The Curfew

PART 2

IN THE APARTMENT

— I think that what is most needed for you, young lady, is that a puppet show should be made, and by you, and that my husband he will do a great job of helping you with it, because, do you know, he was making puppets in his old work, although now he does not.

Molly nodded gravely.

— Come on, he’s in here.

The apartment was full of objects: cookie cutters, quilts, photographs of long ago, a sewing machine, a pressing machine, a long pole with metal bands at either end.

Mrs. Gibbons took the pole and put one end in a slot on the ground. The other end she slid into a port on the door.

— You’d need an army to bust down that, said Mrs. Gibbons. Come now.

Molly followed her into the next room, where Mr. Gibbons was sitting in an armchair.

— There’s a job for you, Mr. Gibbons, to help this Molly here to make a puppet show. Now I want you to do it properly as you used to and not spare a thing. It’s a serious matter, you know, and it’s Molly’s first visit here.

— Well, don’t I know my own business, Mrs. Gibbons. Come here, young lady. We’ll sit and talk a moment about what sort of puppet show you want to make.

Molly looked back and forth at Mrs. and Mr. Gibbons. She tried to sign *I don’t speak.

— The poor thing, said Mrs. Gibbons. And me not knowing sign language, either.

— Well, that’s the least of our worries. Here’s a sheet of paper.

Mr. Gibbons produced a pencil and a piece of paper.

— This’ll do just fine, he said. You can sit here, Molly, and let’s talk about this puppet show.

*I am very eager to do the puppet show and also think it’s kind of you to have me here. I and my father are very grateful.

— Oh, it’s nothing at all. You needn’t worry yourself.

Mrs. Gibbons went out of the room and called back in:

— I’ll be coming with something hot to drink in a while, and ask the girl has she had supper.

— Have you had supper, Molly?

*Haven’t.

— Hasn’t, but would like to, I think, Mrs. Gibbons.

— That’ll do, that’ll do.

— A puppet show, said Mr. Gibbons, is a very delicate thing.

He sat on the ottoman across from Molly, and spoke with his hands. His face was reddish colored, and he wore a bathrobe over thick flannel pajamas. His eyes were very blue.

— I should know, he continued. Wasn’t I the impresario of the famous Antediluvian Puppet Brigade? So, if you follow me, we’ll go into the next room, and perhaps you’ll get an idea or two. Be sure to take your paper with. And don’t worry about using it up. Speak your mind. We’ve plenty of paper.

*I think a puppet show about music.

— Music, eh.

Mr. Gibbons’s face assumed a serious expression.

— That’s a large matter, especially now. I’m beginning to see the sort of girl you are.

They went together into the next room.

THE NEXT ROOM

housed at one end a beautiful puppet theater. The windows of the room were covered over with thick drapes that were nailed in at many points. There were about fifteen chairs to compose an audience. The theater was made of wood, and was raised off the ground. There were steps leading up to it from the side. On one wall, to the left of the theater, a long curtain hung. Mr. Gibbons threw it aside.

Many shelves were beneath it. The first shelf held tools of every description. The second held paint, and feathers, bits of fur and wood in shapes and sizes. Also, string in balls and tangles. The third and fourth and fifth and sixth held puppets, oh such puppets as Molly had never seen. There were kings and princes, sheep and lions, dogs and sheep princesses, wolves and mules, wolf kings and fox maids, tailors and churls and musketmen. There were crones and cat crones, wizards and haughty courtiers. But there were no children.

*No children? wrote Molly.

— There are never child-puppets in puppet shows, said Mr. Gibbons. Children must imagine themselves to be all the puppets, and can’t afford to just feel they are the child-puppets. Besides, when disastrous things happen to the other puppets, it is all right, but it is very difficult for children to see disastrous things befall children.

*And animals.

— That’s true, but at least then it stays in the imagination and doesn’t stick in the heart as fear.

Mr. Gibbons had the talent that many puppeteers have of speaking to children as though he believed they were intelligent and could understand a thing or two.

— So, he said. What do you think?

