The splitting process begun three hundred years ago, I attempt to push farther. Imitating the provincial tragedian who—for effect—breaks Hamlet’s pipe in half,* I take, say, Guildenstern and break that half-being again in half: Guilden and Stern—two characters. The name Ophelia and its combined meaning I take now in the sense of tragedy, Phelia, now in the comedic sense, Phelya. For even putting now a garland of bitter rue, now curlpapers in one’s hair, even that may be divided in two.

“So then, to start the game. In the first position, four pieces are in play: moving them about an imaginary stage, like a chess player who plays without looking at the board, I arrive at the following—”

For a moment Rar broke off. His long, white, nearly translucent fingers fumbled something in the air, as if testing the malleability of his material.

“As they say: ‘The scene is set in …’ Well, in a word …”

STERN, a young actor, has locked himself away with his role. The role can be divined even without the soliloquies: a black cloak hangs over the back of an armchair; on the desk—among piles of books and portraits of the Elsinore prince—lies a black beret with a broken feather. Also a doublet and braces.

STERN (unshaven, his faced lined with sleeplessness, flicks at the half-closed window curtain with the tip of his rapier): A rat.

A knock at the door. Still with his eye on the rapier-fretted curtain, STERN unbolts the door with his left hand. Enter PHELYA.

“We see her: a lovely face with dimpled cheeks, a being who in plays is always loved by two men, but whose psychology demands one thing: that she choose one of the two.”

STERN (doesn’t see her come in): A rat!

PHELYA hitches up her skirt in fright. Dialogue.

STERN (without turning round at PHELYA’s cry):

Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, sit you down

And let me wring your heart, for so I shall.

He twitches back the curtain. On the windowsill, instead of Polonius, are two empty bottles and a Primus.*

A king of shreds and patches,

Who was in life a foolish prating knave.

Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you.

In the doorway he collides with PHELYA.

PHELYA: Where are you going like that? Without a jacket. Wake up!

STERN: Is that you? Oh, Phelya, I … If only you knew …

PHELYA: I know my role by heart. Whereas you—you silly bungler. Stop speaking in verse—we’re not onstage.

STERN: Are you sure?

PHELYA: Now please, don’t try to persuade me otherwise. If there were an audience, I wouldn’t do this (stands up on tiptoe and kisses him). Well, did that wake you up?

STERN: Darling.

PHELYA: Finally: a word not from the role.

“Here I must interrupt love’s weary round: you need to know that at this point Phelia is closer to Stern than Guilden, his rival and stand-in. She wants Stern to win the role. In any case, I can assert that as the dialogue unfolds, it brings chess piece closer to chess piece, Stern closer to Phelya. Hence the stage direction: open parentheses, kiss, close parentheses, period. This time for Stern too, the kiss is not through the role but in reality. Take a good look. Now shift your gaze slightly to the left.”

The door, which has been left ajar, swings open to admit GUILDEN.

GUILDEN (smiling a little wickedly): Spectators are not welcome. I’ll go.

The LOVERS, of course, detain GUILDEN. A minute of embarrassed silence.

GUILDEN (looks through the books scattered about): The role, I see, is not as compliant as … (glances at PHELIA). Shakespeare. Hmm. On Shakespeare. Again Shakespeare. Incidentally, on the tram just now some simpleton noticed the script poking out of my pocket and, wanting to be nice, remarked: “They say Shakespeare never existed, yet look how many plays he left; now if Shakespeare had existed, then chances are the number of plays …” And he looked at me with such idiotic curiosity.

PHELYA laughs. STERN remains serious.

STERN: A simpleton he may have been, but … What did you say to him?

GUILDEN: Nothing.