The Curfew - Jesse Ball [23]
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