The Curfew (10 page)

One thinks of the age when people died in winter, often, for no reason—or when children simply passed away without explanation or grief.

But is it true? Were they so hard who placed those small bodies in the earth? It is disputed—and though one may say, all is the same and relative, yet still clearly, there are some who are followed in the street by vengeful anger, a clothing they may never remove.

I said—life begins for some when it ends for others and in another century I might have died an infant. What sort of riddle is it to suppose the grief my death would have entailed? Is it not on the ground over that very grave that my life proceeds?

—We tire differently if we love or love not. I was never tired when playing violin. I became exhausted. I fainted occasionally from practicing without eating and drinking. But I was never tired. Now I am almost always tired.

But he wasn’t tired then, was he? No, not at all. He was a bit nervous. He was talking to himself. He passed a few streets, and found the right one.

There were lights on in the windows of the houses. He was in a neighborhood he hadn’t been to before. It was all brick, lane houses and the like. No one was in the street.

He looked at his watch. He was a bit late. But there was the house.

Up the stairs and about to knock.

—HEY! YOU!

A head was sticking out of a window in the house opposite. It was Gerard.

—This is the house, called Gerard.

William crossed the street and went up to the door.

—I thought you said …

—I always give the wrong address, in case I’m overheard. Then I watch for people to come. Knock. Someone’ll let you in. I’m coming down.

He stood there before the house and it was as though someone shouted to him to not go in—as though he was gripped by hands and pulled away—as though,

but rather no one was there. The street was quiet. Was he shaking? There were lights in the windows of this and every other house, of many houses he had seen. Light that comes in bursts and falls. Persisting relentlessly, in showers of sparks. Could it be that light was a false hope and had ever been? That would be the death of anyone—to recognize false hopes with a certainty. One mustn’t know that. If it is offered, refuse!

PART
2

IN THE APARTMENT

—I think that what is most needed for you, young lady, is that a puppet show should be made, and by you, and that my husband he will do a great job of helping you with it, because, do you know, he was making puppets in his old work, although now he does not.

Molly nodded gravely.

—Come on, he’s in here.

The apartment was full of objects: cookie cutters, quilts, photographs of long ago, a sewing machine, a pressing machine, a long pole with metal bands at either end.

Mrs. Gibbons took the pole and put one end in a slot on the ground. The other end she slid into a port on the door.

—You’d need an army to bust down that, said Mrs. Gibbons. Come now.

Molly followed her into the next room, where Mr. Gibbons was sitting in an armchair.

—There’s a job for you, Mr. Gibbons, to help this Molly here to make a puppet show. Now I want you to do it properly as you used to and not spare a thing. It’s a serious matter, you know, and it’s Molly’s first visit here.

—Well, don’t I know my own business, Mrs. Gibbons. Come here, young lady. We’ll sit and talk a moment about what sort of puppet show you want to make.

Molly looked back and forth at Mrs. and Mr. Gibbons. She tried to sign *I don’t speak.

—The poor thing, said Mrs. Gibbons. And me not knowing sign language, either.

—Well, that’s the least of our worries. Here’s a sheet of paper.

Mr. Gibbons produced a pencil and a piece of paper.

—This’ll do just fine, he said. You can sit here, Molly, and let’s talk about this puppet show.

*I am very eager to do the puppet show and also think it’s kind of you to have me here. I and my father are very grateful.

—Oh, it’s nothing at all. You needn’t worry yourself.

Mrs. Gibbons went out of the room and called back in:

—I’ll be coming with something hot to drink in a while, and ask the girl has she had supper.

—Have you had supper, Molly?

*Haven’t.

—Hasn’t, but would like to, I think, Mrs. Gibbons.

—That’ll do, that’ll do.

—A puppet show, said Mr. Gibbons, is a very delicate thing.

He sat on the ottoman across from Molly, and spoke with his hands. His face was reddish colored, and he wore a bathrobe over thick flannel pajamas. His eyes were very blue.

