by Micah Castle
“Is it even safe to live here?” Marco asked.
“Perfectly safe.” Frederick said as he threw his sack of clothes over his shoulder and grabbed one end of the trunk. “It is not what it looks like on the outside that matters, it is what is on the inside.”
Marco did the same with his belongings and gripped the other end of the trunk. As they carefully moved down the stone walkway, carrying the chest, Marco said, “I think the opposite applies to women.”
After they set down the chest and Frederick unlocked the door, Marco slid past Frederick and stood in the doorway. It looked and smelt nearly the same as it did the last time he was there. It stunk of a mortuary but instead of housing dead bodies, it housed old books. Hundreds of them filled the shelves lining the hallway, heaps of them sat against the wall on the stairwell, and towering piles of them nearly touched the ceiling in the living room.
“Can you hurry up and help me with this damn chest?” Frederick snapped from behind, gripping one end.
“Yeah, sure, sorry.” Marco replied, kneeling and picking up the other side.
They put the trunk in the kitchen. Marco wiped the sweat from his brow and sat in one of the two creaky chairs near the table.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Well,” Frederick began, panting and trying to catch his breath, “our show starts at six and it is only three now. We can rest, then get something to eat, then get over to the theater by five-thirty.”
“Sounds good to me. Where can I go to sleep?”
Frederick straightened and made his way into the living room, “I will make some room for you.”
A few minutes later, Marco laid down onto the hard-carpeted floor, underneath a thin sheet, resting his head on a pile of books. He saw Frederick begin to make his way up the stairs and said, “Still have your office?”
“Yes, I do. I will be back down in an hour to wake you.”
Wonderful, Marco thought as he rolled over, closed his eyes and almost instantly fell asleep.
Frederick tried his best to not make the stairs creak and wail underneath his feet, for he truly did not want Marco to awaken when he set out to work in his office. He made it to the landing without a sound and sighed with relief, then tiptoed to the locked office door. Quietly he took the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door and went inside. He took in the room he had not been in quite some time.
Piles upon piles of old, dusty tomes and scientific lab equipment scattered across the desk, the floor, and the one shelf near the nearly opaque window. Some books were still open, his pages still marked with red strips of paper. What faint light coming in from the outside helped him get to his desk, sit in the small stool and begin where he left off a few months ago.
His journal rested nearby, and he swiped away the cobwebs and read his last entry,
The Hole is nearly here.
Ah, yes, he thought, smiling. The Hole… Soon, quite soon, it will be revealed.
With that thought in mind, he pushed away his journal, made some room before him, and pulled a large book closer and began to work.
Frederick wrenched his stinging eyes away from the text and glanced out the window. The sun seemed to be lower than expected, he pondered… Then it hit him. He jumped onto his feet, ran from his office down into the living room and shouted to Marco, “Get up! Get up you fool, we are late!”
Marco jolted awake and sprung onto his legs. “What do you mean we’re late?”
“I lost track of time! My work, I, uh— It does not matter! Hurry up! We have to get to the theater!”
“You fool!” Marco shouted as he grabbed his two bags, one filled with his stage clothes, the other packed with performance supplies.
“I know, I know!” Frederick shouted from the kitchen, tearing the chest open and grabbing everything he could and shoving it into his own bag.
They stormed out of the house five minutes later and sprinted down the block, catching a hansom and screaming at the driver to drive as quickly as possible.
By the time the cab made it to the theater, they had changed into their stage clothes and had managed to put on their makeup, using the soft light coming in through the carriage's small windows.
Frederick burst out from the cab, told Marco to pay the driver and rushed in through the side doorway of the brick building. Marco quickly followed behind after throwing the money into the driver’s seat. They sped down the poorly lit corridor, through an open doorway and went up the small flight of stairs that lead to the stage. The audience was already there, drinks on the tables and cigarettes in their hands.
“Well,” Fantastique Frederick said loudly, “that’s the last time I trust a woman driver!”
The men in the audience roared with laughter, while the few ladies in attendance rolled their eyes.
“Welcome to the Monarch Theater! We are Fantastique Frederick and Marvelous Marco! I hope you are prepared for the night of your life!” The magician said, brimming with a smile, as Marco began to set up their equipment behind him.
Frederick was met with a thunderous wave of applause.
* * *
He turned on the downstairs lights, which stung his eyes, while Marco put their bags in the kitchen. Frederick’s legs ached as he walked down the hallway into the kitchen, and his shoulders and back wailed in pain. It was the first show in a long time they did not stretch prior to. When he entered the room, he saw Marcus was in the same condition as him, rubbing his neck with his hand and wincing each time he had to move his left shoulder.
They both sat down and idly stared off into space.
“That’s the last time we arrive to a show late,” Marcus said. “I don’t think my body can handle another one. God my neck…”
“I am sorry, really I am. I lost track of time. Will not happen again, Marcus.”
