Chapter 4. The great writer William Shakespeare
The next morning I met Liz, Tom, Sunny and Nick in the school yard. I'd come running up to them and already opened my mouth to tell them my ideas, when Mary Horsety, our classmate, sauntered up to us. It was a cold winter morning, but her jacket was unzipped, scarf picturesquely waved in the cold wind. Her cheeks were bright red.
"You'll chill your head," I said sententiously.
"There's nothing in her head to chill except for the bone," Nick snorted.
"See who's talking," Horse snapped, offended. "Unlike you I've got some brains. By the way, Kontellis," she gave Nick a vengeful glance, "have you already known that you were chosen for history tests?"
Nick shrugged, but it was obvious that this news didn't make him happy.
It was a countrywide assessment, which included testing in all public schools. We had to take tests in different subjects. Then the obtained results would be statistically processed in order to make judgment on quality of studying in every school.
The principal and other teachers had been haranguing us since they had learnt about it. Mr Frangelli, the principal, in his speech emphasized the honour of Raven Hill High and compared the future testing with a "major battle for life of our native school", and finally having barked "let's go, my friends! Defend your school! Don't let the enemies stain its honour with mud!", he went out to charge other students.
Horse also had been lecturing us. Unlike Mr Frangelli she didn't care about the school honour. In fact she didn't pay much attention to education at all, but she did care about Mr Craven, our history teacher. Everybody knows that she's been in love with him and won't allow anyone to let him down. Besides, it was a chance for her to make Mr Craven pay attention to her and her knowledge of history. So she'd warned us that she herself would deal with anyone who wouldn't pass history tests successfully. We all took this warning seriously. Horse was a quite big and strong girl, and it was better to keep away from her when she was in a fury.
"Moysten, you also have history test," Mary went on. "I hope you've been preparing?"
"It's not your business," Tom replied grimly.
"Oh, I see, I see," Horsety shook her head, grinning meaningfully. "Tom is angry. Why? Sunny doesn't pay enough attention to you, does she?"
"I said it's not your business," Tom growled.
"My business or not, but Sunny pays more attention to sport than to you. It's the fact," Horse snorted.
Tom turned his back on her and started rummaging in his bag, pretending to look for something. While they were quarrelling, Mr Brinkley's car drove over to the school gates and parked. Richelle clambered out and sauntered towards us, looking extremely anxious.
"Hi!" Nick pulled her towards him and kissed.
"Do you remember my friend Kelly, who dated Giovanni, that guy from Italy?" Richelle said to him in a tragic voice. "They even started living together. I told you, remember?"
"So?"
"So he didn't come home last night."
"Oh, I see," Nick snorted, brushing his jet-black hair off his forehead. "I heard such tragic stories. I guess this Giovanni guy popped into a shop after work to buy some milk or bread. And there was so long queue that he came home only in the morning."
"Nick, it's no laughing matter," Richelle frowned. "I'm serious. He didn't come home at all."
"Oh, sometimes it happens this way," Nick agreed.
"Whose boyfriend didn't come home?" Horse asked with vivid interest, turning to Richelle.
"Giovanni, Kelly's boyfriend," Tom chipped in. "He popped into a shop to buy milk…"
"What the hell milk?!" Richelle interrupted irritably. "A friend of mine, Kelly, dated an Italian guy," she started to explain to Horse. "He's been living in Raven Hill for about a year. He and Kelly started to live together. And last night he didn't come home."
"Is the guy cool?" Horse enquired.
"He owns a shoe shop in the shopping mall," Richelle explained.
"Oh, I see. It's obvious. If he's a businessman, he must be somewhere with girls," Horsety said knowledgeably.
"I doubt it," I snorted.
"What can you know about a personal life," Horse looked down her nose at me.
"I know enough," I muttered.
"Is that so?" Mary drawled through gritted teeth. "And what do you know?"
"A lot," I mumbled. "And I think that this Giovanni could hide from his competitors. Or they could kidnap him."
"Oh yeah, sure," Nick snorted.
"Why not?" I had to defend myself. "This Giovanni guy has his own business. And in business, as you must know, kidnapping is a commonplace thing."
"As if you know anything about business," Horsety snorted.
"I know!" I muttered. "My father has his own business."
"Do you think that anyone who has his own business is going to be kidnapped?" Horsety jeered. "Maybe you also think that your father can be kidnapped because he has his business?"
"Why not?" I looked up at her from under my brows.
"Honestly, Elmo!" Nick drawled. "Who will ever want to kidnap your father if they spend more money on fuel than they'll be able to receive as a reward?"
