There was a rumble, and the lights in the theater quivered. The echoes of the song washed over them, faded, and then were gone. Silenus, the cellist, and the girl stood still on the stage, letting the sound reverberate on, the cellist’s bow hovering inches away from the strings.
George took a breath, still stunned, and looked around. No one clapped. The rest of the audience sat frozen.
Silenus and the two performers stood up, walked to the edge of the stage, and bowed. The cellist and the girl in white gathered up their things and departed while Silenus ambled after them, digging in the inside pocket of his coat. He paused at the edge of the stage and produced a short, thin cigar, which he stuffed into the side of his mouth. He lit a match with the nail of one thumb, held the flame to the cigar, sucked at it, and breathed out a cloud of smoke. Then he glanced out at the audience one last time, a sardonic and bitter look, said, “Fucking smoking rules. Pah,” and left.
CHAPTER 5
Heironomo Silenus
No one moved for several minutes. George still felt dazed and slightly sick. Then a few people began to shift in their seats, glancing around as if awoken from a dream. The conductor jumped when he heard the seats creaking, and reached out and poked the first chair violinist. The violinist sniffed and blinked at him, puzzled for a moment, but then hurried into position. The rest of the orchestra followed suit, and half heartedly started another waltz. A pair of mimes in blue overalls and broad hats stepped out on the stage, looked around as though surprised to find themselves there, and began going through their performance, one pretending to share apples from a basket with the other. They were obviously terrified.
“Excuse me,” said a voice. George looked up, and saw that the man beside him had stood and was trying to get past. The rest of the audience was standing up as well.
George, still confused, moved his knees to let the man by. “They put the shabby acts last,” the man confided as he passed. “To get the audience to clear out, you see.”
Even though George was utterly bewildered, he still managed, “Well, of course I know that. And they’re called chaser acts, for your information.”
The man shrugged, and joined the rest of the audience members lining up to leave. They all had mystified looks on their faces like they’d left something behind, but couldn’t remember what it was.
The pair of mimes onstage abandoned their act, and the orchestra wound down to a halt. None of them seemed upset by this development. Rather, they stared into the air with wistful looks on their faces, and the two mimes eventually shuffled offstage, smiling emptily. After a confused moment George followed the audience out.
Once outside he stood in the street with the rest of the crowd and took a deep breath. The night air seemed much fresher than the air in the theater, and George and the other patrons were desperate to get as much of it into their lungs as they could. But he noticed that there was something different about everything now. The night no longer seemed so thin, or so unreal. The moon did not feel so ponderously close and heavy. And unless he was mistaken, there was something different about the other patrons: they seemed to have more color in them, whether it was the deep grayness along a man’s trousers, or the rich navy blue of a lady’s purse. It was as if the song had put a light in them, one that made their skin and clothing shine much brighter than before.
“It is a beautiful evening,” said one lady with an enormous white hat. “A simply beautiful night.”
“Yes,” said a man. “It certainly is. Just like when I was a boy.”
“That’s it,” said the woman. “That’s it exactly. It’s like a Christmas evening from when I was just a girl.”
They smiled and milled about as if they were sleepwalking. George wondered what had happened to them all. It was as if they’d been hypnotized, though he did not think any hypnotist’s trick could ever make a person’s very color seem brighter.
But then George remembered that the fourth act had not left him untouched: that song had opened up a memory within him, but it felt totally unfamiliar. His mind was still bursting with scattered images of barrows, and root faces, and a squiggle of light in the dark, and the fleeting impression of summer days and green leaves and a secret corner of the world that only he could find. It was like remembering he’d once been a different person entirely. He felt nearly as dizzy and disoriented as the other patrons.
But the most concerning thing about that memory was the song. Unless he was mistaken, tonight was not the first time he’d heard the Silenus Chorale: he’d heard it once before, long ago, when he was but a child, yet he’d never remembered it until now. He couldn’t understand how this could be.
It took him a moment to realize that the one man who might know was currently packing up in the theater, readying to leave. George turned and hurried down a side alley to the back of the theater.
Though the Pantheon was a superior theater to Otterman’s, the layout was the same, and George slipped in through the loading door for the props. He looked around at the passageways stuffed with ropes and pulleys and curtains and backdrops, wondering which way to go. At first he thought the backstage was deserted, but then he saw he was wrong: there were two stagehands standing in a corner, but they were so still he hadn’t noticed them. They had small, confused smiles on their faces, and were clearly as stupefied as the patrons out front.
Then George heard voices coming his way. He walked to a drape of curtain and pushed it aside to see Silenus, the cellist, and the girl in white making their way toward him. His heart almost stopped, and he dropped the curtain a little and listened.
“Not bad, not bad at all, fellas,” Silenus said as he led them. In the quiet theater it was easy to hear him. He had shed the Shakespearean lilt he’d used in his performance, and instead spoke in a drawling growl. “Could have been a lot fucking worse, in my oh-so-unaskedfor opinion. Ain’t as good as we done it before, that’s the damn truth, but it’s better than we were doing recently.” He puffed at his cigar and began wiping his face paint away with a handkerchief. “Hallelujah, a-fucking-men. Glory and grace and fortune abounds, or am I wrong?”
