him cash and gave him a dazzling smile and a fat tip. The Hall Porter thought Shem had to be a pretty lucky bloke.

Boxing Day was perfect. Shem and Portia walked in the park hand in hand, then watched old movies and ate dinner in front of the television. They drank two bottles of champagne and talked and laughed and made love well into the night. They also made plans for the next day. Shem said he had to go to the Concert Hall to start rehearsals for an end of week performance and Portia said her boyfriend would be at work so she’d go home and collect her stuff. She could store it at a friend’s place.

Shem made her promise to come back. He didn’t want to lose her now he’d found her. In fact why didn’t she join him for lunch at “Magnificoes” and collect her things in the afternoon. She could meet Will, the brilliant young concertmaster who had stepped in so quickly for the performance on Christmas Eve. Portia said “Okay.” She would enjoy that.

Portia arrived at lunch with a Siamese fighting fish in a tall glass container. She gave it to Shem with a kiss and told him it was his Christmas present. He laughed and introduced her to Will who looked at her with interest then smiled at Shem with undisguised envy.

They ordered food and the famous Meistro and his concertmaster reminisced contentedly about the Mahler Concert until coffee arrived and Will, after one wine too many, casually commented that Shem seemed to be unlucky with concertmasters. Hadn’t one been found floating in the Grand Canal on last year’s tour to Venice? He’d forgotten her name…..”

“Ann.” Said Shem. “Ann. She was my wife.”

“I’m s-sorry.” Said Will. “Must have been terrible for you.”

“It was.” Said Shem.

A silence fell over the table. Portia concentrated on the fighting fish and Shem stared out of the window. It was raining again. Will, trying unsuccessfully to compensate for his indiscretion said.

“What happened to the concertmaster on Christmas Eve? Strange not to turn up for such an important concert.”

“Strange indeed” said Shem, turning back to Will. “Which is why I’ve fired him. The job is yours…if you’d like it.”

Will looked incredulous then beaming with relief said he’d be honoured to accept, it was what he’d hoped for.

After lunch Portia told Shem not to forget his fish and took a taxi to the pound to retrieve her van which had, as she’d thought, been towed from the street behind the hotel. She drove to her house on a secluded farm outside the city and phoned Zurich to confirm that the $30,000 U.S. had arrived in her numbered account. She called the agent and said she would be retiring from the business for a while but she’d keep in touch. He said she knew the rules and reminded her to observe them.

“Sure thing.” She said. “Ciao bella.”

“Yer, love to you too Doll.” Said the agent.

Portia arrived back at the Belmont Hotel in a taxi and had her bags taken up to Shem’s suite. As she walked in he swept her exuberantly into his arms and waltzed her around the room, professing that he loved her and she would never leave again. She laughed and kissed him as music filled the room and Shem swung her round to face the television.

He beamed at her, passing her a glass of champagne.

“Our concert on Christmas Eve.” he said nodding towards the television. “See how beautifully they play. How much better it is with Will. Tony Lorenzo could never play Mahler the way William does.”

Portia took a mouthful of champagne then said quite calmly.

“I’m sure you’re right.” Her mind was racing. “What was so bad about Toni?”

“ Toni Lorenzo? He was a drunk.” Said Shem bitterly. “ He ruined every performance. He forced me to give him a contract that couldn’t be broken and pay him way over the odds. As a third violinist he was acceptable, as concertmaster he was an embarrassment.”

“Forced?” said Portia casually, mentally pushing away a rising feeling of panic.

“He said he knew things” said Shem “ He said he could ruin my career. I couldn’t risk it. My music is everything to me.”

“Things? Said Portia. “What things?”

“My wife” said Shem. She was also my concertmaster. A good musician. Although Will is better.” He paused thoughtfully.

“There was an inquest. The verdict was Accidental Death. She couldn’t swim you see….tragic…..I planned to ask Will to fly out and join us as her replacement but Toni insisted it should be him. Said I should look upon it as a down-payment on saving my reputation. He said he would go to the newspapers.”

“You said Accident Death?” said Portia quietly.

Shem didn’t hear her. He was talking to himself, pacing around the room.

“I couldn’t risk it you see. Couldn’t risk a scandal. So I gave in to him. It wasn’t the money, It was what he did to my music. He spoilt performances time and time again. Took away the chance for perfection, made my life intolerable.”

Shem stopped pacing and turned to look at her.

“Now Toni is gone and life is wonderful. Nobody will miss him. How much better Will is. I am free of Tony.” He smiled at Portia. “And I am happy.”

Portia smiled slowly back at him with her cat’s eyes and licked her lips.

“Because you have your pound of flesh?” She said.

“Perhaps.” Said Shem. “And because I know you will never leave me.”

Portia looked levelly at Shem.

“The violinist who wound up in the canal… your wife, what was her name again?”

“Ann.”

“Was that her full name?”

“No, Annabel”

Ah said Portia “Bella”

Shem kissed her lightly on the forehead.

“Bella is but a memory my darling. She helped herself to my love and gave hers to somebody else. It seems she made her choice and paid the price.”

He looked at her seriously for an instant then shrugged.

“Now it is resolved. I love you. My life is perfect. ”

Shem picked up his glass of champagne and tapped it against Portia’s. Little golden bubbles floated up and exploded on the surface. The hand holding the glass looked different. It was wearing a ring. And she’d seen it before.

Portia threw back her head and laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed.

Please note that permission to publish stories from the Scarlet Stiletto Awards 2002 online has been expressly granted to Sisters in Crime Australia Inc. You may not republish, reproduce electronically or in paper form, or otherwise make use of these stories without the permission of the author.

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