Episode 4: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead!

"To die: to sleep . . . to sleep, perchance to dream."

from Hamlet, by William Shakespeare

I fought my way through the dense crowd and finally spotted Leonard under hundreds of throbbing colored lights and a dozen spinning mirrored balls.  He was dancing with a young Asian woman on a large parquet dance floor flooded with dozens of young Asian hipsters and a smattering of non-Asian tourists.  Leonard was tapping out a classic "half moon" rhythm with a rather large tambourine sans drumhead; the zils (metal jingles) could be heard over the booming sound system pumping out a mixture of house and electronic music (played tonight by a man called Dirty South, a DJ imported from Australia, no less). Leonard and the woman had matching tendrils of green phosphorous light protruding from the top of their heads, looking like one of those tacky 1970s lamps with drops of light shooting through thin fiber optic tubes.  Every once in a while Leonard would raise the tambourine above his head and let out a shrill, "Whoop!"  The girl blew a blast on a silver whistle. My, lord, I thought.

Leonard had asked me to meet him here at Zouk, a trendy but well established Singaporean disco, part of a vast nightclub complex which also included Phuture and the Velvet Underground.  I happen to be six-foot-six and when a young woman began tugging at my left wrist pointing toward the dance floor, it was like looking down on a beautiful thick spray of

 black hair which moved back in forth to the beat of muffled electronic drums. Her hair was perfect but from my vantage point that was about all I could see of her. I was quite tired after the 11-hour flight from Seattle to Singapore and I kind of resented the fact that Leonard had forced me to meet him in a place where any conversation we might have would be loud and compromised.  After all, Leonard, with the help of a couple of platypus commandos and the now ever-present Wydell had transported their prisoner all the way to Singapore for reasons I was not privy to. I was suddenly struck with the semi-rotund form of Wydell standing at one of the long, twinkling bars with two commandos.  Wydell was dressed in a swanky peach-colored leisure suit with a rare green, yes a green rose in his left lapel.  I thought it would have been more appropriate if it was a cheap yellow rose (read: Texas), but then, I never underestimate Wydell's odd but unique sense of style.

Wydell caught my increasingly disapproving stare and he sauntered over rather quickly, glibly pushing other patrons aside. When he arrived in my presence, he said tersely,"Wait here. I'll be right back." With that, he grabbed my young admirer's hand and thrust her away gently, continuing purposefully onto the dance floor where he whispered something into the left side of Leonard's little decorated head. Leonard abruptly abandoned his dance partner, his head

 bouncing the phosphorescent light tubes attached to his furry hood (forehead) to and fro, and he and Wydell quickly ushered me into a deep leather upholstered booth shaped like a scythe. I was astonished to note that the booth was protected by some kind of electronic curtain that kept the plentiful sounds of the nightclub at bay and, presumably, our conversation shielded from the rest of the club.  

The commandos joined us, but they immediately dove into a conversation in a language I did not understand.  

It wasn't really an oral language; they seemed to be making all kinds of faces at each other and I suddenly had an Aha! moment, remembering the symbols on the yellowed scroll given to me by Leonard the first day we met.  Leonard had never explained them to me, but he now informed me that they were symbols for facial expressions which is how most mammals communicate: with facial expressions!

"Mr. Jack," Leonard said solemnly, "We really need your help tonight. Neither Wydell or I can do what needs to be done this night. We are going to escort you to an all night restaurant in Little India.  It's called, 'Ten Thousand and More Ganesh.'" You know the Hindu elephant god, Ganesh, right?"

"Yeah, I do," I called to Leonard. "He's the god that overcomes all obstacles."

"That's right," Leonard continued. "We need all the help we can get."

"We need you to explain to a certain person that we are not here to cause trouble in

 Singapore," Wydell chimed in. "We are not here to intimidate or hurt anyone. We are only here to promote the cause of the platypus. We are only here to help preserve one of the most unique mammalian species in the world."

"THE, capital T-H-E, most unique species," Leonard corrected.

"Right," Wydell agreed. "This is very important. We need this man -- this man who is a member of the MINDEF, the Singaporean Ministry of Defence, and secretly a major confidant of Francis Seow, the exiled former Solicitor-General of Singapore, and Singapore's foremost critic."

Leonard thrust in, "We need to get him to come back to the hotel to interrogate our prisoner. This contact, Contact X, is someone who has the background to elicit the information we desperately need to stop a major plot against the platypus here in Singapore."

