Mr. Garrick Resumes the Stage DS9 - G/B PG Kathryn Ramage May 1998 This little story developed almost spontaneously following a few remarks by Liz Williams about the Garak/Garrick joke in "Cardassian out of Time." I have her to thank for the inspiration. SUMMARY: A time anomaly takes our boys to 18th-century England, where confusion over Garak's identity leads to theatrical wackiness. WARNING: This story does not have any Nazis in it, but it does contain time travel, Augustan fopperies, some Shakespeare and, while there is nothing sexually graphic, there is every indication that the gentlemen involved are- well- involved. Proceed at your own risk. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Paramount owns Star Trek, DS9, and the characters except for the Drury-Lane actors. This story was written for personal amusement and should not be taken as intended copyright infringement or indeed anything but the product of a slightly bored mind seeking to entertain itself and anyone else who happens to like this sort of thing. -=*)]1[(*=- A Case of Mistaken Identity -=*)][(*=- "I don't *care* how we got here," Bashir said sullenly, "I just want to get home!" "I thought you enjoyed the adventure of time-travel, my dear." "Oh, the first time is thrilling," the doctor admitted. "And the next time can be exciting, and the next, and the one after that. But after you've been thrown unexpectedly into the past a dozen times, it begins to be more than a little tedious. Here we are in 18th-century England, and all I can do is wonder how my ancestors survived without-" He cast a dismayed glance at the china water-pitcher and wash-basin on top of the commode cabinet. "-basic amenities." "At least *you* have the advantage of looking like one of the natives here," Garak grumbled. "You won't be considered a freak or monster if these primitive humans catch a glimpse of *your* face." He had been wearing a hooded cloak when they'd entered their room at the inn; he now shrugged it off and spread it on a chair before the fire to dry. "And you're far more accustomed to this miserable, wet London weather." "My London isn't like this," Bashir told him. He had turned to gaze out the rain-streaked window at the muddy cobblestone street below. "The weather nets keep it from raining more than necessary to sustain the indigenous plant life. The old buildings are kept up and the streets are paved and clean. It doesn't smell like this." He sighed, hating the way they were beginning to snap at each other. "Do you suppose they'll find us?" "We've activated the beacon. All we can do now is keep ourselves out of the way, try not to corrupt the time-line with our presence..." Garak regarded the curtained feather-bed with some suspicion, then sat down, "and wait to be rescued." "Well, while we're waiting, I'm going to go downstairs and see about having some dinner brought up to us." "Tea?" Garak asked hopefully. "They do have tea in England in this era?" "Yes, they do. This is the time when it's just becoming popular--and I'm sure we'll both feel better after a nice, hot cup." And, with that, Bashir left their room and went down the steep, narrow staircase to the common room on the ground floor. -=*)][(*=- The inn's menu was full of fatty meats and short on fruits and vegetables, but the doctor made a valiant attempt to select digestible items. "We'll have our tea as soon as it's ready," he instructed the innkeeper. "And, for dinner, I'd like the fish, please, if it's fresh." "Pulled out of the river this very morning, sir!" "Uh- no." Julian had seen the river. "Not the fish. Let's try the mutton-chops, and the boiled potatoes, and plenty of bread. Do you have a decent claret to go with that?" "Yes, sir, of course," the innkeeper assured him. "And what will the cloaked gentleman have?" "Mr. Garak? He'll have the same." "Mr. Garak?" the innkeeper looked up at him in surprise. "Surely not *the* Mr. Garak?" "Yes," Bashir answered, "that's his name." "Why, this is remarkable news! Garak! Here, in *our* house. When last we'd heard, Mr. Garak had departed London to seek retirement in the country for reasons of his health." Understanding brightened the ruddy, rotund little man's eyes. "Is that it, sir? His illness-- Smallpox, was it ?" "No- That is-" Julian, realizing that he'd initiated a serious misunderstanding, struggled to repair the damage--then he stopped suddenly. Well, why not? From what he recalled of his medical history, he knew that smallpox was still a serious disease during this period, and that it often left disfiguring pock-marks on its victims. This was as good an explanation as any for his companion's concealment. "Yes, that's it," he said solemnly. "Of course you understand now that we don't wish to be disturbed. Mr. Garak's health is still rather delicate, and he's a bit sensitive about his appearance." "Certainly, sir!" the innkeeper nodded vigorously. "I understand perfectly." "Good man!" Julian congratulated himself as well. He was never very successful at telling lies, but this one seemed to have brought about precisely the effect he'd hoped for. "We'll expect our dinner shortly." He went back upstairs. -=*)][(*=- A cup or two of tea, a solid meal, and a little claret, then they curled tightly against each other on the lumpy feather-stuffed mattress and fell asleep to the sound of rain drumming on the roof of the inn. Bashir awoke the