The Curfew (13 page)

They were finishing their painting of the figures. They had been hours at it, or mostly Mr. Gibbons, who was an expert, and could fix a figure at a moment’s notice and with no effort whatsoever. Meanwhile, Molly wrote the dialogue, the scenes, and slipped them back and forth for Mr. Gibbons’s approval. They were doing it backwards as he had said, backwards, except for the final scene. It was the compromise they had reached.

There was a mouse whose face had been given the features of Molly, a mouse dressed in a yellow slip.

There was a man and he had been cleverly painted. He really did look like William, and Molly said as much.

Two bird-puppets bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr. and Mrs. Gibbons.

A wolf with a crown had been Molly’s final, and most difficult, choice. She had run back to her apartment to fetch a photograph from her father’s desk. Now it was a she-wolf, in a long dress, and it looked like Molly’s mother.

*I don’t remember her very well.

—That’s all right. You remember who she was, and your father has spoken of her.

*He told me all about her.

—I know he has.

And so the work continued.

—The motion of the puppets, Mr. Gibbons explained, is too complicated to teach now. You will have to be satisfied with my doing it. After all, you wrote it all down, everything, and I understand it well. I have the voices as they are, and for the Molly-marionette, we have the boards.

There were boards on which was written each portion of the dialogue of Molly’s puppet. They would slide out at the appropriate time.

Molly had been so caught up in the preparations for the play that she was astonished to find, when she turned around, that many of the seats of the theater were now full. Mrs. Gibbons had placed life-size puppets of various kinds throughout.

—Every theater, said Mr. Gibbons, must have an audience, no matter how small.

The lights dimmed.

—Seats, everyone.

Molly sat in the front. The theater rose up before her and engaged her entire field of view. A fine curtain hung across it. Gilt edges ran the length through the poised air. The wood was painted in expectation of certain delight, and that very delight and longing ran all through her as though she believed that answers might be found. If her father would return soon, it might well be through the agency of puppets as well as anything. It might certainly. Might it not?

—Seats!

Mrs. Gibbons settled herself in the back row.

—A LADDER OF RAIN AND THE ROOF BEYOND, a play by Molly Drysdale (mostly) and Siegfried Gibbons (hardly).

Molly’s hand was signing something beneath the chair, but it could not be observed.

It was now early in the morning and William still had not returned.

PART
3

A

LADDER

OF RAIN

AND

THE

ROOF

BEYOND

A horse rides in on a horse’s back. It is dressed as a colonial soldier. The movements of the horse are exactly like those of a horse.

—Those who know me not, know this, said the horse: there are things that must be said, and this is how we say them: without regard to safety, and saving nothing for last. Else the fire cannot last the night.

The horse rides away.

A voice says:

Louisa is approaching a small window that has been cut into a wall. She looks back. She appears to be sneaking. Her life has been so far a happy one. Educated at the best schools, given the best things, taken to the best restaurants. Journeyed abroad. An owner of horses. Taken up in airplanes. Rail travel. Widely read. She felt as many well-brought-up people do that her life is a collection, that she is always collecting. She is also very brave and although rather weak, objectively, is physically tough by virtue of a fierce will. She had once cut herself in a shop while looking at hunting knives. Instead of saying anything, she just put her hand in her pocket. Halfway home someone made her take it out and found that it was covered in blood. Her pocket was soaked. Rather than hurt, she was just embarrassed.

Louisa approaches the window. It is really very small. She looks through the window. It is not the sort of window that divides indoors from outdoors, but rather that more secretive sort of window which privileges one room over another. Into a grand auditorium she peers. A figure is on the stage. Over her shoulder, we can just see through the window the vastness of the room beyond.

CURTAIN

A grand auditorium. William stands, not on one foot, not on two. His feet appear to be bearing his weight, but it isn’t true. In fact, all his attention is on the violin in his hands, which he is about to play. He looks up at a small window cut into the back corner of the room. Someone in the back of the audience is whispering, and this is what they say:

This is an auditorium without seats. There is a stage and fine carpeting, a place for seats, but no seats. There is tiering, and avenues up to doors, footlights. There is a figure at the window. She shouldn’t be here.

CURTAIN

Several scenes then in which Louisa and William become acquainted with each other. She is the daughter of a prominent politician. He is a musical prodigy from humble origins. He is gentle and dark and unrelenting. She is witty and playful. Her speech is littered with references to philosophical figures and instead of arguing a point she will sometimes choose to point out that so-and-so has already shown that concept to be fallacious. She is an expert horticulturist, a hobby of her mother’s that she took on as a child. She, however, has never mentioned this to William. He is desperately in love with her. They meet in odd places. They eat supper on the floor of the room he lives in. He sneaks into her house at night. They are daring and hopeful. They expect that they will soon be married.

