The Curfew (12 page)

—And here, said Mr. Gibbons, is the brush I always use for eyes.

He handed Molly an extremely thin brush.

—It is not a-single-horse’s-hair, but it is close to that.

Molly wrote on the paper:

*Three horse hairs?

—Perhaps.

The brush had a furious red handle. Such a handle, it seemed that it would grant life to whatever it made. Molly gave it back to Mr. Gibbons reluctantly.

*But why a different brush for eyes? Is there one for mouths, for ears, for cheeks? Molly wrote.

Mr. Gibbons read the paper.

—You’re a shrewd one, he said. That’s for certain. Here’s why: if I have to switch brushes for each feature, it grants me the space of thought. I can’t just dash ’em off. Also, the brush can be acquainted with its specialty, if you believe such things.

He coughed.

—Not that believing such things has anything to do with whether they are true. You see that, don’t you?

Molly nodded.

—The effect of irrational beliefs on your art is invaluable. You must shepherd and protect them. I’m sure your father would say the same.

*He believes many things.

—I’m sure he does.

Mr. Gibbons held up a puppet with a veiled face. It was a male puppet in a jester suit, but its face was veiled.

—There are puppets, said Mr. Gibbons, who know more than what the other puppets know. Do you see what I mean? Not all the puppets are privy to the same information. This puppet for instance, this puppet, I save him for special circumstances. He is aware that the puppet show is going on, and of his place in it. That doesn’t mean that he knows about the puppeteer, not exactly. His information, of course, is not always correct. However, he does know much more than any of the other puppets. Sometimes, why sometimes he can even see the audience.

Molly wrote something on her piece of paper and then crossed it out.

—That’s right, said Mr. Gibbons. It’s better to have something like that in your head awhile before asking questions about it. I quite agree.

—Once, he continued, in a play about a horse, this puppet, this very puppet, explained to the cast that they were all being used, manipulated, made fools of. On the spot, right there, the puppets refused to go on. It was a disaster. I had to refund all the show’s proceeds. The audience left in a huff.

Molly smiled and took a long breath. She scribbled down a question.

*He can say things to them in one play and they won’t know it in the next. Everything starts over, no?

—Everything starts over. Except—maybe, just maybe, he has some sense of the history of all these puppet shows. That’s why he sits here, on this fine throne, overlooking the whole room.

It was true that the veiled jester had a fine view of the room.

*What voice do you use for him?

—Oh, he has many voices. As many as the leaves on the tree he was carved from. He is a teller of stories, but a great liar as well.

*But isn’t one
his
voice?

—Well, we will just have to see if he joins the play, won’t we? Time passes. We must continue our good work. Come over here now. We must make some of those decisions I spoke of.

William went along the street as quickly as he could. To run would be foolish. It would attract attention. Besides, it was too far. He could never run all the way. But walking below a certain speed was foolish, too—it meant someone walking behind and faster might overtake you. So one had to walk fast enough to not be overtaken, but not fast enough to arouse suspicion. Also, if it seemed that one might overtake someone else, one had to choose a route to pass by the person without suspicion.

The papers in his hand burned at him. He wanted to tear open the papers right then, but knew that to get home was most important.

The noise of footsteps came from up ahead. William ducked into the entranceway of a building. He reached up and unscrewed the lightbulb. He was in darkness, and across the way the streetlight blinked on and off. The footsteps were nearer now. He was positive he could not be seen, but still his hands shook.

I must get home, he said to himself. I must get home to Molly.

There were three men and they were talking loudly. They were upon him and then past him. He watched them go. These men were not worried in the slightest. But who could they be, to not be worried?

William hurried on.

A fancy rose in his head then, that he would be caught, but that he could escape. He would be running and they would corner him in some stone court. They would be grim faced, terrible, and he would draw out the violin and play and his pursuers would be forced to dance and dance until it was morning. The sun would rise and they would collapse on legs that would not support them and he would hurry away home. He could play that well. He felt he could. He could feel their legs failing them, could feel them dropping one by one, helpless.

—It will be a musical play, said Mr. Gibbons, reading from the sheet Molly had handed him, but there will be little or no music in it.

He looked up.

—That’s sound, he said, and in keeping with our resources. I see you have a brain in your head. Has your father spoken about music to you? No, no, don’t answer that. I’m sure anything you have to say will appear in the play, and that will be enough for me.

He continued,

—It will not be a musical play, as in, a musical. Music is the theme.

He nodded.

—The characters will be divided between animals and humans. It will be clear that nothing in particular is meant by one being an animal or not. Although, of course, a particular trait associated with an animal might have a bearing on the character portrayed. E.g., a cunning fox, or a silly goose.

