K Jeter: The Kingdom of Shadows

“ Herr Wise – I have something for you.”

Pavli watched as von Behren reached inside the duffel bag he had carried for him across the city’s ruins, and then inside this room.

“Something,” continued the director, “I believe you might want.”

“What, a souvenir?” Wise looked up from the papers spread out before him. Not on a real table, but a door taken from the rubble heap across the street, the bricks and plaster that had once been a stylish block of flats here in Berlin, then laid across two stacks of empty ammo canisters. The yellow papers looked like telegrams; Pavli remembered hearing the American producer say something about a sackful having finally caught up with him, and that while the war might be over, the task of running a film studio in faraway Hollywood still went on. “Thanks, but I’ve already got enough to remember this place by.”

The duffel bag was just about empty, only one thing in it, flat and round. Von Behren drew the metal object out, stepped away from Pavli, and laid it down in front of Wise. He stood back, folding the stiff grey-green canvas in his hands.

“This some kind of a joke?” With one finger, Wise prodded the film canister as though it might have been some kind of bomb. Battered and dented, wide enough to cover the papers on the desk – a streak of something that might have been rust discolored the lid. “Movies, I’ve got already. Back at home. That’s what we do there, remember?”

“It’s what’s left,” said Wise quietly. “Of her.”

Wise’s hand froze, one finger touching the ridged edge of the film canister. “What’re you talking about?”

“Marte.” The single word, the name, was all that von Behren needed to speak.

Wise rose from his chair, hand flat on the film canister. “Where is she?”

“Someplace… I couldn’t follow. Nobody can,” said von Behren. But we filmed her -” The director pointed behind himself, toward Pavli. “We did what Marte wanted us to do.”

“Filmed her doing what?”

“The last scene. Of the film. My film.”

“That Red Hunter thing? Or whatever the hell it’s called -”

“ Der Rote Jager.” Wise nodded. “Yes. We finished it. At least we can say that much.”

“How? The studio’s in ruins -”

Von Behren gave a small shrug. “We managed.”

“Huh. I seem to have underestimated you.” Wise seemed genuinely impressed. “Is it any good?”

To Pavli, that seemed so unimportant. There were other things that he himself might have told the American producer, of what had happened, and what von Behren had seen as the camera had clicked away, its lens carefully wiped clean of dust and ashes and focused on the woman in the empty, broken soundstage. A little of the medieval scenery had survived the bombings, enough to suggest the final ruin of those who set their hearts against their own fate. That pursued them, relentless. The dark forests filled the streets of the city…

“I don’t know,” said Wise. “I haven’t seen it.”

But von Behren had told him what the camera had seen. Of Marte undoing the belt knotted around her waist, so that she could then reach up and slide the gown free of her shoulders, so it could fall about her feet, a pool of glistening silk…

“What, you needed a projector or something there?” Wise frowned in puzzlement. “But… you filmed it…”

Pavli kept his silence. When he closed his eyes, he could see what had happened, the scene in the studio, as the director had just spoken of it. Marte touching the skin beneath her breast, and another silken layer coming loose at her fingertip. That drifted free, a weightless and translucent pennant; then more, tatters of a substance finer and deeper than skin, warmed by her slowing pulse…

“Then we can watch it right now. There’s a projector out in the truck; we can get it set up -” Wise’s voice halted in mid-sentence, as he picked up the film canister and felt its weight in his hands.

Pavli opened his eyes again. The scene played out to its final frames. The silken fragments, all that was left, caught by the wind through the studio’s crumbling walls, and carried like spider threads out to the night. Dispersing like mist, so that even that last little bit was gone. The camera turned to the empty gown on the stage’s floor, where the woman had stood. Gone now; the night wind fluttered the delicate cloth, then stilled itself…

“This some kind of a joke?”

He saw now Wise’s anger-reddened face.

“A joke…” Von Behren nodded. “Yes, perhaps it is.”

Pavli watched as Herr Wise pried the film canister apart and its two empty sections fell open on the desk.

“Everything is,” said von Behren.

“There’s nothing here.” The American’s gaze was murderous as he looked back up. “You didn’t film anything, did you?”

“ Das stimmt. That is correct.” The director nodded. “There was no film in the camera. It was… unnecessary.”

Pavli still didn’t know if von Behren had been aware, when it happened, of the subterfuge he had committed. Sometimes he thought that the director must have known – how could he not have? – that no one other than the two of them would see his masterpiece’s final scene. And that would be enough.

And perhaps Marte had known as well. He had already thought of that. And that it wouldn’t have mattered to her, either. The scene would be played out, and the movie finished. The camera had witnessed it, and that would be the end. No lights would come up in the theatre, the audience hurrying away into the night…

“Why the hell did you do that?”

Neither said anything. He should know, thought Pavli. It was there to see, not in von Behren’s haunted gaze, but in his own, peaceful and silent at last. I have her now, Pavli told himself. Safe from all the world. Locked in memory, where none could touch her.

“I don’t know,” said von Behren, after the empty moment had passed. “Why do people do anything?”

“Get out of here.” Wise swept the empty metal clattering to the floor. “You’re just in my way now. I need to go find her.”

“You won’t.” Von Behren wadded the duffel bag tighter in his hands. “She’s gone. Where nothing more can happen to her…”

“What?”

Pavli spoke. “You don’t need to go looking for her,” he said quietly. “You already have what’s left of her. Go home, Herr Wise. You can watch the film you do have of her. The one that was sent to you before the war. And there was another, nicht wahr? That you made with her. You can watch those forever. Those were the only real part of her, anyway. All the rest…” Pavli shrugged. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Get out.” Wise had gone pale, his voice taut and trembling. “Just get out.”

“Very well.” Von Behren tossed the duffel bag onto the floor. “Please – take care of yourself. Nothing that happened was any fault of yours. Of anyone’s.”

They left the American where he sat in the little room, the empty film canister before him.

Von Behren looked over at the one beside him. “Are you all right, Pavli?”

“Yes. Of course.” He managed to smile. “ Alles in ordnung. Everything is as it should be.”

“And then what?” Von Behren studied him. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” A shrug. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Yes… you’re right.” He gazed down the street of ruins. “Everyone is gone, sooner or later.”

“No -” Pavli spoke up, his voice no more than a whisper. “ Niemals -” He shook his head. “Never. They might leave… but they are not gone.”

The director stopped and raised a hand to shield his eyes. The sun was so bright that it banished every shadow, at least while the cameras rolled.