The Memory Theater Page 4

  The shop sat on a corner. On the other side of the window, a man kneaded an enormous lump of dough while a girl took out tray after tray of cakes from a large oven. Augusta tried the door. It was locked. She banged on the glass pane. The girl took off her oven mittens and came to open it. She looked up at Augusta with large, mottled eyes in a slim face.

  “We’re closed,” she said.

  “You will open for me,” Augusta told her in her lady voice, as when addressing a servant, and watched with satisfaction as the girl’s mouth slackened and her eyes became glassy.

  “Of course,” the girl said after a moment. “Come inside.”

  In the little space, there was a counter and a glass cabinet filled to the brim with cakes. The smells in here made Augusta’s mouth water: bread, baking fruits, spices.

  “I want one of everything, and water,” she told the girl.

  The girl obediently took out a small box and filled it, then filled a glass bottle with water and set them both on the counter.

  “Good girl,” Augusta said.

  * * *

  —

  Augusta left with the box and the bottle in her arms. The houses rose higher, stately with elaborate facades. Twice, foul-smelling carriages roared past her, seemingly without anything to pull them. More and more people emerged into the street. They were doughy and mundane little things, most of them with skin like sand, fair or auburn hair sticking out from under the brim of lumpy hats or headscarves. The women walked around in more of those scandalously short dresses that displayed their legs, which would have been interesting if said dresses were not in such excruciatingly dull shades; the men wore ill-fitting short jackets and long trousers. They stared at Augusta. Augusta stared back. She sat down on a bench under a tree to drink the water and eat the pastries. They were delicate and crumbly, some of them filled with berries, others twisted into elaborate shapes. The sun blazed overhead, but Augusta was slowly getting used to it. She let it warm her shoulders as she watched the people passing by. When she was finished, she left the bottle and box on the bench.

  This place was familiar, and yet not. She had hated a place like this and could not say exactly why, but she had her suspicions. It was noisy and smelly and crowded. There were parks, but the trees were stunted and manicured. The paved streets were disturbed by horses and carts, rattling vehicles, and above all, people. The river that flowed through the city looked muddy and cold. And yet, Augusta found herself intrigued. All around her, people scurried like mice, like insects, giving her a wide berth. She wandered the streets until the light softened and her feet hurt.

  There was a side street of rose-trellised wooden houses, away from the hustle and bustle. One of the houses had a door embossed with flowers, and two little porcelain dogs sat in the window. Augusta climbed the steps to the door and pushed down the handle. It was unlocked.

  * * *

  —

  She stepped into a room. An old woman in a dress and an apron was stirring a pot on a stove. A younger woman sat at a table by the window, darning socks. They both looked up as Augusta entered.

  “Who are you?” said the older woman. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to live here now,” Augusta said. “What are your names?”

  The younger woman was meek. “My name is Elsa,” she said.

  The crone frowned and walked over to where Augusta was standing.

  “You won’t have my name,” she said. “Get out. You’re not welcome here.”

  Augusta drew herself up and stared at the woman. “Do as I say.”

  “I…” the crone said, and faltered.

  “You’re going to be trouble,” Augusta said.

  She put her hands around the old woman’s throat and squeezed. When her victim had stopped struggling, she turned to the girl.

  “Elsa. You are my maid now.”

  Elsa dragged her mother’s corpse into a chamber next to the kitchen. She sobbed all the while, but she did not resist Augusta. She showed Augusta to a small room with a bathtub, which she filled with warm water that miraculously came out of the wall.

  “How marvelous,” Augusta said. “How does that work?”

  “It’s just water,” Elsa mumbled. “I don’t know.”

  While Augusta washed herself, she made Elsa answer questions. The city was called Uppsala, and someone named Gustaf the Fifth was king. A country called Germany was making war, invading its neighbors. The Germans might come here or they might not. Times were hard.

  When Augusta had dried off, Elsa showed her into a larger bedchamber and opened an armoire. Augusta waved away the flimsy dresses Elsa presented her with. Finally, Elsa opened another door and took out a black suit of the same strange cut Augusta had seen the men wear in the street.

  “This was Father’s Sunday best,” Elsa said, and her eyes watered a little.

  “It will do,” Augusta said, and put it on.

  She looked at herself in the mirror on the armoire’s door. It showed a woman completely devoid of interesting details and scents. Her hair was still wet and hung almost straight down. And her face, her face. Pages had always adorned it with artful designs, to suit a noble of good taste. Without them, her face seemed empty: the round eyes had no edges, the broad cheekbones that invited swirls lay bare; her mouth was like a half-healed wound. No lord or lady even in their most extravagant stupors had ever gone with a naked face.

  “Where are your paints?” Augusta demanded.

  “I have this,” Elsa said, and held up a stick of fuchsia-colored wax.

  “It will do,” Augusta said, and rubbed some onto strategic spots. Much better.

  “Now feed me,” she told Elsa. “Then tell me where to find learned men and women.”