We were staying at the Holiday Inn Atrium, a fabulous, black glass 27-story hotel which has an interior atrium all 27 stories tall, with gentle rolling beige ribs climbing into the interior

 heavens, unfortunately reminding me of the terrifying monsters in the movie Alien.

We took a ride in a spiffy cab to Little India. The area was aptly named with all sorts of neon lights advertising restaurants, ethnic grocery stores, long-distance telephone proprietors, and even a Foreign Exchange establishments, where the rupee was king, not the ever present Singaporean dollar. At the restaurant we were escorted through the main dining room, through a busy kitchen were steam was king, along with the pungent smell of starchy rice, cumin, turmeric, cardamom and coriander. The private dining room was the size of a small closet with walls smudged with unknown organic substances. In fact, only I could fit in the room with our mysterious guest, Leonard and Wydell left out in the sauna created by pots of boiling liquids.

As I sat down across from a tall, slender Eurasian looking man with milk-toast skin, someone drew shut the shabby curtain which separated us from the apparitions formed by the o

dors of rising curried ghosts.

As directed by Leonard, I offered, "Majulah Singapura." The thin man responded reverently with the same greeting, "Majulah Singapura," Malay for, "Onward, Singapore."  Many of the inhabitants of Singapore are descendants of families from Malaysia.

He did not hesitate to begin the conversation, the slimy rubber curtain between us and the outside world, "I need your complete assurance that no one in this country will be harmed."  He had a thin mustache that looked like it had recently been penciled in.

"I can promise you that without hesitation," I said, not knowing whether this was a true statement or not. "

"I will go with you to question this man, but it must never be known that I have participated in the endeavor you require."

He stood up, bowed his head slightly, and we exited the room. I almost ran over Leonard who was fervently smoking a hot pink Sherman cigarette with a gold filter, the silly plastic tubes shaking above his small golden crown.  Leonard did a quick about face and led us all into the gloomy street lit up with the colors of a neighborhood of inhabitants who mostly served as servants to the upper classes.

Soon we were in Leonard's lavish suite on the 27th floor of the Holiday Inn Atrium. The floor was made of dark red reeds sunk in Lucite. There was a thin sheet of water falling silently on an expanse of pink granite. In the pool below, a multi-colored statue of Ganesh guarded the orange and white coy fish that swam in redundant spirals uninhibited by emotion.

On a cushiony white massage table a man was strapped in place and he was softly calling out a feminine name I could not place. The tall, thin man with the penciled in mustache was talking to him quietly in Malaysian.  Leonard interpreted.

"He just asked him where the shipments of platypus eggs are offloaded at the Singapore C

hangi Airport. He's now asked him what the operation is code-named. It's code-named Elsinore, he's saying." I remembered that Elsinore is the Danish Royal Castle in Shakespeare's Hamlet.

The Singaporean and the man strapped to the massage table continued a heated and often rancorous conversation. At the end of it Leonard made it clear that we had garnered the information we needed to, if everything went as planned, stop at least one avenue of platypus egg poaching.

The man on the table fell asleep, probably suffering from exhaustion. He was so far gone that he immediately began a snorefest.  Our man Singapore said something to Leonard and proceeded to exit the suite. We were all so weary we went to our respective beds and fell into a hard asleep.

The next morning I was awakened by Leonard who informed me that we had to be at the airport in one hour. I hurriedly showered and shaved and managed to make the down elevator with Wydell and Leonard.  Wydell, who seemed to have a never-ending wardrobe, was wearing a pale, lime green jumpsuit with a short, tight-white straw Stetson. I wondered where he had stashed his fat, 4-inch barreled revolver.

We boarded Singapore Airlines flight SQ 221, aboard the largest commercial airline carrier in the Whole World, the new Airbus A380, a double-decker long-hauler that accommodates 471 passengers in the shade, leaving Boeing in Seattle with nothing but unadulterated bitter envy. All three of us, Leonard, Wydell and myself, had the ultimate in airline comfort, First Class Suites. Here, luxury and unfailing service reign king. The suites were naturally small, but they consisted of a comfortable, ergonomic wing-back chair and a narrow twin bed, with a sink and running water for shaving or brushing teeth, even though the water was cold. The hot water must have been left behind in Singapore along with a skinny corpse of unknown origin.