Molly’s mouth is open slightly. Her posture is raised, expectant. The theater could not be so many things, and yet it is. The puppetry is beyond all expectation. Who could believe that the puppets are not alive, that their movements do not originate there in their wooden frames beneath their finely sewn garments, their fur, their feathers? One has always understood what a puppet looks like, what it can do. But this is not that. Is it possible, wonders Molly, for the finest things to be hidden? To be hidden and never shared?

There was a light rainfall and then it cleared. The threat of the storm was such that everyone decided to stay in all day. Only two people went out of their houses. William was one of them. Louisa was the other. They had decided to go out in the rain, but there was no rain to go out in.

A sort of one-room schoolhouse. Out of it comes William. He walks to the front of the stage and sits on a bench. He is looking down at Molly. He appears very much to be her father. Behind her, the puppets in the audience shift uneasily in their seats. Mrs. Gibbons coughs. The schoolhouse has gone and now there is the entrance to a ferryboat. Louisa disembarks. She says, to no one in particular,

—I was not on a boat. I wanted merely to avoid pursuit.

Her walk is extremely graceful and menacing. She has the aspect of a wolf.

Molly remembers this, although she remembers little else.

Louisa sits on the bench beside William. They look well together. Light clapping from the audience.

—My conductor believes I should practice the most difficult parts by the lions’ cage of the zoological enclosure.

—Have you tried it?

—Each time I become drastically better.

—Do you pay attention to their faces?

—The lions’ faces?

Louisa is carrying something. It is a package of some sort. William becomes aware of it. They speak regarding the package. He takes it in his hands and opens it. On the stage, the puppet actually manages to utilize his appendages in order to open a sealed package using a small knife. Inside the package is a hat. He puts it on.

—In the band of the hat, says Louisa, is written the place of our next meeting.

She kisses him. They go off in opposite directions.

And …

In the distance, a crowd is waiting, painted onto the scenery. It is composed of everyone they will ever meet. Not a single person in the crowd can see the others, and they stand quietly, weight drifting idly from one foot to the other.

CURTAIN

The floor of the theater is painted like the ceiling of the sky as seen from above. The veiled puppet appears onstage.

Molly sits up straight. She looks around. The puppets behind her are all intent on the stage. Mrs. Gibbons’s eyes do not stray either. A little light is at the edge of the shuttered window. Molly looks at her feet. She looks up at the stage again. The veiled jester is watching her.

—Molly, he says. The play must continue.

He gestures for the curtain to fall and it does. It opens again and the jester is gone. In his place is a grove of trees.

William and Louisa enter. It is somehow clear that Louisa is pregnant. They have been married and living together in a fine and upstanding fashion while William’s concert career blossoms. Meanwhile, Louisa meets various disreputable intellectuals for confusing theoretical conversations. Both are happy. They are carrying a trunk. William has a shovel. He digs a hole and they bury the trunk.

—Our child will one day learn of this and find this place and gain possession of many of the key treasures of our early life.

They throw the dirt over. Louisa’s skirt becomes filthy. She makes a joke about it, but William does not laugh. He is peering into the underbrush to be sure no one has seen the burial. He feels they are being watched.

CURTAIN

Someone is singing very quietly. Louisa is sitting by a cradle. The house is very much like an owl, or like the house of an owl. Through the window a soft light obscures her features. A door can be heard opening deeper in the house. Footsteps. The door to this room opens.

ENTER WILLIAM

—My dear, it took so long. I couldn’t get away. The others didn’t have their part exactly right, and you know how Werz is. He wouldn’t let them off the hook. So we all had to sit there.

He and Louisa look down into the cradle. The cradle is empty. Molly is traveling towards it, but has not yet arrived.

—Do you know, whispers William, that when I was a young man I would never stay the full length of anything? I would go to a show and leave partway through. I would slip out of dinner parties, evening parties, breakfasts. I’d slip out and just wander off down the street, extremely happy. It became a sort of joke among my friends, but they could do nothing to stop it. I’m sure I offended some people, but they were probably people I didn’t like in the first place.

The person is still singing, and begins to sing louder. It is impossible to say what the person is singing. William and Louisa can no longer be heard, although they are plainly speaking. Molly struggles to hear what they are saying, but she cannot. This part of her childhood is lost for a second time. She is on the edge of her seat.

The puppet show proceeds rapidly through the exposition. Molly cannot yet walk; she must be carried. Later, perhaps she can walk a bit. She and William and Louisa are often to be seen in the parks and on the long avenues. As they walk, the trees bend towards them, the grass stands up on long legs, the air convenes and disperses, making light breezes and zephyrs.

A man in a blue hat, Lawrence, comes to visit one day. The set is dark. It is the middle of the night. There is a knocking. A light comes on. Louisa gets out of bed. She walks down the set through various hallways and stairs, trailing the thinnest of marionette wires. At the bottom, the door and on it a fine brass knob. She touches it with her hand and makes as if to turn it.

