The Curfew
Page 9
Down the boulevard she goes, and reaches the lake. There in the park, a paper is fluttering. She grabs at it. She gets it in her hands. It is the work of the conspirators, the plotters, even she can tell that, hand-pressed on contraband machines. She snatches at it even as she holds it and tries to read the faintly pressed letters.
THE VIOLINIST WILLIAM DRYSDALE HAS BEEN FOULLY MURDERED IN THE STREET BY THE FORCES OF THE GOVERNMENT + +
She falls to the ground. She is clutching at the sheet. She doesn’t know what to do with it. Can she not see him? Not even once? Has it happened? Is she alone?
*He is dead. He is dead.
All around her there is singing in the streets. That’s what it sounded like, like singing, but it is the playing of a violin. The sound rises up and trembles the buildings, runs through the streets. It reaches her and sweeps her along with it. It is all over. There is nothing left.
Her hands were on her coat, they were shaking and tugging. Her face was in them and then out. She saw the street and the rutted gardens, the rows of houses, the rising light. She was shouting and she was by the ground. Her hands were on it. Through the trees she could see the lake and upon it, all as before, always as before.
And the mouse took her own life.
The veiled jester comes out onto the stage. Everyone in the room is asleep.
—Molly, he says. Molly.
He is holding a long bone, and there are directions carved into its length.
FIN
HERE ACKNOWLEDGE:
Thordis, Alda, Nora, Nutmeg, Salazar Larus, Nun, Klara.
Jenny Jackson, Kate Runde, & all at Vintage.
Billy Kingsland, David Kuhn, & Kuhn Projects.