next morning with a surprised squeak. Garak had pulled him close to press his face into the hollow of his shoulder, and squeezed so hard that the doctor was left breathless. "Elim?" Drowsily, he wrapped his arms around Garak, and felt how cool the fine scales of the Cardassian's shoulders and back were against his own warmer skin. "You're cold?" "I am *freezing*." "The fire must have gone out." Bashir squirmed free and got out of bed. It *was* cold. He hissed as his bare feet touched the wood floor, then hopped in a little dance to the rectangular patch of sunlight cast on the floor through the single window. Quickly, he pulled on the shirt he had tossed aside the night before, then went to crouch on the hearthrug and poke at the unpromising pile of grey ashes left on the iron fireplace grate. "Out," he pronounced officially. Under the blankets, Garak made a snorting sound that might have been an ironic laugh. "Then come back to bed. I've already lost one source of heat--I'm not going to be deprived of the other." "No, wait just a moment. I think I can restart it." He placed a few fresh sticks of wood on the grate and, shivering, teeth chattering, fumbled with the unfamiliar tools in the tinder box. After some effort, he produced a spark and nursed it into flame. "*Now* will you come back to bed?" As Julian rose, there was a knock at the door. "It's probably our breakfast. Keep the bed-curtains shut!" he told Garak, and went to answer it. The innkeeper had brought the tray up himself. "Has Mr. Garak arisen yet?" "No," Bashir answered. "He's still asleep." "I have no wish to disturb him," the man spoke more softly as he entered the room. He took in the scattered articles of clothing, the closed curtains around the bed, and the doctor's bare legs, with mild curiosity as he set the tray down on the table and began to clear away the plates left from dinner the night before. "But I pray you excuse my excitement. It is an unexpected honor to welcome so well-known and highly esteemed a gentleman to our humble accommodations. Many a time, my wife and I would go to see Mr. Garak perform at the Drury Lane Theatre, and never once did we imagine he would condescend to patronize our establishment. `Tis a pity that a man so famed for his handsome face should be stricken by this unfortunate affliction." "Yes, well, fate can be cruel," Julian said. "It can indeed, sir," the innkeeper agreed as he exited. Once Bashir had shut the door, Garak yanked back the bed-curtains. "What did you tell him about me?" With a hint of embarrassment, Bashir explained what had happened. "It's a simple matter of mistaken identity. When I first mentioned your name, he immediately assumed I was speaking of someone else--another Garak." "And you did not correct him." "It seemed like a good idea at the time." He poured out a cup of tea and brought it to Garak, then sat on the bed at Garak's feet and tucked his own cold, bare feet up into the folds of the blankets. "And now, he believes that this other person, this theatrical Mr. Garak-" Julian paused, then laughed out loud. "Elim, there was a famous Old-Earth actor, David *Garrick.* That must be who he thinks you are." He laughed again. "Oh, Elim, this is too funny! He thinks he has *that* Mr. Garrick in hiding up here!" Garak didn't laugh, but sipped his tea contemplatively. He waited until Bashir's amusement had subsided, then he said, "Julian, dear, will you run an errand for me later this morning? Under these unusual circum- stances, it will be impossible for me to conceal myself, and there are certain measures we must take..." Julian, eyes still sparkling at the absurdity of the situation, nodded. There was obviously something more on Garak's mind, but for now the doctor was willing to go along with his lover's plans. "Of course, Elim. Whatever you want." -=*)][(*=- When Julian returned from his errand, carefully bearing a smallish, paper-wrapped parcel, he found that Garak had come downstairs to the private parlor to receive a visitor. "Ah, Julian," the cloaked figure deliberately seated in the darkest corner of the dimly-lit parlor gestured to his visitor, a dandified young gentleman in a powdered wig and gold brocade waistcoat, whom Bashir was already regarding in amazement. "I would like to introduce you to Mr. Chadwick, partial proprietor of the Drury Lane Theatre. Mr. Chadwick, allow me to present my secretary, Julian Bashir." Chadwick's eyes dropped from the doctor's wind- rumpled hair to his scuffed and muddy boots. "A pleasure, Mr. Bashir," he said with a smirk and a small bow. "Likewise," answered Julian. The young dandy turned back to Garak. "I shan't trouble you further, sir. I've presumed too greatly on your time and convalescence even now." "Quite all right." "You are too kind! I look forward to welcoming your return to the Theatre, so soon as your health allows." He bowed more deeply. "Mr. Garrick, good day. Mr. Bashir." Bashir saw the visitor to the door, then whirled on his friend. "Garak, what are you up to?" "I am planning for our future," Garak replied as he tossed back the hood of his cloak. "Since the future is something you and I may never see again. One act of highway robbery may have provided us with appropriate clothing and a small amount of money, but we are going to need some more reliable means of providing for ourselves if we are to survive in this environment." "And you