“Yeah, well, it better not. I can handle your ‘work’ after shows, even during breaks, but once it starts to affect our actual work, then it bothers me.”
“I know…”
“But you don’t Fred, not really.” He jabbed the top of the table with his finger. “I know I’m just the assistant, not the great and wonderful Fantastique Frederick, and I might always just be an assistant, but I take our jobs seriously. The costumes, the acts, the props, all of it. It might not pay well, and we might end up on the streets penniless one day, but it’s still our work.
“It comes first, always. Our work is what brings in the money, it’s what puts food in our stomachs, it’s what pays for all these damn books. Your priorities are wrong. It’s always your ‘work’ first over ours, and, it ought to be the other way around.”
“I know, I really do Marcus but I am so close, so damn close. What I have worked for, for years upon years, and I am just this close,” he said holding up his index finger and thumb, allowing just an inch of space between the two. “I can see it like I can see our trunk over there.”
“What’s so important with it anyway? What happens when you finish? Is your life honestly going to be that much different? You’ll still be the Fantastique Frederick on stage and Frederick Aldebrandi off; I’ll still be the Marvelous Marco on stage and Marcus Esposito off. So… what’s the point, really?”
Frederick looked up from the floor to the wall, as if he was staring at something only he could see. “The point is… the point is to accomplish something, more than what we can accomplish here — this place, this world. I believe there’s more to life than what we can concretely see and touch, there is something beyond that. It is like our one act, putting something behind a curtain: we pull back the curtain, there is nothing and we put it back, but then we pull the curtain back again, there is something.
“I am so close to pulling back that curtain and revealing what there truly is Marcus. I am so damn close.”
“And what happens then?”
“Then,” Frederick began, smiling and laughing a little, “then I will do what I can to experience what is behind
that curtain. If it is a hole, I will crawl through it; if it is an object, I will grip it in my shaking hands; if it is something I can eat, I will devour it.”
Marcus was not sure what to say further. He knew it was late, much later than he expected to be awake. The fatigue of the performance and the lack of sleep weighed down upon his body and mind like a lead blanket. He wanted to ask more, to learn and understand what made Frederick maddeningly strive for a place that likely didn’t exist, but the energy to do so escaped him.
Marcus sighed and pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going to go hit the hay.” He walked passed Frederick to the doorway connecting the two rooms, then turned back. “When’s the next show tomorrow?”
“Eight.” Frederick said, still staring off into space.
“Wonderful,” the younger man said as he went into the living room, to find some more comfortable books to sleep on.
Marcus knocked on the office door the next afternoon, and after a few moments Frederick opened it.
“Hey, I’m going out for a few, to see my mother and look around town. You want to come?”
“No thank you,” Frederick said. “I still have lots of work to do, and I want to get it out of the way before the show tonight.”
“All right, suit yourself. I’ll be back in a couple hours. Afterwards we can grab something to eat then head off to the show.”
“Sounds good, have a wonderful time. Tell your mother I said hello and wish her well.”
“Will do,” Marcus said then turned and went downstairs.
As he was putting on his jacket and gloves he heard the office door close and lock. He laughed to himself and shook his head, then left Frederick’s home, out into the cold winds of January.
On the corner he caught a hansom and took it into the heart of the city. His mother worked at a coffee shop, bussing tables and washing dishes. He walked a few blocks, weaving through the steady crowd that moved like a stream down the sidewalk. It began to snow before he reached the shop. Should’ve wore my hat too, he thought.
The sign on the door said OPEN and when entering the shop, the sign clinked against the window. An overheard bell rang as he stepped in and let the door close on its own. His mother had her black wiry hair tied back while she leaned over a table, wiping it with a yellowed rag.
“What’s a man have to do to get some service in this city?” he asked.
She glanced over to the doorway, where Marcus still stood, and the expression from boredom immediately transitioned into one of joy. A smile formed over her pale, aged face and her once dull hazel eyes seemed to sparkle underneath the electric light.
“Oh Marcus,” she said soothingly, dropping the rag and running over to him. “Come, come; sit, sit! I’ll fix you a cup of our best and some fried dough.”
He was ushered across the shop and put into a seat, then she rushed back behind the counter to make him his meal.
After he had finished two cups of coffee and picked at the fried dough, they spoke about everything that had happened since he left five years ago. She had moved out of the apartment in the slums and got a small place above the coffee shop. She started painting and during the summer she was allowed to sell them in the shop, which she did a few times; making just enough to purchase more canvases and paints.
“And that’s about it, really.” She finished, then asked, “What about you, honey?”
“Oh, you know, the usual boring stuff. We travel city to city, play shows in small theaters or bars and that’s about it. It’s okay money, and it’s hell a lot better than working a regular stiff job, but sometimes I miss being home.”
“I miss you being home too.” She reached over the table and placed her hand onto his.
“You ever think about dad?” he asked suddenly, rubbing her fingers with his thumb.
“Of course, sweetie, of course I do… All the time.”
