New Albion Read Free Page B

but he is one of London’s most accomplished playwrights.”
    Mr. Borrow snorted and a flake of dry snot appeared in one cavernous nostril. I instantly found myself looking everywhere in the room but at Mr. Borrow. “He is hardly Oliver Goldsmith, is he?” Mr. Borrow said. He pulled a white handkerchief, almost the size of a bed sheet, from his trousers pocket and thankfully wiped his nose clean. “Or even Collie Cibber.”
    “He has written a great many plays,” Mr. Wilton said bluntly. “We are not prone to snubbing him now that he has grown old.”
    Mr. Borrow smiled or grimaced again. His colourless lips seemed to stretch to the ears on both sides. “That is a highly commendable sentiment,” he said. “Now, to the matter at hand. Kerim the –” he paused before he pronounced the words and then gave the plosives excessive force – “Bastard Buccaneer.”
    “We have been very careful,” I said, “to eliminate the subplot of Kerim’s daughter –”
    “Ah yes,” Mr. Borrow said wryly, “the young lady who masquerades as a boy sailor and who finds gainful employment aboard ship, until she becomes involved in a relationship with the young quartermaster.” Mr. Borrow peered up at the ceiling for a long moment. “A relationship that has the faint odour of homoeroticism about it.”
    There was no arguing the point. “Yes,” I said, “we’ve eliminated that subplot.”
    Mr. Borrow cleared his throat and went on. His long fingers were clenched in front of him on the desk; his knuckles had turned white. “But you have not persuaded Mr. Farquhar Pratt to eliminate his ceaseless references to current events in France?”
    It was my turn to smile, at least inwardly. “The events are hardly current,” I said. “The play is set in 1795.”
    Mr. Borrow leant back in his undersized chair, looking for a way to stretch the knot of tension out of his oversized body. He sighed audibly. “You are well aware, Mr. Phillips, that events pertaining to the Terror are a sore spot for monarchies across Europe. And for the monarchy here in England.”
    “The play does not touch on monarchy,” Mr. Wilton interjected. “It is about common people.”
    “Nevertheless,” said Mr. Borrow, in syllables sharp as knives, “the sentiments are there.”
    “Sentiments?” responded Mr. Wilton, his own voice gruff and pugilistic.
    “Anti-monarchist sentiments.” Mr. Borrow cleared his throat and peered menacingly at Mr. Wilton and then at me. One cannot peer menacingly at Mr. Wilton for very long.
    Again I tried to cut through the solid fog of antagonism which had pervaded the room. “Mr. Farquhar Pratt fancies himself a bit of a history buff,” I said. “I’m certain he can vouch for the historical accuracy of what he has written.”
    Mr. Borrow did not appreciate being contradicted. “God damn historical accuracy!” he fairly shouted. “It is not a question of historical accuracy.” He pulled his spectacles from his long nose and began polishing them incessantly.
    Mr. Wilton cleared his throat, as well. “Mr. Farquhar Pratt is quite adamant about his setting,” he said evenly. “He claims that plot and character follow from thence.”
    “Mr. Farquhar Pratt is a hack playwright in a minor theatre,” Mr. Borrow fairly hissed. His polishing grew more and more furious until I was worried that he would mangle his spectacles. “He can and will be brought to observe the strictures which this office is mandated to safeguard.”
    There was another uneasy silence between Mr. Borrow and Mr. Wilton, until at last Mr. Wilton turned to me. “I begin to see that we are at an impasse,” he said. “We shall eliminate Kerim the Bastard Buccaneer from our playbills.” And with a sour glance at Mr. Borrow, he added, “Which have already been printed.”
    “You should never have printed them without first having the play cleared by this office,” Mr. Borrow spat back. He remained sitting while Mr. Wilton and I were in the