invited Mr. Chadwick here-" "Mr. Chadwick's arrival was purely fortuitous. It seems our host cannot keep a secret. Once the young man asked to see me, I could hardly refuse the opportunity." "But didn't he realize right away that you're not David Garrick?" "Chadwick has only recently inherited his share of the Theatre from his uncle, since my namesake's retirement. He's seen Garrick on stage, but they've never met. Oh, he had his doubts at first, but I managed to convince him of my identity with a few reminiscences of my days in the theatre, some references to the plays of Shakespeare--For once, Doctor, I am grateful you convinced me to read them. That knowledge has proved invaluable today." "I'm glad I could be of help." "I also explained to him that I had returned to the city incognito and wished to remain out of the public's view due to the...tragic consequences of my recent illness. Which reminds me--Did you find that item I sent you to purchase?" "Yes, I've got one." Bashir sat down and opened the paper-wrapped parcel he had brought in with him. He produced a gilt-trimmed Venetian mask painted with stylized black features, held it up so that Garak could see the design, then handed it to him. "It was really fairly easy to find. Evidently, fashionable people afflicted with smallpox scars *do* wear them. I spent the last of our money on it, I'm afraid." Garak did not appear distressed at their penury. Instead, he announced with a grin, "We have money. Mr. Chadwick has most generously provided me with a small advance." "Advance? On what?" Julian thought suddenly of what Chadwick had said about Garak returning to the theatre. "Garak, you're not going to appear on stage?" "No, of course not." Garak tried on the mask. "Although it would be amusing in other circumstances, I don't believe it would be a practical profession for me in this barbaric time." He stepped toward the mirror over the mantlepiece and pulled the candles a little closer. "What do you think?" "You look like the Phantom of the Opera." Then, at Garak's confusion, Bashir added quickly, "Never mind-- *that* won't be around for another century or two. So, what did Chadwick pay you for?" "Our new acquaintance has little experience in theatrical management. He's asked me to assist him with a production of 'The Tempest' he has planned for this season." "He's asked you-?" "Begged, to be more precise. The young man was positively thrilled when I suggested that I might be interested in continuing my work...from behind the scenes, as it were. I'm to provide practical advice, act as a sort of consultant. It seems that my name- sake is as much revered a stage-manager as he is an actor." "Yes, I think I remember reading about that once." "I told him that I would be happy to drop by the theatre tomorrow afternoon if I were feeling up to it." He lowered the mask and studied Julian critically. "We'll need to purchase new garments. I can't take you to the theatre dressed like that--everyone will mistake you for a servant. I'd like to see you in something more in keeping with the contemporary style, perhaps an outfit similar to Mr. Chadwick's?" "Elim, no! I don't mind the ruffled shirts, but I am *not* wearing satin breeches!" Garak merely smiled. "I'm sure we'll find something suitable before we make our first public appearance." -=*)]2[(*=- The Man in the Gilded Mask -=*)][(*=- Julian was mortally embarrassed by the clothing Garak purchased for him: lacy ruffled shirts and brocade waistcoats, white silk hose and black patent-leather silver-buckled pumps, and, yes, blue satin. He'd tried to remind Garak that he was supposed to be a secretary, not a gentleman fop, but Garak was having too much fun with his shopping spree--examining the exotic fabrics, talking "shop" with the tailors, and coaxing his reluctant companion into each new outfit-- to care. In the end, Julian managed to avoid the fashionable ostentation of Chadwick, but still... "I feel silly," he confided once they got back to their rooms. "I'm overdressed and- well- I know I look ridiculous." "On the contrary," Garak tossed his gloves on the table, on top of his discarded mask. "You are exquisite." Garak had made extravagant purchases for both of them: while he had insisted on bright colors for Bashir's wardrobe, he'd built his own choices around the black- white-and-gold theme of his mask. His new cloak was lush black velvet, kid gloves white, waistcoat black silk, and shirt frills edged with golden thread. He looked--Julian had to admit--magnificent. Not so much like the Phantom of the Opera as Louis XV at a costume ball. Julian gave him a smile. "You've been wanting to play dress-me-up for a long time, haven't you?" "I hadn't thought of it in terms of these particular antique fashions, but I have had a few ideas about seeing you in something a little more flattering than that Starfleet uniform. And, of course, putting you into elaborate costumes is only half the fun." Garak stepped closer to take the doctor by the shoulders and turn his body so that they were facing each other. He tugged on the cherry-colored silk ribbon that held Julian's shirt-collar close to his throat; the ruffles fell aside. "There is also the pleasure of unwrapping you like a gift." The doctor chuckled and lifted his chin to invite better access to his exposed throat. As Garak bent to nuzzle and his hands slipped beneath Julian's