—There are no goose puppets anyway, said Mrs. Gibbons, who sat silently in the corner, knitting something indefinable.

—There will be no magic, whatsoever. Magic is either a poverty-stricken necessity or a wealthy fantasy. We are in neither of those straits, and what cannot be explained will be left unknown.

A glad tension had begun to show around the edges of Mr. Gibbons as he saw that it would be a real puppet show. Now, each proof that Molly made of her seriousness was joined with the forgotten vitality of his long life’s puppetry.

—Death of puppets: still to be spoken of. Show: not funny. Theme: sickness (grand scale). Villain: none.

Here Mr. Gibbons drew up like a struck horse.

—I say, young lady, I really do, I must say, a puppet show with no villain. Why, we shall have to talk this through. I don’t know that it can be done, and even if it could, well, why would you want such a thing, and then there is the matter of what is the glue to hold it all together, and how I have already been thinking of how it might be, and, Molly. I’m not sure this will do.

Molly stared up at him with determination.

He continued,

—Three acts, yes. Forwards, backwards, as you like. No audience, I suppose.

He put down the sheet and looked at her.

—As for the audience, well, we’ll see about that.

He winked at Mrs. Gibbons.

—But for the rest, yes, let’s talk over here where Mrs. Gibbons can’t hear us.

Molly and Mr. Gibbons went to the far side of the room. A moment later, Molly returned for her paper, and dashed back again. From the corner, much scribbling and fuming.

William had passed along four more streets and had been forced to hide twice more. Windows with a meager light might be seen at every crossing. He kept thinking of something Louisa had told him, shortly after they’d met.

—Sometimes the gladness of a candle is all there is to a room, and it’s saved for the person who sees it from far away. Those in the room know nothing about it, and are sometimes themselves gone from the room, even while sitting there. Cold rooms. One doesn’t want to be there, except when they’ve been misunderstood, as when seen from outside. We mustn’t be that way.

He had assured her they would not. Looking back, there had been no danger of it. It was a strange thing, William thought, to be young now—he
was
young—and for Louisa to have been dead already years. To still be young. And all the many years still left. Too many. But for Molly, he would …

He ducked behind a tree. Two men, this time with flashlights. These were dressed in a military fashion. Some sort of night guard, and the only one who sees them is taken away. If he was in the situation, as Gerard had said, this situation that you are brought to by chance, would he be brave enough to act? Many things had suddenly made sense. All the recent trouble—it was due to an idea. A clean, clear idea. He had searched for such ideas, once, he and Louisa.

They were gone now. He came out from behind the tree and hurried on. It was a cold night. Against the houses ahead, he could see that the fire was still burning—had it been a police station?

Now, the last of it: he had to cross a broad stretch of pavement to get to his quarter. He broke into a run. It seemed a great distance he had to cover. It stretched away from him as he ran. He ran faster and it was farther.

—Hey, you! You!

William ran. He wanted to drop the violin, but it was useless. They would find it even if he dropped it, and he mustn’t drop it. Yet more precious were the documents, and those would consign him to death regardless. He could not let them go, no matter what it meant.

Cries went up behind him. There were three, no, four of them. They were gaining. The black ground sped past him. Lights whirred in the distance.

—There he is.

They were on either side. He ran into the park, and down a path. The dim, glowing bulbs of the park seemed to multiply shadows. He might do it. He might get away. Then, onto uneven ground, a moment, a moment, and then his feet were out from under him. The violin case was lost, it, too, was in the air, and then he hit the ground. The papers were gone. A second later and a body crashed into him, pinning him. Where had the papers gone? He struggled to get free.

—He’s here. I’ve got him. Here.

Rough hands were on him, and a great deal of weight. William lay, lungs heaving, face cut from the fall. He could not even see the people who had caught him. This was the sort of war they were in.

—I must get home. My daughter. I, I fell asleep. I didn’t realize what time it was. I was working late.

There was no response.

He said it again,

—I must get home. I have a child.

—No one is out now who doesn’t mean to be.

It was an awful voice. It gave nothing beyond itself.

—I, I beg you.

William tried to turn off his stomach, but the man pressed down harder. He could hardly breathe.

—The others will be here soon.

The hands that bent his own arm down into his back must belong to that voice, but for all that he knew, it could have come from anywhere. There was a creaking high up in the branches of the trees, and it would continue through the long night. It meant nothing, just that the wind was blowing. The action of a thing is the same as the naming of it—is, in fact, the real name. The trees creak and they are saying,
trees creak through the long night
. The long night—what is it? Trees creaking. There wasn’t anything that tied life’s moments together, except life. And when it was gone?