Molly put down the piece of paper and signed for three minutes straight, all the while staring very seriously right at Mr. Gibbons. At the end, she did a little hop, and took up the pencil and paper again.

— I feel I know just what you mean, he said. Well, let’s get started. Here’s how it will go.

HERE’S HOW IT WILL GO

1. You will decide whether your world has animals in it, or people, or both, and whether the animals behave as people or as animals, or as both.

2. You will decide whether there is magic or not, and if there is magic, if anyone knows that there is or not, and if anyone knows about it, whether they tell anyone or not.

3. You will decide how many of the puppets will die, and how, so that we can have it happen at the right spots in the show.

4. You will decide if you want the puppet show to be funny or not. The puppet show will always be sad, but it can also be funny in parts.

5. You will decide if the theme should be: marriage, sickness, enchantment, inheritance, or revenge.

6. You will come up with the name of the villain. All the other names come out of the villain’s name. The villain’s nature, even that comes out of the villain’s name. The only thing that doesn’t come out of the villain’s name is the expression on the face of the puppet which will be our hero or heroine. That we will paint last, when we know everything. It is likely to be a thin smile. That’s my specialty, but we shall see.

7. The puppet show will be in three acts. We will talk about the puppet show forwards, and when we are done talking, we will write the puppet show backwards. Believe me, it is a good method.

8. We will think about extra tactics, like stalling when the puppet show is about to begin, so we can paint the features of audience members onto minor puppet characters as a nice surprise.

Mrs. Gibbons came into the room carrying a tray with a pot of tea and a pile of hot biscuits with butter and honey.

Mr. Gibbons gave his wife an annoyed look.

— We have a great deal to do here, and can’t be bothered with this.

But Molly was already eating the biscuits. Mrs. Gibbons poured the tea into cups and left the room, shutting the door quietly.

Mr. Gibbons set out a variety of puppets for Molly to inspect, all the while humming to himself in a happy way. It was his belief that puppetry was as expressive as ordinary theater, and in fact perhaps more expressive. If one person can control every aspect of the performance, then nothing need be lost. Nothing! He looked up suddenly.

Molly was peering at him across an empty basket where the biscuits had been. An empty teacup was there, an empty pot of honey, and a little plate half full of butter.

She took a napkin from the chair next to her and wiped her hands very deliberately.

*Shall we start?

Mr. Gibbons nodded.

THE DOOR OPENED BEFORE WILLIAM AND WHO DO YOU SUPPOSE WAS THERE?

A young woman, in a nightgown. The straps were falling down, but it did not seem to concern her. And from farther in, a voice came.

— Who is it?

— It’s a man, maybe thirty, thirty-five? Thin. In an old coat, hasn’t shaved. Widow’s peak.

— That’s Drysdale.

— Is that him, really?

— Yeah, tell him to come in.

— Tell him yourself.

The young woman turned and walked away from the door. Gerard came down from the floor above. He appeared relieved. One could tell this because he removed a handkerchief from his right pocket, folded it, and returned it again.

— William, he said. You came.

— Did you think I wouldn’t?

— Well, you know. At first we thought you and Molly were taken along with Louisa, but then someone said they saw you at the park in the lake district. That’s where you live?

— That’s where we live.

— Well, come in. Come in.

In the next room, perhaps twenty people were sitting around, drinking what looked like wine out of wineglasses. They were the sort of people William & Louisa used to be in the habit of knowing, a crowd of elegant furniture, like the legs of a herd of gazelle taken together, and equally useless, when all things are considered.

— Is that wine? asked William.

— We have our small pleasures, and we have gotten away with it so far. A glass?

— I haven’t had wine in so long. I, well, yes, thank you.

William accepted the glass. The man closest to him turned and stuck out his hand.

— James Goldman. You’re William Drysdale, I heard Gerard say so a moment ago.

— That’s right.

— A pity about the music. I was a violinist, too, actually, amateur, nothing like you, but I, well, I was a musician, too, and I suppose it’s the same isn’t it, for us both, not playing?