coat to encompass his waist, there was a knock at the door. "Oh, dammit!" Bashir pulled back abruptly. "What now?" As he went to the door, Garak retreated to the table; Julian waited until the Cardassian had resumed his mask and was refastening his gloves before he answered. It was the innkeeper. "I was just informed that you'd returned to your rooms- ah- sir-" he began with an obsequious little bow to his famous guest. "You had a visitor--A Moorish gentleman called for you while you were out." "What did he want?" Garak asked. "He did not divulge the nature of his business, sir, but he was terribly disappointed to have missed you. He said he would call again when he had the time." "I see. Thank you." After they'd managed to get rid of the man, Bashir wondered, "Who could it be? Someone from the theatre?" "If it were, I think he would have said so. Now, where were we?" Once they had conquered the mysteries of the breech- laces and the innumerable tiny carved-bone shirt buttons, they made love for the rest of the afternoon until they were interrupted by the arrival of their dinner. Julian was also terrified that their imposture would be discovered as soon as they entered the Drury Lane Theatre. What sort of laws did 18th-century England have to punish the fraudulent impersonation of a famous actor? At the theatre, they went straight to Chadwick's office, where Garak explained to the young man that he would rather his former fellow-thespians not know of his misfortune. He preferred to work under a pseudonym. "Yes, of course," Chadwick agreed readily. "I've given the matter some thought," Garak continued. "And I do believe that the most appropriate name, in keeping with the concept of a director of hapless mortals as well as the production at hand, would be 'Prospero'." Julian, standing attentively behind Garak's chair, gaped at him. He was not so much astonished at this double level of false identity that Garak had constructed as he was at the fact that Garak was apparently familiar with one of Shakespeare's plays that *he* had not encouraged him to read. "Come," Garak rose from the chair. "Let us go meet the actors now." -=*)][(*=- The troupe was assembled on the proscenium, and Chadwick made the introductions. "Sir, may I present you Mr. Macklin, our stage- Prospero, Mr. Lee Lewes, Mr. Aickin, Mr. Clarke, Mr. Booth, Mr. L'Estrange, Mrs. Davenett, Mistress Younge." Each bowed or curtsied at the utterance of their names. "And this is our Miranda, Mistress Arabella Platt." Chadwick spoke this last with a note of personal pride. "Enchanted." Garak lifted the young lady's hand to painted ceramic lips. Julian, trailing behind him, scowled. "Mr. Prospero has kindly consented to manage our first production of this season. Though he prefers to conceal his features and proper name, I can assure you all that he is a man experienced in the direction of actors and the arts of stage-craft. If you will all heed his advice in the weeks to come, I have every reason to expect that the first play to be produced at the Theatre this season under my auspices shall be a worthy successor to those magnificent performances which previously appeared on these same boards. Dear sir, I welcome you once again to Drury Lane." "And who are you, sir?" Mistress Younge was regarding Bashir with curiosity. "I'm his friend." "Mr. Bashir will be...assisting our director," Chadwick explained, and gave his company a knowing smirk. Julian recalled the innkeeper's weakness for gossip and wondered if, when the man had told Chadwick of Garak's presence, he had also mentioned the actor's young companion who answered the door wearing only a shirt. *I hate to think of what we're doing to David Garrick's reputation,* he thought with a blush, and as the little group turned its attention to the play, he wandered off the proscenium to look around. In the 24th-century, the Drury Lane Theatre was a carefully preserved museum; Bashir had been dragged here more than once on field trips to see plays during his school days. The theatre looked remarkably unchanged from those visits six centuries in the future: the wood paneling, the theatre boxes hanging over the stage, the curved benches of the pit were all very much the same, but it somehow seemed more *alive* now, occupied by the performers who had first made it famous. Apparently, the mask he had purchased for Garak was designed to provide a mild amplification of the speaker's voice. Even from the back of the theatre, Garak's unmistakable lilt was distinguishable; as Julian returned to the stage, his words became quite clear. The cast was receiving a new interpretation of an old, familiar play: "This is a story of revenge. A man who once held enormous power and influence has been cast into exile by his political enemies--betrayed by the one he trusted most. For interminable years, he's been living in a strange and hostile new world with little in the way of comfort or amusement, but he's never fully given up the hope that he'll be able to return to his kingdom one day. And so he awaits that opportunity. He makes his plans. At last, the moment arrives--his enemies are finally in his grasp. He strikes..." "Mr.