The Translated Man and Other Stories - Chris Braak [33]
If Skinner had been a little more honest with herself, she’d have admitted that she was a little in love with Elijah Beckett, but if she’d been brutally honest, she’d be forced to admit that she was really in love with the idea of Elijah Beckett. There always seemed to be a noble, poetic soul lurking beneath the damaged, brittle exterior, but the fact was that there was probably little left of Beckett except for that infallible devotion to his task.
She had a sudden vision of the old man in his youth: a bare-knuckle boxer snatched up into the service, with fire in his eyes and a chip on his shoulder, ready to take on all comers.
“What?” Beckett snapped.
“What, ‘what’?”
“You’re listening at me. Stop it.”
“Sorry.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
Ten: The Theater
The two coroners arrived at what would eventually be known as Sitwell’s masterpiece well before the show. Since the beginning of the war with the ettercap, Trowthi citizens had begun to work later and later hours, both to support the weakening Trowth economy, and to be off the streets when the pressgangs came by. Later work hours meant later mealtimes. Later mealtimes meant later shows. And the one thing that was not diminished by Trowth’s agonizingly long war with the ettercap in Gorcia was its appetite for entertainment. The Trowthi Theatra Popula in Red Lanes, a privately-funded theatre that was known for doing works much more risqué than those performed by the more staid and conservative Royal Theatre in Old Bank, was packed to the rafters when the coroners arrived.
Beckett showed their tickets to an usher, who took them up a wide, marble-banister staircase to the mezzanine seats. Beckett and Skinner’s seats were in a small box all the way to the side of the theatre house, giving Beckett a terrible view of the stage, but an excellent view of the boxes directly across from him.
“These seats are awful,” he complained. He had a small vial of veneine cut with brandy, and took a sip from it. The bitter taste made him shudder, but it was warm at least.
“Hush.”
Someone dimmed phlogiston lamps in the house, and bright yellow light flooded the stage. Beckett had to crane his neck and lean a little bit over the railing in order to be able to see it at all.
“I can’t tell what’s happening,” he said.
“Sh!” Skinner chided him.
“What?” He lowered his voice. “It’s a pantomime. It’s not like we’re going to miss anything if we talk.”
“It’s a Canthi Pantomime,” Skinner whispered. “You’re thinking of Thranc mime-shows. They talk in Canthi Pantomime.”
“Oh.” He leaned back in his seat. “Do…do you need me to tell you what’s happening?”
“No. Just be quiet.”
Good. Beckett thought, then wondered how Skinner could appreciate a play that she couldn’t see. It didn’t take long to figure out; the characters announced virtually everything that they did. They came on in pairs and did short scenes together to introduce themselves, and then proceeded to enact an intricate plot. Beckett had trouble following it.
The characters were old stand-bys from the Canthi repertory, back when they did all of their plays with the same seven characters, who all behaved the same way every time: the Young Master enlisted his Servant to help him win the Young Girl, who was courted by the Captain and the Doctor, while the Miser plotted with the Loogaroo. In the end, the Young Girl and the Young Master end up together, the Servant, if not free and rich, is at least shown to be clever. The Captain and the Doctor are embarrassed, the Miser robbed, and the Loogaroo is banished. Sometimes, the roles were switched around, and the Young Master and the Captain spoil the plans of the Servant, who was secretly working for the Loogaroo. Sometimes, the Miser is replaced by the Old Widow, who longs to wed the Doctor. In the end, the stories all turn out happily: good people discover they have secret fortunes, bad people are hanged with their own ropes.
In The Bone-Collector’s