by Gene Wolfe
When the shadow of the obelisk had grown long, I returned here to the hotel and had a good dinner of lamb and rice, and retired to groom myself for the evening. The five remaining candy eggs stood staring at me from the top of my dresser. I remembered my resolve, and took one. Quite suddenly I was struck by the conviction that the demon I believed I had killed the night before had been no more than a phantom engendered by the action of the drug.
What if I had been firing my pistol at mere empty air? That seemed a terrible thought—indeed it seems so to me still. A worse one is that the drug really may have rendered visible—as some say those ancient preparations were intended to—a real but spiritual being. If such things in fact walk what we take to be unoccupied rooms and rooftops, and the empty streets of night, it would explain many sudden deaths and diseases, and perhaps the sudden changes for the worse we sometimes see in others and others in us, and even the birth of evil men. This morning I called the thing a druj; it may be true.
Yet if the drug had been in the egg I ate last night, then the egg I held was harmless. Concentrating on that thought, I forced myself to eat it all, then stretched myself upon the bed to wait.
Very briefly I slept and dreamed. Ellen was bending over me, caressing me with a soft, long-fingered hand. It was only for an instant, but sufficient to make me hope that dreams are prophecies.
If the drug was in the egg I consumed, that dream was its only result. I got up and washed, and changed my clothes, sprinkling my fresh shirt liberally with our Pamir rosewater, which I have observed the Americans hold in high regard. Making certain my ticket and pistol were both in place, I left for the theater.
The play was still Mary Rose. I intentionally entered late (after Harry and Mrs. Otery had been talking for several minutes), then lingered at the back of the last row as though I were too polite to disturb the audience by taking my seat. Mrs. Otery made her exit; Harry pulled his knife from the wood of the packing case and threw it again, and when the mists of the past had marched across the stage, Harry was gone, and Moreland and the parson were chatting to the tune of Mrs. Moreland’s knitting needles. Mary Rose would be on stage soon. My hope that she would come out to watch the opening scene had come to nothing; I would have to wait until she vanished at the end of Act II before I could expect to see her.
I was looking for a vacant seat when I became conscious of someone standing near me. In the dim light I could tell little except that he was rather slender, and a few centimeters shorter than I.
Finding no seat, I moved back a step or two. The newcomer touched my arm and asked in a whisper if I could light his cigarette. I had already seen that it was customary to smoke in the theaters here, and I had fallen into the habit of carrying matches to light the candles in my room. The flare of the flame showed the narrow eyes and high cheekbones of Harry—or as I preferred to think of him, Kreton. Taken somewhat aback, I murmured some inane remark about the excellence of his performance.
“Did you like it? It is the least of all parts—I pull the curtain to open the show, then pull it again to tell everyone it’s time to go home.”
Several people in the audience were looking angrily at us, so we retreated to a point at the head of the aisle that was at least legally in the lobby, where I told him I had seen him in Visit to a Small Planet as well.
“Now there is a play. The character—as I am sure you saw—is good and bad at once. He is benign, he is mischievous, he is hellish.”
“You carried it off wonderfully well, I thought.”
“Thank you. This turkey here—do you know how many roles it has?”
“Well, there’s yourself, Mrs. Otery, Mr. Amy—”
“No, no.” He touched my arm to stop me. “I mean roles, parts that require real acting. There’s one—the girl. She gets to skip about the stage as an eighteen-year-old whose brain atrophied at ten; and at least half what she does is wasted on the audience because they don’t realize what’s wrong with her until Act I is almost over.”
“She’s wonderful,” I said. “I mean Mlle. Dahl.”
Kreton nodded and drew on his cigarette. “She is a very competent ingenue, though it would be better if she weren’t quite so tall.”
“Do you think there’s any chance that she might come out here—as you did?”
“Ah,” he said, and looked me up and down.
For a moment I could have sworn that the telepathic ability he was credited with in Visit to a Small Planet was no fiction; nevertheless, I repeated my question: “Is it probable or not?”
“There’s no reason to get angry—no, it’s not likely. Is that enough payment for your match?”
“She vanishes at the end of the second act, and doesn’t come on stage again until near the close of the third.”
Kreton smiled. “You’ve read the play?”
“I was here last night. She must be off for nearly forty minutes, including the intermission.”
“That’s right. But she won’t be here. It’s true she goes out front sometimes—as I did myself tonight—but I happen to know she has company backstage.”
“Might I ask who?”
“You might. It’s even possible I might answer. You’re Moslem, I suppose—do you drink?”
“I’m not a strict Moslem; but no, I don’t. I’ll buy you a drink gladly enough, if you want one, and have coffee with you while you drink it.”
We left by a side door and elbowed our way through the crowd in the street. A flight of narrow and dirty steps descending from the sidewalk led us to a cellar tavern that had all the atmosphere of a private club. There was a bar with a picture (now much dimmed by dirt and smoke) of the cast of a play I did not recognize behind it, three tables, and a few alcoves. Kreton and I slipped into one of these and ordered from a barman with a misshapen head. I suppose I must have stared at him, because Kreton said, “I sprained my ankle stepping out of a saucer, and now I am a convalescent soldier. Should we make up something for him too? Can’t we just say the potter is angry sometimes?”
