Continuing defacements of this short story are painful for me, but more wounding to the Constitution than to me. I will do my best to make all necessary corrections. I am saddened to have to live and struggle to write under such conditions. No images can be used by me at this time. This story is a kind of holiday card for someone special. Like "Fabian Hardakre," I cannot let her down.
A Holiday Wish, for --
-- M.S. & I.G.M.
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you.
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring and foison of the year:
The one does shadow on your beauty show,
The other as your beauty doth appear,
And you in blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
William Shakespeare, "What is your substance, whereof are you made?," in Sonnets (New York: Washington Square, 1967), p. 53. ("Sonnet 53," Folger Library Edition.)
Serendipity III, 255 East 60th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022, (212) 838-3531. http://www.serendipity.com/main.html
The life of a mouse in New York City has its charm. I am an elderly and respectable mouse, of course. My monocle and fondness for English tayloring suggests as much, immediately, to other mice. I was the leading interpreter of many great Shakesperean roles during my years in London's West End. It is true that I bear a certain resemblance to Sir Ralph Richardson, a British thespian who was a great character actor. Every actor is a "character" actor. I was the foremost rodent "Falstaff" in recorded memory.
I now live in the basement of New York's famous and most magical children's restaurant, Serendipity, III. I love the holiday season. Don't you? I find this atmosphere and all of my neighbors sufficiently decorous for the winter years of a mouse of my distinction. I take great pleasure in observing children and their parents visiting my home. Make sure to stop by when you come to New York! Please purchase a t-shirt. Try the world famous hot chocolate with whipped cream, plus extra goodies. Don't forget to mention my name.
I am the "Fabian Hardakre," greatest rodent Shakespearean of the twentieth century. This is, of course, a suitably Dickensian stage name. My real name is "Archibald Leech." The table where Marilyn Monroe sat playing with a stuffed version of a mouse (for which I posed, nude) is in the far right corner. You can't miss it. Truman Capote would gossip with me downstairs. Many of my friends mistook him for a plump rodent -- as did Gore Vidal, who said this to me at his home in Ravello, Italy. True, I was much younger when I posed for toy makers. I was then blessed with an amazing male mouse physique. I struck many poses in my full naked splendor in modelling for that "stuffed" version of myself. I am not entirely lacking in physical presence, even now. We actors are always wonderful at making an entrance.
For the "delicious elixer of applause" (Laurence Olivier), I appear before star-struck tourists, stand in the center of the room in my best Armani mouse-tux, then sing an assortment of musical favorites from several holiday traditions. I also sing show tunes. My Hebrew is superb. Incidentally, I was "Tevia" for three weeks in Atlantic City, New Jersey. Audiences were "wowed," according to the Newark Star Ledger.
At the conclusion of my performance, I always take a slow bow that I learned from Laurence Olivier. "Larry" -- there was little formality between us as fellow West End thespians -- Larry would always whisper: "Emerge from the bow with a tearful glance at the ceiling ... then hand on your heart, bow your head once more, finally -- and only then -- should you exit, stage left, with a parting wave."
Leave them begging for more. If you have a moment, sir and madam, I will provide any number of photographs of my celebrated interpretations of Othello, the Mouse. Several of the notices and reviews have remained in my possession, together with a very kind letter from Kenneth Tynan.
I will be delighted, of course, to take a photograph with your lovely daughter in a moment -- if you will be so kind as to purchase that imported cheese, for me? Thank you. Yes, and the sugar plum fairy on your left is your other daughter? She attends ballet school. Of course, Dame Margo was a friend you know. Your daughters' names? Ah, yes ... of course ... "Miss Alice" and "Wendy."
Lately, I have been feeling the absence of some of my friends. Many have passed away. This is one of the misfortunes of the old. There is a daily, guarded perusal of the obituaries. A sigh of relief when none of the departed are friends. There is also a nightly effort -- as I put on my nightcap -- to recall former glories, finding strength for a new day's challenge. I spend time remembering loved-ones. I try to list my best evenings of shared laughter in order to relive them "in memory yet green."
Recently, I was disturbed by a scratching sound suggesting the unmistakeable scurrying of female mice feet. I took up a pistol -- it is a cap pistol used in the second act of a Checkov play! -- and set forth to determine whether an intruder had invaded my tiny duplex mouse-hole. The place is rent stabilized. In Manhattan, mice will do anything for an apartment like this.
"Halt!" I said this in my most dramatic baritone voice -- center stage, as it were.
"I am frightfully sorry. Have I startled you? Didn't you receive my solicitor's letters?" A female mouse said this. Dressed in an elegant suit, English Macintosh, white gloves, Italian shoes and tiny Louis Vuitton suitcase was a beautiful mouse -- of a certain age and obviously glamorous -- resembling Joan Plowright, left quarter profile if the key light were directly before her. She was in my living room examining my paintings and admiring my books.
Accompanying this lady was another, slightly darker woman of the rodent persuasion, dressed more simply but with good taste. It was explained to me that "Maria Morena" (known as Ms. "Cantinflas" in her professional capacities) was a lady's companion and performer, an expert at juggling and magic tricks. This person wondered about the glorious scent of imported cheese.
"May I sit down?" Dame Joan -- for that was her name -- inquired in a seductive pianissimo soprano voice.
"Yes, of course ... I am afraid that you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met?"
"I dare say that we have, yes. I have sub-let this apartment since I have been contracted to play various shows at 'Serendipity' -- which I take to be a local theater in this charming city."
"You're an actress!"
"Yes." She sat, most elegantly on my couch and crossed her legs.