Horsety gave a muffled laugh.
"Fools," I muttered, but very quietly so that Nick or Horsety wouldn't hear my words. I felt my cheeks blushing. Neither Nick nor Horsety ever took me seriously. They didn't think much of me or of my family business. I wonder why.
I turned my back on them and started looking at a huge black jeep, which drove up to the school and stopped. Brent Howe, our classmate got out, accompanied with Mr Howe and his security, Omar Killthewolf. Mr Howe said something to Brent. Brent nodded, and irritably waving his hand, walked towards us.
"Hi, guys," he greeted us. "I'm sick of dad's lectures," he rolled his eyes. "He says all the time that I should study better and that I should think about my future and all this stuff. Ugh! It's so annoying!"
We all nodded with sympathy. Brent went on muttering something about his strict family. The school yard was crowded with students. Despite the cold morning, no one wanted to go to the classes.
Lazily I watched a small truck drive up to the school gates and abruptly sway to a halt, nearly scratching Mr Howe's jeep. Two men in equal brown overalls jumped out of the truck. An old, grey Toyota, which was following the truck, rounded the both cars, and stopped right in front of Mr Howe and his security. A small man with long beard leaped out of Toyota, pulled out a phone and punching numbers, strode towards them. The security's face tensed, his hand slipped down into the pocket.
The small man wanted to go through the gates, but an unexpected handicap in the form of a huge security rose in front of him. The man bumped into the security's wide chest and bounced back like a ball.
"What's going on?" he jumped up. "Let me go! Right now!"
Huge Omar Killthewolf didn't even move.
"Mr Frangelli! Mr Frangelli!" the man squealed. "Can anyone call Mr Frangelli!?"
"Hey, mate, calm down, please," Killthewolf recommended him. "Otherwise I'll have to calm you down myself. And I want to warn you that people usually have headache after that."
"Let me go!" the man shrieked. "You have no right! I'm a famous national artist, Benjamin Frost!
The two men in brown overalls didn't interrupt into their argument. Even more, judging by their smiling faces I could easily say that they were enjoying the situation. Students, who'd been crowding in the school yard, also watched the scene with great interest.
The door of the school flung open. The principal Mr Frangelli and Mr Campbell, our teacher went out of the school.
"Ben! At last!" Mr Frangelli spread his arms widely and rushed to the bearded man.
"Let Mr Frost go!" Mr Campbell commanded, but Killthewolf didn't move. "Mr Howe," Mr Campbell turned to Brent's father, "tell your security to let Mr Frost go."
"Omar, let him…" Mr Howe at last deigned to look at the little mad. "Ben? Frost?!" he repeated in disbelief.
"Darren!" the bearded man shrieked, throwing himself into Mr Howe's arms.
"Ben Frost! Ben Frost!" Mr Howe patted the man on the shoulder. "I can't believe it's you!"
"Mr Frost is a pride of our school!" Mr Frangelli and Mr Campbell hung on the other side of the artist.
"Ben was the coolest geek in our campus!" Mr Howe was nodded.
We, as well as other students, stared in fascination at this meeting of old friends. Even severe Omar Killthewolf seemed to be impressed.
"Who is this bearded dork?" Tom whispered. "And why do they greet him as if he's a national hero?"
The others just shrugged. None of us had seen this man before. The meeting, meanwhile, was continuing.
"Ben! I can't believe that you studied in this school!" Mr Howe exclaimed. "My son studies here!"
"Yeah, I did," the "national artist" nodded. Then he turned to Mr Frangelli and pointed at the truck. "I've brought a gift for my school! It's Shakespeare."
"Shakespeare? But how could he..." Tom exclaimed with sincere astonishment on his face. "Didn't Shakespeare die long ago?"
The national artist glanced at Tom with visible disgust. "Of course he died," he muttered through gritted teeth. "It's not real Shakespeare. It's the sculpture of Shakespeare."
"Where did you buy it?" Mr Howe asked with interest.
"I didn't buy it," Mr Frost said solemnly. "I personally made it. I'm a sculptor."
"Oh, so do you know what's what in the fine art?" Mr Howe brightened up.
"Sure," the national artist nodded.
"Awesome! Can you consult me then?" Mr Howe clapped him on the shoulder. "The thing is that I want to buy a sculpture of a famous person to decorate my garden, but I don't know which sculptures are worthy to pay money for, and which are not."
"We'll discuss it," Mr Frost proudly raised his head. "Carry the sculpture out of the truck, please," he turned to the men in brown overalls.
