Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

“The war?” Dora asked.

“Yes. There’s a war on. There’s an evil man who wants to conquer the world. He has occupied our brother nations to the west and south. But he’s not here yet.”

“But what if he does come?” Dora said.

“Then we do what we can to survive,” he replied. “Most people are good at heart. We will help each other. And if people come here to hide, well, I will help them.”

“I don’t care about the war!” Albin shouted. “I want my mamma and pappa.”

“I’m so sorry, Albin,” Börje said, and his voice was soft. “They never forgot about you.”

Börje walked them down to an old church not far from the village. It seemed disused, its doors barred. The graves in the yard outside were ordered in neat rows. No flowers adorned the graves; the grass that stuck up through the rotten snow had grown wild.

“Here we are,” Börje said. “Now let’s find your parents.”

The gravestone was tucked in a corner beneath a birch. edvin jönsson 1825–1898, it said, and his wife amanda 1828–1902. their son albin, missed and loved. Lichen dotted the stone and crept up its sides. Albin crouched down in front of the stone. He said nothing, just cried. Dora waited and listened to the magpies arguing with each other in the tree. Börje stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back.

Finally, Albin stood up and turned to face them. His eyes were swollen and his jaw was set.

“There is nothing for me here,” he said.

“What will you do?” Börje asked.

“Go elsewhere,” Albin replied. “We have something to do.”

“Very well,” Börje said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Albin shook his head. “No. You have already helped.”

Börje nodded. “I suppose I will leave you to it. Be well, Albin Jönsson.”

He shook hands with Dora and Albin, and then wandered back up the slope toward the village.

When he was out of sight, Dora asked, “What exactly is it we have to do?”

“Find Augusta again,” Albin said. “And kill her.”

“It didn’t go so well last time,” Dora said.

“I wasn’t who I am now,” Albin replied. “I can do it. I don’t have to fight her. I just need the Memory Theater to help us. I have a plan.”

“What’s the plan?”

“They tell memories. Maybe they’ll tell a new memory.”

Albin began to sing.

Slender birch trees sprung up around Augusta as she walked. There was a familiar scent in the air: apples. The sky changed into the familiar hue of a summer night. The grass was thick under her feet. Augusta looked at her hands: still worn and square. Not her own. But these woods were familiar. Here and there, things hung on the lower tree branches: a glass prism on a string, a strip of silk, a bird skull in a silver net. They formed a path deeper in between the trees.

The splash of water made Augusta turn her head. Not too far away, a pond she recognized.

“Hello,” a voice said.

A heart-shaped face framed by blond locks peered at Augusta from under a small overhang. The face smiled, and its teeth were pointed.

Porla tilted her head. “Who is this gentleman?”

Augusta blinked. “Porla?”

Porla let out a tinkling laugh. “The gentleman knows! I am honored. Welcome to my home. Would my lord like to see it? I have a friend I could introduce. Who are you? Are you lost?” She squinted at Augusta, then said, “I know you. Don’t I?”

Augusta’s eyes prickled. Something that had been clenched in her chest let go in a sobbing sigh. Porla came out from under the overhang and reached for Augusta’s ankle. Her skin was flecked like a frog’s, her touch icy.

“You know me,” Augusta whispered. “By what name do you know me?”

Porla pawed at Augusta’s leg and stared up into her eyes. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Then she paused, and her eyes drifted down to the water.

Then she looked up again. “I can introduce you to my friend.”

“Do you recognize me? Say my name,” Augusta said.

Porla smiled with her needle teeth and shook her head. “The tip of my tongue,” she said.

Augusta felt her heart sink.

“Let me show you my friend,” Porla said. “That will make you happy.”

Augusta shook her leg free of Porla’s hand. “I’m not interested in your friend, Porla.”

Porla’s lower lip quivered. “No one ever is,” she said.

“Good,” Augusta said.

She looked back as she walked away. Porla was under the overhang again, arms around what looked like a bloated body. Porla whispered to it intently and glared at Augusta. Then she dived under the surface and dragged the corpse down with her.

There was a drumbeat, uneven and heavy. Little lanterns were strung from the branches. In the distance, the flash of colorful silks moving in time to the music. Augusta peeked from behind a tree. They were dancing in slow graceful movements, their powdered faces shining in the dusk. Augusta swayed to the rhythm. She could burst onto the marble floor now, join them in the dance. But would they know her in this guise? Would they say, “Ah, Augusta, we see you”? Porla didn’t. Would they murder her as an invader?

The music ended. The lady Mnemosyne’s voice filled the air.

“A game,” she called. “We shall have a game.”

A cheer went up, and the dancers formed a line. Mnemosyne led the way out of the statuary grove and toward the game lawn. Augusta followed them at a distance.

“Stop right there,” a voice said.

Augusta turned around to see Walpurgis a few steps behind her. He was poised like a statue in his elaborate dress, corkscrew locks in a perfect frame around his exquisite visage. He held a hand up in a forbidding gesture.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

“Do you not know me?” Augusta said.

She had to make Walpurgis name her.

“You do not look like anyone I know,” Walpurgis replied. He took a step closer. “But I will concede that there is something familiar about you.”

“I am trapped in someone else’s flesh,” Augusta said. “It follows me around wherever I go.”

“Interesting,” Walpurgis said.

He closed in and inspected her with heavy-lidded eyes. His breath was thick with wine.

“Do I know you?” he said. “Do I?”

“Please, Walpurgis,” Augusta said. “You know me. We have danced together in the Gardens, so many times, so many nights.”

“There is only tonight,” Walpurgis said, and cocked his head.

“I know,” Augusta said. “Again and again. And during all those agains, we have danced. My hair is curled mahogany; my eyes are dove gray; I wear a coat the shade of the sky. But I am stuck in this other body. I need you to let me out. Say my name.”

“Your name?” Walpurgis repeated. “There is a lord… isn’t there?”

“Not a lord,” Augusta replied. “Me.”

She grabbed Walpurgis by the collar. “Look at me.”

Walpurgis frowned, then sniffed at her. “What’s that scent?” he mumbled. “Lily of the valley.”

Augusta let out a sob. “Yes. Lily of the valley. Who smells like that?”

Walpurgis looked into her eyes. “Only the lady Augusta smells like that.”

“That’s right,” Augusta said.

Walpurgis looked confused. “Augusta?”

Augusta’s stomach clenched. She nodded and let go of his collar. Walpurgis remained where he was, so close that she could see the veins in his eyes.

“We like to play croquet,” Walpurgis said. “On the lawn.”

Augusta reached out and squeezed his hand. “Say it again. Say my name.”

Walpurgis bent his head to sniff at her neck. “Augusta Prima,” he said. “Augusta Prima is your name.”