The Night Circus
Page 50
Widget pauses, considering the change in the way the man in the grey suit watches him. He wonders if all the grand words earlier about stories no longer being what they once were was all for show, something that the man does not truly believe.
While before his interest level bordered on indifferent, now he looks at Widget as a child might look at a new toy, or the way a wolf would regard a particularly interesting piece of prey, scarlet-clad or otherwise.
“You’re trying to distract me,” Widget says.
The man in the grey suit only sips his wine, regarding Widget over the rim of his glass.
“Is the game finished, then?” Widget asks.
“Yes and no.” He puts down his glass before continuing. “Technically, it has fallen into an unforeseen loophole. It has not been properly completed.”
“And what of the circus?”
“I suppose that is why you wished to speak with me?”
Widget nods. “Bailey has inherited his position from your players. My sister has settled the business end of things with Chandresh. On paper and in principle, we own and operate the circus already. I volunteered to handle the remainder of the transition.”
“I am not fond of loose ends, but I am afraid it is not that simple.”
“I did not mean to suggest that it was,” Widget says.
In the pause that follows, a gale of laughter rises from a few tables over, rippling through the air before settling back down, disappearing into the low, steady hum of conversations and clinking glasses.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into, my boy,” the man in the grey suit says quietly. “How fragile an enterprise it all is. How uncertain the consequences are. What would your Bailey be, had he not been so adopted into your circus? Nothing but a dreamer, longing for something he does not even understand.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a dreamer.”
“There is not. But dreams have ways of turning into nightmares. I suspect Monsieur Lefèvre knows something of that. You’d be better off letting the whole endeavor fade away into myth and oblivion. All empires fall eventually. It is the way of things. Perhaps it is time to let this one go.”
“I’m afraid I’m unwilling to do that,” Widget says.
“You are very young.”
“I would wager that combined, even beyond the fact that Bailey and my sister and myself are comparatively, as you say, very young, if I calculated the ages of everyone I have behind this proposition, the total might trump your own age.”
“Perhaps.”
“And I do not know exactly what kind of rules your game had, but I suspect that you owe us this much, if we were all put at risk for your wager.”
The man in the grey suit sighs. He casts a quick glance toward the window, but the shadow of Hector Bowen is nowhere to be seen.
If Prospero the Enchanter has an opinion on the matter, he chooses not to voice it.
“I suppose that is a valid argument,” the man in the grey suit says after some consideration. “But I owe you nothing, young man.”
“Then why are you here?” Widget asks.
The man smiles, but he says nothing.
“I am negotiating for what is, essentially, a used playing field,” Widget continues. “It is of no further use to you. It holds a great deal of importance to me. I will not be dissuaded. Name your price.”
The man in the grey suit’s smile brightens considerably.
“I want a story,” he says.
“A story?”
“I want this story. Your story. The tale of what brought us to this place, in these chairs, with this wine. I don’t want a story you create from here”—he taps his temple with his finger—“I want one that is here.” He lets his hand hover over his heart for a moment before sitting back in his chair.
Widget considers this offer for a moment.
“And if I tell you this story, you will give me the circus?” he asks.
“I will pass on to you what little of it remains for me to give. When we leave this table I will have no claim over your circus, no connection to it whatsoever. When that bottle of wine is empty, a challenge that started before you were even born will be over, officially declared a stalemate. That should suffice. Do we have an agreement, Mr. Murray?”
“We have an agreement,” Widget says.
The man in the grey suit pours the last of the wine. The candlelight catches and bends in the empty bottle as he places it on the table.
Widget swirls his wine around his glass. Wine is bottled poetry, he thinks. It is a sentiment he first heard from Herr Thiessen, but he knows it is properly attributed to another writer, though at the moment he cannot recall who, exactly.
There are so many places to begin.
So many elements to consider.
He wonders if the poem of the circus could possibly be bottled.
Widget takes a sip of his wine and puts his glass down on the table. He sits back in his chair and steadily returns the stare aimed at him. Taking his time as though he has all of it in the world, in the universe, from the days when tales meant more than they do now, but perhaps less than they will someday, he draws a breath that releases the tangled knot of words in his heart, and they fall from his lips effortlessly.
“The circus arrives without warning.”
There are very few people wandering through Le Cirque des Rêves with you in these predawn hours. Some are wearing red scarves that are particularly vibrant against the black and white.
You do not have much time before the sun inevitably rises. You are faced with the conundrum of how to fill the remaining minutes of the night. Should you visit one last tent? One that you have already entered and particularly enjoyed, or an unexplored tent that remains a mystery? Or should you seek out one last prebreakfast caramel apple? The night that seemed endless hours before is now slipping from your fingers, ticking by as it falls into the past and pushes you toward the future.
You spend your last moments at the circus as you wish, for it is your time and yours alone. But before long, it is time for Le Cirque des Rêves to close, at least for the time being.