After hours and hours of not relaxing in my miniature flight suite, no sleep occurred; I o

rdered a glass of Makers Mark neat and was served a plate of warm duck medallions with a watercress and grapefruit salad.  The meal was impeccable. We landed at Sydney Kingsford International Airport, gathered in the ground transportation area, and soon took off in a forest green Range Rover taxi to the Holiday Inn Old Sydney, nestled comfortably between Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House.  Another former Intercontinental Hotel, this was a boutique hotel with a very old-style facade and a newly refurbished atrium interior.

Leonard had leased the entire fifth floor of the hotel where we met with all kinds of platypus dignitaries and commandos. What became might clear was that there was a rather large contingent of anti-platypus mercenaries  operating in the jewel of Australia's coastal cities. The informant captured in Las Vegas led us to a nest of evil-doers in Sydney.

As is his predilection, Leonard suggested we go for a swim in the rooftop pool before moving forward in our quest.  I could tell he was missing being in the water. He once told me he preferred to be in the water at least a couple hours of the day, something he had not been able to achieve for quite sometime. Leonard emerged from his dressing room in large-rimmed goggles and a bright red beach towel flung over his shoulder like a cape draped on a Spanish bullfighter.  On the other hand, I had had to go downstairs to a very expensive shop to purchase a swim suit. The shop offered only Australian-style male bathing suits.  My narrow black suit made of some stretchy material, looked and felt suspiciously like a thong.  I was experiencing a lot of unusual breezes on my butt cheeks.  I would like to say that I was mortified, but actually, my first thought was, "Screw'em if they can't take a joke!"

The view from the roof was stunning: the harbour, the Opera House, the bridge, the blue and green colors mixed with the white sails of the Opera House. I understood that we were going to that very place this evening, the Opera House.  Leonard had brought to the pool four plastic balls the size of tennis balls representing our conception of the primary colors.  Red, yellow, blue, green.  Leonard would swim into the middle of the sparkling pool, his goggles making him look like a RAF Spitfire MK-1a pilot, complete with a brown leatherette swimming cap, where he lifted himself out and on top of the water, his short hind legs treading on top of the surface of the water, and he would juggle the four balls for almost two minutes at a time, never dropping even one.  He would then throw his head back in utter laughter, saying, "Top this, Mr. Jack."  Leonard completed this trick for every person who arrived on the roof in a swimsuit. After all this, I guess I wasn't as self-conscious about my bikini bottom, or thong thingy or whateve

r it was. After a couple of hours we retired to the group of suites we called home, and after changing into more appropriate attire, Leonard scurried to a another room to meet with who knows who.

After Leonard had finished conferring with a multitude of platypus movers and shakers we headed off by taxi to the Sydney Opera House to have dinner and watch a show. Wydell, who had been absent here-t0-fore, met us at the beautiful Colonnade of the opera house. From there, we walked along an exquisite corridor and up two sets of flights of stone steps to the entrance o the famous Guillaume Bennelong restaurant. This was Leonard's favorite restaurant in all of Sydney. Overseen by head chef Guillaume Brahmi, the restaurant served the French equivalent of native Australian cuisine, if dishes native to Australia could possibly be compared to French cuisine. Oh, well, you be the judge, dear reader. Leonard called the restaurant experience, "decadent and Dionysian."

Reading menus under the cavernous ribs of the Opera House, the selections on the menu seemed superb and, at once, confusing. The restaurant was beautifull appointed and the menu was quite serious, not some overrated restaurant chain like you might find at a showcased venue in the United States. This was the "real deal," as Leonard would say. Of course, Leonard, his narrow reading glasses propped up on his short snout,, ordered something I had never heard of: roasted "hairy" marron for a main course. It turns out that this platypus delicacy is a large freshwater crayfish found only in the Margaret River of South-Western Australia. Leonard also ordered a bottle of Shiraz, again a product of the Margaret River Wine Region. Leonard explained that his dad used to take him camping on the Margaret River every winter of his childhood.

I ordered roasted veal sweetbreads with green asparagus veloute and truffles. Sweetbreads, a French tradition, are either the thymus gland or the pancreas of a young animal, in this case a calf. I never can decipher whether or not it is the thymus or the pancreas, as far as taste is concerned.  At my favorite French restaurant in Manhattan, Cafe des Artiste, they always prepare the pancreas.  Wydell, normally a meat and potatoes kind of guy, went out on a limb and ordered a dual entree, Barramandi and Yabbies. I think Wydell was just trying to impress Leonard. I suggested the duck foie gras ravioli to Wydell, at which point he stuck his index finger down his through as if he were about to throw up. I was only egging him on because I knew he did not know that foie gras is the cruel enlarging of the liver of ducks or geese, something I knew Leonard would object to with a vengeance. (I felt shame for even eating veal, but I got over it at the first taste of the most succulent meat). "Would you condone humans enlarging my liver to the point I

 could not walk or swim, living in abject agony?" Leonard snarled, adding, "I know that patronizing this establishment is promoting this barbaric ritual, but hey, if the marron doesn't fly, it's not a bird."