- er- Prospero?" The Drury Lane players, enthralled by "The Tempest" turned into Revenger's Tale, looked up in annoyance at this tentative interruption. Garak's expression was concealed, but his voice was innocently pleasant. "Yes, Julian, what is it?" "May I speak to you--privately?" "Yes, dear, of course. Excuse me, please," he bowed to the group and crossed to the edge of the proscenium, where Julian stood with folded arms and flashing eyes. "Is there something wrong?" "You have actually *read* this play, haven't you?" "Oh, I skimmed through it. You were so insistent that this Shakespeare was the finest Earth author who ever lived, I thought it only fair to give him a second chance in spite of that farcical 'Julius Caesar'. I retrieved a complete copy of his writings from the Federation library database-" "And?" "Dreadful stuff, mostly. No subtlety, and the plots are hopelessly contrived. Were all your early leaders as irritatingly inept as the ones he portrays? Really, Doctor, if they were, I'm astonished that your species managed to survive long enough to achieve warp technology. I'm sorry, but my opinion of Mr. Shake- speare's talents hasn't changed--although I must confess that I found myself in sympathy with the hero of this particular play. You can understand why. Of course, the story requires some revision-" "Garak!" During this low-toned conversation, Chadwick had stepped closer to the pair. At this point, he cleared his throat meaningfully. "Mr. Garrick, I do hate to interrupt..." "No, it's quite all right." Garak turned back to Julian. "We'll have to continue this discussion later, my dear. I have a play to direct. Perhaps you can make yourself useful around the theatre while I'm working?" "Yes, make yourself of use. You'll find the playbooks stored in the closet just outside my office door," Chadwick added smugly. "You might go and fetch them, and distribute them to the players. The proper name for each part is inscribed upon the covers." At a small nod from Garak, Julian consented. He was rewarded with an affectionate pat on the cheek, and Garak turned away to rejoin the actors. As Bashir exited through the door by the scenic- stage, Garak resumed his unique interpretation: "To achieve his revenge, Prospero makes use of the resources he has at hand: his skills as a magician, his servants, his charming daughter..." -=*)][(*=- "Prospero," Bashir said as they left the theatre in a hired carriage that evening. "And who am I in this scenario--Ariel? Caliban? Miranda?" "I really hadn't considered the choice of stage-name in relation to you, dear Doctor," Garak answered. "It simply seemed the most effective way to avoid... complications if we should meet old acquaintances of my namesake--an all-too likely possibility in his own theatre, wouldn't you agree?" Julian had to agree. "I suppose it's best that none of the actors suspects you are really David Garrick, especially now that they all think I'm your- er- well, I'm not certain what word they have for it, but I know that Chadwick's been spreading rumors." "You mean they know we are lovers," Garak said matter-of-factly. "Well, we are. Why do you mind them knowing it? All the actors are well aware that Mistress Platt is indeed Chadwick's mistress, and except for some concerns about the attractive young lady's acting abilities, no one objects to the situation. It's not as if I've taken advantage of my position to force you into inappropriate prominence. We haven't infringed upon any taboos of this era, have we?" "It's not a taboo, exactly. That is, you're right, this sort of thing goes on all the time. It's a matter of how discretely you conduct yourself--I'm sure you know all about discretion?" "I am acquainted with the concept." Sheltered by the darkness within the carriage, Julian moved a little closer. "Just don't call me 'my dear' in public anymore," he said. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't give me commands as if I were your junior officer." "I've treated you exactly as I would treat my personal aide. Only yesterday, you were quite adamant about playing the role of secretary. I really thought it would be better if you had some activity to occupy yourself. I do not wish you to be bored." Julian laughed, not fooled. "You mean you don't want me to interfere while you make a travesty of one of Shakespeare's best comedies." "'Best,' is certainly possible. 'Comedy'...? You humans do have the oddest sense of humor." "Promise me you won't make any radical changes. Elim, *please.*" "Oh, very well, my dear- May I call you that here?" "Yes, here." Impulsively, he reached up to lift Garak's mask--it *was* dark outside and there was no one around to see--and gave him a quick kiss. "Thank you. I guess you're used to using false names and identities, aren't you?" he asked as he settled comfortably back against the folds of soft black velvet falling over the Cardassian's shoulder. "I've found them useful on occasion. I've never been involved in public theatricals before this, but I must confess that this experience reminds me of the role- playing I often made use of in my former profession." "And what profession was that?" Julian teased. "Imperial tax assessor," Garak told him. "At least, this work isn't nearly as bloody." -=*)][(*=- To Julian's relief, Garak made only a few minor textual changes to the play, but as the rehearsals progressed, it soon became apparent that the story was taking an unusual slant. The romance of Ferdinand and Miranda was played down and Miranda's speeches now contained subtle hints that she was a dutiful daughter aiding her father in