Aleksandar Hemon - Best European Fiction 2013

– That’s not an actor, it’s a mannequin.

– No, no, it’s an actor.

– Touch him, you’ll see.

– I wouldn’t dare.

– Remind me who wrote this play?

– It’s another one by that Damploune, whose pieces are playing almost everywhere these days. They’re never very cheerful, but this one sounds promising!

– If I’d known…

– Grand Froid ! You can see where he got the title!

– It’s even colder in here than outside.

– They’re saying it’s minus twenty tonight.

– Let’s hope this doesn’t last too long. My teeth are chattering already.

The lights had been lowered, but the performance failed to begin. A fine white powder, a sort of light sleet, perhaps even genuine sleet, or a feathery, almost impalpable snow, like that which covered the extras, or mannequins, had begun to sift down from the ceiling onto laps and shoulders.

– You can’t see where it’s falling from, they’ve snuffed out all the lights up there.

– It’s as cold as real snow.

– But it is real snow, I assure you.

– Let’s not exaggerate.

– My feet are already frozen.

Very quickly it became almost impossible to distinguish the extras from the spectators, unless one of the latter happened to fidget a bit, so that there slid from his lap or his shoulders a minute amount of that frozen powder, that sleet, that almost impalpable snow, which had gradually covered everything: the extras and the audience, the seats, the floor, the carpeting in the aisles, everything, all of it now veiled by a slightly glimmering layer of white, while the stage remained in darkness. Several spectators, in increasingly timid whispers, exchanged a few more words:

– We’ve got to get out of here.

– It isn’t possible.

– Yes it is, no one could stop us.

– I wouldn’t dare.

– I’m so cold, I’m going to get sick.

Finally, after what had felt like an interminable wait, there came something like an enormous silent rupture. Up front, where the stage should have been, a street appeared, a street with slightly melancholy lamps, a street covered with snow, a street where it was still snowing, where it never stopped snowing, a street empty and cold and of seemingly infinite depth; out of which there emerged, to the great stupefaction of the audience, squealing across the snow, all of its ancient metal rattling, an almost antediluvian streetcar, slowly advancing toward the auditorium: an antediluvian streetcar likewise skinned with snow.

– Do you see that old tram? It’s magnificent!

– Unbelievable: it’s a real street, not a set.

– Are you sure?

– Don’t you feel that wind?

– I can’t feel much of anything. I’m still too cold.

– In theory, there shouldn’t be wind in a theater.

– In theory…

The old streetcar looked so exhausted, it seemed to have come from the farthest of far-flung faubourgs , from those frozen and deserted suburbs where the avenues dwindle and lose themselves in almost infinite extension. It crept toward the audience, magnifying little by little, like some strange white caterpillar crawling out of the depths of time, and finally halted a scant three meters from the first row of spectators; its windows were flocked with frost, nothing of its interior could be distinguished.

The streetcar had stopped, but its doors did not open. In the auditorium and on the street that had taken the place of the stage, another long silence descended.

– It’s just like Damploune, that.

– All the same, it’s crazy!

– I don’t want to stay here. I’ve been sitting in the cold, at a show I don’t understand at all. Let’s go.

– Impossible, how can you want to leave?

– I’m afraid.

– That’s absurd, there’s no reason.

Then, approaching the front of the stage at a slow trot—at a pace so dragging, so seemingly fatigued, that one might have imagined they too were emerging from the depths of time—there came a group of men dressed in heavy fur coats identical to those worn by the extras in the audience, coats whitened by snow, or that white powder that so perfectly imitated snow. At irregular intervals, and according to some quite unguessable logic, each of these men would stop for a moment, draw a revolver from the pocket of his coat, aim with an extended arm, fire in the direction of the old streetcar, and then resume the chase.

When the first of these pursuers had arrived within about ten meters of the vehicle, they stopped; they were soon rejoined by their fellows, and a few moments later stood side by side, forming a line which blocked the whole breadth of the street, each of them motionless in his heavy fur coat covered with snow, or white powder. Once more a silence invaded the street and the theater, a deathly silence, descending on utter immobility.

– Do you think this is going to last long? Nothing’s happening.

– I don’t know what they’re waiting for.

– That’s enough. This time it’s certain, I’m going.

– How are you going to do it?

– I don’t see how they can stop me from leaving the theater. I’m going, that’s all there is to it.

– Me, I wouldn’t dare.

– Your mistake. Bonsoir .

The audience member had risen, was requesting with a gesture that his left-hand seatmate shift a bit to let him pass, when an echoing voice rang out from behind him:

– Halt! Where are you going?

It was the extra seated to his right, who had risen as well, causing some of the white powder or snow that covered him to fall. He’d drawn a revolver from his pocket and was threatening the fugitive, who, at the sound of his voice, had stopped cold.

– Where are you off to? Answer!

– But… Monsieur…

Again, there was a murmuring some three rows up: –

They’ve hidden actors among the audience as well.

– The runaway? No, no, I know that fellow, he isn’t an actor, he’s a tax official.

– Are you sure… ?

– Yes, yes, I’m telling you.

The whole theater had turned toward the man attempting to leave, and the one who was threatening him—not just the audience but, even more surprisingly, the extras in their fur coats as well, who had risen to their feet as one a few moments after their colleague, letting a bit of the snow or white powder that covered them sift to the floor. Each of them held a revolver, also pointed in the fugitive’s direction. The extra with the echoing voice repeated:

– I told you to answer.

– I wanted to leave… the other began in a hesitant tone. But he did not continue.

For at that precise instant the sound of a violin became audible—a marvelous music, an air of such exquisite purity that it seemed to be emerging from another world. Two steps from the old streetcar there appeared to the spectators a young woman dressed in a superb white fur coat, followed by a violinist playing as he walked. Perhaps they’d stepped from one of the tall houses lining the street, whose gray façades gleamed softly in the cold. They advanced toward the audience; then, leaving the street, they entered the theater, finally reaching the row where the man who had wanted to leave, and the one who’d prevented him, were still standing. The violin’s tone quavered like a magic crystal in the frosty air of the theater.

– You desire, Monsieur, to leave our show, said the young woman in a slightly histrionic tone. It’s possible, of course—but you should know that it will entail certain risks, certain dangers. Follow me, if you will.

– Listen, I…

– Since you’ve expressed the wish to leave our show, follow me. I’m here to attempt to satisfy you.

– It’s so cold, and I thought…