Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

Albin shot Dora an angry glance. “You promised you wouldn’t tell.”

“But you just did,” Dora replied.

“I want to hear it from you, Albin,” Director said slowly, and walked over to where he stood.

Albin swallowed. “I wrote the play. I wrote the play and made Dora put it in your book.”

Nestor rubbed his chin, smearing his Reveler Two makeup. His eyes were hard. “I take it you didn’t join us for the reasons you gave.”

“I didn’t lie,” Albin replied. “Everything I said was true. I have nowhere to go. And I love being an actor.”

“You lied by omission,” Nestor stated.

Journeyman looked at Dora helplessly. “Were you in on this?”

“I promised not to tell,” Dora said.

Director had made it all the way over to Albin now and was staring down at him. Her voice was cold. “Albin,” she said.

Albin looked up at her, hands balled into fists.

“Do you understand what you have done?” Director continued. “Do you understand what it means to write something that did not happen?”

“We are not gods,” Nestor said. “We are a function. We are memory. And memory is not a power to be abused.”

“You used us,” Journeyman said, still looking at Dora. “You used us to alter the fabric of the multiverse.”

“This place is evil!” Albin shouted into Director’s face. “Everything about it is evil! Augusta is a murderer! I did the right thing! And now she isn’t here!” His voice broke. “She isn’t here.”

Director’s expression softened. “I think it’s time you let this go, Albin. Move on with your life. Or this will eat you alive.”

Albin covered his eyes. Dora could see his lips trembling. She walked over to comfort him, but he turned away. She heard him cry with small noises. It made her chest hurt.

“That was the show of a lifetime,” said a voice.

Ghorbi stood at the edge of the lawn, wrapped in her shadowy robes. The sunlight didn’t seem to touch her.

Nestor’s expression turned sour. “You were watching all along?”

“I was,” Ghorbi said. “Hello again, keeper of plays.”

“So that’s Ghorbi,” Journeyman said. “I’ve always wondered.”

Director smiled. “That’s her indeed.”

“Did you come here to congratulate yourself on a game well played?” Nestor said.

Ghorbi looked down at him. “I don’t play games. I just know when I can help and when I can’t. Thank you for returning the favor.”

Nestor sneered. “I’ll bet you were waiting for something really big. These children have had us running back and forth across all the worlds.”

Ghorbi gave him a sad smile. “I did you a favor, a long time ago. I called it in. That is the way of things. You want something that I cannot give. That is why you are angry.”

Unexpectedly, Nestor’s eyes filled with tears. “I just wish you would have loved me back,” he said in a small voice.

“I know,” Ghorbi said. “But I didn’t.”

She turned to the others. “I have business to attend to. I just didn’t want to miss the climax.” She raised an eyebrow at Dora. “I have not forgotten our deal. But your life will be long, and I’m not in a hurry. Be well.”

“Wait,” Albin said. “What became of Augusta?”

“Last I saw, your fellow servants were hunting her,” Ghorbi said. “A beautiful case of poetic justice.”

“So she is dead.”

“I can’t say,” Ghorbi replied. “But I have trouble believing she could outrun that sort of fury.”

Albin looked at his feet.

“Can you be content with that?” Ghorbi asked.

He looked up, and his eyes were hollow. “I’m tired.”

Ghorbi nodded. “Perhaps it is time to begin your own life.”

Then she was gone.

The carriage swayed as it traveled along a stream between worlds. Muted light flickered through the stained-glass windows and danced over the company’s faces. Nestor and Director were staring at the map, speaking in low voices. Director had her playbook out and was pointing to it and then to the map. Journeyman was fussing with pots and pans in the kitchen. Whatever he was making smelled of spices. Albin sat in one of the armchairs, feet dangling over an armrest. Dora sat on the floor next to him. Albin reached down to stroke Dora’s hair.

“It’s grown back,” he said.

“It has,” Dora agreed. “Are you still sad?”

“I am,” Albin replied. “And angry. And heartsick.”

“Will you always be?”

Albin scratched her scalp a little. “I don’t think so. But I have to be for a while. You can’t fix it. Just let me be like that.”

Dora patted his hand. “I will.”

Director and Nestor came over. Director sat down in the chair across from Albin, and Nestor stood next to her with a hand on the backrest. Behind them, Journeyman looked up from the stove.

“We need to talk,” Director said, and her face was set.

Albin’s hand left Dora’s head, and he sat up straight.

Director pointed at Albin. “You did something very stupid,” she said. “You abused our power.”

“What are you going to do?” Albin asked in a small voice. “Are you going to punish me?”

Director shook her head. “No.”

“What you did was idiotic,” Nestor said. “But you have a talent for drama.”

“We would like to offer you a permanent position,” Director continued. “You won’t be writing any more plays, though.”

“I’m going to die soon,” Nestor said conversationally. “Then Director will become Grande Dame, and Journeyman will be Director, and you will be Journeyman. And someone else will be Apprentice.”

“You will make a wonderful Director eventually,” Director said. “I know it.”

Albin sat very still in his chair.

Director rose. “We’ll let you mull it over.”

She and Nestor returned to the map. Journeyman turned his attention back to the cooking pot.

“I don’t know what to do,” Albin said.

“I do,” Dora replied. “You should stay here. This is a good place for you.”

“What do you mean, ‘You should stay’?”

Dora shifted so she could look straight at Albin. What is the word for when you think of where you came from and become sad? Homesick.

“I have followed you all this time,” Dora said, “when you were looking for your name and then looking for Augusta. You protected me in the Gardens, so I protected you outside. But now you’re safe. You’re grown up. You don’t need my protection anymore. And so it’s my turn. I want to go home.”

Albin looked at her, and his eyes glittered. “I know you have to go.”

Dora rose up on her knees and cradled his face in her hands. He was almost a man now, but she could feel his delicate jaw under the beard.

“You can come visit me on the mountain,” she said. “You know where it is.”

“But not frontstage,” Albin replied. “I’ll always be backstage. Watching you.”

“Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Albin shrugged helplessly. “Maybe.”

Dora put her arms around him.

“I can hear your heart,” he mumbled into her chest. “It’s so slow.”

“Tell me a story,” Dora said.

This book took a very long time to write, and I did not walk the road alone.

I would like to thank my parents, Kerstin Leijd-Tidbeck and Göran Tidbeck, who have always lent me their unconditional support. I would also like to thank loved ones, friends, and colleagues who have helped me, inspired me, and given invaluable advice: Patrik Åkervinda, Robin Steen, Anna Eriksson, Elin Gustafsson, Anna-Karin Linder, Fredrik von Post, the Moira crew, Haralambi Markov, Lisa Wool-Rim Sjöblom, Pablo Valcárcel, Rochita Loenen-Ruiz, Leah Thomas, Nahal Ghanbari, Karin Waller, Nene Ormes, the Word Murderers, Christine “Sonya” Malapetsa, Jay Wolf, Sara Bergmark Elfgren, Amal El-Mohtar, Niclas Hell, and Kjell Hedgard Hugaas.