his vengeance. Ariel's and Caliban's costumes were re-designed to represent figures from some non-human folklore, and their activities took on a new menace. And the castaways--well, the actors might be human and in contemporary costume, but Julian recognized Cardassians when he saw them. Garak had had countless discussions about the portrayal of the characters with their respective actors; while his longest conversations were with Mr. Macklin on the subject of the exiled duke, Bashir was more interested in Garak's talks with Mr. Lee Lewes about *his* role. The director's detailed descriptions of Alonso as a pompous, swaggering egomaniac were clearly meant to refer to Gul Dukat. If he were more familiar with Cardassian politics and the circumstances surrounding his lover's banishment, Bashir was certain he would see further parallels to other prominent figures in Garak's personal history--and he began to observe the character of Prospero's betraying brother more closely. But the actors seemed enthusiastic about this unconventional interpretation, and Julian had rarely seen Garak enjoy himself more. Bashir knew how miserable this experience had been for his lover: the rain, the cold, the primitive accommodations and barely digestible food, the isolation of being the only Cardassian amidst a pre-warp humanity, where he was unable even to show his face. It had made Garak short- tempered, sulky, and not very easy to live with in spite of the efforts Julian had made to indulge his whims. Maybe it was the mask that had made the difference. Or maybe it was that the days that followed their introduction to the theatre were as sunny and warm as London could hope to see. Or perhaps it was that Garak had the opportunity to be in charge of something again, even if it was only a troupe of actors, or the chance to achieve a little vicarious revenge. Whatever the cause, Julian couldn't recall seeing Garak more openly cheerful. There had been moments--sparks of triumphant delight when he scored a point in one of their lunchtime debates, or that quiet joy of possession that had emerged since Julian had first gotten into his bed--but this was more effusive. There was a gleeful energy in his work with the actors and, when they returned to the inn at night, a special relish in his little ceremony of "unwrapping" before they went to bed. Garak was obviously having the time of his life. For this, Julian could put up with the distortion of one of his favorite plays--just as he put up with Garak ordering him about and the actors whispering behind his back. The first performance was scheduled after two weeks of rehearsal. Garak would be busy backstage, but Chadwick had arranged for a seat in one of the best boxes for Bashir--Julian had no doubt that there was some snub intended by the gesture, but since he couldn't figure out what it was, he was able to accept graciously. The fine summery weather had broken and it was raining again as they went to the theatre that evening, arriving an hour before the show was to begin. Chadwick was waiting for them as they descended from the carriage at the stage door. "Mr. Garrick--so glad you've come. I have terrible news. Mr. Macklin has been taken ill and he won't be able to perform tonight." -=*)]3[(*=- Now My Charms Are All O'erthown... -=*)][(*=- Garak sighed and said, "I will just have to assume the role myself." "But you can't!" Julian protested. "I know that there are certain...difficulties, but there is no one else available who can take the part on such short notice." "In truth, sir, I can think of no one more suitable than you, in spite of the difficulties," Chadwick eagerly seized upon this offer. "The marks of your- ah- unfortunate affliction can surely be concealed by a thick application of stage paint. I have heard of such artifice being used before." "In my case, Mr. Chadwick, no amount of paint will suffice. I will perform, but I will remain masked," Garak answered, deliberately avoiding Bashir's stormy gaze. "Now, which room may I use to prepare? I require privacy." Chadwick smiled gratefully. "There is a small chamber --a closet--at the top of the stairs." "Thank you. It will do. Come, Julian." "Elim, you can't be serious," Bashir persisted as he leapt up the stairs after Garak. "You aren't really intending to appear on stage before hundreds of people. What if something happens?" "I am a little worried about my ability to project my voice audibly throughout so large an auditorium," Garak admitted, "But I've worked closely with Mr. Macklin during our rehearsals and I believe I know all of Prospero's speeches." The little room contained a dressing table, a mirror, a few dusty garments and pots of dried greasepaint. Garak lit the stubby, nearly guttered candles on the table and looked around with slight distaste. "You'll have to assist me with my costume--which, I believe, is down in the actors' dressing-room. I'm sorry, Doctor, would you mind...?" Julian remained at the doorway. "You're worried about remembering your lines? Never mind what will happen if they learn you're not David Garrick! What if they discover you're not even human? These people have no concept of extraterrestrial life. They've never seen anything like a Cardassian before. One little slip of the mask--Do you have any idea what they'll do to you?" "I have a good idea. But I have been around these pre-warp humans for two