George was not sure what he should do. This seemed very different from the performer he’d seen not more than five minutes ago. He wondered: should he call Silenus’s name? Step in front of him? The man would surely say something then, and what could George say back?
“Who are you?” said a soft voice behind him. A hand took his shoulder, and though it was soft and small its grasp was iron-hard.
George cried out and leaped in surprise, and his suitcase clattered to the floor, spilling open. Silenus and the other two players stopped where they were. Before George could see any more the hand on his shoulder turned him around until he was looking into a tired, lined face whose many wrinkles were caked with the remains of white paint. It was the strongwoman, though now she was wearing an immense overcoat and a bulky sweater rather than her colorful bandages. She was joined by the professor puppeteer, who looked cold and aloof in his tuxedo.
“Yes,” he said snidely. “And what are you doing here?”
“What’s that?” said Silenus’s voice. “What do you have there?”
The strongwoman turned him around and Silenus approached, his face barely lit by the glow of his cigar. He was now nothing like the impresario from the show: in the dark of the backstage he was ferociously intimidating, his hooded eyes boring into George but betraying nothing.
“A boy,” said the strongwoman.
“A boy?” said Silenus.
“We found him backstage. And he’s awake.”
“Awake, you say?” said Silenus.
“Yes,” said the professor. He looked out the loading door and down the alley. “The rest are all out front, as usual.”
“Hm,” said Silenus, and he moved to examine George closer.
George had often wondered what his father would say when they first met. He had fantasized that perhaps Silenus would know him immediately, and he’d fall to his
knees and throw his arms open and cry something about how he’d finally found his lost child. Or possibly Silenus would only slightly recognize him, and peer into George’s face, murmuring about how this young man seemed familiar. Or maybe Silenus would take a liking to George for reasons he couldn’t understand, and, should their relationship progress enough, sometimes profess that you know what, this here kid reminds me of me.
What he’d never expected was for Silenus to say, “Ah, geez. What the fuck are you doing back here, kid?” He looked George up and down. “And why aren’t you sleepwalking?”
There was a pause as George took this in. “S-sleepwalking?” he said. “I don’t… I’m afraid I don’t really understand…”
Silenus sucked his teeth and peered at him. His leathery face crinkled up around the eyes, and he tutted and pulled up the waist of his pants with one hand. “You don’t have any idea of what’s going on, do you?” he said. “This isn’t a good sign. I can’t remember the last time someone stayed awake. We’ll have to look into that later.” He nodded to the woman. “Franny, dispose of this young man. If he’s a thief, beat his ass if you’d like, but be discreet about it. Then we’ll hightail it back to the hotel.”
“No!” shouted George. “No, you can’t!”
“And keep him quiet, too,” added Silenus.
“No!” said George again, and he lunged out and grabbed ahold of Silenus’s sleeve. “You can’t go back to your hotel!”
The strongwoman pulled him back. Silenus ripped his sleeve free of George’s hand and looked up at the strongwoman, indignant. “Are you seriously going to let some fucking kid take a grab at me?”
“He’s just a boy,” she said sullenly.
“Are boys so incapable of carrying knives?” said Silenus. “I’ve seen many a ten-year-old admirably wield a pigsticker, and I ain’t keen on getting cut on by somebody who can’t even fucking vote.”
“He’s just a boy,” she said again. “Please don’t be angry with me.”
“I’m not angry. Don’t get upset, girl.” Silenus turned his attention back to George. “What’s that you said to me? What about my hotel?”
“You… you can’t go back there,” said George.
“And why is that?”
“There are men waiting there for you. Men in… in gray suits. They’re looking for you. Or at least, I think they are.”
That disturbed them. Silenus cast a dark glance around at the rest of his troupe as they all began speaking.
“What is that he said?” said the professor. “Men in gray suits?”
“At the hotel?” said the girl in white and diamonds. “Our hotel? You said they’d never get that close to us!”
“Enough,” said Silenus. They all fell silent. He sucked on his cigar for a moment, then said, “What’s your name, kid?”
George badly wanted to say something about who he was and why he was there, but he could not muster the will to say anything beyond “George.”
“George, huh?” said Silenus. “Well, George, I’m going to grab your neck real tight right now. Are you ready for that?”
“What d —”
Silenus’s hand shot out and took George underneath the chin, his thumb painfully pressing up against the corner of his jawbone. George choked and tried to pull back, but the strongwoman held him still. Silenus’s blue eyes thinned into narrow slits, and he tilted his head up and down as he tried to get a better look at George.
“Hold still,” he said. “Just hold still, why don’t you?”
George tried, but Silenus’s hold was so strong and painful he couldn’t help but attempt to pull away. As the man examined him George got the queer feeling of being looked through, like Silenus could see all of his lies and memories in the recesses of his mind, or perhaps feel the shape of them through the skin on his neck.
“Now, George, tell me the truth,” said Silenus. His voice was very low and soft. “Did those men in gray send you to gut any of my company? Or me?”
George coughed and shook his head.
“You here to sabotage us? To spy on us?”
He shook his head again.
