Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

Reveler 1 stops and clutches his chest.

REVELER 1:

REVELER 2:

AUGUSTA:

Reveler 1 shudders and slumps to the ground. Reveler 2 coughs up a stream of blood. Mnemosyne holds up her hands and looks at them. As she does so, her gown falls from her shoulders to reveal a skeletal rib cage.

MNEMOSYNE:

Reveler 2 sinks to his knees. Mnemosyne stands up and points at Augusta.

MNEMOSYNE:

AUGUSTA:

MNEMOSYNE:

Mnemosyne falls to the ground and lets out one last breath. Augusta tears at her own shirt; beneath, her flesh is falling apart.

AUGUSTA:

Vines climb up Augusta’s arms and cover her face. She slumps to the ground and lies still.

CHORUS:

Augusta stood on the grass, reeling. On the dais before her, Mnemosyne’s corpse was sinking into the throne, which had sprouted vines and crushed her in its embrace. Walpurgis lay in front of her, one hand around Mnemosyne’s foot. His face had collapsed in on itself; tiny shoots stretched into the air from the top of his head. Cymbeline and Virgilia embraced each other in a heap in the middle of the lawn. And there was Euterpe, naked in the rhododendron, overtaken by growth; ferns shot up like spears through her chest, unfurling in the sunlight. Everything was quiet save for the rustle of growing things. The air smelled of dew and grass and rot. It was dawn.

The servants still stood here and there on the lawn. Augusta saw now how emaciated they were, how their dresses and livery hung moldy and moth-eaten on their thin frames. They were all staring at her.

Augusta looked down at herself. Nothing had happened to her. She was as she had been before: the borrowed breeches and coat, her body within. She alone was untouched. She kneeled by Euterpe’s body and shook it gently.

“Sister,” she said. “Wake up.”

Euterpe fell apart like a rotten log. The inside teemed with life: beetles, maggots, sprouting seeds.

Augusta’s cheeks felt hot and wet. It was hard to breathe.

“Remarkable,” a voice said.

Augusta turned around. Ghorbi.

“You,” Augusta said. “Did you do this?”

“Of course not,” Ghorbi replied. “I merely watched.”

“But all this.” Augusta gestured at the mayhem. “It’s you. It must be you.”

“I think not,” Ghorbi said. “But I have my suspicions. It looked a lot like a play. You were talking in blank verse.”

“I’m not dead.”

“No, you’re not.” Ghorbi paused. “You probably should be. But you’re not.”

Augusta shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s be clear,” Ghorbi said. “You had this coming. Albin survived, did you know? I’m sure he had plans for you.”

“Albin,” Augusta said. “Albin.”

A boy, a page. Insolent. She had killed him. He and Ghorbi must have conspired. She looked at what was left of poor Euterpe, who had only just now danced across the lawn.

“This is all your fault,” Augusta growled. “Yours and Albin’s.”

She threw herself at Ghorbi, who slid out of her way.

“I see you haven’t learned a thing,” Ghorbi said.

Augusta punched at her, but her fist met empty air. She cried out in frustration, and Ghorbi chuckled.

“You’ll see,” Augusta said. “I’ll be like you. I’ll travel the worlds. I’ll be a celebrated guest in every court. And I’ll have my vengeance.”

Ghorbi’s expression grew serious.

“Not like me,” Ghorbi said. “Never like me. You don’t know how to be a guest. You only know how to intrude, to subjugate. You wouldn’t be a guest; you’d be a terrifying invader. In any case…” Ghorbi looked over Augusta’s shoulder. “You’d best hurry.”

Footsteps came through the grass. Augusta turned her head and saw a half-circle of servants closing in on her. Her chest seized with something like fear.

“Help me,” she begged Ghorbi. “For friendship’s sake.”

Ghorbi shook her head. “You are no one’s friend, Augusta.” She took a few steps back.

The servants surrounded Augusta now. They were not at all the cowed children that had once attended the courtiers.

Augusta pointed at the biggest one, a sturdy-looking youth.

“You,” she said, in her lady voice. “Pack me a bag for traveling.”

The servant stared at her, right in the eyes. Then he charged.

Augusta turned around and ran into the forest. Twigs tore at her as she pushed her way through underbrush. Her lungs hurt. Behind her, the ululating cries of the hunt.

The house-carriage sat in the middle of a lawn that had burst into wild growth. In front of it stood a pavilion with the overgrown remains of a divan. Here and there, bone gleamed in wet grass. The sun shone down; clouds were scudding away over the treetops.

“Here we are,” Director said, “frontstage and all, for once.”

“Thank you,” Albin said.

“I can’t see her anywhere,” Albin said. He was pacing the lawn, still wearing Reveler One’s ruined coat. Nearby, Journeyman stepped out of Mnemosyne’s dress and folded it.

Director took her wig off. “Augusta should have perished here with the rest of the Gardens,” she said.

“She’s not here!” Albin replied.

He pointed at the green-clad corpse on the throne, still crowned in laurel. “That’s Mnemosyne. And that’s Euterpe over there, and Walpurgis, and Virgilia… but I don’t see Augusta. Where is she?” His voice rose to a shout.

“Walpurgis,” Dora said.

She picked her way across the lawn to the corpse whose garb was being overrun by tiny flowers. Walpurgis was almost reduced to bones, but the ringlets of his hair were still perfect. Dora bent down and touched them. They came loose from the skull and fell into her hands. It occurred to her that maybe she should grieve for him. But all she felt was tired. Walpurgis had not deserved to be a father.

“Goodbye,” she said to Walpurgis where he lay.

“Why isn’t she here?” Albin said again. “She’s supposed to be! That was the whole idea!”

“What idea, Albin?” Director said in a low voice.

Dora straightened. “Albin wrote the play.”

“You did what?” Nestor said incredulously.