Foucault pressed forward. “So you have no idea what she was wearing the night of her disappearance?”
His face reddened. “How could I?”
Thompson pushed back his chair and stood, defusing the tension for the moment. “I apologize, Mr. Harper. As I say, we have to ask these questions first, and thing is, I’m sorry to say, but we may have some bad news. There is a body, a woman drowned, washed up on the shore of the Saint Lawrence, and we have no way of identifying her at the moment. She is young, fits the general description of your wife—”
“Kay?” Theo covered his mouth and tried not to cry out.
“But”—Thompson held up his hand—“she was wearing a dress, no shoes, and we thought it couldn’t be her. Until we went down to the warehouse and met the caretaker.”
“Egon Picard,” said Foucault.
“Monsieur Picard told us that the actors often leave clothes in their locker, so we thought to come talk with you to see if you remember. It was a simple yellow sundress. Perhaps you could come with us to the medical examiner, if you please, and we can take a look.”
“To see if it is her?”
The two policeman looked at each other and then back at Theo. “Oui,” Foucault said, and laying a hand on Theo’s shoulder, he helped him to his feet.
They rode in silence to the morgue, Foucault at the wheel, Thompson keeping company with Theo in the backseat. A seagull lolled in the blue summer sky, as though it was following them. As they pulled into the parking lot, Theo could no longer bear the suspense.
“Am I a suspect? Do you think I could possibly harm my wife?”
“You’re not under arrest, Mr. Harper. There’s no crime, as such, that’s been committed. We don’t even know if this is your wife. But you should steel yourself, just in case. A body taken from the water after so long is not a pretty sight.”
When the attendant pulled back the sheet, the corpse was as sad and gruesome as Thompson had warned. Theo cried out involuntarily and looked away quickly from the body on the slab. For the first time since Kay’s disappearance, he broke into tears, a ragged sobbing that would not stop. The ruined creature was not his wife but some other poor soul quit of this world. Asked if he was certain, could he look again, Theo shook his head, saying, “No, no, that is not her.”
6
The drowned girl accompanied him to the circus. After the emotional tumult of the interrogation by Thompson and Foucault and his afternoon at the morgue, Theo did not want to be alone, but he had nowhere to go, so he headed instead to the plaza where the free theater played. The dead girl who walked beside him was the spit and image of his wife; he could see how they had mistaken the corpse for Kay. Water dripped from her body and her footsteps squelched on the pavement. Blue at her extremities, the skin on her face slack, she no longer looked like a woman in her twenties but a horror beyond all hope.
“Where have you been?” she asked. Now the voice, that was identical to his wife’s, and he was surprised to hear it. “Why didn’t you come save me?”
He did not know how to answer her, so he said nothing, and he did not want the passersby on the street to think him crazy for talking to a ghost, but no one seemed to notice her along the way, despite the fact that she wore nothing but the white sheet from the morgue and that she smelled of fish and the brackish water of the Saint Lawrence. He wished she would go away and leave him alone.
At the lot leading up to the stage, the crew and actors bustling about did not see her either, though those people who recognized him had a kind word or gesture of sympathy for his troubles. He saw Sarant limbering and unkinking her spine. She seemed embarrassed that he had approached her. “Any word?”
Theo shook his head. “But the police came by to question me, if you can imagine, about her clothes. Two detectives, Thompson and Foucault.”
“Yes, they were here as well,” Sarant said. “Loose ends, more questions. What was she wearing, that sort of thing. I really didn’t have anything more to say.” She was unnerved by Theo’s sideways glances and kept trying to determine what he was looking for or what he might be trying to convey. At last she touched him lightly on the shoulder and hurried off to the dressing rooms. The drowned woman watched forlornly as Sarant departed. Theo wandered through the crowd, looking for a familiar face, watching Reance pace the length of the stage, but he could not catch his attention. Dusk was sneaking up on them, and as the first patrons began to arrive, Theo found Egon in a spot near the front entrance.