—Who’s there?

—Louisa, it’s me. It’s beginning. You have to get out of here. I’m leaving myself. Tell William. The musicians will be among the first to go. I’m sure of it. And you, certainly you know they’ll never let you off.

She opens the door. The sight of a man in a blue hat confronts her. It is, in fact, Lawrence.

William joins them at the door.

—Lawrence, what are you talking about?

—News from out of town. They’ve set the congress on fire. The whole thing’s begun. The army is with them. The whole thing’s done. It’s useless.

Lawrence runs out into the street. In the distance, the sound of something hitting a tin can.

Mr. Gibbons’s face comes around the side of the house, impossibly large. He addresses the audience:

—That should be gunfire. My apologies. Please recognize it as gunfire. Once more.

He disappears. Lawrence is again at the door. Louisa is composed, but extremely disturbed. William looks angry.

—News from out of town. They’ve set the congress on fire. The whole thing’s begun. The army is with them. The whole thing’s done. It’s useless.

Lawrence runs out into the street. He is holding his blue hat in his left hand. In the distance, the sound of gunfire.

William wraps an arm around Louisa. They shut the door. There is a painting there, and it draws the eye. The two pause there to inspect it, as if the answers lie therein.

It is a painting of a battle. There are rows of men with bright uniforms. There are cannon. Places have been dug out to foil the cavalry. Bodies are strewn between the various positions. The sky is bright in the distance, but dark overhead. A vulture is crouching on a colonel in such a way that it seems perhaps the vulture is the colonel. Nonetheless, it appears that the colonel is doing a marvelous job. He has won the battle. Why? The eyes of his troops are fierce and the others are as pale as mirrors. One can easily imagine the vast and beautiful columns of reinforcements arriving out of the east. The sound as they pound the road, as they draw nearer and nearer.

But for us there is no help, thinks William. He cannot say it, not to his wife. If he should do so, even once, it would immediately be true.

A voice:

—The next day conducted itself as usual; nothing had changed. There was no report of anything. Another day passed and another. A month passed. And then one day, soldiers marching up and down the streets. People hanged from telephone wires. The edicts posted. Interrogations of every kind along with new assignments of work. The whole thing turned on its head. The body of Lawrence found in a ditch outside town. He had lain there a long time before he was found. Compulsory attendance at so-called Section Meetings. A census conducted house by house. William and Louisa accepted the situation as best they could. William’s instrument was taken. The symphony was no more. It was turned into a courtroom. There was suddenly a need for many more courtrooms than had previously existed. A portion of the citizenry previously given short shrift now rode high and composed the various juries of various courts that tried every imaginable offense. In fact, there were so many offenses that one couldn’t avoid committing crime. One had to simply limit one’s time in the public eye, accept small penalties. All manner of symbols denoting various crimes were worn on one’s person. This was the period of transition. Things grew worse. The food shortages began. They had conversations, saying things to each other. He will say one thing and she will reply, or she will speak and he will answer. They reach out often without reason, and speak often without import. This is the nature of their concern.

And then one day

LOUISA was

TAKEN AWAY

FOR GOOD.

William is crying and pacing up and down in the rooms of his house. He does this for days, but the scene lasts one hour, with his quiet sobbing. In the next room a small mouse puppet is crying also, in an entirely different register. Meanwhile, in the street outside, people come and go. A group of men looking straight ahead. A boy with a brown paper bag. A dog with a blanket hung over its back. A car here or there, a bicycle. William is sitting on the clean bedspread, holding one of Louisa’s dresses. He is not pressing it to his chest, he is simply holding it. Mrs. Gibbons begins to cry softly, and the puppets begin to cry, one by one. The whole room is sobbing, except Molly, who sits bolt upright. Her hands are clenched. The next scene is about to begin.

CURTAIN

A BOARD WITH WORDS ON IT:

END OF ACTS ONE and TWO

and

INTERMISSION

A minute passes. Molly turns around in her chair. Mrs. Gibbons is missing.

—Pssst. Molly.

Molly sneaks a look over her shoulder. Mr. Gibbons, beside the theater, is motioning to her. She tiptoes over. The puppets look in a different direction.

—What do you think?

Molly pulls a scrap of paper out of her pocket.

*So far so good.

She pauses.

*Do you … You know, my father …

Looking over her shoulder as she is writing, he:

—I don’t know. We’ll just have to see.

*But …

—I wish I knew. I …

Into the room, then, Mrs. Gibbons with a mug of chocolate for each of them.

—TO YOUR SEATS, shouts the bailiff, he upon the highest turret of the theater.

Molly catches the edge of Mr. Gibbons’s mouth moving, just by chance, as her eyes haven’t left him. Ventriloquism, she thinks. And if he uses his ventriloquism to say my words through the mouth of another—what is that called?

She scratches her leg and hunches her shoulders.

—TO YOUR SEATS!