“The potter?” I asked.
“‘None answered this; but after Silence spake / A Vessel of a more ungainly Make: / They sneer at me for leaning all awry; / What! Did the Hand then of the Potter shake?’”
I shook my head. “I’ve never heard that; but you’re right, he looks as though his head had been shaped in clay, then knocked in on one side while it was still wet.”
“This is a republic of hideousness as you have no doubt already seen. Our national symbol is supposed to be an extinct eagle; it is in fact the nightmare.”
“I find it a very beautiful country,” I said. “Though I confess that many of your people are unsightly. Still there are the ruins, and you have such skies as we never see at home.”
“Our chimneys have been filled with wind for a long time.”
“That may be for the best. Blue skies are better than most of the things made in factories.”
“And not all our people are unsightly,” Kreton murmured.
“Oh no. Mile. Dahl—”
“I had myself in mind.”
I saw that he was baiting me, but I said, “No, you aren’t hideous—in fact, I would call you handsome in an exotic way. Unfortunately, my tastes run more toward Mile. Dahl.”
“Call her Ardis——she won’t mind.”
The barman brought Kreton a glass of green liqueur, and me a cup of the weak, bitter American coffee.
“You were going to tell me who she is entertaining.”
“Behind the scenes.” Kreton smiled. “I just thought of that—I’ve used the phrase a thousand times, as I suppose everyone has. This time it happens to be literally correct, and its birth is suddenly made plain, like Oedipus’s. No, I don’t think I promised I would tell you that—though I suppose I said I might. Aren’t there other things you would really rather know? The secret hidden beneath Mount Rushmore, or how you might meet her yourself?”
“I will give you twenty rials to introduce me to her, with some ass
urance that something will come of the introduction. No one need ever find out.”
Kreton laughed. “Believe me, I would be more likely to boast of my profit than keep it secret—though I would probably have to divide my fee with the lady to fulfill the guarantee.”
“You’ll do it then?”
He shook his head, still laughing. “I only pretend to be corrupt; it goes with this face. Come backstage after the show tonight, and I’ll see that you meet Ardis. You’re very wealthy, I presume, and if you’re not, we’ll say you are anyway. What are you doing here?”
“Studying your art and architecture.”
“Great reputation in your own country, no doubt?”
“I am a pupil of Akhon Mirza Ahmak; he has a great reputation, surely. He even came here, thirty years ago, to examine the miniatures in your National Gallery of Art.”
“Pupil of Akhon Mirza Ahmak, pupil of Akhon Mirza Ahmak,” Kreton muttered to himself. “That is very good—I must remember it. But now”—he glanced at the old clock behind the bar—“it’s time we got back. I’ll have to freshen my makeup before I go on in the last act. Would you prefer to wait in the theater, or just come around to the stage door when the play’s over? I’ll give you a card that will get you in.”
“I’ll wait in the theater,” I said, feeling that would offer less chance for mishap; also because I wanted to see Ellen play the ghost again.
“Come along then—I have a key for that side door.”
I rose to go with him, and he threw an arm about my shoulder that I felt it would be impolite to thrust away. I could feel his hand, as cold as a dead man’s, through my clothing, and was reminded unpleasantly of the twisted hands of the beggar in the Silent City.
We were going up the narrow stairs when I felt a gentle touch inside my jacket. My first thought was that he had seen the outline of my pistol, and meant to take it and shoot me. I gripped his wrist and shouted something—I do not remember what. Bound together and struggling, we staggered up the steps and into the street.
In a few seconds we were the center of a mob—some taking his side, some mine, most only urging us to fight, or asking each other what the disturbance was. My pocket sketchpad, which he must have thought held money, fell to the ground between us. Just then the American police arrived—not by air as the police would have come at home, but astride shaggy, hulking horses, and swinging whips. The crowd scattered at the first crackling arc from the lashes, and in a few seconds they had beaten Kreton to the ground. Even at the time I could not help thinking what a terrible thing it must be to be one of these people, whose police are so quick to prefer any prosperous-looking foreigner to one of their own citizens.
They asked me what had happened (my questioner even dismounted to show his respect for me), and I explained that Kreton had tried to rob me, but that I did not want him punished. The truth was that seeing him sprawled unconscious with a burn across his face had put an end to any resentment I might have felt toward him; out of pity, I would gladly have given him the few rials I carried. They told me that if he had attempted to rob me he must be charged, and that if I would not accuse him they would do so themselves.
I then said that Kreton was a friend; and that on reflection I felt certain that what he had attempted had been intended as a prank. (In maintaining this I was considerably handicapped by not knowing his real name, which I had read on the playbill but forgotten, so that I was forced to refer to him as “this poor man.”)
At last the policeman said, “We can’t leave him in the street, so we’ll have to bring him in. How will it look if there’s no complaint?”
Then I understood that they were afraid of what their superiors might say if it became known that they had beaten him unconscious when no charge was made against him; and when I became aware that if I would not press charges, the charges they would bring themselves would be far more serious—assault or attempted murder—I agreed to do what they wished, and signed a form alleging the theft of my sketchbook.