Soon a tall, wooden box was pulled out of the truck and carried to the school doors. Mr Frost signed the blank and the truck clattered away.
"What's that? Let me see!" Tom made an attempt to force forward through the thick crowd of students.
"Moysten, we all were told that it was a sculpture of Shakespeare," Nick answered.
"Oh. I don't understand this fuss then," Tom immediately lost interest to the box. Classical writers aren't his favourite part of literature.
At that moment we heard the bell ringing in the school. The crowd of students reluctantly started moving towards the door, when Mr Campbell leant to Mr Frangelli's ear and whispered something to him. The principal nodded in agreement. Mr Campbell slipped back into the school.
"Attention, please!" Mr Frangelli shouted.
The crowd of students froze and stared at him inquiringly.
"Listen to me!" Mr Frangelli went on. "The first lesson is cancelled on the occasion of solemn opening of a sculpture, which our former student, now a famous national artist, Benjamin Frost, presented to our school!"
The crowd approvingly buzzed. Students split into groups again and sauntered away all over the wide school yard.
"By the way, I was granted the Government Premium for this sculpture," Mr Frost said with an air of importance. "The original bronze sculpture was bought by a famous collector. But I made an authorial copy for my native school."
There were some cheers and a few groans from the crowd. The school door flew open. Mr Campbell followed by other teachers came out. Mr Frangelli, nervously fingering his necktie, announced that Raven Hill High received a priceless gift today, and what was more important, the talent of the author of this sculpture had been grown up inside these walls. At these words Mr Frangelli picturesquely stretched out his hand towards the school building. Then he added that this sculpture would be a bright example of love and reverence to William Shakespeare. Looking at it, students would be proud of such a talented graduate like Benjamin Frost, and it would make them grind away at their studies with redoubled energy.
"Awesome!" Mr Larson droned. "A visible image of the great writer William Shakespeare is very important."
"Now Larson's going to bore us to death by this Shakespeare," Nick muttered. Luckily right at this moment people began applauding, so his words didn't reach Mr Larson's ears.
When the applause ceased, Mr Howe, his security, Brent, Zane, Tom, I and a few other volunteers, started to drag the heavy box into the school building. But soon we were stopped by a very unfortunate circumstance: the school door was too narrow for the wooden box. No matter how much we raised and turned the box, we couldn't push it through the doorway.
"There's only one way," Zane said importantly. "We need to take the sculpture out of the wooden box. Maybe then we'll be able to drag it through the door."
"Good idea," Mr Frangelli agreed. "Sunny," he turned to us, "could you run and bring hammers from the hangar?"
Sunny nodded, and ran away. In five minutes she returned with a box of implements. Men grabbed hammers and crowbars and started to pull nails out of the wooden box.
"Be careful! Be careful!" Mr Frost kept muttering, pacing around them. "Don't spoil it!"
Finally the wooden box was disassembled. Mr Frangelli solemnly pulled the protecting cloth off the statue. The next moment exciting buzz faded and the school yard went very quiet, what was rare for this place. Such silence was here only in the middle of nights. Students, teachers and even Mr Howe with his security silently gaped at the thing that was supposed to be the sculpture of the great writer, but in reality it turned out to be a huge something of bronze colour, which looked like a lump of rock, lacerated by a blast.
"Where's Shakespeare?" Mr Howe was the first to break the silence. "Omar," he turned to his security, "I'm afraid you'll have to deal with those people from the truck. They've carried a shit instead of an ingenious sculpture."
"Shut up, Darren, if you don't understand the real modern art!" the sculptor shrieked with a shudder of offence. "It's Shakespeare with a sword in one hand and a feather in the other hand. He's standing near a table with books. This sculpture is a pure example of the modern avant-garde!"
"I didn't mean to offend you, mate," Mr Howe clapped the sculptor on the shoulder. "To tell the truth, I like this sculpture. I just don't understand where Shakespeare is here and where his sword is!"
"Oh, man!" the national artist groaned. "There're no real connoisseurs of art in this world any more! You, children of modern world, want a clear picture, like photo. You don't want to switch on your imagination at all!"
"Look at Frangelli and Larson," Nick whispered to us. "They seem to like classical art more than modern avant-garde."
I turned to the place where the principal and teachers were standing. Mr Frangelli, and especially Mr Larson, looked as if they were going to collapse any moment. With horror they were staring at the statue, as if hoping that this massive bronze thing would turn into Shakespeare with his famous large collar and little beard.