The star-filled tunnel has been removed, only a single curtain separates the courtyard from the entrance now.
When it closes behind you, the distance feels greater than a few steps divided by a striped curtain.
You hesitate before you exit, pausing to watch the intricate, dancing clock as it ticks down the seconds, pieces moving seamlessly. You are able to watch it more closely than you had when you entered, as there is no longer a crowd obscuring it.
Beneath the clock, there is an unobtrusive silver plaque. You have to bend down to make out the inscription engraved onto the polished metal.
IN MEMORIAM
it reads across the top, with names and dates below in a smaller font.
FRIEDRICK STEFAN THIESSEN
September 9, 1846–November 1, 1901
and
CHANDRESH CHRISTOPHE LEFÈVRE
August 3, 1847–February 15, 1932
Someone is watching you as you read the memorial plaque. You sense their eyes on you before you realize where the unexpected gaze is coming from. The ticket booth is still occupied. The woman stationed inside is watching, and smiling at you. You are not entirely sure what to do. She waves at you, a small but friendly wave as if to assure you that everything is fine. That visitors often stop before they depart Le Cirque des Rêves to stare at the clockwork wonder that sits by the gates. That some even read the inscribed memorial for two men who died so many years ago. That you stand in a position that many have stood in before, under already fading stars and sparkling lights.
The woman beckons you over to the ticket booth. While you walk toward her, she sorts through piles of paper and tickets. There is a spray of silver-and-black feathers in her hair that flutters around her head as she moves. When she finds what she is seeking, she hands it to you, and you take the business card from her black-gloved hand. One side is black and the other is white.
Le Cirque des Rêves
is printed in shimmering silver letters on the black side. On the reverse, in black ink on white, it reads:
Mr. Bailey Alden Clarke, Proprietor
[email protected]
You turn it over in your hand, wondering what you might write to Mr. Clarke. Perhaps you will thank him for his very singular circus, and perhaps that will suffice.
You thank the woman for the card, and she only smiles in response.
You walk toward the gates, reading the card in your hand again. Before you pass through the gates to the field beyond, you turn back to the ticket booth, but it is empty, a black grate pulled down over it.
You tuck the card carefully in your pocket.
The step through the gates that takes you from painted ground to bare grass feels heavy.
You think, as you walk away from Le Cirque des Rêves and into the creeping dawn, that you felt more awake within the confines of the circus.
You are no longer quite certain which side of the fence is the dream.
While before his interest level bordered on indifferent, now he looks at Widget as a child might look at a new toy, or the way a wolf would regard a particularly interesting piece of prey, scarlet-clad or otherwise.
“You’re trying to distract me,” Widget says.
The man in the grey suit only sips his wine, regarding Widget over the rim of his glass.
“Is the game finished, then?” Widget asks.
“Yes and no.” He puts down his glass before continuing. “Technically, it has fallen into an unforeseen loophole. It has not been properly completed.”
“And what of the circus?”
“I suppose that is why you wished to speak with me?”
Widget nods. “Bailey has inherited his position from your players. My sister has settled the business end of things with Chandresh. On paper and in principle, we own and operate the circus already. I volunteered to handle the remainder of the transition.”
“I am not fond of loose ends, but I am afraid it is not that simple.”
“I did not mean to suggest that it was,” Widget says.
In the pause that follows, a gale of laughter rises from a few tables over, rippling through the air before settling back down, disappearing into the low, steady hum of conversations and clinking glasses.
“You have no idea what you’re getting into, my boy,” the man in the grey suit says quietly. “How fragile an enterprise it all is. How uncertain the consequences are. What would your Bailey be, had he not been so adopted into your circus? Nothing but a dreamer, longing for something he does not even understand.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being a dreamer.”
“There is not. But dreams have ways of turning into nightmares. I suspect Monsieur Lefèvre knows something of that. You’d be better off letting the whole endeavor fade away into myth and oblivion. All empires fall eventually. It is the way of things. Perhaps it is time to let this one go.”
“I’m afraid I’m unwilling to do that,” Widget says.
“You are very young.”
“I would wager that combined, even beyond the fact that Bailey and my sister and myself are comparatively, as you say, very young, if I calculated the ages of everyone I have behind this proposition, the total might trump your own age.”
“Perhaps.”
“And I do not know exactly what kind of rules your game had, but I suspect that you owe us this much, if we were all put at risk for your wager.”
The man in the grey suit sighs. He casts a quick glance toward the window, but the shadow of Hector Bowen is nowhere to be seen.
If Prospero the Enchanter has an opinion on the matter, he chooses not to voice it.
“I suppose that is a valid argument,” the man in the grey suit says after some consideration. “But I owe you nothing, young man.”
“Then why are you here?” Widget asks.