When they had gone at last, carrying the unfortunate Kreton across a saddlebow, I tried to reenter the theater. The side door through which we had left was locked, and though I would gladly have paid the price of another ticket, the box office was closed. Seeing that there was nothing further to be done, I returned here, telling myself that my introduction to Ellen, if it ever came, would have to wait for another day.
Very truly it is written that we walk by paths that are always turning. In recording these several pages I have managed to restrain my enthusiasm, though when I described my waiting at the back of the theater for Ardis, and again when I recounted how Kreton had promised to introduce me to her, I was forced for minutes at a time to lay down my pen and walk about the room singing and whistling, and—to reveal everything—jumping over the beds! But now I can conceal no longer. I have seen her! I have touched her hand; I am to see her again tomorrow; and there is every hope that she will become my mistress!
I had undressed and laid myself on the bed (thinking to bring this journal up to date in the morning) and had even fallen into the first doze of sleep, when there was a knock at the door. I slipped into my robe and pressed the release.
It was the only time in my life that for even an instant I thought I might be dreaming—actually asleep—when in truth I was up and awake.
How feeble it is to write that she is more beautiful in person than she appears on the stage. It is true, and yet it is a supreme irrelevance. I have seen more beautiful women—indeed Yasmin is, I suppose, by the formal standards of art, more lovely. It is not Ardis’ beauty that draws me to her—the hair like gold, the translucent skin that then still showed traces of the bluish makeup she had worn as a ghost, the flashing eyes like the clear, clean skies of America. It is something deeper than that; something that would remain if all that were somehow taken away. No doubt she has habits that would disgust me in someone else, and the vanity that is said to be so common in her profession, and yet I would do anything to possess her.
Enough of this. What is it but empty boasting, now that I am on the point of winning her?
She stood in my doorway. I have been trying to think how I can express what I felt then. It was as though some tall flower, a lily perhaps, had left the garden and come to tap at my door, a thing that had never happened before in all the history of the world, and would never happen again.
“You are Nadan Jaffarzadeh?”
I admitted that I was, and shamefacedly, twenty seconds too late, moved out of her way.
She entered, but instead of taking the chair I indicated, turned to face me; her blue eyes seemed as large as the colored eggs on the dresser, and they were filled with a melting hope. “You are the man, then, that Bobby O’Keene tried to rob tonight.”
I nodded.
“I know you—I mean, I know your face. This is insane. You came to Visit on the last night and brought your father, and then to Mary Rose on the first night, and sat in the third or fourth row. I thought you were an American, and when the police told me your name I imagined some greasy fat man with gestures. Why on earth would Bobby want to steal from you?”
“Perhaps he needed the money.”
She threw back her head and laughed. I had heard her laugh in Mary Rose when Simon was asking her father for her hand; but that had held a note of childishness that (however well suited to the part) detracted from its beauty. This laugh was the merriment of houris sliding down a rainbow. “I’m sure he did. He always needs money. You’re sure, though, that he meant to rob you? You couldn’t have …”
She saw my expression and let the question trail away. The truth is that I was disappointed that I could not oblige her, and at last I said, “If you want me to be mistaken, Ardis, then I was mistaken. He only bumped against me on the steps, perhaps, and tried to catch my sketchbook when it fell.”
She smiled, and her face was the sun smiling upon roses. “You would say that for me? And you know my name?”
“From the program. I cam
e to the theater to see you—and that was not my father, who it grieves me to say is long dead, but only an old man, an American, whom I had met that day.”
“You brought him sandwiches at the first intermission—I was watching you through the peephole in the curtain. You must be a very thoughtful person.”
“Do you watch everyone in the audience so carefully?”
She blushed at that, and for a moment could not meet my eyes.
“But you will forgive Bobby, and tell the police that you want them to let him go? You must love the theater, Mr. Jef—Jaff—”
“You’ve forgotten my name already. It is Jaffarzadeh, a very common-place name in my country.”
“I hadn’t forgotten it—only how to pronounce it. You see, when I came here I had learned it without knowing who you were, and so I had no trouble with it. Now you’re a real person to me and I can’t say it as an actress should.” She seemed to notice the chair behind her for the fire time, and sat down.
I sat opposite her. “I’m afraid I know very little about the theater.”
“We are trying to keep it alive here, Mr. Jaffar, and—”
“Jaffarzadeh. Call me Nadan—then you won’t have so many syllables to trip over.”
She took my hand in hers, and I knew quite well that the gesture was as studied as a salaam and that she felt she was playing me like a fish; but I was beside myself with delight. To be played by her! To have her eager to cultivate my affection! And the fish will pull her in yet—wait and see!
“I will,” she said, “Nadan. And though you may know little of the theater, you feel as I do—as we do—or you would not come. It has been such a long struggle; all the history of the stage is a struggle, the gasping of a beautiful child born at the point of death. The moralists, censorship and oppression, technology, and now poverty have all tried to destroy her. Only we, the actors and audiences, have kept her alive. We have been doing well here in Washington, Nadan.”