“Two, please,” he joked.
Egon smiled at him. “You’re here for the show?”
“I thought we could watch together, if you are free.”
Egon found two milk crates for them in the wings. He offered him a swig from his flask, and Theo took a discreet tug. The dead girl stood between them, absentmindedly watching the last of the crowd make its way onto the grounds, and then she suddenly took off, picking her way through the clots of people milling about, although not a soul responded to her sepulchral presence. Theo lost sight of her at last and was greatly relieved. Out in the audience, Reance was working his preshow shtick, giving the folks a close-up before it all began.
“Police came by today,” Egon said. “Asking a lot of questions. You would like these two blokes, Thompson and Foucault, salt and pepper.”
“We’ve met. They came by the apartment. It seems I’m under suspicion.”
A gong was struck. The overture blasted away any chance for further conversation. House lights down, stage lights up, and descending from a platform the slumberland bed with the sleeping boy, the phantasmagoria of dreams commenced once more. Theo nearly broke down in tears when Sarant and the flowers came around, imagining Kay instead of her understudy in the role. As they watched Sarant balance atop the silver ball and contort her body into an arch, he poked Egon in the ribs and asked in a hoarse whisper, “Why would they think I had anything to do with her disappearance?”
“It’s always the husband.” The little man shrugged. “They wondered if I had seen you that night. But how would I know to look for you? We hadn’t even met.”
“But I wasn’t here. I was working that night and only stepped out for dinner.”
Illuminated by the footlights, Sarant wobbled, threatening to fall, and a gasp raced through the crowd. Theo wondered if the contortionist had been distracted by the presence of a corpse peering out of the darkness, but she recovered and slowly unwound herself back to the stage to welcome applause. As the show went on, he kept trying to find the ghost, but she proved elusive, blending in with the spectators ringing the stage. Theo and Egon sat in silence through the entr’actes and the grand tumbling finale. He could not resist the temptation to watch for Kay, though he knew that she would not appear.
After the show, they walked back through the quiet streets to Egon’s cell at the warehouse. The tourists were steps ahead of them, peeling off to their cars parked along the side streets, or making the hike back into the Old City through a light fog that obscured the way.
“Come inside for a moment,” Egon said at the door. “You look like shit, and perhaps you could benefit from another drink.”
He followed Egon to his room and accepted a tumbler of Scotch. The women on the walls looked down upon them, and the empty warehouse was as quiet as a cathedral.
“Perhaps I should not say this, but I trust you and think you tell the truth. One of the detectives let slip a small clue to their thinking. He said that when you first reported her missing, you said something about a murder to the attendant who took your statement.”
“Murder? I said nothing of the sort. The sergeant was the one who talked about what happens to people who go missing. Do they think Kay was murdered?”
“As I said, a faux pas. Madness.”
“A body washed up,” Theo said. “A Jane Doe who drowned in the Saint Lawrence last week. They had no idea who she was. Naturally, when they couldn’t identify her, they thought it might be Kay. They took me to the morgue.”
“I am still in shock. It was horrible. Not Kay, of course, but close enough. She was black and blue and swollen from the water.”
“And you are sure?”
“No, not Kay. There was a resemblance, and I can see why they dragged me over there.” He was trying not to cry. “But it was just too much for me.”
“Let me freshen your drink. What an ordeal.”
The liquor wormed its way through his body. He sat awhile with his thoughts, debating whether to confess his fears. “I’m going crazy with worry. Can’t sleep, can’t eat. Every day I get out in the morning, first thing, and go out searching. I see her everywhere, but when I get close, she morphs into another woman.”
Egon handed him the bottle. “Tomorrow I will help you look. Now, go home, get some rest. Take the Scotch with you and drink it till you fall asleep. Keep up your spirits, mon ami. She is out there somewhere.”