"See, Darren," Mr Frost tiredly pointed at the most damaged part of the rock, "it's Shakespeare himself. Can you see my fantasy? This is his sword, as a symbol of power of art." He jabbed his finger at the other part of the statue. "It's the feather. He stands near the table with books, holding the feather, as a symbol of his great talent and all books, he wrote."
"Oh, wow!" Mr Howe bellowed in raptures. "It's just ingenious! No seriously! In one sculpture you managed to show Shakespeare, his feather, sword and table with books! Awesome!"
Richelle and Horse, meanwhile, were interrogating me.
"Okay, I understand about avant-garde," Richelle was saying, looking at me with her big innocent eyes. "But I don't understand what the sword and table with books have got to do with Shakespeare? He's a writer, isn't he? Why did this man make him with the sword?"
"If you didn't read so many glossy magazines and love stories, and read more classic literature," I grumbled, "you'd know that in Shakespeare's times all noble people were knights and had swords. The sword meant power and grandeur."
Richelle fell silent, thinking. "I think it's stupid," finally she said.
Mr Larson, meanwhile, was shaking his head in frustration. I guess he realised that looking at this sculpture, students were unlikely to fell in love with Shakespeare's poems.
Mr Howe, on the other hand, seemed to like this sculpture more and more. Like a true businessman, he quickly caught psychological state of the school administration, and offered to take this sculpture to put it in his garden and buy a new, more realistic Shakespeare with his wide collar and little beard instead. For what Mr Frangelli with pathos replied that this sculpture had been made specially for the school by its former student, and he, the principal of this school, just didn't have rights to give it to anyone else.
Mr Howe frowned with annoyance.
"Don't you worry, Darren," Mr Frost patted him on the shoulder. "I'll make any other writer for you. Any writer you want."
"And even Jonathan Swift with Gulliver?" Mr Howe asked hopefully.
"Of course," Mr Frost assured him.
"Okay, let's carry this thing inside," Mr Frangelli urged, before Mr Howe changed his mind. "Boys," he turned to us. "We need help."
Tom, Brent, Simon, I and a few other volunteers lifted the heavy statue and under the leadership of severe-looking Killthewolf dragged it into the school. Quistok was right. Without packaging the sculpture easily went through the doorway. In the hall there weren't problems either. But then we found ourselves face to face with another obstacle - staircase. One glance was enough to understand that the sculpture was too heavy and inconvenient to be carried up the stairs.
"Mr Frangelli, why don't you give this sculpture to me?" Mr Howe tried again. "I'll buy another, smaller one for the school."
"No way," Mr Frangelli shook his head stubbornly. "We need to lift it only to the first floor. We'll do it!"
"No, we can't," huge Omar Killthewolf shook his head. "It's impossible. The sculpture is too heavy."
"We'll do it!" Tom exclaimed. "I know how!"
Everyone turned to him.
"Do you know how to drag this thing up the stairs without any lifting mechanisms?" Mr Howe enquired.
"Yes, I do," Tom grinned at him.
"Hey, Tom, don't interfere," I advised him. "Let the adults decide what to do."
But Tom wasn't going to listen to me. He walked around the sculpture, examining it from every angle. Then he turned to the handrail and tapped it with his knuckles.
"If I were Mr Frangelli, I would keep away from Moysten's ideas. He's as crazy as Quistok," Nick murmured. He took Richelle's hand and they both walked away from the avant-garde sculpture.
"Tell us your idea," Mr Frangelli hopefully looked at Tom. "We're listening to you."
"So," Tom put on an important look and began ordering around. "Several men go over there," he pointed at the top of the steps. "And several stay here. We take the sculpture, set it onto the handrail and push it up like ancient Egyptians pushed stones while building pyramids. When we're pushing it, people at the top of the steps are pulling it. It's easy."
"See?" Mr Campbell exclaimed, smiling proudly. "For some students my lessons are not useless. I can easily entrust Moysten to lead people through a desert or mountains or anywhere else."
"Yeah, sure. If these people want to die," I heard Nick drawl behind my back.
Apparently wanting to impress Sunny, Tom placed us around the sculpture and started ordering. "Now. Listen to me! At the count of three we lift the sculpture and put it into the handrail. One," he began to count. "Two. Two and a half…"
In spite of such mass concentration of people there was a complete silence in the hall. Tom looked at the people around him, and fixing his eyes on Sunny, finally commanded, "Three!"
With stunning speed the statue flew up into the air and was placed onto the handrail.
"Now," Tom went on giving commands. "Omar! Listen to me! Now at the new count of three we start pushing this thing forward and you with other men start pulling it with all your might."
