The Memory Theater

by Karin Tidbeck

  Nestor held out one hand, palm down. Thistle took it and hesitantly placed it on his forearm. His own hands were trembling.

  Nestor closed his eyes. Then he nodded and removed his hand.

  “It will work,” he said. “Her essence is all over these.”

  Thistle quickly rolled his sleeves back down and stuck his hands into his armpits.

  Nestor smiled at Thistle. “Thank you, lad. I know that was very difficult.”

  Thistle nodded curtly.

  “Because she left her mark, she is inextricably linked to you,” Nestor said. “We can trace your scars back to her. However…” He paused.

  “However?” Thistle said.

  “All places have time, just not always the same time,” Nestor said. “I cannot tell you exactly when you will find her. We are operating at a different scale out here. A long time may have passed since Augusta left the Gardens.”

  “It doesn’t matter. So long as I find her,” Thistle said.

  Nestor looked up at Director, who nodded.

  “Colleagues!” Director announced. “We shall perform a montage.”

  * * *

  —

  The troupe packed everything into the carriage and closed the wall. Inside, they arranged the sofa and armchairs in a circle. Apprentice rolled out the flat map in the center; Director and Nestor came carrying the canopy and set it on top. They spent a long moment fiddling with the canopy’s legs.

  “Ready?” Director said.

  “Ready,” Nestor replied.

  They let go of the canopy and stood up. It hummed to life. Inside, the multitude of spheres and discs that hung from strings in the canopy’s ceiling lit up. Little clouds and swirls moved between them.

  “Please, have a seat.” Director sat down in the nearest armchair.

  Dora and Thistle sat on the sofa. An excited-looking Apprentice plonked herself down next to Dora. She was holding a small lyre.

  Nestor stepped into the circle. He was dressed in heavy robes that left his right shoulder and arm bare, and wore a crown set with rows of horns. His beard and hair had grown into long corkscrew curls. His eyes, when he turned his head to the audience, were fixed on a point far away.

  “I am the creator, the omniscient, the lord of stories. I will tell you of how Augusta Prima of the Gardens was found.”

  Apprentice plucked a quiet rain of notes from the lyre.

  Nestor closed his eyes. “The Troupe traveled through creation, searching for the villain that had caused such grievous harm to their young friends. At first they knew not where Augusta had gone, for the worlds are many. But then young Thistle showed where Augusta had marked his flesh and created a connection to herself. And so the Troupe set sail, letting young Thistle’s scars lead them to their goal. And here they are, soaring through the cosmos.”

  A shining blob, a wheel of sorts, blinked into existence in the map. It floated through the arrangement of spheres and discs, up and down, in loops and spirals. Looking at it made Dora feel queasy. She glanced at Thistle, who was rubbing his left forearm, and put her hand over his to stop him. He leaned his head against her shoulder but didn’t relax.

  “They skirted formless shoals, planet nurseries, wastelands, and primordial pools. They saw a city of brass, a city of rain, a city of clay. Finally, artwork called to maker: this was where the Troupe made port.”

  The little wheel stopped at a small swirled sphere close to the bottom of the map and hovered there. Nestor bowed and backed out of the circle. Apprentice put down her harp.

  “Here we are,” Director said.

  She pointed at the sphere. “That there is Earth. And those”—she pointed to a protrusion on the surface of the sphere—“are the Gardens. Like a boil.”

  The protrusion looked like it was pulsing.

  “Anyway, that’s not where we are going,” Director said. “We have arrived at our destination.”

  Apprentice and Journeyman folded the carriage wall aside.

  19

  Nils’s plate was full with pölsa and potatoes.

  “I don’t trust you to eat well,” Johanna of Avastugan’s farm said.

  Nils chuckled. “I don’t eat as well as you,” he said, and put the first forkful in his mouth.