"Delicious," he said, licking his thin duck-billed lips. Barramandi is a rather ugly sea cod found around the Great Barrier Reef and yabbies are small freshwater crayfish found only in Australia.  Leonard gave me a taste of his marron and it tasted just like lobster.

Over dessert, Leonard ordered everyone a large snifter of Grand Marnier and a Grand Marnier souffle with chocolate sorbet, Leonard explained to me -- apparently Wydell already knew this -- that we were going to a production of Hamlet in the Drama Theatre of the Opera House, along with 66 important platypuses.  During the meal, Leonard had started referring to Wydell and me as Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, two important messengers featured in Hamlet.

"Gentlemen," Leonard pontificated, "This may seem like a tour where I am only treating many of my brethren to an evening of first class entertainment, but it is much, much more than that."

Rosencrantz (Wydell) added, "We have good reason to believe that the head of the Bell Shakespeare Company is secretly the single most important villain in charge of leading the poaching of platypus eggs from all Australia."

I, Guildenstern, let them both know that I was not prepared to lead an assault on any particular individual, that I understood my role in this caper to be one of reputation: guarding and promoting the good nature and reputation of all platypuses, not just Leonard."

Leonard hissed, "You may have to suck it up and be a man, Guildy." Leonard spent some time lighting a cigar, puffing small jets of blue smoke out of either side of his duck-billed mou

th. Then, suddenly, he laughed loudly, throwing his head back violently, and said, "Just kidding, Guildy. We need your for the global stuff, the really difficult stuff. We can find almost anybody to neutralize individual enemies." At this, he threw a severe glance in Rosy's (Wydell's) direction.

When we arrived at the theatre, the first three rows of seats were full of platypuses in evening attire, many of them sporting white bow ties and heavily starched chest pieces with gold buttons. We arrived a bit late, and the curtain was rising as we took over the three vacant seats in the centre of the first row. As the play progressed, Leonard fell asleep beside me, his tiny head on my shoulder. I didn't know whether to wake him or not when Wydell winked at me, signaling that everything was under control.

Toward the end of the tragedy, Act V, Prince Hamlet of Denmark, dressed in a black leather harness, his apt chest exposed, stealthily switches secret letters with the messengers, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.  The original letter spelled the death of Hamlet, but Hamlet had something else in mind, his treachery and insanity reaching new heights. While vengeance for Hamlet had already been achieved with the death of his uncle King Claudius (who Hamlet believed killed his father), there was more bloodshed to come. Rosencrantz and Guilenst

ern were completely unaware of what the new secret letter foretold. Hamlet knew it was the end of the two men, presumably Hamlet's last act of vengeance, crowning him the ultimate victor, or the ultimate failure.

Smoke machines flooded the stage with fog and strobe lights flashed here and there.  Fortinbras, the Prince of Norway, struts onto the stage and announces that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead! As he uttered the word "dead" the smoke on the stage billowed and men dressed in black rubber suits descended onto the stage on ropes hung form the ceiling, strobe lights still flashing. The rubber men each lobbed a smallish device with a lime green stripe on the handle. I shook Leonard out of his sleepy stupor, as the devices began to land in front of us. Wydell stood up and pulled a small black pistol from his right boot and began firing at the rubber men.

Just as Wydell did this, deafening noises blew me back into my seat. They were the loudest explosions I had ever heard in my life, sounding like the entire roof of the Opera House had fallen to earth.  I later learned that they were M84 stun grenades (pomegranate in French). But before that I was to experience the most stunning event of my life. I watched as Wydell's pistol dropped suddenly from his hand and his big frame collapsed to the floor in front of the stage. Then, it was like I witnessed a television screen that buzzed white, paused on one blank scene for at least four seconds, the luminous intensity of the flashes so bright I began to mourn the death of my beloved eye tissues.  Then, all faded to complete darkness, so black it was indescribable.  The curtain had fallen, seemingly for good.  Was Hamlet ever to be renewed?