The Memory Theater

by Karin Tidbeck

  “I’m not done,” Dora told him.

  Thistle smiled and put the towel down on a rock.

  Dora dived back down under the surface. She counted crayfish and stalked the huge thing among the water lilies, caught a little perch and petted it, chased water striders, and tasted the sedge that grew on the shore. She got out of the water only when the sun sank so low it was difficult to see.

  She came back to the camp dressed in a pair of coveralls that someone had left at the water’s edge. The legs and sleeves were too short. There had been a pair of boots, too, and she carried them under her arm. The others had made a fire in front of the carriage and moved the armchairs and sofa onto the grass. A big trumpet flower made of metal was playing tinny-sounding music. The smell of baking bread and some other food hung in the air. Thistle sat in one of the armchairs, leaning back, arms and legs relaxed. When he saw Dora, he smiled. The circle of people opened and let her in.

  “Excellent,” Director said as Dora sat down on the grass next to Thistle. “Sorry about the sizing. They were the biggest coveralls we could find.” She pointed at Dora’s feet. “What about the boots?”

  Dora shook her head. “I don’t like shoes.”

  “Fair enough.” Director held out a bowl. “Soup?”

  They ate and talked and the music played. It was easier to be in the crowd after playing in the quiet water. The troupe told stories about worlds they had visited, plays they had staged. Thistle spoke quietly about things in the Gardens. The last light in the sky died, and Journeyman and Apprentice cleared the dishes away.

  Nestor stood and stretched. “I believe it’s time.”

  “Time for what?” Dora said.

  Director grinned and held up the red playbook. “Your play appeared!”

  14

  Instead of ringing the bell by Pinax’s door, Augusta fed roses into the mailbox, one by one. They crunched and tore as she pushed them in, releasing the heavy scent of late summer. The door abruptly opened.

  “You can stop doing that.”

  Pinax stood over her. Their eyebrows were knotted. They looked decidedly unhappy.

  “It is a gift,” Augusta said. “I thought you might like roses.”

  “You had best come in,” Pinax said.

  Someone else was already sitting in one of the armchairs in the library: a very tall woman in dark robes, a scarf like shadow draped over her hair. Her long features were familiar, her yellow eyes. As Augusta entered the room, the woman rose from her chair, and it seemed she almost touched the ceiling.

  “Augusta,” she said, and her voice was low and sweet. “Fancy that.”

  “I believe you and Ghorbi have met,” Pinax said behind her.

  “You,” Augusta blurted. “You!”

  Ghorbi smiled. Her teeth looked uncomfortably sharp. Augusta’s face felt numb and cold, then suddenly became hot as rage overtook her.

  “You had me cast out!” she screamed. “It’s all your fault! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”

  “You asked me a question,” Ghorbi said. “I gave you the knowledge for free.

  “I was just about to leave,” she continued, and turned to Pinax. “I hope you’re happy with the package, librarian.”

  “Extremely,” Pinax replied. “Thank you, my friend.”

  “You can’t go,” Augusta said. “I won’t let you. You’re going to get me back in. You owe me.”

  Ghorbi took a step toward Augusta and stared down at her. “Owe you?” she said, in that same soft voice. “I did you a favor. You will pay it back, in time. Although perhaps not to me.”

  Augusta took a step backward and collided with a bookshelf.

  Ghorbi straightened. “Goodbye, Augusta Prima. Goodbye, my dear Pinax.”

  She swept out of the room. A moment later, the front door closed with a click.

  “Don’t go!” Augusta shouted, and rushed down the hallway. The door had locked itself. When she managed to get it open, the street was empty.

  “Come back!” she yelled, and the echo of her voice bounced against the buildings.

  “Ghorbi is an old friend.” Pinax stood behind her in the hallway with that same expression they had worn when they first let her in.

  “She told me all of it,” they continued. “It’s worse than I could ever have imagined. I don’t know how you could do those things.”

  “Things?” Augusta repeated.

  “You never told me there were children. Phantasos never told me.” Pinax’s voice trembled. “The things you did to them. You lured them into your world, abused them, stole their whole lives. As if they weren’t people.”

  “They aren’t people,” Augusta retorted. When she saw Pinax’s face, she realized that this was entirely the wrong thing to say.

  “I let you into my house,” Pinax said. “I thought, Here is a lost soul I might save. I thought I could rehabilitate you. But I see now that you are a lost cause. You are a monster.”

  “I am not! I can be good.”

  “When?” Pinax asked. “When were you good? When were you kind?”

  Their expression was unreadable. Augusta felt a pit open in her stomach. “You hate me,” she said.

  Pinax pointed at the door. “Leave. You are not welcome in my house anymore.”

  * * *

  —

  When she got home, Augusta’s current servant was huddled next to the stove. Augusta strangled him. She didn’t bother to drag him into the chamber; it was full. The house had begun to smell. Standing over the boy’s corpse, Augusta considered what to do. There was nothing for her here except the information Pinax guarded.

  Pinax would not welcome her. They had called her a monster. It was nonsense. She only did what was necessary. And now she would have to do it again. Pinax had rejected her—rejected her!—but she could take the information she wanted. It was only a matter of waiting until nightfall.