  Johanna’s pölsa was famous. The balance of innards, meat, barley grain, and onions was perfect, and the potatoes she served with it were small and tender. She had even put a slice of fried pork on the side. Nils thought to himself that he could eat her pölsa every day of the week.

  Johanna sat down across the table. Her kitchen was nothing like Nils’s kitchen; the floor had been scrubbed until it shone and the curtains in the window were washed and ironed. She was very well-kept herself, short but strong, with deep laugh lines and quick, efficient movements. Every once in a while, Nils came down to her farm for supper or fika. Slightly more often now that her husband had passed. Johanna had confessed, no, openly stated that she felt lonely too now that her daughters had also left. We need company, you and I, she had said.

  “How are your boys?” she asked.

  “Nothing new,” Nils said. “Olof and Erik are both doing well. They send letters now and then. They haven’t had leave all summer, and they’re bored, but that’s all right. Bored is better.”

  Johanna nodded. “Better than the alternative. I’m glad I had only girls.”

  They ate in silence for a while. Then Johanna said, “Do you think the war will come here?”

  “Who knows?” Nils said. “Norway is occupied. We’re only a day’s walk from the border. All the Germans have to do is move east.”

  “My sister sent me a letter,” Johanna said. “She said her youngest doesn’t have any shoes. And that they barely have enough to eat. I might smuggle some things across the border. I did it this spring. I can do it again.”

  “You would be putting yourself in danger,” Nils said.

  “Eh,” Johanna replied. “Who’s going to suspect an old woman?”

  Johanna was thrifty and resourceful. She sent cream and meat to her daughters in Stockholm by mail, even though it was prohibited. She labeled the packages books. Apparently one of the packages had started bleeding once, but the ladies at the post office in Stockholm had laughed about “gory crime novels” and let it through. Everyone helped one another out in these times.

  “There,” Johanna said, and pushed her plate away. She put a piece of her precious tobacco under her lip. “That’s better.”

  Nils mopped the remaining pölsa from his plate with a piece of bread. “Thank you, Johanna. Delicious as always.”

  “Did you know Berit found a downed parachute the other day?” Johanna said. “Pure silk. Us neighbors divided it between us. Everyone’s wearing fancy blouses for church now. Why don’t you come to church sometime?”

  “You know I’m not much of a churchgoer,” Nils mumbled.

  “It’s not just about God,” Johanna said. “Who has time for God? I have work to do. But you get to meet people.”

  Nils shrugged. “I’m not much of a people person either.”

  “You get to meet me,” Johanna said, and smiled.

  Sometimes Nils thought about asking Johanna for more than just friendship. She was a good woman. But he didn’t know how to ask. Perhaps she was asking him, now. It made him flustered.

  “I have to go,” he said, and stood up. “I have to make it home in time for milking.”

  Johanna looked a little disappointed but nodded. “Cows won’t wait.”

  She waved him off as he climbed onto his bicycle and started his journey back home. It was a long way to go, and it was uphill, but he was full of pölsa and good company.

  * * *

  —

  Johanna was right; Nils was lonely. It was difficult to work up the will to do the cooking and housework for just one
person. There were no lodgers this year—the tourists had stopped coming. Nils had only been down to the village below a few times to get mail and buy necessities. Sometimes the couple that called themselves Grandmother and Grandfather came to visit, strange folk from the other side of the mountain. Nils had never quite figured out what they were. It would have been impolite to ask. He hadn’t seen them for months now.

  He might be going a little stir-crazy. A couple of weeks ago he had caught a fever, fainted, and woken up on the kitchen floor. What if he had become really ill? No one would have found him for weeks. After that fall, there were the dreams. He dreamed that he was a woman; he dreamed of a timeless garden, of riches and luxury he had never seen; he dreamed that he danced in the twilight. And then he dreamed about walking through a city, and catching a train, and walking out onto the bog, where he met a man who looked very much like himself. Then he would wake up, unsure of who he was.