— I try not to think of it.

William’s expression was pained.

— Of course, the man continued, it’s not the same. I don’t mean it that way, I guess, I, I just mean, it’s hard to not play, damned hard.

— It is that, said William. It is that.

THE WAILING OF A SIREN, THEN

between the houses and along the streets. It brought a harsh electricity into William’s stiffness. Was no one else worried?

He leaned towards the man next to him.

— Do you often go out past the curfew?

The man laughed.

— Of course not. I actually have never done it.

Another man, very young, was refilling people’s glasses with a newly uncorked bottle of wine. He had a very thin moustache and wispy hair.

— We stay the night, always, always. There are positively rooms full of beds, wouldn’t you know.

He went off through the room, extending his bottle and giggling.

— Out after curfew indeed. You’d be a madman!

— That’s Salien, he’s a tremendous talent in vaudeville. In secret, of course. But really …

The man touched William’s sleeve.

— … I hope you’re not intending to try to make it home. They’ve been doubling and redoubling. Far too dangerous. Go home in the morning. You’re not a fool.

The woman next to James Goldman spoke up.

— Did you see the fire on the way?

There was a peculiar mood in the room — an enforced jollity. Everything must be tinged with a disdainful humor and accompanied by slight laughter. William disliked the whole thing.

— A fire? said a bald man standing by the window. Did you set it?

— Me, don’t be ridiculous, Sean.

— Well, you’re introducing the subject. There must be a reason for it.

— They’re always fighting, James explained.

— I saw the fire, said William. I think the building burned to the ground.

— A victory, said the woman in a low voice.

— Shush, Clara. Don’t talk like that, not even here.

Gerard came in.

— Come with me. I have something I want to show you.

James was whispering something to Clara. No one seemed to be paying any attention. William got up.

— All right, then.

At the back of the house, there was a door to an addition. This addition was only the length of a room and unheated. Gerard handed William a coat from a pile. He himself put on a coat. They sat on stools.

— Is everyone here involved? asked William.

— Involved?

Gerard laughed.

— The point is: information like that doesn’t exist. Who is, who isn’t involved: it doesn’t matter. We simply spread the method, and people act on their own. They don’t need to tell anyone.

— The method?

— The method. It’s very simple. Everyone will soon have learned of it, through channels exactly like this. Just one person telling someone else, someone trusted.

— Is it that bad?

— If you’re caught with it in writing, less than a page of text, you’re shot. Interrogated, shot. Most people who get interrogated say the same thing, and it’s true.

— What’s that?

— They found a piece of paper. They don’t know anything about it. But in this town, there hasn’t been too much printing yet. That’s the dangerous part, the printing. But it spreads by word, also.

— What is it?

William had been struggling with himself. He wanted to leave, to go home and forget about the whole thing. He could feel it, like a door opening out of sight. This was something he didn’t want to know, or be a part of. But he was curious, yes he was, and he was lonely, too, and here he was sitting with Gerard, a man he had known many years, and they were talking. Also, he was wearing a coat that wasn’t his, a leather coat such as he would never ordinarily wear. There were things in the pockets, but he did not look to see what they were.

— Do you remember the time we went boating, you and Louisa, Ana and I?

William nodded.

— Do you remember when that man asked to take a picture of us, and Louisa didn’t want him to? The man on the pier?

— I do.

— And then he took the picture anyway, and Louisa got angry, but we were already out in the current, and we didn’t want to turn back. I sometimes think …

Gerard had taken the bottle with him. He took a swig from it.

— I sometimes think if we had gone back, then, everything would have changed, and she wouldn’t have been shot.

William’s mouth was dry. The idea of Louisa was all close spaces, distances, thick smells. It was inaccessible like the inside of a stone.

— What is the method? he asked.