  * * *

  —

  Augusta walked through the streets one last time. The night was absolute; everyone had covered their windows, waiting for the enemy to rain fire on the city.

  The stone house was a hard shape against the streak of stars. Nothing moved in the street. Augusta stood back and considered the windows on the bottom floor. There, to the far right, should be the room where she and Pinax had taken their tea. Next to it, the kitchen. The mullioned window sat just about low enough that she could climb inside. Augusta picked up one of the rocks that edged the flower bed in front of the house. The bottom right pane shattered with a brittle noise, and Augusta paused. The street was still quiet. No sound came from inside the house. Augusta carefully reached in and undid the latch on the inside. She scratched her hand on the shards that remained in the frame, but not too badly. The window swung outward, and Augusta lifted the blackout curtain to crawl inside.

  She fumbled her way along the wall. Across from the kitchen, the closed door to what must be Pinax’s bedroom; she shuffled along and found the second door to the left that led to the study. She put her ear to the door. It was quiet. She scratched on the wood with her fingers. When there was no reply, she pushed down the handle and peeked inside. Nothing. She felt the wall next to the door and found the light switch. The study was very orderly, just like everything else in this house: bookshelves, a large desk, a chair, and a lamp. At the back of the room, the door that led to the hidden library. She tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  A wave of heat hit Augusta’s face as she descended the spiral staircase, and she could hear the distant roar of flames. The double doors were ajar.

  The room was illuminated by some light source that Augusta couldn’t make out; shadows danced across the books and scrolls on the shelves. Pinax sat cross-legged on the floor with their back turned. They didn’t move as Augusta took the last few steps inside and stepped around them.

>   Pinax’s eyes were closed; they were seemingly lost in meditation or sleep.

  “Pinax,” Augusta whispered, but the librarian didn’t react.

  Augusta turned her attention to the shelves.

  At the very edge of a shelf, almost hidden beneath a scroll, she saw a flat lacquered box, unmarked. It was the only thing in here that was not ancient. Augusta tucked the box under her arm and backed out of the room. Pinax remained where they were.

  Back in the study, Augusta closed the door behind her and opened the box. It was full of envelopes, all with Pinax’s name on the back, some of them with addresses: Vienna, Cairo, Paris. She opened some of them. They were in all kinds of languages, most of which she could not read. Then, there was a cream-colored envelope in thick paper addressed in Latin: To my dear friend Pinax. Augusta opened it.

  The letter was short.

  I will go north, to Frostviken. Thank you for your kind hospitality. Wish me well. We will not meet again.

  —P

  There was a northbound train in the morning. Augusta watched people climb aboard. Then she herself mounted the steps and claimed a compartment. The train conductor didn’t trouble her after she had spoken to him firmly. The train chugged northward, and the landscape gradually changed from farmland to snow-flecked blunt mountains.

  15

  “Our play?” Thistle said.

  “The two of you have told us your stories, so we must play them,” Director said.

  The company turned the sofa to face the carriage, folded back the wall of the house, and climbed inside. Dora and Thistle sat down on the sofa. Thistle took Dora’s hand. A velvet curtain unfurled from the ceiling and covered the house’s interior.

  * * *

  —

  A gong rang, and the curtain rose. The armoires, the kitchen, the mess had disappeared; instead there was a luscious grove with marble statues peeking out from behind leafy trees. The backdrop was the turquoise of just after sunset. Little lanterns hung in the branches of the trees.

  Nestor stood at the far edge of the stage, dressed in a doublet and puffy knee pants.

  “Welcome, all, to the mystic Gardens,” he intoned, “a timeless place of magic and debauchery, ruled by mad and fickle lords and ladies. Here is a boy, lured away from his parents. Little does he know what fate will befall him.”

  Apprentice wandered onstage as a boy. He was dressed in simple trousers and a shirt with a rounded collar, his hair smoothed back into a queue. He looked around the grove with wide eyes.

  “I thought I saw a light,” he said. “I thought I heard a song. It was so beautiful, I had to follow. Now all is quiet. Where did it go?”

  “Oh, it is all here,” said a voice from the other side of the stage.

  Director emerged from the right, dressed in a brocade coat and a shirt with lace ruffles. Thistle gasped. Director looked thinner, her features sharper, and her kohl-rimmed eyes had a predator’s unblinking stare. She stalked across the stage like a wild beast. She looked very much like Augusta.

  “Who have we here?” she said to the boy, who stared at her in awe. “All alone in the woods.”

  “What is this marvelous place?” the boy asked.

  Augusta made a sweeping gesture. “These are the Gardens, where youth and beauty celebrate a bright summer night. Will you join us in the revels?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the boy said. “But I am awfully hungry.”

  Augusta waved her left hand and seemed to conjure an apple out of thin air. “Here, my dear. Taste this.”

  The boy took the apple.

  Thistle tensed up on the sofa. “Don’t eat it,” he mumbled.

  Dora put a hand on his knee. “It’s only pretend,” she said.