The fog had thickened during the interval, a summer storm rolling in. Thunder boomed over the Saint Lawrence, and lightning illuminated the Frontenac. The rain started to pelt down before he was halfway home. The smell of cold water against the hot cobblestones. Heavy drops, rills tumbling along the curbs, puddles in the intersections. His wet clothes clung to his body and his shoes bubbled with water at each step. Drenched and weary, doused with drink, he slogged into the apartment, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the rugs. He laid down the bottle of Scotch, took off his clothes, and toweled off. Kay would have relished getting caught in the storm, she would have spread her arms and thrown open her face to the falling rain. She would have loved it, and he would have worried about catching a cold. Theo tumbled into bed, certain that if he could sleep, just sleep, he would be better in the morning. In the middle of the night, he was awakened by the sensation of rainfall. Drops of water on his bare chest and face, and in his stupor he wondered if he had been crying in his sleep. Through the shadows of the room, he realized that it was the drowned woman on top of him, straddling his body, and as his sight adjusted to the half-light, he could see the beseeching look in her eyes and hear her whisper again, “How have you forgotten me?”
* * *
The others taught Kay the motion of puppets.
Noë fetched a set of rods from a bin and affixed a pair to her wrists and a pair at her ankles. The wooden sticks clacked against the floor as she walked into the middle of the Back Room, once nearly tripping over a tangle at her feet. The puppets gathered round in a semicircle, and Kay imagined herself back onstage, under a spotlight of attention. Mr. Firkin stepped forward as the master of ceremonies.
“The trick is to remember not to move until you feel the pressure from the puppeteer’s hands. Ordinarily when the humans manipulate you, there are two people required for a doll like you, one to move your arms, and another to control your legs. They will flank you on each side and push or pull on the other end of the rods. Perhaps it’s best if four of us act the parts, one at each extremity, so to speak. Let’s put the Devil on your left and the Good Fairy on your right. Judges, perhaps you can make her walk.”
The four puppets hurried to their appointed spots. She felt a soft tug as each took the sticks in hand and the overwhelming sense that she was no longer in control of her own body.
“If you were a real girl,” the Good Fairy whispered in her ear, “you would have an opening where they could use one hand to make you talk and move your mouth. Not like that crude thing you use now.”
Kay clamped shut her makeshift lips, recalling how Nix had taken a saw to her face. Putting a finger to his mouth, Mr. Firkin motioned for them to be quiet. A curious look came over him as he drew deep into his own thoughts. When at last he found the information he had been seeking, he chuckled like a professor.
“Are you familiar with your center of gravity? The fulcrum of your balance? For most people, it is situated between the navel—or should I say belly button—and the, ahem, groin. You might feel it as a small acorn in the pit of your insides. Of course, for others the center of balance might be virtually anywhere. A divot at the base of the skull. The midpoint between the flanges of the lungs. I knew one misfortunate soul whose center was in his left knee—”
“I am a gymnast,” Kay said, “and quite familiar with balance and gravity.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, flustered. “How quickly I forget, and, of course, that’s why you are here. Well, you must relax outward from that point, let yourself go limp around it.”
She exhaled a long deep draft, and in her next breath slackened her muscles, trusting the foursome to keep her upright. Her knees buckled slightly, and she teetered as they held fast. Giving herself over to the others demanded all her concentration. Old yoga practices kicked in. She emptied her mind and let herself go. Her right arm shot forward when the Good Fairy lifted the rod, and then the Devil brought up her left and caused her to clap her hands. A puff of dust rose from her canvas fingers. The crowd cheered for her, and then she felt the push of her left foot as she took her first step. Working together, the puppets moved her arms and legs, and she was walking. She squealed like a toddler with delight over a sudden and newfound power. They moved slowly at first, allowing her to get used to the sensation, but soon they quickened the pace, forcing her to new directions, even made her walk backward. She enjoyed the ride with a different driver, finding that she was made to move this way. And just when she thought it over, they made her leap into the air and held her suspended eighteen inches off the floor, and in a careful and delicate movement, they unfroze her from space and let her glide back to the earth, landing softly as a dove.