— The method for disgovernance. Other revolutionary movements fail when they are found out. This one just begins when it is found out. It is impossible to stop because there are no ringleaders. It is simple enough to describe in a phrase or two the whole extent of it. Any member of the government, any member of the police, of the secret police, all are targets. You live your life, and do nothing out of the ordinary. But if, at some moment, you find yourself in a position to harm one of the targets, you do. Then you continue on as if nothing has happened. You never go out of your way to make such an opportunity come to pass. Not even one step out of your way. And yet, without exception, the targets must each day place themselves in danger before the citizenry, and cause such opportunities to exist. One doesn’t prepare oneself, except mentally. One never speaks of it, except to spread the idea, and that is better done by sheets of paper left here and there.

Gerard was silent for a minute. He drummed his hand on the table. He took another sip of wine.

— The perfect crime consists of randomness: you happen to be passing a table on which a diamond necklace is lying; everyone has momentarily turned away; you snatch the necklace and continue; you are now the possessor of a diamond necklace. Having randomly arrived there, you had every reason to be in that place at that time, as part of your routine. You only ceased, in the moment of the crime, to be a thing apart from the background, and immediately thereafter, you returned to it. The only thing the New State can do is to clamp down tighter, and that only earns them more hate, activates more of the population. The method is reaching us here only now, but it has been around for two years. And a year ago, do you remember what happened?

— They disbanded the police. Now, only secret police.

— Exactly, and they never said why. But a man I spoke to …

The door opened and a woman stuck her head through.

— Gerard, can you come? I’m trying to convince Leonard that there’s a growing sentiment abroad, but I can’t remember all the figures.

— In a minute.

— All right.

She shut the door.

— This man said that they moved the police force entirely into plainclothes because in another sector, the police were getting mowed down. A policeman couldn’t walk down a street without being hit by a slate tile. First they tried making the police paramilitary, with jeeps, etc. But ultimately, to do the job, they have to get out of the jeeps, and then the same opportunities present themselves. It’s a matter of patience, and decisiveness. The point is, we’re winning. It’s only a matter of time.

— But how do you know who the police are?

William thought of his conversations with Oscar. It was virtually impossible to tell.

— You err on the side of false positives. Everyone shifts their behavior to simple routines, and the secret police are forced to become visible, simply to do their work. Then they become available as targets.

The ringing of a bell could be heard in the distance. The room had become very quiet. Gerard was looking at William and William, he was looking at Gerard. Louisa was not there, for she was dead, but in that way she was in fact there.

— Shall I say it? said Gerard.

William nodded.

— Someone I know, who was, well, he was working for the government then, before he came over. He saw what happened to her. I can’t relate it. I don’t want to. But I have everything about the file here.

He produced a folder from behind one of the boxes and handed it to William. It was tied around with string and was quite thick.

— I imagine you’ll want to look at that at home, or somewhere without company.

The door opened again.

— Gerard, will you come?

— All right, here I am. Hold on a moment.

He stood up.

— Well, that’s it, William. I wanted to show you something else, too, but I guess it can wait.

— What is it?

The girl pulled on Gerard’s arm.

— Hold on, he said.

He knelt down and opened a cabinet that was on floor level. Out of it, he removed a flat black leather case. He set it down.

William could feel his pulse in his hands.

Gerard unfastened two buckles and opened the case.

It was a violin.

— Where did you get it?

— Can’t say.

William looked at the girl.

— Don’t worry about me, she said. I’m the one who got it.

— It’s for you, William, said Gerard. You should probably go home now. Having you here, it’s out of the routine, and a danger for both of us. You have a safe route home? You planned it, no?

— I …

William looked away.

— Perhaps it’s best you stay, then. If you don’t have transportation, or a clear route. I thought you had, well, don’t worry about it. Just stay. If you don’t want to be among people, you can read upstairs in the bedroom, and leave first thing.

— I have to be home. My daughter, you see.

— I see.

William paused a moment on the stair.

In one hand he had the violin case, in the other the scrip of files.

Laughter came from within. William shook his head. The lights along the streets blinked on then off.

Gerard shut the door and watched the figure go away along the street, the black case apparent under his arm.

— Do you think he’ll …?

— He won’t play it, not ever. But at least he will have it.