  7

  They found themselves on a cracked plain that stretched out in all directions. The sand had disappeared, and Dora was standing on mud that had dried and split. The sky above them was wide like a fishpond. Something like an inverted sun hung up there, an empty disc surrounded by a blinding corona. Thistle had sat down on the ground, panting heavily, elbows resting on his knees. He gave Dora a strained smile as she crouched next to him.

  “What happens now?” Thistle said from the ground.

  “I couldn’t let them have you,” Ghorbi said. “And I can’t just leave you here. This is a crossroads between worlds.”

  Thistle stood up. He was almost breathing normally now. “You can take us to where Augusta is.”

  “I suppose I could, theoretically,” Ghorbi said. “Except I don’t know where she went. Possibly to Earth, from whence you all came. Possibly to one of the other realms. But there are many, so many. She may have ended up anywhere.” She tapped her chin with a long fingernail. “I could direct you to someone who might help you.”

  “Do it,” Dora said. “Please.”

  Ghorbi was quiet for a moment. “I don’t hand out favors left and right. I have already helped Thistle twice, out of the goodness of my heart. But everything comes with a price.”

  “We have nothing,” Thistle said.

  Ghorbi looked down at him, and her eyes flickered. “Will you repay me later?”

  Thistle nodded. “Yes. Anything.”

  “Anything,” Ghorbi said. “I will keep this in mind.”

  Ghorbi strode off toward a structure in the distance. Dora and Thistle followed. She could see the silhouettes of people.

  “Is that where Augusta is?” Thistle asked.

  “No. This is where you come to go somewhere else.”

  * * *

  —

  Inside a chest-high stone enclosure, wooden stalls were lined up in two neat rows. At each table, a strange-looking person was busy pressing buttons on a box or writing on paper and tablets. The people were bald, with skin that reminded Dora of ashes; their eyes were huge and their lim
bs long. They were swaddled in lengths of gauzy, colorless fabric. Very long toes peeked out from under the hem of their robes.

  When Dora and Thistle caught up with Ghorbi, she was waiting in front of one of the tables. On it sat a sphere as big as Dora’s head, out of which keys stuck out at odd angles. The person behind the desk was busy with the sphere, muttering to itself.

  “Who are they?” Dora asked.

  “Traffic controllers,” Ghorbi said. “They direct whoever comes here to where they need to go.” She smiled. “They have always been here. Perhaps they are little gods. Benign ones, mind you.”

  The traffic controller finished whatever it was doing, then looked up at Ghorbi and nodded. It spoke a long stream of crisp syllables in a hoarse voice. Ghorbi replied in the same language. The other pointed at Dora and Thistle. Ghorbi said something else, the tone of her voice rising at the end of the sentence. She got a single vowel in reply.

  Thistle sat down on the ground again.

  Dora sank down next to him and put her arm around his shoulders. “Are you tired?”

  “I feel like I haven’t slept for days. And I’m hungry and thirsty.”

  Thistle rested his head against her shoulder. Dora closed her eyes and let the sounds wash over her: talk, clicks, quills rasping on paper.

  She came to with a start when Ghorbi touched her shoulder.

  “It’s time to go,” Ghorbi said.

  Thistle rubbed his eyes. “Where are we going?”

  “I asked them if they’ve seen Augusta, but she hasn’t been through here. I couldn’t find out where she is now, but I know of some people who might be able to locate her. I’ll show you to the realm where you might find them.”

  Ghorbi helped Dora and Thistle to their feet.

  “We’re hungry,” Dora said.

  Ghorbi paused. “Ah.” She went over to one of the stalls and conferred with one of the traffic controllers, then came back.

  “They are willing to sell you food,” she said. “For a price. It’s steep. Direction is free, but food isn’t.”

  “We don’t have anything to pay them with,” Thistle said.

  Ghorbi nodded at Dora. “They want your hair.”

  “Oh,” Dora said.

  “Are you very attached to it?”

  Dora shrugged.

  “Dora, no,” Thistle said.

  “I’m hungry,” Dora replied. “So are you.”

  “Come,” Ghorbi said.

  Dora followed her. At the stall, the traffic controller babbled excitedly and took out a very sharp-looking knife. Up close, the creature smelled like smoke. It grabbed hold of Dora’s hair and deftly cut it off, strand after white strand, close to her scalp. When it was done, a neatly ordered heap of hair lay on the table. Dora touched her head. It felt light, free. Next to her, Thistle looked devastated.

  “You’re bald,” he said.

  Dora laughed. “I like this,” she said. “It feels good.”

  The traffic controller nodded and gathered Dora’s hair into a small box, then bent down and rummaged under the table. It placed an opaque bottle and an object wrapped in waxy paper in front of Dora. It bowed and said something.

  “This is from its private stores,” Ghorbi said. “It offers the food to you with many thanks.”

  Dora opened the package. It contained what looked like a cake. She broke off a piece and put it in her mouth. It was chewy and tasted vaguely like dried fruit. She handed another piece to Thistle.

  “It’s all right,” she said.

