Карин Тидбек - The Memory Theater

“Hello, Dora,” she said, with a deep voice that crackled.

“Hello, Ghorbi,” Dora replied.

Ghorbi walked over to where Dora and Thistle were standing. She raised one of her large hands and caressed Dora’s cheek. When she spoke, her breath was hot and dry.

“I’m visiting the lady Mnemosyne on business, so I thought I’d have a look at you. You’re almost a woman now. Nearly as tall as I. Big and strong, hair like white feathers, eyes dark as the earth. Truly a daughter of the mountain.”

Her smile waned as she looked Dora over.

“You’re filthy,” she said. “Doesn’t your father take care of you?”

“Thistle takes care of me,” Dora said.

“Walpurgis doesn’t want her,” Thistle added.

Ghorbi looked down at Thistle. “Who are you, little page?”

“This is Thistle,” Dora said. “I call him my brother.”

“And why doesn’t Walpurgis want you, Dora?” Ghorbi asked.

Dora looked down at her feet.

Ghorbi frowned. “Your father made a promise,” she said. “If he didn’t keep it, the deal is off. I fetched him his daughter, against payment and his promise to care for her. If he didn’t, she would be free.”

“Free?” Dora asked.

“I can show you the way out,” Ghorbi said. “You can take care of yourself.”

“I won’t leave without Thistle,” Dora said. “Augusta has his name.”

Ghorbi tilted her head and frowned. “I can’t do much about that,” she said. “Thistle’s case is none of my business. I’m sorry.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” Thistle asked. “There must be something.”

“I’m a trader, child,” Ghorbi said. “I don’t take sides. I can’t interfere with an agreement that I’m not a part of, as much as it may sadden me. There are many terrible things in the multiverse, and it’s not in my power to save everyone and everything.”

“Have you seen what they do to us?” Thistle asked. “Have you really?”

“What do you mean?” Ghorbi said.

“They cut us,” Thistle said. “Then they kill us and eat us. And Augusta is the worst of them. I will be next.”

Ghorbi was quiet for a long moment, and the flame in her gaze intensified. Then she said, “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“So do something,” Thistle said. “Help us.”

“I will listen and learn,” Ghorbi said. “And see what I can see.”

She patted Thistle’s shoulder. “I must go. The lady Mnemosyne will be waking up soon.”

The sharp note of a flute cut through the air: the first servant had woken up and signaled to the rest that it was time to prepare the next feast.

Lady Augusta straightened her coat and flipped her curled hair over her shoulders. She was standing with the others in the statuary grove where tonight’s feast had been laid out. On the marble dais at the center, Mnemosyne sat on her throne. A high-backed chair stood next to the throne, on which sat that strange purple-faced woman, Ghorbi, wrapped in her shadowy robes. She and Mnemosyne were engaged in quiet conversation, heads leaning toward each other. Every so often, Ghorbi would look at the gathered nobles and flash them a jagged smile.

Everyone else was uncharacteristically quiet. They just didn’t know what to say. Walpurgis fidgeted and drank from a bottle in his hand; Cymbeline and Virgilia were fiddling with each other’s dresses; Euterpe was nervously clearing her throat. Mnemosyne acted as if Ghorbi was a regular guest, and she did seem familiar… but at the same time profoundly alien.

Eventually, Mnemosyne drew away from Ghorbi and clapped her hands.

“My darlings!” she said. “It is time to dance. Let us show our guest how we celebrate youth and beauty.”

As one, the crowd divided into two lines. A lively beat began to play, and the dancers joined hands across the divide. The party had begun.

All through the dance and the revels, Augusta kept an eye on Ghorbi. The traveler stayed in her seat next to the throne, watching the revelers with an expression that seemed amused and contemptuous at the same time. She knew things. Augusta was sure of it. Strange things. She must know about “time.” As Mnemosyne left the dais to join the dance and the others gathered around her in a circle, Augusta walked away from the crowd and sidled up to the dais.

Ghorbi turned her face toward Augusta, and the pupils of her eyes reflected the lantern light.

“Who might you be, then?” she asked.

“I am the lady Augusta Prima,” Augusta said, and inclined her head.

Ghorbi narrowed her eyes. “Augusta Prima. Your reputation precedes you.”

Augusta smiled in satisfaction. “Of course.”

“And what is on your mind, Augusta Prima?”

“I would like to have a conversation,” Augusta said. “About things that you might know.”

“Aha,” Ghorbi replied.

Augusta looked at the dancers. “But not here. Would you come to my pavilion?”

Ghorbi nodded. “Yes.”

“Follow the servant,” Augusta said.

Some servant Augusta couldn’t name stood at the edge of the dance floor with a tray in his hand. He twitched as Augusta came close.

“You will show the traveler to my bower,” Augusta said. “Take a detour. I don’t want the others to know where you’re going. I will be waiting there for you.”

“Yes, my lady,” the servant said with his eyes fixed on the tray.

Augusta smoothed a stray lock of hair out of his face. “You look nice,” she said. “Good.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the servant said.

Augusta flipped his tray over and left the dance floor.

It wasn’t long before Ghorbi arrived. Standing up, she filled the doorway.

“What do you want to talk about?” she asked.

Augusta dug the locket out of her pocket and opened it. “This.”

“Yes?” Ghorbi said.

“This is a watch.”

“Yes.”

“I have been trying to measure time here and there. Sometimes it passes, and sometimes it does not. Or perhaps it is the watch. I don’t know.”

Ghorbi was quiet for a second. Then she said, “Ah.”

Augusta looked up at her. “I want you to tell me the truth about time and the world.”

Ghorbi’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “You might get in trouble.”

“I need to know,” Augusta said. “I cannot bear not knowing.”

“Let me ask you for some information in return,” Ghorbi said. “That is my price.”

“Ask,” Augusta replied.

“Thistle,” Ghorbi said. “And the other children. Do you torture them?”

Augusta blinked. “Torture?”

“Torture,” Ghorbi said. “Do you cut them?”

Augusta shrugged. “Of course. But it’s not torture. It’s art.”

Ghorbi pursed her lips. “Does it not bother you that they are children?”

“They’re servants, ” Augusta replied. “They belong to us.”

“I see,” Ghorbi said. “Very well. I have what I need.”

“Your turn,” Augusta said.

“Indeed,” Ghorbi said, and beckoned Augusta closer. “Listen carefully.”

When Ghorbi had left, Augusta felt faint. She sat down at her desk and grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen. She was in such a rush that she dribbled ink all over the paper. She filled sheet after sheet, everything she could find. When she had obliterated the pen nib, she grabbed a stick of charcoal and drew images of what Ghorbi had told her. It was all there. It all made sense.

“Augusta,” someone said behind her. “My child.”

Augusta twisted around in her chair. Mnemosyne stood in the middle of the room. Her ivy dress fluttered around her like branches in a breeze; the laurel wreath was tangled in her honey-colored hair. Never before had the lady visited Augusta’s bower.