  And sometimes he found himself standing between the privy and the house, or on his way to the barn, not knowing how long he had been there, humming a strange tune to a beat he had never heard before: one-two-three-four-five, one-two-three-four-five-six, one-two-three…and there was a dance that came along with it, but his feet were too heavy, his legs too stiff. His mouth warped the tune into something plain. Then the song would be gone again, elusive like smoke. As if he had been someone else, once. Someone powerful.

  Elna, had she still been alive, would have frowned at him and told him to stop being ridiculous. She was good like that. Had been good to him for twenty-four years, since he first came to the village and caught her eye. There had been a harvest feast. They had danced all night, and Elna had joked that he must be one of the fair folk to dance so well. But he had said no, he was Nils Nilsson, and that was all. She had smiled at him and said that was good enough for her. Olof and Erik, when they arrived, had her eyes.

  Now Nils was on his own until his sons came home or the Germans knocked on the door. In the meantime, he would go about his chores. And perhaps go see Johanna a little more often.

  20

  The house-carriage sat on a blunt hilltop, its stairs unfolded. Mountains lay low and wide against the horizon. Between the mountains, Dora could see flat woodland and bogs, and hundreds of little lakes. Patches of snow dotted the slopes. The world looked hazy, as if it were raining, but no drops fell on the carriage’s roof. Somehow, Dora knew what those bogs would feel like under her feet; she knew their scents and their sounds, and the animals they hid. She knew that the stream running into the valley below would taste like ice and stone.

  “Does this look right?” Director said.

  “It looks like home,” Dora said.

  Thistle shaded his eyes with his hand. “How do we know Augusta is here?”

  Director shrugged. “According to you, she is. Somewhere close, at least.” She pointed. “There’s a farm down there. It’s a start.”

  Thistle stared at the landscape, clenching his fists.

  “What will you do once you find her?” Journeyman asked.

  “Ask her for my name back,” Thistle said.

  “That’s it?”

  Thistle nodded.

  “And you think she’ll just answer?”

  “It’s the only chance I have.”

  “Fair enough.” Journeyman looked doubtful.

  Dora stepped out of the carriage, down the stairs, and onto the rock.

  “Stop!” Apprentice shouted. “We’re not there yet! We’re only backstage. All the people are frontstage.”

  Dora quickly climbed back up.

  “What?” Thistle said.

  “We move through the backdrop of the universe,” Director said. “We need to lift the veil so that you can go through.”

  Nestor joined them on the stairs. He had shrunk, as had his beard, and he was once again the kindly old gentleman.

  “Here we are,” Nestor said. “At the right place, hopefully at the right time. Keep in mind what I said.”

  Thistle nodded. “I just want to find her,” he said.

  “Very well,” Director said. “Let us send the children on their way.”

  “Can I go?” Apprentice said. “Just to have a look.”

  “You have work to do,” Director replied.

  Apprentice made a whining noise. “Please. I won’t be a minute. Just a peek.”

  “No,” Director said firmly.

  Apprentice looked at Nestor, who shook his head. “Don’t look at me. Director said no.”

  Apprentice pouted and kicked the couch.

  There was a rustle from inside the carriage. Journeyman came out with an armful of pipes and flutes.

  “Are these appropriate?” he asked.

  “Very,” Director said. “I’ll take the aulos.”

  “Crumhorn, please,” Nestor said.

  Journeyman shared out the instruments to the others: a strange double flute for the Director, a long curved wooden flute for Nestor, and a tin whistle for Apprentice. He kept a long birch-bark trumpet for himself.

  “What do we do if we need to find you again?” Thistle said.

  “Go to the crossroads and ask for us,” Director said. “Very simple.”

  Journeyman walked over to where Dora was standing. He tentatively held out his arms. Dora stepped into his embrace and rested her chin on his shoulder. She ran her hand down his back and felt the hum of myriad possible shapes waiting under his skin. He smelled like he had by the pool in the woods: urgent, musky.