weeks now, and no one has suspected anything amiss so far." "We've been incredibly lucky so far. Why take an unnecessary risk?" Garak took him by the arm to turn him out the door with a light, but not playful, swat. "Julian, don't argue. I don't have the time right now to think up plausible reasons for doing what I'm going to do anyway. Please, just do as I ask." Julian hesitated, prepared to go on fighting, then he relented slightly. He still thought it was foolish, but if Garak was determined to take the risk to see this production to completion after working so hard on it, then it was up to *him* to be supportive. Perhaps it would be all right; nothing *had* happened so far. "I'll get your costume." He started down the stairs. Mistress Platt, already in her nymph-like Miranda costume, was waiting for him at the bottom. "Is it true?" she asked. "Will Mr. Prospero be taking that same name upon the stage tonight in Mr. Macklin's place?" "Yes, that's true," Julian answered. "He's upstairs preparing now." "Mr. Bashir, I have a favor to beg of you." She placed a dainty hand on his wrist and drew him aside, to the door to the actresses' dressing-room. Thick, sooty lashes flickered shyly and startling blue eyes turned up to him with an as-yet unuttered plea. If he weren't already spoken for... "If there's anything I do to help you, Miss Platt, I would be honored," he offered gallantly. "Pray, confide in me. You are intimately acquainted with our stage-manager, are you not?" She asked the question with such blunt, innocent frankness that Julian, startled, could only answer, "Er- yes." "You've seen him without his mask. There is a rumor whispered among the players which you are in a position to confirm. They say he has been disfigured and seeks to disguise himself even from his friends... Tell me--*Is* he David Garrick?" "I'm not at liberty to say," Bashir told her cautiously, but at this reserved answer, Mistress Platt burst into a delighted smile. "He is! If he weren't, you would plainly say `no'. Oh, Geoffrey would not tell me-" 'Geoffrey' was Chadwick's first name, "but I knew, sir, that you would be more kind." She stretched up on tip-toe; cupids-bow lips brushed his cheek, leaving a scarlet smear. "Mistress Younge will be so pleased. She worked with Mr. Garrick in the old days and she was *certain* it was he!" "Miss Platt, you can't tell her-" Julian began, but the young woman, unhampered by the corset, panniers, and heavy petticoats of her street clothing, was gone in a flash. The dressing-room door shut in his face. Bashir considered going in after her and attempting to swear the ladies to secrecy, but he'd never been very good at convincing women to do anything. The actors had been speculating about their director's identity anyway, and Garak could talk himself out of *this* too, if Mistress Younge or any of the others confronted him. He retrieved Macklin's costume, and returned to the little dressing-room upstairs. Garak wiped the red smudge of lip-rouge off his cheek without comment, but was too preoccupied to pay much attention to Julian's stammered explanation. Bashir assumed the role of valet to help his lover dress. A few alterations were made to the costume to completely conceal the nature of the man who wore it, and Garak kept his gloves and cloak on. When they were ready, they went down to where the rest of the troupe had gathered backstage. The theatre was crowded; the murmur of hundreds of voices could be heard beyond the footlights. The actors were restless, but every one of them was confident that their manager would see them through this perilous first night's performance. The belief that Garak was indeed Garrick had apparently permeated the entire troupe. If Garak was nervous, he didn't show it. "Go, my dear," he whispered to Julian. "Take your seat and enjoy the show." There was a quick squeeze of Bashir's hand. "Good luck," Bashir whispered back. As he took the stairway up behind the boxes, Garak gave his last- minute directions to the cast. When Julian entered the box, the seats beside his were already occupied by an elegant couple, a silver- haired gentleman and his lady. Feeling as if he were intruding, though he had a right to be here, the young man smiled apologetically and received a pair of stiff, formal bows in return. There was no time for further pleasantries, for the show was about to begin. The opening scene of the ship tossed by storm went easily enough, and then Miranda and Prospero made their entrances. That mask-amplified voice carried over the audience; unconcerned with the protocols for fashionable theatre-goers of the 18th-century, where one attended to be seen rather than to see, Julian leaned his elbows on the rail and his chin on his hands and watched his lover with unabashed enthusiasm. He had always thought Garak a good performer, a master of the assumed persona, the disguise, the lie. It was no surprise that that skill could be channeled so easily into the legitimate stage art. Julian was so focused upon the stage that it was not until the end of the first act that he realized that the conversations in the boxes around him had stopped. They resumed during the next scene with the castaways, but the excited murmur was now all on the same topic. "Who can it be?" "I haven't seen such a performance since Mr. Garrick retired from the theatre." "Can it be he? Has he returned to