Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

As Walpurgis spoke, a shiver went through Augusta. The flesh sheath that held her seemed to loosen its grip a little. She let go of Walpurgis’s hand and held her own up to her face. The skin looked translucent somehow, saggy. She could feel her own body underneath, pushing and straining against its prison. She flung her hands back and tore at the fabric between her shoulder blades. The fabric tore, and the shirt underneath, and the skin underneath.

It was not quite as easy as taking off a suit. Walpurgis watched in silence as Augusta struggled her way out of Nils Nilsson’s body. Eventually, she stood naked on the forest floor, the other body at her feet.

Augusta looked down at herself. She was herself again, a woman in her prime, albeit bloody and naked as a newborn baby. The relief made her burst into laughter.

“Thank you, Walpurgis,” she said. “Do you see me now?”

“I see you,” Walpurgis said. “Augusta.”

“Good,” Augusta replied. “Take me to the others.”

Walpurgis bowed and walked ahead of her to the game lawn.

Here they were: Euterpe naked among the bushes, Virgilia and Cymbeline embracing a servant, Tempestis and the other courtiers dancing with their croquet clubs, swinging in time to the ever-present beat. They were all here.

“I’m here!” Augusta said to no one in particular.

Euterpe came running with a wide smile.

“Sister,” she said. “You’re naked! And extravagantly soiled!”

Augusta laughed. “So I am.”

“How delightful,” Euterpe said.

Augusta embraced her sister. Her eyes watered a little. She caressed Euterpe’s face, and got a frown in response.

“What’s that, crying? We can’t have that. Let’s find you something to wear.”

“And a bath,” Augusta said. “I need a bath.”

Euterpe had a servant fetch a bucket of water, and everyone gathered around Augusta to watch as she cleaned herself of the blood. When Augusta was done and had dried herself off, Euterpe pointed to a servant at the edge of the lawn. He gave her a frightened look and started to back away.

“You. Undress,” Augusta told him. “Give your clothes to me.”

The servant’s trousers and vest fit Augusta unexpectedly well. She borrowed Euterpe’s discarded silk jacket, and lo: she was once again dressed for a party.

Augusta made a twirl, and there was Mnemosyne on her throne. She had been watching the whole time. Augusta walked up to the dais and bowed.

“My lady,” she said, “I am here.”

“So you are,” Mnemosyne said, face unreadable under her laurel wreath. Her eyes were clouded. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Then she said, “I cast you out.”

Augusta swallowed. “Did you, my lady?”

“I…” Mnemosyne faltered. “Did I not?”

“Not me,” Augusta said. “Never me. See? I am beautiful and young. I live only to please you. I can do a little dance? Sing a little song? Would that please my lady?”

“There is something,” Mnemosyne mumbled. “I forget.”

“There is nothing,” Augusta said. She could feel a trickle of sweat between her shoulder blades. “Nothing at all.”

“You seem troubled,” Mnemosyne said, and raised her glass. “Here. Drink and be happy.”

The wine was acidic on Augusta’s tongue, but she emptied the glass.

“Good,” Mnemosyne said. “Go play.”

She sagged back in her throne, and for a moment she looked very old. Augusta left the dais and held out a hand. A servant appeared with a glass of wine. It tasted sweeter. The third glass was exquisite. Out on the lawn, the others danced in a circle. The circle dispersed, and the lords and ladies picked up their croquet clubs. Things began to soften at the edges.

“Something’s wrong,” Albin said as they approached the enclosure at the crossroads. “It’s too quiet.”

He was right. There was no distant noise of commerce or murmur of voices. The halo in the sky cast an eerie light on the landscape.

“Maybe they’re asleep,” Dora said.

It was only when they came through the gap in the low wall that they saw the corpses. They were laid out in a neat line between the tables, their faces covered by cloth. Stains spread across the front of some of them; limbs stuck out at odd angles, as if broken.

Next to Dora, Albin let out a little shriek. Dora instinctively put an arm around him and held him close.

“I’m going to have a look,” Dora said. “Stay here.”

Albin gave a quick nod.

Dora edged her way around the bodies. There was no smell, even though the air was still. She could hear a rustling sound nearby and approached it.

On the far side of the enclosure, Ghorbi was digging a shallow ditch. She had rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and gripped a shovel that looked too small for the job. When Dora came closer, she straightened. Her eyes burned with suppressed rage.

“Hello again,” she said. “Sorry about the mess.”

“What happened?” Dora asked.

Ghorbi dropped the shovel and gestured at the scene. “Augusta happened.”

“Oh,” Dora said.

“Augusta?” Albin said behind her. He had followed her without her noticing.

Ghorbi pointed at a creature sitting with its back against the wall. “Happily, she left one alive. The crossroads will recover, eventually.”

“Where is she?” Albin asked. “Augusta.”

“I pointed her to the Gardens,” Ghorbi replied. “She was wreaking havoc.”

Albin took Dora’s hand. “We have to go. Ghorbi, where is the Memory Theater?”

Ghorbi looked at the ditch. “I have places to be, too. But this has to be done. I can’t leave them like this.”

“I’m good at digging pits,” Dora offered. “Let me.”

“We don’t have time!” Albin said.

“If she managed to get back in, she isn’t going anywhere,” Ghorbi replied. “Show some respect for the dead.”

Dora took off her jacket and shawl, hiked up her skirt around her waist, and dug a long pit that would fit the eleven bodies on the ground. The soil listened to her and parted for her. Ghorbi spoke to the survivor in hushed tones; Albin sat down next to them, looking slightly ill. When Dora was done, she carried each of the bodies to the pit and gently laid them down. Then she asked the soil for help to cover them, and it did.

“There,” she said. “It’s done.”

Ghorbi helped the remaining traffic controller onto its feet. It ambled into the enclosure, where it began to pick things up off the ground and put them back on their tables.

“Well done,” Ghorbi told Dora. “That was an act of kindness.”

Albin took one of Dora’s grimy hands. Ghorbi looked them up and down, as if seeing them properly for the first time.

“You have come a long way since last I saw you,” she said.

“And I have my name,” Albin said. “And I found my parents.”

“And?”

“I had been gone too long,” Albin said, and his eyes were glassy. “They died while I was away.”

“I see,” Ghorbi said. “I’m sorry.”

“We have to get back to the Memory Theater,” Dora said. “Albin has a plan.”

Albin was tense next to her. “Please tell us where they are.”

“I don’t know,” Ghorbi said. “But I’ll ask the traffic controller if it does.”

She went over to the traffic controller and bent down to speak to it. It nodded and walked past Dora and Albin onto the plain, leaning on Ghorbi’s arm.

About fifty paces from the enclosure, the creature pointed at the ground.

“Is that how we get there?” Albin said.

The creature bowed its head and walked back to whence it came.

“I must leave you,” Ghorbi said.