The Curfew - Jesse Ball [27]
The person is still singing, and begins to sing louder. It is impossible to say what the person is singing. William and Louisa can no longer be heard, although they are plainly speaking. Molly struggles to hear what they are saying, but she cannot. This part of her childhood is lost for a second time. She is on the edge of her seat.
The puppet show proceeds rapidly through the exposition. Molly cannot yet walk; she must be carried. Later, perhaps she can walk a bit. She and William and Louisa are often to be seen in the parks and on the long avenues. As they walk, the trees bend towards them, the grass stands up on long legs, the air convenes and disperses, making light breezes and zephyrs.
A man in a blue hat, Lawrence, comes to visit one day. The set is dark. It is the middle of the night. There is a knocking. A light comes on. Louisa gets out of bed. She walks down the set through various hallways and stairs, trailing the thinnest of marionette wires. At the bottom, the door and on it a fine brass knob. She touches it with her hand and makes as if to turn it.
—Who’s there?
—Louisa, it’s me. It’s beginning. You have to get out of here. I’m leaving myself. Tell William. The musicians will be among the first to go. I’m sure of it. And you, certainly you know they’ll never let you off.
She opens the door. The sight of a man in a blue hat confronts her. It is, in fact, Lawrence.
William joins them at the door.
—Lawrence, what are you talking about?
—News from out of town. They’ve set the congress on fire. The whole thing’s begun. The army is with them. The whole thing’s done. It’s useless.
Lawrence runs out into the street. In the distance, the sound of something hitting a tin can.
Mr. Gibbons’s face comes around the side of the house, impossibly large. He addresses the audience:
—That should be gunfire. My apologies. Please recognize it as gunfire. Once more.
He disappears. Lawrence is again at the door. Louisa is composed, but extremely disturbed. William looks angry.
—News from out of town. They’ve set the congress on fire. The whole thing’s begun. The army is with them. The whole thing’s done. It’s useless.
Lawrence runs out into the street. He is holding his blue hat in his left hand. In the distance, the sound of gunfire.
William wraps an arm around Louisa. They shut the door. There is a painting there, and it draws the eye. The two pause there to inspect it, as if the answers lie therein.
It is a painting of a battle. There are rows of men with bright uniforms. There are cannon. Places have been dug out to foil the cavalry. Bodies are strewn between the various positions. The sky is bright in the distance, but dark overhead. A vulture is crouching on a colonel in such a way that it seems perhaps the vulture is the colonel. Nonetheless, it appears that the colonel is doing a marvelous job. He has won the battle. Why? The eyes of his troops are fierce and the others are as pale as mirrors. One can easily imagine the vast and beautiful columns of reinforcements arriving out of the east. The sound as they pound the road, as they draw nearer and nearer.
But for us there is no help, thinks William. He cannot say it, not to his wife. If he should do so, even once, it would immediately be true.
A voice:
—The next day conducted itself as usual; nothing had changed. There was no report of anything. Another day passed and another. A month passed. And then one day, soldiers marching up and down the streets. People hanged from telephone wires. The edicts posted. Interrogations of every kind along with new assignments of work. The whole thing turned on its head. The body of Lawrence found in a ditch outside town. He had lain there a long time before he was found. Compulsory attendance at so-called Section Meetings.