"Well, if we will be working together -- I have no idea why I was not informed! -- I suppose that I should offer you some tea or a light meal. The spare room is very comfortable."
"That'll do quite nicely." She possessed a lovely and very practiced voice, beautiful green eyes, and an unforgettable perfume that I recognized immediately as ... "L'Air D' Mouse."
We had a nice chat about her flight. Baroness Blixen said: "One does not travel by air, one is merely sent -- like a parcel." These days there are so few trans-Antlantic crossings on great cruise ships. Elegance is disappearing from the world.
"How about that cheese?" Ms. Cantinflas asked. There was an earthy attractiveness about her, directness. A female "prose" and "poetry" team had entered my home and life. We would put on plays together! Sheridan's comedies, ideally The School for Scandal. Perhaps the good folks from Wisconsin would enjoy something cerebral by Tom Stoppard, or a Noel Coward comedy -- Blithe Spirit -- for the holidays? Musical comedies and dances. Our own revisionist interpretation of The Nutcracker would be a great success.
Artists need love more than other people. No doubt this is a result of early childhood deprivations and the demands of our agents for 40% of everything, preferably paid in blood. I made certain that the ladies were comfortable in my spare bedrooms. I fixed them a light repast (twice for Ms. Cantinflas), then retired with an apple and an Agatha Christie novel. I allowed my thoughts to drift to pleasant romantic fantasies with my guests and fell into a deep sleep.
We were magnificent. Several encores were necessary after our "heartfelt and intense" interpretations of Harold Pinter's spare dialogue; Chekov was a breeze; Wilde was a snap; Neil Simon fell trippingly from the tongue. Crowds lined up for hours to enjoy our theatrical interpretations. People cannot stop discussing our rendition of Shaw's Pygmalion. More than once a neighbor has thanked me for my reading of "The Seven Ages of Man." Only John Giulgud comes close to my impassioned reading of the Bard's verses.
The lightning fell on Christmas Eve, of all days, as I received word that "my services were no longer required." Rejection is also a familiar companion in any actor's life. I was expected on stage minutes after receiving the news. I always insist on a fifteen minute "call." I prefer to be ready well before my cue in order to avoid all that last-minute rushing. I was playing a key role in A Woman of No Importance. I could not let down my fellow players, or Mr. Wilde. There is a code of honor among actors. "Never dog the show."
A mouse of my international fame and distinction would find it difficult to turn down all of the many offers for leading roles that I am bound to receive when it becomes clear that I am, as we say in show business, "at liberty." After all, I still cut a dashing figure in a tux. I must not let my friends know about this incomprehensible lapse in judgment by the management. I will simply explain that I have been called away ... to Paris.
I will make it clear that I am making a movie with a daring, experimental French director -- who is filming Hamlet with an all-mouse cast, under water. We will all be naked. This nakedness is something actors must achieve, even when fully clothed. I must be sure that I provide a splendid dinner for the ladies before my departure. I will leave everything with them. After all, what are possessions for artists? Only props. (I will take only my Picasso drawings.)
We were magnificent, if I say so myself -- and I do. After all, there are no critics anymore, sadly. Clive Barnes was the last of them. Mr. Barnes has now retired. There are only young people who play computer games and are asked to "evaluate" Christopher Marlowe's Doctor Faustus. I have experienced the end of Western civilization.
Dame Joan was particularly beautiful tonight in a long white gown, draped over one shoulder, dangling pearl earrings, very glamorous. Ms. Cantinflas wore a black evening gown, button earrings with diamonds and a short string of pearls. Each of the women carried a cell phone. They were answering calls from directors throughout the evening. I might have done the same. However, I detest cell phones as a barbaric intrusion on the civilized practice of conversation.
I have never been more charming and witty than I was at dinner. Why worry? I could return to Hollywood, of course, but the movies are so vulgar these days. I have always planned to write my memoirs. No Shelley Winters stuff. I will not discuss the mice I have loved. There must be a market for my reflections on the great actors and writers that I have known in London and New York, or the movie people whose swimming pools I have visited in Los Angeles.
I was debating how to break the news to my colleagues, as I jumped under the snug covers in my room with a Judith Krantz romance (I know, don't say it!), when there was a gentle knocking at my bedroom door. Dame Joan and Ms. Cantinflas were holding a tray with three cups of tea and tiny cupcakes for each of us. Mine had a candle in it. Think Freud, not Jung.
"We are here to celebrate!" They produced a contract for a ten year run at Serendipity, III. All three of us were wanted! Bonuses were available for a Christmas Show with the "high kicking" Mousekets. We were to begin rehearsals for A Christmas Carol immediately. My friends had insisted to management that we are a team. I would have to reject all other offers. I could not possibly disappoint my colleagues. One for all ... and all that. Actors can be a little melodramatic. Not in my case, naturally.
Christmas Day we cooked a goose-shaped brie cheese. Each of us found a surprise gift under the tree, including nicely wrapped presents from Kate Winslet! Two bottles of "Tresor" (at thirty percent off retail!). Plus, "Antonio Cologne" (for me) from Mr. Banderas. I was the mouse seen scurrying in a scene that critics raved about in The Mask of Zorro.
We enjoyed egg knog and charades before our final curtain call. There is no rest for actors during the holidays. That evening we were cold, agreeing to share a single warm bed, telling each other stories, making each other laugh. Only one thing troubled me. The ladies kept borrowing my nightcap. I haven't seen it since last night. I also can't find my pajamas. For now, I shall abjure magic and concentrate on the spirit of the season ... Happy holidays!