  Thistle let out a groan as the boy bit into the apple, chewed, and swallowed.

  “I have never tasted anything sweeter,” the boy said.

  “Nor will you ever again,” Augusta replied, “for the fruit of the Gardens is legendary. Now tell me your name.”

  The boy stood on his toes and whispered something into Augusta’s ear.

  “Very good, my darling,” Augusta said, and took his hand.

  The boy smiled up at her.

  “I have your name, and you have eaten of our fruit,” Augusta said. “I name you Thistle, and a thistle you shall become.”

  The curtain fell. On the sofa, Thistle curled up against Dora.

  * * *

  —

  “Scene two!” Nestor announced.

  The curtain rose again, and the backdrop had changed: a vast horizon of undulating mountains, their tops scraped soft and covered in snow. In the middle of the stage lay a pile of dirt.

  Director swept in from stage right. Somehow she had managed to change into another costume in a matter of seconds: she was wrapped in black silk that fluttered around her as she moved. Her eyes shone a startling yellow.

  “How do they do that?” Thistle whispered.

  Director shaded her eyes and spied across the stage.

  “Where is the seed that I sowed? Deep did I plant it, in the heart of this ancient mountain range. Long have I waited for it to take root. I, Ghorbi, am patient, but my patience has limits.”

  The pile of dirt moved.

  “Aha!” Ghorbi cried, and hurried over.

  A hand reached out of the pile and waved in the air. Ghorbi took it. Journeyman, dressed in a grubby shift, emerged from the mound and stood up.

  “There she is,” Ghorbi announced. “The daughter of the mountain, big and strong.”

  It did look very much like Dora, wearing what must have been a wig, although so well made that it looked like real hair. Journeyman-as-Dora’s form was rounded and powerful, and she stood with both feet firmly planted on the ground. She gazed out at the audience, not seeming to notice them. Then she looked at Ghorbi.

  “What is my name?” Dora asked on the stage, her voice soft but strong.

  “Your name is your own,” Ghorbi said. “But I will lend you one, if you like: Dora.”

  * * *

  —

  “Scene three!” Nestor announced. “Thistle and Dora.”

  Onstage, Dora sat in the shade of a tree whose branches drooped with apples. Her eyes were vacant, and she was covered in dirt. She was humming tunelessly to herself. Then, from the left, Thistle walked in. His shirt and hands were spattered scarlet. Behind him, Director was Augusta again, pushing him ahead of her into the orchard.

  “There,” she announced. “Here is your charge. When you are not with me, you will mind the giant and make sure she makes no trouble. If she does, you will be sorry.” She took a step backward and disappeared.

  Dora looked up at Thistle and got to her feet.

  “You are hurt,” she said.

  “I am indeed,” Thistle said, but stood up straight.

  “Who are you?” Dora asked. “Why are you bleeding?”

  “They call me Thistle, and this is what they do to all us servants. What do they call you?”

  “Dora. I know not where I am, and my father won’t speak to me.”

  Thistle nodded and took Dora’s hand. “I have been sent to teach you the ways of the Gardens. I will teach you how to speak, and where to hide from our masters.”

  Dora looked down at him. “Will you be my brother, then?”

  “I will,” Thistle answered.

  “Then I will protect you,” Dora said, “as well as I can.”

  They embraced, and the curtain fell.

  * * *

  —

  When the curtain rose again, Journeyman-Dora and Apprentice-Thistle stood center stage, holding hands. They didn’t look much like Dora or Thistle anymore, just actors dressed in costumes. On either side, Director and Nestor threw kisses at Dora and Thistle. Journeyman’s face was expr
essionless; Apprentice’s eyes were brimming.

  The company bowed and thanked their visible and invisible audience. They cleaned up the stage and themselves, then crowded around the sofa in front of the stage. They looked worn out.

  Journeyman walked over to where Dora sat. His eyes were damp. “Can I have a hug?”

  Dora let go of Thistle and stood up. Journeyman wrapped his arms around her. He smelled of greasepaint and musk and fresh sweat. He sniffled and drew a shuddering breath against her shoulder. Dora gently patted his back.

  Journeyman eventually let go.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and dried his eyes on his sleeves. “I get emotional. Playing you was…you seem so calm, but your feelings are…these huge, slow waves. I was too small for them. You’re magnificent.”

  He gave her another quick hug and a smile, and sat down in a chair. Dora stood where she was, stunned.

  “We call it ‘bleed,’ ” Director said. “A strong character—or a strong story—can bleed into your own emotions. This isn’t acting, love. We become the characters. We become the story. Journeyman was you. And apparently that was quite a ride.”

  Apprentice was standing behind the sofa, uncharacteristically quiet, hands on Thistle’s shoulders. Her eyebrows were knotted, her jaws working.

  “And it looks like Apprentice is bleeding a little as well,” Director said, “no pun intended. They’re young. It gets easier when you’ve done this for a while.”

  “Thank you for letting us play your past,” Nestor said. “It was a nice change from all the epic stories that we usually have to stage.”

  “Indeed,” Director said. “You are a part of the tapestry now.”