— And for the rest?

— If he acts, if he doesn’t, it’s meaningless. The whole thing goes forward. No one is important. No one at all.

— A war with no participants. Only casualties. The forest opens and consumes the troops.

She laughed.

— And consumes the troops, agreed Gerard.

She came to the door and stood beside him looking out the window.

There was nothing to see.

— I have a terrible feeling, he said. Like the rope isn’t tied to anything.

— Come now, he’ll make it home. Come.

She kissed him and led him back to the others.

— And here, said Mr. Gibbons, is the brush I always use for eyes.

He handed Molly an extremely thin brush.

— It is not a-single-horse’s-hair, but it is close to that.

Molly wrote on the paper:

*Three horse hairs?

— Perhaps.

The brush had a furious red handle. Such a handle, it seemed that it would grant life to whatever it made. Molly gave it back to Mr. Gibbons reluctantly.

*But why a different brush for eyes? Is there one for mouths, for ears, for cheeks? Molly wrote.

Mr. Gibbons read the paper.

— You’re a shrewd one, he said. That’s for certain. Here’s why: if I have to switch brushes for each feature, it grants me the space of thought. I can’t just dash ’em off. Also, the brush can be acquainted with its specialty, if you believe such things.

He coughed.

— Not that believing such things has anything to do with whether they are true. You see that, don’t you?

Molly nodded.

— The effect of irrational beliefs on your art is invaluable. You must shepherd and protect them. I’m sure your father would say the same.

*He believes many things.

— I’m sure he does.

Mr. Gibbons held up a puppet with a veiled face. It was a male puppet in a jester suit, but its face was veiled.

— There are puppets, said Mr. Gibbons, who know more than what the other puppets know. Do you see what I mean? Not all the puppets are privy to the same information. This puppet for instance, this puppet, I save him for special circumstances. He is aware that the puppet show is going on, and of his place in it. That doesn’t mean that he knows about the puppeteer, not exactly. His information, of course, is not always correct. However, he does know much more than any of the other puppets. Sometimes, why sometimes he can even see the audience.

Molly wrote something on her piece of paper and then crossed it out.

— That’s right, said Mr. Gibbons. It’s better to have something like that in your head awhile before asking questions about it. I quite agree.

— Once, he continued, in a play about a horse, this puppet, this very puppet, explained to the cast that they were all being used, manipulated, made fools of. On the spot, right there, the puppets refused to go on. It was a disaster. I had to refund all the show’s proceeds. The audience left in a huff.

Molly smiled and took a long breath. She scribbled down a question.

*He can say things to them in one play and they won’t know it in the next. Everything starts over, no?

— Everything starts over. Except — maybe, just maybe, he has some sense of the history of all these puppet shows. That’s why he sits here, on this fine throne, overlooking the whole room.

It was true that the veiled jester had a fine view of the room.

*What voice do you use for him?

— Oh, he has many voices. As many as the leaves on the tree he was carved from. He is a teller of stories, but a great liar as well.

*But isn’t one his voice?

— Well, we will just have to see if he joins the play, won’t we? Time passes. We must continue our good work. Come over here now. We must make some of those decisions I spoke of.

William went along the street as quickly as he could. To run would be foolish. It would attract attention. Besides, it was too far. He could never run all the way. But walking below a certain speed was foolish, too — it meant someone walking behind and faster might overtake you. So one had to walk fast enough to not be overtaken, but not fast enough to arouse suspicion. Also, if it seemed that one might overtake someone else, one had to choose a route to pass by the person without suspicion.

The papers in his hand burned at him. He wanted to tear open the papers right then, but knew that to get home was most important.

The noise of footsteps came from up ahead. William ducked into the entranceway of a building. He reached up and unscrewed the lightbulb. He was in darkness, and across the way the streetlight blinked on and off. The footsteps were nearer now. He was positive he could not be seen, but still his hands shook.

I must get home, he said to himself. I must get home to Molly.

There were three men and they were talking loudly. They were upon him and then past him. He watched them go. These men were not worried in the slightest. But who could they be, to not be worried?

