Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

The company’s house-carriage stood on its six wheels in a cleared square of street, walls unfolded to make a stage. As Albin and Dora crawled down the pile and came closer, Dora saw that the interior was decorated to look like a run-down room in the city: overturned chairs, a shattered mirror on the wall, a small dining table on which stood the remains of an abandoned meal. In the middle of the room, Nestor was dressed in a gray uniform adorned with silver. He was clean-shaven, a distinguished man approaching old age. Journeyman stood next to him, dressed in the same style. He was wearing a black helmet and held something that looked like a branch but must have been a weapon.

In front of them stood Director, in a torn dress and headscarf. Her face was riddled with scars. She held her hands out in supplication.

“Have mercy, sir,” she said in a broken alto. “There’s nothing left of me. You promised to leave me alone, and yet you invaded my lands. You murdered my children. You burned my forests and razed my cities. Now everything is yours and nothing mine. Please leave us in peace. Let us live.”

Nestor’s voice boomed through the ruins. “You forced my hand!” He swept his hand to indicate the destruction. “Such a promising land it was, its people beautiful and pure. But you harbored a plague, and that plague must be cured.”

“We have suffered enough,” Director said.

“Then bow,” said Nestor, “and give the rest of your children to me.”

“Never,” Director replied.

“This might work,” Albin whispered to Dora where they sat in the rubble.

“What?” Dora asked, but Albin hushed her.

Onstage, Nestor smiled and pointed at Director. Journeyman lifted the black branch in his hands. A crack echoed through the city. Director slumped into a heap. Nestor turned outward.

“I am a just lord, with a just cause. My only wish is to better this world, to purify it of its ills. And so I have, once more.” He stepped back into the shadows.

Journeyman stepped to the front of the stage and faltered. He drew a small square of paper from his breast pocket and looked at it. Then he said, “The Child of the Motherland is supposed to show up now and convince me to rise up against the General.”

Director sat up and threw her hands out. “Well. We don’t have an actor to do that.”

Albin grabbed Dora’s hand and squeezed it so hard it almost hurt.

“But if we end the play here, then…” Journeyman trailed off.

“Then it will be a tragedy and not a story of hope in the face of destruction,” Director filled in. “Yes. But what’s our alternative? Nestor can’t play a child. We need an Apprentice.”

Journeyman raised his hands and let them drop again. “All right,” he said, and cleared his throat.

Albin’s hand left Dora’s, and before she could react she saw him careening down the slope.

Journeyman began: “Here ends the tale of—”

“No!” Albin shouted, halfway down the slope. “Wait!”

Journeyman and Director stared at him, incredulous.

Albin reached the ground and stumbled, skinning his knees. He got up so quickly that he almost fell over again, and ran to the stage. “I’ll be your Apprentice! I’ll do it,” he panted. “I’ll do it.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“You,” Director eventually said.

“Please,” Albin said. “I can’t stand to watch this.”

As Albin and Director stared at each other, Dora made her way down, and Journeyman spotted her. He hopped down from the stage and ran over to wrap his arms around her. He smelled of himself and acrid dust and sweat. Dora raised a hand and put it on his back. She could feel his heart hammering at his ribs.

“You came back,” he said.

Director clapped her hands. “No time to waste,” she said. “Explanations later. We have to finish this play. Now. Journeyman, give the boy the manuscript.”

Journeyman let go of Dora and held out the square of paper to Albin. Albin looked it over and nodded.

“I can do this.”

“What are you doing out there?” Nestor said from the back of the stage. He walked outside, still in his uniform. He took a look at Dora and Albin, raised his eyebrows, and let out a short “Ah.”

“I made an executive decision,” Director said. “This is the Child of the Motherland.”

“Very well,” Nestor said. “Shall I do the last line again?”

“Please do,” Director said, and lay down on the stage.

Journeyman climbed back up and held out a hand for Albin to join him.

Dora watched from the ground as Albin put on the role of the Child of the Motherland, effortlessly convincing the Soldier to rise up against the General. The Soldier shot the General, and confetti fell from the rafters as he cast his weapon down and held hands with the Child. By the time they were done, the entire troupe was crying. So was Albin. But they were smiling, too. Dora clapped her hands enthusiastically.

“Well,” Nestor said when they were done. “We will need an explanation.”

The troupe turned their heads toward Albin, who stood between Journeyman and Director.

“Apprentice died in a rockslide,” Dora said from the ground. “I buried her on the mountain. That’s all.”

The troupe turned to Dora as one.

“How exactly did she die?” Nestor asked.

“She played her flute, and stones fell on her,” Dora replied.

“Stupid girl,” Director mumbled.

“We felt it, you see,” Nestor said. “We just couldn’t see what had happened. It never appeared in the playbook.”

Director raised her eyes and gave Albin a stare that made him shrink back. “You lured her with you,” Director said. “You must have convinced her. Made promises.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Journeyman said. “Apprentice wanted to go ever since she came to us!” He pointed at Dora, then Albin. “And when these two showed up, of course she wanted to run off with them. She wanted to be with people who weren’t us. Do you pay attention to anything that goes on here?”

Nestor and Director looked at each other.

“I don’t…” Director said.

“She wanted to leave,” Journeyman said. “She was bored. This wasn’t the life she wanted.”

“She should have said so.”

“And get out how, exactly?” Journeyman retorted. “You know how often new actors show up.”

Nestor sat down on the stage. He took his cap off and tossed it into the rubble. He rubbed at his chin, studying Albin.

“It’s not our fault, and not theirs either,” Journeyman said. “Apprentice wasn’t cut out for this. She just didn’t know it when she signed on.”

Nestor cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, there is an empty spot that needs to be filled.” He gave Albin and Dora a kindly smile. “You see, children, we can’t put on our plays without an Apprentice. Everything goes wrong. The play you just saw? In the end, the Child of the Motherland comes to sow the Seed of Hope. Life would have sprung up again. That was one of Apprentice’s tasks: hope. Without Apprentice, the world isn’t saved. Yet we must keep putting on our plays. And little by little, the universe slides out of joint. Until now.”

“I will stay,” Albin said.

The others fell silent. Director, Nestor, and Journeyman stared at him. He looked each of them in the eyes.

“I will be Apprentice until you find a new one,” he continued.

“You would?” Director said. “Why?”

Albin wiped at his face. It was still wet. “I found my parents. They’re dead and gone. But this… I could do this. I saved a world. I want to do it again.”

Nestor stroked his chin. “He does have the spark.”

“But this is not a decision to be made lightly,” Director said.