Romeo, Romeo,
where for art thou?
He cursed after
reading the text. When would his mates stop doing this? Why had his mother called
him Romeo? Richard would have been better. Being called Dick had to be a step
up from the constant references to Romeo and Juliet he’d suffered all his life.
It was hard
graft trying to establish himself as a top rate thief without all his mates
asking every damn time he proposed a residence to steal from: “is there a
balcony?”
One day soon he was going to put his knuckles
right through the front teeth of Jimmy Drip Nose.
It could be
worse. He might have had a moniker like Diprose and ended up being called drip
nose. Holding on to that thought he continued his stroll through the posh
streets of Verona. Old trees lined the side-walk, their roots breaking the
pavement making the footpaths dangerous. Twice he’d tripped. The residents
didn’t want the ambience ruined or the tree roots attacked. Only the wealthy could
afford these old mansions with big gardens. Sadly some had been replaced by
modern edifices with glass fronted facades and the latest in high tech alarm
systems, making them damn hard to burgle.
He walked past several
of those, preferring to linger outside the multi-storied Grande Dames, with their
wooden fire escapes, sashed windows and scrolled fretwork decorating their wide
verandahs. These fine examples of craftsmanship were so much easier to break
into. Often they were sheltered by established trees, which sometimes gave access
to the top floor. In and out, up the tree. What more can a burglar ask for?
He stopped and studied
the house. A tall mulberry tree reached toward the wrap-around verandah. Could
he jump the gap? The drainpipe on the corner looked sturdy enough for a fast
exit. Skirting along the boundary, keeping in the shade of the hedge, he
waited, listening for voices. A woman and a young man could be heard, then the
lilt of a young female, all downstairs. Taking the chance he climbed the tree’s
broad branches, following the limbs, getting closer to the house. Almost at the
branch he needed his shoe jammed in the fork of the trunk. Damn. No amount of
tugging would shift it. He’d need to undo the laces to get his foot out. As he
bent his shirt caught on a twig behind him. The tree was determined to hold him
in its embrace. He began to unbutton his shirt to slip out of it when a young
girl appeared on the verandah and stared at him.
Damn, now what?
“Juliet” someone
called from downstairs, “Are you coming down again.”
‘In a minute, just
looking at something,” she said and then pointed at him. “Just what are you
doing climbing our tree? Damn cheek. You’d better have a good explanation or
I’ll ring the police.”
“I’d be gone
before they got here,” he said. “Besides I’m up here for a dare. You wouldn’t
want to spoil my chances of winning a hundred dollars, would you?”
“A likely story.
What dare would that be?”
Thankful for the
first time in his life for his given name, he tossed a silent prayer to his
late mother and continued. “My name is Romeo and because your name is Juliet,
my friends dared me to climb this tree and sing to you.”
She raised her
eyebrows and shook her head. “Don’t believe you. No one calls their son Romeo
and there’s lots of Juliet’s about. Why me?”
“Because very
few have a balcony.” He wriggled out of his shirt, pleased to display and use
his abs in the field of romance, other than lifting weights and stolen goods.
He pulled his driver’s licence out of his trouser pocket and opened it up,
holding it out at arm’s length. “See, my name is Romeo.”
“I can’t see
that far. It looks more like Robert from here.” She sat on the swing seat, the
sun catching her long blond hair; tied back by plaited sides it fell over her
shoulders like a pale waterfall.
Deep inside him
something thumped. His heart? ‘Romeo the Iceman’ couldn’t believe the emotion
she triggered. He wanted to hold her, kiss her and carry her off down the
tree. Impossible at present - his foot
remained stuck.
“Perhaps you
could climb out onto the limb and look?” he said.
“You could toss
it to me.”
“Not likely, I
may never get it back.”
She stood and
walked to the balcony rail. “It’s either that or I’ll scream.”
Bloody women. All the same. If they don’t want to do it -
they scream. “All right, catch.” He
threw the small card to her. It spun and landed at her feet.
“Unbelievable,”
she muttered, looking at it. “You really are called Romeo.”
She smiled; the
sun came out, bells rang in his ears and his heart thumped against his ribs.
”What’s the rest
of your dare?”
His mind
skittered thinking of all the things he’d like to do with her and discarding
most of them as being the desires of an uncouth youth. This girl needed
refinement. “I’m to woo you and get you to accompany me to a string quartet recital
in the Aotea Centre.” He thanked his late mother for teaching him something
about music. “Do you have a phone with you? You could record me doing this, as
proof. The one hundred dollars will buy our tickets.”
“Interesting,” she
said and drew a phone from her pocket, aiming it in his direction. He posed,
wishing he’d oiled his chest. “Now sing,” she said.
Dredging
memories from his private school education he decided on “O Sole Mio” and
began. By the time he’d finished he had a larger audience. He beamed his best.
“Gregory,” the
woman ordered, “Ring the police. We have an interloper.”
“Please don’t, Gregory. Mother - you and father have always wanted me
to marry a social climber. I think he’s ideal.”