  Thistle hesitated, then crammed the cake into his mouth.

  The liquid in the bottle was water with a metallic taste. Dora drank half of it and gave the rest to Thistle. She felt better. Thistle looked better, too.

  “Now, then,” Ghorbi said. “Let’s go.”

  They walked to another opening in the wall, and through it onto the baked-mud plain.

  “It looks just the same,” Dora said.

  “Does it?”

  Ghorbi pointed at the ground. A single blade of yellow grass stuck up, waving in a faint breeze.

  “This is as far as I go. Just keep walking in that direction, straight ahead, until you see tall trees and statues guarding a city made of stone. You are looking for a theater troupe. They come there often.”

  Thistle frowned. “But why aren’t you coming with us?”

  Ghorbi shook her head. “The people you are about to see won’t welcome me.”

  “Why?” Thistle asked.

  “It’s a long story.” Ghorbi smiled wistfully. “Once upon a time, I saved one of them. He fell in love with me and wanted me to stay. But I am a traveler, and so I left, and it broke his heart. He has been angry ever since.”

  “I’m sorry,” Thistle said.

  Ghorbi chuckled. “Don’t be sorry for me. He’s the one who couldn’t let go. That’s why I don’t hand out favors anymore. It creates bonds that are hard to break.”

  She kissed each of them on the forehead. “You’ll do just fine. If ever there is an emergency, sing the song I sang, and it will bring you here. Do you remember it?”

  Thistle nodded.

  “Good,” Ghorbi said. “Now go.”

  8

  Augusta found her way to the university, which Elsa had said was populated by scholars. She wandered the grounds, cornering students and professors, until three officious-looking men told her to leave. Too much attention might not be good. These people were no use anyway; no one knew of the Gardens, and no one was an adept of the mystical arts.

  Instead, she took to the streets at night, when the air smelled of damp stone and dewy flowers. She walked through the cemetery, where mausoleums and proud obelisks spoke of poets and philosophers. She climbed the stairs to the castle and waited for the rising sun to tint its towers rose. Then she went back to her house with the flowery door and slept.

  * * *

  —

  It went on like this for a few days and nights: days spent sleeping, nights spent walking. Until, as she sat for the sunrise by the castle, the bench shifted under the weight of another person.

  “You look lost, madam.”

  The voice was a mellow tenor or an alto, neither particularly male nor female. It belonged to a slender figure impeccably dressed in a three-piece tweed suit and a hat with a rounded crown. The stranger’s skin was smooth and lustrous in the morning light, like a well-thumbed leather book cover, and lay in deep folds between nose and mouth. Despite the fact that they had addressed her formally, there was something eerily frank about how they looked at her.

  “Perhaps,” Augusta replied.

  The stranger nodded. “For how long?”

  Augusta shrugged.

  “Not sure?” the stranger said. “I have seen you walking around town,” they continued. “Wandering, always wandering. I followed you here. You look out of place. Where are you from?”

  Augusta scoffed. “What would you know? Go away.”

  She had used her lady voice, and yet the stranger didn’t move.

  “That kind of magic will not work on me,” they said calmly. “Now, where are you from?”

  The stranger’s gaze was much too direct. Augusta had an impulse to poke their eyes out. The stranger’s hand on her own made her aware that she had actually almost done so.

  “I am a lady of the Gardens,” Augusta said. “Unhand me.”

  The stranger’s hand squeezed hers a little, enough that she could feel that it was much stronger than her own, then let go. “You are not the first to pass through,” they said.

  Augusta shrunk back, cradling her hand. “That’s not nice,” she muttered.

  The stranger merely smiled. “You will have to control yourself better. One can’t assault people if one doesn’t like what they’re doing here. Not me, nor anyone else.” />
  Augusta blinked. “Why?”

  “It can get you in trouble. Now, for introductions.” The stranger tipped their hat. “You may call me Pinax.”

  “I see,” Augusta said.

  Pinax looked at her expectantly.

  “You may call me the Most Honorable Augusta Prima,” Augusta said. “And you may address me as ‘your ladyship.’ ”

  “I would prefer not to, but fair enough.”

  Augusta snorted. Pinax seemed to be waiting for her to speak. She forced herself to sit still on the bench, that thing which was called waiting. Stay and do nothing while time passed. All this time that ran off and disappeared. She could feel her body rotting from the inside out.

  “You say I am not the first,” she said eventually, mostly because she couldn’t bear the silence anymore.

  Pinax nodded. “That’s right, your ladyship.”

  “I know nothing of anyone leaving.”

  “That’s the nature of your people, though, isn’t it? To not remember. To live the same evening over and over again.”

  Augusta drew herself up. “I remember.”

  “How much?”

  “I found a thing under the dog-rose bush…” She hesitated.

  Pinax waited, quietly.

  “A thing under the dog-rose bush,” Augusta repeated, lamely. “I found a corpse. It had a watch.”

  “And then?”

  “I showed the watch to my page, and he told me about time. And I wanted to see if time really passed in the Gardens.”

  “And did it?”