“You remember that one time he came home from work the night before Christmas dressed up as Santa, carrying that sack full of presents?”
“Yes, that was so funny.” She said, smiling. “I remember he had just worked fourteen hours straight at the mill. The bag he carried had splotches of oil on it and the smell took a week to get out of the apartment.”
“Yeah… Sometimes when I smell anything like that, I remember him.” Marcus said, then they both fell into a silence.
“I remember,” he began, “the day I came home and found him in his chair, in front of the wood burner, with an open book on his lap.” A veil of tears formed over his eyes. He inhaled deeply and sniffled. “I had just come home from the park, it was winter; my nose was bright red, and my cheeks stung from the cold. I just wanted to sit next to him, next to the fire; maybe ask him to read me some of his book — he really loved reading us stories, remember?
“And when I took off my jacket and hat, then sat down next to him… I remember how cold he was. I didn’t think I could ever feel something colder than the winter, but I did… It was him. His eyes were closed, but his face was wet, as if he was crying just before it happened.
“I remember how stupid I was. I remember starting the stove, assuming that he was just really cold, and the heat would make him better. I even brought out the blanket from my bed and draped it over him. But no matter how much wood I fed the fire, or how many blankets I put on him, he never grew warm… He never woke up.”
Marcus leaned over, placing his head onto his arms, sobbing. A puddle of tears formed underneath him, soaking into his jacket. His mother quickly got up and hugged her son from behind and sobbed with him. They cried for some time, until customers began to trickle into the shop.
“I’m sorry honey… I miss him too, very much, but I have to work.” She said, wiping the tears from her face and composing herself the best she could. “Why don’t you come back tonight, after the shop closes?”
He pushed back his hair, coughed, and wiped his nose on his jacket. “I can’t tonight, we have a show at eight. Maybe tomorrow.”
She smiled and nodded, her eyes red rimmed and her cheeks flushed. “That sounds wonderful. Please do. I’ll make sure to have the coffee and dough ready.”
“Okay, thank you mom. I love you,” he said, embracing her and kissing her cheek.
“Love you too, honey.”
He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping into Frederick’s home. He took off his jacket and gloves and sighed. God, what a day.
“Hey Frederick, I’m home! You ready to eat? I could really go for something different, maybe we can check out that French place?”
A sudden, loud popping noise echoed throughout the house. The floor shook underneath Marcus’s feet.
“Frederick?” he called again, then ran upstairs, nearly slipping on the overturned books littering the stairs.
Marcus knocked on the office door, to no answer. “Fred! Are you okay? What was the noise?”
He received no answer.
The sound of whipping wind could be heard through the wood. “Frederick!” Marcus shouted, now pummeling the door. The lingering cold vanished when the heat of his body ignited in fear. Adrenaline shot through his veins and his heart began to pound against his chest.
He stood as far away from the door as he could, then kicked it near the door knob. It rattled but did not give. He did it again and again, until it burst open and slammed against the wall. Marcus rushed in and immediately halted.
The room was painted in colors, waves of blues and greens and violets ebbed over the walls, the floor, the ceiling. A colorless oval floated in the center of the room, thin tendrils danced and swayed around it like the flames of the sun. They licked and blackened the floorboards, the smell of burnt wood burned Marcus’s nostrils. Although there was not any wind, the sound of a strong, whipping gale filled the room.
Marcus tore his eyes away from the quixotic thing and searched for Frederick, finding him sitting at his desk, staring into the portal.
“Frederick!” Marc
o screamed over the noise.
Frederick, as if absentmindedly, looked to Marcus, then back to the Hole. He mumbled something to himself, but Marcus could not make out the words. Frederick turned around and wrote something in the journal sitting on his desk, then stood up and slowly neared the levitating oval.
Wide-eyed, Marcus screamed and ran towards Frederick but slammed into an invisible wall. He had not noticed that there was a chalk drawn circle on the floor, etched inside were crisscrossing geometrical symbols that he had never seen before. He could not pass over the outer line. Tears filled his eyes as he tried to reach Frederick again and again, but each attempt ended with him being flung back by a force he could not see, did not understand.
Before Frederick stepped into the Hole, he faced Marcus, his eyes glossy, and mouthed I will miss you. Then he leapt into the black, floating portal.
As if a hundred-people clapped at once, an ear-splitting sound filled the house, forcing Marco to the ground, gripping his ears. The overwhelming sound continued for what felt like an hour, and at some point, Marcus closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It felt like his head was going to explode under the immense pressure, but after a while the noise dwindled, fading into the distance, and the colors vanished.
When silence settled over Frederick’s creaking house, Marco pushed himself onto his feet and glanced around the room. Where the portal once was, was now a burnt circle with a small pile of ash that gleamed under the dull light coming in through the window. Beyond the outer line of the circle large open volumes and several spilled beakers littered the floor, a dark liquid puddled underneath some of the broken instruments.
