Queen of Infinite Space

Lost on the high seas and sent down the wrong leg of the Trousers of Time, Viola never ends up in the funhouse mirrors of Illyria. She has no reason to recall the stories her father has told her of that country where nothing is but what is not. As she approaches the castle of Elsinore in her guise of a page she has no way of knowing that the reflections hidden behind its rough-hewn battlements are shadows of motion glinting off polished marble, and two-way mirrors that give all hallways the sterile glare and dim horror of an interrogation cell.

 

The front entrance is clearly only intended for the use of visiting dignitaries and the imposing expanse of wood unnerves her. Telling herself that it is only because she would not wish to inconvenience the doubtless dozens of people it would take to operate it, she moves around to the side, where she finds a door meant for daily use: more extravagant than those used by servants, but less overwhelming than the first. But actually, “daily use” may be pushing it, because this whole lonely place feels like somewhere whose inhabitants rarely leave it, and which hardly ever receives visitors. It is sealed up tight. Still, Viola knocks; her circumstances do not afford her many options.

 

At least, he thinks both of them are kept in the same dark, the better for their shadow selves to be thrown into the screen with sharper clarity. It’s hard to tell with Rosencrantz, though. He travels through his days with an unconcerned ease that Guildenstern alternately envies and finds humanly impossible. Surely the only reasonable explanation is that he’s discovered some deep-down secret of the universe that makes it all bearable. Or, that’s just how he is, and how Guildenstern will never be.

All of the problems with which Rosencrantz concerns himself can be solved by their own components without the endless cross-referencing to which Guildenstern has become accustomed. Thus, he finds himself perfectly at home on stage with its self-contained skits, and has a particular talent for improvisation. The ability to bring a story to a fitting conclusion without waiting for it to be delivered by someone else is a potentially life-saving one.

In today’s scene they are dealing with… love? Or else… fish, perhaps. It can be hard to tell the difference sometimes. Regardless, they will be set on a boat, which is funny because — no, because nothing. A boat signifies nothing at all, which is to say it does not signify anything. Meanwhile, Nothingness is… not in this sketch. Well, no more than it is in any of their other performances. It might be different if the wind was southerly, but that’s not true either.

“Ah – um – Alfred?” Rosencrantz’s arm jerks up and down as if he’s jostling for a word in edgewise in the middle of a crowd, even though he’s alone.

Alfred chimes into the space with the music made by two coins together, wearing only the gauziest suggestion of a dress: “How can I help?”

“Yes – ah – now when the Player said ‘private viewing’ at the orientation, does that mean… that is to say… look, do you want to get married?”