  Journeyman drew a shaky breath and held her closer. “I wish you would stay.”

  Dora closed her eyes and ran a hand through his hair, cradled the back of his head.

  “I know,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “It’s time to go.” Thistle’s voice, his touch on her arm.

  Dora extricated herself from Journeyman’s embrace. His face was wet. He held on to one of her hands.

  “Don’t forget me,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  “It had to happen sometime,” Director mumbled behind her.

  “At least it was someone kind,” Nestor mumbled back.

  “Now, stand back,” Director said in a louder voice, and waved Dora and Thistle toward the edge of the stage.

  “How does this work?” Thistle asked.

  “It’s a musical number,” Nestor said cheerfully. “The music that moves the world.”

  “One, two, three,” Director said, and raised the double flute to her mouth.

  The collected sound from the four instruments was deafening, a warped tune that bounced around the walls of the theater. The noise invaded Dora’s body, its vibrations beating against her chest. Thistle grabbed her arm, and she looked down at him. He pointed at the landscape.

  The haze that had obscured the mountainside was lifting; beyond, a yellow sun turned snow patches and lakes into shards of light that left spots on Dora’s vision. Dora looked back at the troupe. Director nodded. Dora took Thistle’s hand and descended the stairs. She caught Thistle as he jumped down onto the rocks. The noise from the company was still too loud for them to speak. They walked down the hill, into the sun, and the music ended abruptly.

  A hand that wasn’t Thistle’s patted Dora on the shoulder, and she turned around. It was Apprentice, flute in hand, an exhilarated smile on her face. Behind them, the carriage had disappeared from view; there was just the mountain.

  “Ha!” Apprentice shouted. “I did it!”

  “What?” Dora said.

  “I wanted to have a look,” Apprentice said. “I’m having a look!”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to,” Thistle said.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” Apprentice said. “I’m just sightseeing.”

  She put the tin whistle to her lips and played a little victorious tune.
/>
  The air trembled, and then the ground.

  Apprentice’s eyes widened. “Maybe I shouldn’t have played it on this side.”

  The mountain moved under their feet.

  21

  Nils was in the barn, resting his forehead against Svana’s warm flank as he milked her, when he heard the sound of thunder. He went outside and looked up at the clear sky. Then he saw it: a massive cloud of dust rising up from the side of Koryggen Mountain. A rockslide. He should go and have a look when he was done.

  He went back into the barn and milked Rosa as well, then emptied the bucket into the milk can and went outside to put the can to cool in the stream. The cows were happy to leave the barn and go graze in the paddock.

  Nils ate his breakfast as quickly as he could, then took his bicycle out of the shed. He rode west up the mountain and through the pass between it and the hill next to it, where the road ended at an old abandoned barn. He leaned his bicycle against the wall and walked up the slope. It wasn’t long before he spotted the rockslide.

  Some of the boulders were as big as his privy, but mostly there was smaller rubble. Among the rocks, a blue shape. It did look like someone. Nils made his way over the rocks, careful lest he disturb them again.

  At first, Nils thought it was in fact two people, the smaller one curled up against the bigger. When he looked again, it was just an unconscious boy in blue coveralls next to a vaguely human-shaped boulder. His right leg was soaked with blood, and his face was covered in cuts. His eyes fluttered open, and he whispered something in a hoarse voice. A little ways off, Nils saw a hand sticking out of the rubble. Nils rolled one of the rocks aside. A smashed face framed by tangled hair stared blindly into nothing.

  “Help,” the boy mumbled.

  Nils left the other body and moved closer to the boy.

  “Don’t worry,” Nils told him. “We’ll sort you out. I’m Nils. What’s your name?”

  The boy looked up at him but said nothing.

  The boy stiffened as Nils got his hunting knife out of his belt, but relaxed a little when Nils merely cut his pant leg open. The wound was deep, right across the shin, but the bone didn’t seem to be broken.