the stage?" "Surely it must be! No one else could give such semblance of life to a role." "But why does he wear that mask?" Bashir pressed his knuckles to his lips to keep from laughing out loud. Only the couple beside him remained silent. On the stage below, Garak directed the characters in the play as gleefully as he had directed the players in their roles. It *was* a kind of revenge, Julian realized, upon the Cardassian state which had made him outcast, but it was also a catharsis. From his first speeches, Garak gave Prospero's years of exile some of his own personal anger and pain. The emotions that spilled out, couched in long-familiar words, were very real, intense, and previously unexpressed. By the time Garak arrived at Prospero's speech relinquishing his powers--"but this rough magic/I here abjure..."--Julian was in tears. He'd never been more proud. He didn't even mind that Garak had changed the ending to leave Antonio, Alonso, and Sebastien behind at Sycorax's mercy. While the theatre was still ringing with "bravo!"'s and applause, Julian slipped backstage. There was so much he wanted to say to Garak: words of understanding, congratulations, apologies. Garak had been right--the play had gone beautifully without a single hint of disaster. The cast had just come off the stage after their last bows and were gathering about their director with their own vociferous praise. They, too, had been moved by the extraordinary performance. "You *are* Mr. Garrick, aren't you?" one of the actors demanded. "We all hoped it was true." "Surely there's no reason to maintain your secret now," another player added. "`Tis obvious to all." Garak was deflecting these dangerous questions, when an unfamiliar, masculine voice announced in rolling, eloquent tones: "That cannot be!" Julian turned; the elegant couple had followed him backstage. "Whoever he is, I do assure you he isn't Mr. Garrick," the silver-haired gentleman continued. "*I* am David Garrick." Bashir's first, irrational thought was that this man looked nothing at all like Garak. Mistress Younge stepped forward. "David? It *is* you! We had heard you were in the country." "I *was* in the country," Garrick replied, "for reasons of my health." "Not smallpox?" asked Chadwick. "Good Heavens, sir, no. Merely the increasing infirmities of advancing age. We returned to London only this morning. I was curious as to why my wife was invited to attend the theatre's performance tonight, but I was not." "Then who-" The group turned as one to Garak, who had taken a few steps toward the nearest exit. "Who, sir, are you?" Julian was standing perfectly still, mind frozen, when he was seized about the waist and swept up into swirl of black velvet. They were out in the street before he had time to blink. "Forgive me, dearest, but it seemed to me that a quick exit was preferable to lingering over awkward explanations." "Yes, of course. Now, if you'll just put me down..." His feet had not touched the street for more than a few seconds at a time. Garak let him go, but barely decreased his pace. "A rather abrupt ending to my theatrical career," he said breathlessly as they ran. "A pity, really. I quite enjoyed it." "You were wonderful. You'll miss it too, won't you?" "Yes, I suppose so. But I've gotten used to missing things." Garak sighed, then shrugged it off without another thought of regret. "Well, at least we've acquired enough money in this venture to move on. We'll have to leave the inn--I imagine Mr. Chadwick and company will be searching eagerly for a masked man in the fore- seeable future, and they'll start their inquiries there." They planned to stop at the inn only long enough to gather their belongings before disappearing into the city, but the moment they entered the front room, the innkeeper greeted them with an announcement. "Sirs, that Moorish gentleman's here again asking for you. He's waiting in the parlor." "We don't have the time to receive visitors," Julian answered. "What is 'Moorish' anyway?" asked Garak on his way to the stairs. "An archaic national designation?" "I'm not sure. Othello was..." then Bashir understood and burst into a smile. He rushed into the parlor to find Sisko, also in 18th-century dress and looking like a pirate, lounging by the fire. "Captain, you don't know how glad I am to see you!" "I'm glad I've finally caught up with you too, Doctor," the captain answered as he rose. "Where's Garak? I only have enough chroniton particles to stay here a few more minutes and it may be awhile before there's another opportunity to return. Ah-" he took the masked figure that came in to be the missing Cardassian. "Mr. Garak! Are you ready to leave?" "Whenever you are, Captain." "The two of you haven't been corrupting the timeline while you've been here, have you?" "Uh- no, sir." "Not at all." "I'll have to ask what you've been up to later." Sisko reached under the breast of his waistcoat to tap his commbadge. "Three to beam up, Chief." "It's really a fascinating story, Captain Sisko...." They dissolved away just as an urgent banging commenced at the front door. The innkeeper went to answer it. -=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=--=*)]![(*=- Kathryn Ramage kramage@erols.com - "So you're not contending it was a predestination paradox? A time loop? You were *meant* to go back into the past?" - "No." - "Good. We hate those." Trials and Tribble-ations