“You’re not coming at us in any way at all?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Why are you awake, George? Why aren’t you sleepwalking like the others?”
“D-don’t… don’t know…”
Silenus examined him for a moment longer. He grunted to himself and removed his hand. George gasped and rubbed at his neck while Silenus watched, his face unreadable. “Ain’t this interesting,” he said. “Just when I wanted it least.” He nodded to the strongwoman. “Let him go.”
She released him. She stroked his back as she did so. “Sorry,” she whispered in his ear.
“Well, now,” said Silenus. “Unfortunately it seems this kid is telling the truth, or he thinks he is. Which ain’t comforting.” He sighed and stuck his head out the loading door to survey the crowd. “We don’t have much longer on these yucks. Here, I tell you what—Stanley, you take Colette and Franny and our props to the train station. Professor Tyburn and I will go to the hotel with this kid and see if he’s a nut or if he just happens to be right. We’ll find you at the train station, either way.”
The cellist, presumably Stanley, frowned at that, and reached into his bags. He produced a largish blackboard with a piece of chalk hanging from it by a string, and took the chalk and quickly wrote in a smooth, clean hand: SAFE?
“I can handle myself,” said Silenus. “Kingsley, you got your cannon?”
“I do,” said the professor. He patted his side.
“Well, keep it handy,” said Silenus. “Keep it trained on this kid, especially if he starts getting jumpy. I don’t know what we’ll see there—I can’t imagine how they could’ve caught up to us at the hotel—but something fishy’s going on and I don’t like the taste of it.” He looked at George and said, “You don’t mind coming with us on a trip, do you George?”
George angrily looked back. He’d never expected their first meeting to go like this, but still he shook his head.
Silenus smiled. There was no humor in it. “Good,” he said. “But before we do, run and fetch me my hat, will you? It landed somewhere in the back.”
George was irritated to be ordered about in such a fashion, but he walked to the farthest corners of the backstage to search. Once he was away the troupe began talking quietly.
He found the top hat behind the curtain rigging, and when he picked it up he noticed it was peculiarly heavy. He looked inside and saw that the lining was stuffed with many strange things: a thin, sheathed knife, several small lenses, and half a pack of playing cards with notes scribbled on them.
He looked up at Silenus and wondered exactly what this man was. Silenus was not paying attention to him, but George saw that someone else was watching: Colette, the girl in white and diamonds. Something in his chest flared hot, and he managed a wave and a feeble smile. She did not return them, but frowned mistrustfully and turned back to Silenus.
George returned with the hat. “Ah,” said Silenus, and he snatched it from him, flipped it smoothly, and fixed it atop his head. “Very good. Then let’s get going.”
Silenus, George, and Professor Tyburn left the others outside the theater and climbed aboard a streetcar. Silenus’s hand never left George’s back, even when they took their seats. If they didn’t know better, someone would have thought the two of them dear friends who hadn’t seen one another in a long while. The professor sat opposite them, crooked in his seat as though his side pained him, but his hand never left his pocket. George guessed there was a pistol hidden there. He began to wish he had never come.
As they traveled Silenus asked him a variety of bizarre questions. Had George recently been forced to eat or drink something he would not normally consume? Had he found any scars on himself that he could not explain, especially under the left armpit? Had he ever been to southern Ireland in midwinter? Had he recently experienced any dizzy spells or feelings
of weightlessness, and in these moments of weightlessness had he actually levitated several inches off the ground? Did he ever get the sensation that there was a small person forcing their way into the space behind his eyes? And did he have a curious predilection for shrimp that he had not displayed before?
When George had answered all the questions (the answer to each being no, except the first question, because he had politely eaten an odd, doughy bread of Irina’s), he asked how these things could possibly be relevant. “I know you think you’re telling the truth, kid, there’s no doubt about that,” said Silenus. “But there are methods of duping someone into saying what you want them to say, usually very nasty ones. That’s what I worry about. So what we’re going to do is go to the hotel and have a look-see, and if you’re right, well, then, you’re right. Why this boy felt the need to warn me about these gents in gray, well, that’s another question. But I won’t ask it now. Because it’s always possible that you are, unknowingly, a part of the machinations of my enemies.
“And I do have enemies, George,” he said calmly. “I got more enemies than there are stars in the fucking sky. A man can’t make a ripple in the ocean without another trying to give him the knife for it. And if you’re working for these enemies of mine, then we’re going to have to figure out what to do with you. See?”
“I see,” said George.
“Good,” said Silenus. “Smart kid.”
“Can I ask you something, Mr. Silenus?” said George, now angry.
“You can call me Harry, kid. And my associate here is Kingsley. You put someone through what we’re putting you through, might as well be cordial about it,” he said.
“All right… Harry,” said George. “Is this sort of behavior common in your troupe?”
Silenus smiled. “In our troupe, kid, it’s as common as rain. Wish that it fucking weren’t.”
They came to the stop closest to the hotel, hopped off, and began walking toward it, Silenus strolling out in front with his arm around George and Kingsley walking behind them, hand in his pocket. George miserably thought of all the fantasies he’d had of taking a friendly walk with his father, and reflected that he’d never imagined this would be how their first would go.
The Troupe Page 6