The man smiles, but he says nothing.
“I am negotiating for what is, essentially, a used playing field,” Widget continues. “It is of no further use to you. It holds a great deal of importance to me. I will not be dissuaded. Name your price.”
The man in the grey suit’s smile brightens considerably.
“I want a story,” he says.
“A story?”
“I want this story. Your story. The tale of what brought us to this place, in these chairs, with this wine. I don’t want a story you create from here”—he taps his temple with his finger—“I want one that is here.” He lets his hand hover over his heart for a moment before sitting back in his chair.
Widget considers this offer for a moment.
“And if I tell you this story, you will give me the circus?” he asks.
“I will pass on to you what little of it remains for me to give. When we leave this table I will have no claim over your circus, no connection to it whatsoever. When that bottle of wine is empty, a challenge that started before you were even born will be over, officially declared a stalemate. That should suffice. Do we have an agreement, Mr. Murray?”
“We have an agreement,” Widget says.
The man in the grey suit pours the last of the wine. The candlelight catches and bends in the empty bottle as he places it on the table.
Widget swirls his wine around his glass. Wine is bottled poetry, he thinks. It is a sentiment he first heard from Herr Thiessen, but he knows it is properly attributed to another writer, though at the moment he cannot recall who, exactly.
There are so many places to begin.
So many elements to consider.
He wonders if the poem of the circus could possibly be bottled.
Widget takes a sip of his wine and puts his glass down on the table. He sits back in his chair and steadily returns the stare aimed at him. Taking his time as though he has all of it in the world, in the universe, from the days when tales meant more than they do now, but perhaps less than they will someday, he draws a breath that releases the tangled knot of words in his heart, and they fall from his lips effortlessly.
“The circus arrives without warning.”
There are very few people wandering through Le Cirque des Rêves with you in these predawn hours. Some are wearing red scarves that are particularly vibrant against the black and white.
You do not have much time before the sun inevitably rises. You are faced with the conundrum of how to fill the remaining minutes of the night. Should you visit one last tent? One that you have already entered and particularly enjoyed, or an unexplored tent that remains a mystery? Or should you seek out one last prebreakfast caramel apple? The night that seemed endless hours before is now slipping from your fingers, ticking by as it falls into the past and pushes you toward the future.
You spend your last moments at the circus as you wish, for it is your time and yours alone. But before long, it is time for Le Cirque des Rêves to close, at least for the time being.
The star-filled tunnel has been removed, only a single curtain separates the courtyard from the entrance now.
When it closes behind you, the distance feels greater than a few steps divided by a striped curtain.
You hesitate before you exit, pausing to watch the intricate, dancing clock as it ticks down the seconds, pieces moving seamlessly. You are able to watch it more closely than you had when you entered, as there is no longer a crowd obscuring it.
Beneath the clock, there is an unobtrusive silver plaque. You have to bend down to make out the inscription engraved onto the polished metal.
IN MEMORIAM
it reads across the top, with names and dates below in a smaller font.
FRIEDRICK STEFAN THIESSEN
September 9, 1846–November 1, 1901
and
CHANDRESH CHRISTOPHE LEFÈVRE
August 3, 1847–February 15, 1932
Someone is watching you as you read the memorial plaque. You sense their eyes on you before you realize where the unexpected gaze is coming from. The ticket booth is still occupied. The woman stationed inside is watching, and smiling at you. You are not entirely sure what to do. She waves at you, a small but friendly wave as if to assure you that everything is fine. That visitors often stop before they depart Le Cirque des Rêves to stare at the clockwork wonder that sits by the gates. That some even read the inscribed memorial for two men who died so many years ago. That you stand in a position that many have stood in before, under already fading stars and sparkling lights.
The woman beckons you over to the ticket booth. While you walk toward her, she sorts through piles of paper and tickets. There is a spray of silver-and-black feathers in her hair that flutters around her head as she moves. When she finds what she is seeking, she hands it to you, and you take the business card from her black-gloved hand. One side is black and the other is white.
Le Cirque des Rêves
is printed in shimmering silver letters on the black side. On the reverse, in black ink on white, it reads:
Mr. Bailey Alden Clarke, Proprietor
[email protected]
You turn it over in your hand, wondering what you might write to Mr. Clarke. Perhaps you will thank him for his very singular circus, and perhaps that will suffice.
You thank the woman for the card, and she only smiles in response.
You walk toward the gates, reading the card in your hand again. Before you pass through the gates to the field beyond, you turn back to the ticket booth, but it is empty, a black grate pulled down over it.
You tuck the card carefully in your pocket.
The step through the gates that takes you from painted ground to bare grass feels heavy.
You think, as you walk away from Le Cirque des Rêves and into the creeping dawn, that you felt more awake within the confines of the circus.
You are no longer quite certain which side of the fence is the dream.