"It's not a thing, it's a work of art!" Mr Frost squealed indignantly.
Tom, without answering, glanced at Sunny again and began to count. Brent, Simon, I and other boys put our hands on the sculpture, ready to push it at the new count of three. Omar, Mr Campbell and a few other teachers stood on the top of the steps, ready to pull the sculpture. Everyone looked incredibly tensed.
"One," Tom said slowly. "Two. Sunny," he turned to Liz and Sunny, "look here! Three!"
I, as well as other boys started to push the sculpture, leaning all my weight against it. People on the top of the steps started to pull it with all their might. If Tom wanted to impress Sunny, he definitely managed to do it. Later he apologized that it was Omar and other teachers' fault. They, in Tom's opinion, too early started to pull the sculpture. In other words they started to pull before we started to push. Because of these nonsynchronous actions, Shakespeare parted with his table and feather. Or maybe it was the table and feather that parted with the writer. There were also several sceptics, who considered that the right part of the great writer and his table were still together, but the left part of the writer together with the sword drove up the handrails.
Although, I and the rest of the boys, who were pushing Shakespeare up had no time for discussions. We were too busy keeping this work of art up on the handrail, because obeying the physical laws it wanted to return back to the ground.
"Bastards!" the national artist was roaring.
"Hold this thing up, guys, hold it up!" Quistok was yelling tensely at the same time. "Otherwise it'll squash us all!"
Mr Howe and a few boys dashed towards us to help and flung themselves against the sculpture. It promoted a change of events, and the statue finally stabilised. To put it another way, Shakespeare stopped falling on us.
"Come on, guys! Push it! One...two...three... Push!" Mr Howe commanded.
Nick and Richelle, who had observed this scene from the sidelines, later told us that Shakespeare flew up the staircase like a bird. Although, when the great writer landed on the second floor, it nearly injured Killthewolf, who was deep in his personal thoughts. At the last moment Omar managed to leap back. As a result he got off with several scratches, what was nothing for experienced and bullet-pocked Omar's body.
"Bastards!" Mr Frost roared again. "I put all my soul into this sculpture! You broke my gift! You don't appreciate my efforts at all!"
Mr Campbell ran his finger along the split. "It's plaster!" he exclaimed. "No wonder it broke!"
"Oh, Ben, shame on you!" Mr Howe cast a reproaching glance at the national artist. "I thought you made a bronze sculpture for your native school."
"The material doesn't matter," Mr Frost retorted. "The main thing is that it's the author's copy. I made it of the same colour as the bronze original."
"No, Ben," Brent's father said severely, "My Jonathan Swift should be sculptured only out of bronze. I'm warning you, I won't pay for plaster."
"Can you discuss your Jonathan Swift later?" Mr Frangelli interrupted. "Let's decide what to do with this sculpture," he pointed at the two parts of the sculpture. "We can't leave it here like that."
"Let's carry it to the library and glue the both parts together," Tom advised.
"You, Moysten, have done enough for today," Mr Frangelli said in a threatening voice.
"What's my fault!?" Tom spread his arms. "Mr Frost should have warned us that it was just painted plaster before we started to lift it. And by the way," he added, "maybe this Shakespeare broke on the way here."
Mr Frangelli didn't find what to reply; he just sighed and waved his hand.
"I don't understand what you are arguing about," Richelle said in her innocent voice of a little girl. "Shakespeare himself isn't broken, is he?"
"Yes," the author nodded, pointing at the most damaged part of the lump of rock.
"So, what's the point in arguing?" Richelle went on. "Shakespeare is a writer? Right? So he can get on without table with books."
"No. My Shakespeare must be together with the table and sword, otherwise my idea will be ruined," the sculptor objected. "I'll repair it. Everything at my own expense. Don't worry, Mr Frangelli."
After that the both parts of the sculpture were carried into the school library without troubles. There Mr Larson asked the sculptor to write a detailed guidebook of this sculpture.
"Otherwise," the old teacher went on, "I won't be able to explain to students where Shakespeare's here and where the rest of his stuff is."
Mr Frost pityingly glanced at the "backward" teacher, but promised to bring the description. After that we all were sent to the classes.
"Moysten, you're lucky that it was plaster, not bronze," Nick snorted as we walked along the corridor.
"Yeah," Sunny giggled, "otherwise you, Tom, would have to give your part of reward to repair the statue.
"I meant well," Tom apologized. "If it had been a real bronze, everything would have happened another way."
"If it had... would have... Moysten, you're just a big conditional mood," Nick rolled his eyes.