“Again,” she cried. “Again, again.”
“Excellent, wonderful.” Tall Olya spoke above everyone’s head. “Don’t wear yourself out, dahlink. There’s time enough to walk and fly and perform their magic.”
The Judges were already untying the rods from her ankles. The Devil in front of her removed the strap from her left hand. “You’ll be tempted to play the part. Give in, give in.”
On her right side, the Good Fairy said, “Pay him no heed. He’s nothing but a big ham. All that talk about performance. Feh, just wait till they come for you.”
“Who is coming for me?”
“Why, the Quatre Mains and the Deux Mains, of course. You don’t think you’ll be allowed to stay in the Back Room forever.”
“When will they come?”
“We never know. But they will get you.”
“Suppose I leave before they come for me.”
“Oh, you can never leave,” said the Good Fairy. “You are not allowed to leave on your own accord.”
Worn out by her perambulations, Kay sat on a box of foam noses and ears and considered her surroundings. She had not given much thought to the extent of the Back Room, how its yellow walls circumscribed a world with gunmetal shelves, bins of odds and ends, bolts of fabric, the vaguely menacing hammers and saws and awls. The novelty of the place inured her to its limits. All around her, the puppets returned to their business, arranging themselves in familiar cliques. The Queen sat on her oatmeal-box throne. Nix took up his juggling, tossing three ping-pong ball eyes with nonchalance. The Three Sisters lounged by a toy samovar, sipping tea in tiny glasses.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Kay asked. “I have no idea what to do or where to go.”
“You are trapped,” Irina said. “In the same bourgeois drama we all are. The melancholy parade of day and night marches by, and not a one of us knows where it leads.”
Masha chimed in. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. We are forever waiting for tomorrow and looking for a better day.”
Making room for her on the box that served as a settee, Olya bid Kay come sit by her side, and with great show she pantomimed another glass of tea, wincing slightly as she handed it to her. The tea was hot, to Kay’s surprise, and when she pretended to take a sip, she was astonished by how strong and sweet the taste was. Almost immediately she r
ealized that in the whole time she had been in the Back Room, hunger and thirst had deserted her. She hadn’t had so much as a bite in what … weeks? Months?
“Spasibo.” She remembered her Russian manners.
“Is nothing,” Olya said. “You are surprised to find the tea to your liking? Usually we drink a bitter brew. For you, a pinch of sugar.”
“It’s good,” Kay said. “But how is it possible?”
“My dear girl,” Masha said. “All things are possible with imagination. You might as well ask the same about all of life. How does the thrush know when is spring and time to return? How is cherry tree both flower and fruit and then a scrag of bones in October? Tea knows how to be tea.”
“But how do you make the real tea out of imaginary nothing?”
Like three magpies, the Sisters cocked their heads and stared at her, puzzled by the abstract nature of her question. She wondered if she had unwittingly crossed a line, and the long pause disconcerted her. They looked lifeless again, reverted to their puppet state. Snapping her finger in front of their glass eyes, Kay tried to wake them from their stupor.
Olya blinked first. “Dahlink, we are practicing.”
“Practicing for what?”
“In case we are called to play our roles.”
Masha leaned in and whispered confidentially. “True freedom, golubushka, comes in knowing your limitations. We are all waiting here for whatever happens next.”
Looking over the lip of her teacup, Irina smiled at her. “When the puppeteer calls, the puppets must be ready.”
From the doorway came the ringing of the school bell and Mr. Firkin shouting that the night was nearly over. The Dog began to bark excitedly as the puppets whirled into motion, restoring the Back Room to its previous state. Before the Sisters could get away, Kay grabbed Olya by the brocade sleeve of her dress. “What roles are you talking about? Who is calling?”
“Everyone must prepare for the puppet show,” she said and pulled away.
“Places, please,” Mr. Firkin cried. “Is everything as it should be? Quickly, quickly, now. We must not let them notice anything amiss, or there will be hell to pay.”
The Motion of Puppets Page 6