William hurried on.

A fancy rose in his head then, that he would be caught, but that he could escape. He would be running and they would corner him in some stone court. They would be grim faced, terrible, and he would draw out the violin and play and his pursuers would be forced to dance and dance until it was morning. The sun would rise and they would collapse on legs that would not support them and he would hurry away home. He could play that well. He felt he could. He could feel their legs failing them, could feel them dropping one by one, helpless.

— It will be a musical play, said Mr. Gibbons, reading from the sheet Molly had handed him, but there will be little or no music in it.

He looked up.

— That’s sound, he said, and in keeping with our resources. I see you have a brain in your head. Has your father spoken about music to you? No, no, don’t answer that. I’m sure anything you have to say will appear in the play, and that will be enough for me.

He continued,

— It will not be a musical play, as in, a musical. Music is the theme.

He nodded.

— The characters will be divided between animals and humans. It will be clear that nothing in particular is meant by one being an animal or not. Although, of course, a particular trait associated with an animal might have a bearing on the character portrayed. E.g., a cunning fox, or a silly goose.

— There are no goose puppets anyway, said Mrs. Gibbons, who sat silently in the corner, knitting something indefinable.

— There will be no magic, whatsoever. Magic is either a poverty-stricken necessity or a wealthy fantasy. We are in neither of those straits, and what cannot be explained will be left unknown.

A glad tension had begun to show around the edges of Mr. Gibbons as he saw that it would be a real puppet show. Now, each proof that Molly made of her seriousness was joined with the forgotten vitality of his long life’s puppetry.

— Death of puppets: still to be spoken of. Show: not funny. Theme: sickness (grand scale). Villain: none.

Here Mr. Gibbons drew up like a struck horse.

— I say, young lady, I really do, I must say, a puppet show with no villain. Why, we shall have to talk this through. I don’t know that it can be done, and even if it could, well, why would you want such a thing, and then there is the matter of what is the glue to hold it all together, and how I have already been thinking of how it might be, and, Molly. I’m not sure this will do.

Molly stared up at him with determination.

He continued,

— Three acts, yes. Forwards, backwards, as you like. No audience, I suppose.

He put down the sheet and looked at her.

— As for the audience, well, we’ll see about that.

He winked at Mrs. Gibbons.

— But for the rest, yes, let’s talk over here where Mrs. Gibbons can’t hear us.

Molly and Mr. Gibbons went to the far side of the room. A moment later, Molly returned for her paper, and dashed back again. From the corner, much scribbling and fuming.

William had passed along four more streets and had been forced to hide twice more. Windows with a meager light might be seen at every crossing. He kept thinking of something Louisa had told him, shortly after they’d met.

— Sometimes the gladness of a candle is all there is to a room, and it’s saved for the person who sees it from far away. Those in the room know nothing about it, and are sometimes themselves gone from the room, even while sitting there. Cold rooms. One doesn’t want to be there, except when they’ve been misunderstood, as when seen from outside. We mustn’t be that way.

He had assured her they would not. Looking back, there had been no danger of it. It was a strange thing, William thought, to be young now — he was young — and for Louisa to have been dead already years. To still be young. And all the many years still left. Too many. But for Molly, he would …

He ducked behind a tree. Two men, this time with flashlights. These were dressed in a military fashion. Some sort of night guard, and the only one who sees them is taken away. If he was in the situation, as Gerard had said, this situation that you are brought to by chance, would he be brave enough to act? Many things had suddenly made sense. All the recent trouble — it was due to an idea. A clean, clear idea. He had searched for such ideas, once, he and Louisa.

They were gone now. He came out from behind the tree and hurried on. It was a cold night. Against the houses ahead, he could see that the fire was still burning — had it been a police station?

Now, the last of it: he had to cross a broad stretch of pavement to get to his quarter. He broke into a run. It seemed a great distance he had to cover. It stretched away from him as he ran. He ran faster and it was farther.

— Hey, you! You!