—I should know, he continued. Wasn’t I the impresario of the famous Antediluvian Puppet Brigade? So, if you follow me, we’ll go into the next room, and perhaps you’ll get an idea or two. Be sure to take your paper with. And don’t worry about using it up. Speak your mind. We’ve plenty of paper.

*I think a puppet show about music.

—Music, eh.

Mr. Gibbons’s face assumed a serious expression.

—That’s a large matter, especially now. I’m beginning to see the sort of girl you are.

They went together into the next room.

THE NEXT ROOM

housed at one end a beautiful puppet theater. The windows of the room were covered over with thick drapes that were nailed in at many points. There were about fifteen chairs to compose an audience. The theater was made of wood, and was raised off the ground. There were steps leading up to it from the side. On one wall, to the left of the theater, a long curtain hung. Mr. Gibbons threw it aside.

Many shelves were beneath it. The first shelf held tools of every description. The second held paint, and feathers, bits of fur and wood in shapes and sizes. Also, string in balls and tangles. The third and fourth and fifth and sixth held puppets, oh such puppets as Molly had never seen. There were kings and princes, sheep and lions, dogs and sheep princesses, wolves and mules, wolf kings and fox maids, tailors and churls and musketmen. There were crones and cat crones, wizards and haughty courtiers. But there were no children.

*No children? wrote Molly.

—There are never child-puppets in puppet shows, said Mr. Gibbons. Children must imagine themselves to be all the puppets, and can’t afford to just feel they are the child-puppets. Besides, when disastrous things happen to the other puppets, it is all right, but it is very difficult for children to see disastrous things befall children.

*And animals.

—That’s true, but at least then it stays in the imagination and doesn’t stick in the heart as fear.

Mr. Gibbons had the talent that many puppeteers have of speaking to children as though he believed they were intelligent and could understand a thing or two.

—So, he said. What do you think?

Molly put down the piece of paper and signed for three minutes straight, all the while staring very seriously right at Mr. Gibbons. At the end, she did a little hop, and took up the pencil and paper again.

—I feel I know just what you mean, he said. Well, let’s get started. Here’s how it will go.

HERE’S HOW IT WILL GO

1. You will decide whether your world has animals in it, or people, or both, and whether the animals behave as people or as animals, or as both.

2. You will decide whether there is magic or not, and if there is magic, if anyone knows that there is or not, and if anyone knows about it, whether they tell anyone or not.

3. You will decide how many of the puppets will die, and how, so that we can have it happen at the right spots in the show.

4. You will decide if you want the puppet show to be funny or not. The puppet show will always be sad, but it can also be funny in parts.

5. You will decide if the theme should be: marriage, sickness, enchantment, inheritance, or revenge.

6. You will come up with the name of the villain. All the other names come out of the villain’s name. The villain’s nature, even that comes out of the villain’s name. The only thing that doesn’t come out of the villain’s name is the expression on the face of the puppet which will be our hero or heroine. That we will paint last, when we know everything. It is likely to be a thin smile. That’s my specialty, but we shall see.

7. The puppet show will be in three acts. We will talk about the puppet show forwards, and when we are done talking, we will write the puppet show backwards. Believe me, it is a good method.

8. We will think about extra tactics, like stalling when the puppet show is about to begin, so we can paint the features of audience members onto minor puppet characters as a nice surprise.

Mrs. Gibbons came into the room carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a pile of hot biscuits with butter and honey.

Mr. Gibbons gave his wife an annoyed look.

—We have a great deal to do here, and can’t be bothered with this.

But Molly was already eating the biscuits. Mrs. Gibbons poured the tea into cups and left the room, shutting the door quietly.

Mr. Gibbons set out a variety of puppets for Molly to inspect, all the while humming to himself in a happy way. It was his belief that puppetry was as expressive as ordinary theater, and in fact perhaps more expressive. If one person can control every aspect of the performance, then nothing need be lost. Nothing! He looked up suddenly.

Molly was peering at him across an empty basket where the biscuits had been. An empty teacup was there, an empty pot of honey, and a little plate half full of butter.

She took a napkin from the chair next to her and wiped her hands very deliberately.

*Shall we start?

Mr. Gibbons nodded.