William ran. He wanted to drop the violin, but it was useless. They would find it even if he dropped it, and he mustn’t drop it. Yet more precious were the documents, and those would consign him to death regardless. He could not let them go, no matter what it meant.

Cries went up behind him. There were three, no, four of them. They were gaining. The black ground sped past him. Lights whirred in the distance.

— There he is.

They were on either side. He ran into the park, and down a path. The dim, glowing bulbs of the park seemed to multiply shadows. He might do it. He might get away. Then, onto uneven ground, a moment, a moment, and then his feet were out from under him. The violin case was lost, it, too, was in the air, and then he hit the ground. The papers were gone. A second later and a body crashed into him, pinning him. Where had the papers gone? He struggled to get free.

— He’s here. I’ve got him. Here.

Rough hands were on him, and a great deal of weight. William lay, lungs heaving, face cut from the fall. He could not even see the people who had caught him. This was the sort of war they were in.

— I must get home. My daughter. I, I fell asleep. I didn’t realize what time it was. I was working late.

There was no response.

He said it again,

— I must get home. I have a child.

— No one is out now who doesn’t mean to be.

It was an awful voice. It gave nothing beyond itself.

— I, I beg you.

William tried to turn off his stomach, but the man pressed down harder. He could hardly breathe.

— The others will be here soon.

The hands that bent his own arm down into his back must belong to that voice, but for all that he knew, it could have come from anywhere. There was a creaking high up in the branches of the trees, and it would continue through the long night. It meant nothing, just that the wind was blowing. The action of a thing is the same as the naming of it — is, in fact, the real name. The trees creak and they are saying, trees creak through the long night. The long night — what is it? Trees creaking. There wasn’t anything that tied life’s moments together, except life. And when it was gone?

They were finishing their painting of the figures. They had been hours at it, or mostly Mr. Gibbons, who was an expert, and could fix a figure at a moment’s notice and with no effort whatsoever. Meanwhile, Molly wrote the dialogue, the scenes, and slipped them back and forth for Mr. Gibbons’s approval. They were doing it backwards as he had said, backwards, except for the final scene. It was the compromise they had reached.

There was a mouse whose face had been given the features of Molly, a mouse dressed in a yellow slip.

There was a man and he had been cleverly painted. He really did look like William, and Molly said as much.

Two bird-puppets bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr. and Mrs. Gibbons.

A wolf with a crown had been Molly’s final, and most difficult, choice. She had run back to her apartment to fetch a photograph from her father’s desk. Now it was a she-wolf, in a long dress, and it looked like Molly’s mother.

*I don’t remember her very well.

— That’s all right. You remember who she was, and your father has spoken of her.

*He told me all about her.

— I know he has.

And so the work continued.

— The motion of the puppets, Mr. Gibbons explained, is too complicated to teach now. You will have to be satisfied with my doing it. After all, you wrote it all down, everything, and I understand it well. I have the voices as they are, and for the Molly-marionette, we have the boards.

There were boards on which was written each portion of the dialogue of Molly’s puppet. They would slide out at the appropriate time.

Molly had been so caught up in the preparations for the play that she was astonished to find, when she turned around, that many of the seats of the theater were now full. Mrs. Gibbons had placed life-size puppets of various kinds throughout.

— Every theater, said Mr. Gibbons, must have an audience, no matter how small.

The lights dimmed.

— Seats, everyone.

Molly sat in the front. The theater rose up before her and engaged her entire field of view. A fine curtain hung across it. Gilt edges ran the length through the poised air. The wood was painted in expectation of certain delight, and that very delight and longing ran all through her as though she believed that answers might be found. If her father would return soon, it might well be through the agency of puppets as well as anything. It might certainly. Might it not?

— Seats!

Mrs. Gibbons settled herself in the back row.

— A LADDER OF RAIN AND THE ROOF BEYOND, a play by Molly Drysdale (mostly) and Siegfried Gibbons (hardly).

Molly’s hand was signing something beneath the chair, but it could not be observed.

It was now early in the morning and William still had not returned.