The Labyrinth of Dreaming Books (26 page)

‘Why aren’t I allowed to know the name of the goddamned play?’ I complained as we walked on, making straight for the circus tent in the mist. ‘I hate not knowing what to expect.’

‘It’s meant to be a surprise.’

‘I don’t like surprises either.’

‘Then you’re in for a tiring evening, my friend.’ Inazia laughed and took my arm. ‘A very tiring evening.’ She smelt of buttermilk.

The Theatre of Dreaming Puppets

WE CAME OUT
into a big, cobblestoned square and there it was in front of us at last: the Puppetocircus Maximus. Even from this distance it still resembled an enormous circus tent with three peaked roofs, a big one in the middle and two smaller ones to left and right. On coming closer, however, I quickly realised that it was anything but a tent composed of thin canvas; it was a solid stone building.

‘Even the theatre’s outward appearance is programmatic,’ Inazia said eagerly. ‘Nothing is what one thinks it is. Cloth is stone and circus is an art. There are no certainties.’

The Uggly’s enthusiasm reminded me that I didn’t really like circuses. They always smelt so strongly of large animals in need of house-training. There were also the awful clowns of whom most children were scared. Circus folk did idiotic, daredevil things and compelled animals to perform unnatural tricks to roars of applause from the audience. My heart sank lower and lower. How dearly I would have preferred to roam Bookholm’s twilit streets, which offered the kind of sensations which
I
craved! Romantically secluded bookshops filled with rare editions. Poetry readings, interesting people, lively literary activity. Instead of that I was going to the circus. Worse still, to a puppet circus. I sighed.

‘The stone for the building was specially imported from Florinth,’ the Uggly said proudly, as if she had designed the confounded theatre herself. For my part, I rather doubted the architect’s sanity. What was the point of reproducing an itinerant circus tent in solid masonry? The
latter
was a combination of red marble and yellow sandstone laid in alternate courses so as to convey the appearance of striped canvas. When just in front of it, however, I could detect the veins in the marble and the fissures in the sandstone, the joins between the blocks and the mortar that held everything together. This building was no more suited to travelling around than a mountain; it was an edifice intended to occupy this site for years to come.

‘Look down now!’ the Uggly commanded. ‘You mustn’t read the sign over the entrance or it won’t be a surprise.’

I reluctantly lowered my gaze as we climbed the steps – an alternation of red and yellow slabs – that led to the entrance. We were surrounded by streams of people converging from all over the square.

‘Would you mind pulling your cowl down lower over your eyes?’ asked Inazia and promptly did this for me. ‘You don’t want to be recognised, do you?’ She presented the tickets and steered me into the foyer.

The entrance hall, which was very spacious, resounded to the chatter of the theatregoers streaming in. The prevailing atmosphere was boisterous – more suited to a public festival than a cultural function. The laughter was as loud as the conversation, coffee and mulled ale were served, children purchased nibbles and sweets. Suspended from the lofty ceiling were hundreds of small, wooden, articulated puppets devoid of costumes. They all looked similar in an abstract way, like those that painters and sculptors use for anatomical purposes. They were the only form of decoration in this part of the theatre. The foyer was festively but discreetly lit by candles flickering everywhere in big chandeliers. The Uggly pushed me vigorously through the throng.

‘This way,’ she commanded.

We passed a long wooden bench on which sat a group of puppets whose curious appearance attracted my attention. They displayed noticeably fine craftsmanship and looked valuable despite their obvious age and decrepitude. They were not traditional children’s toys, being far too carefully finished and detailed. Carved from fine woods or made of
precious
porcelain, elaborately painted and equipped with complicated eye and mouth mechanisms, they were attired in gorgeous costumes. They did, however, reveal definite signs of wear, were scuffed in many places or displayed cracks, fissures, tears in their costumes and other traces of use. They were unique – genuine theatrical puppets and much in demand. We paused in front of the bench.

‘Are these the puppets we’ll be seeing tonight?’ I asked.

Inazia laughed a trifle superciliously. ‘No, they’re in retirement. They used to be the principal characters in plays that are no longer performed. That one is Professor Bimbam from
The Legendary Professor Bimbam
, and there’s King Carbuncle from
King Carbuncle’s Lost Weekend
. Those two are Veliro and Dyhard from
Snails Have Many Teeth
. Genuine classics. An impressive collection, isn’t it? Worth a fortune, too.’

Her enumeration of titles and protagonists made me squirm a little. It reminded me that the puppet theatre was really an outmoded, positively ancient – indeed, almost archaic – art form aimed mainly at
a
juvenile audience. Something to which adults were sometimes compelled to go in order to keep their children quiet for a while. But I didn’t have any children! I feared for the rest of the evening. A combination of circus and puppet theatre? It couldn’t get much worse, but I didn’t show anything.

‘Do they just lie around like this?’ I said in surprise. ‘Anyone could steal them.’

‘It happens sometimes,’ said the Uggly. ‘A puppet disappears under someone’s cloak from time to time, but they always return it after the show.’

‘Stolen puppets are returned?’ I said as we walked on. ‘How come?’

‘Because people have a totally different idea of puppets after the performance,’ Inazia replied, giving me a mysterious smile. She paused in front of a wallpapered wall and took a key from her cloak. ‘In here,’ she commanded, opening a concealed door and slipping through it. Both curious and surprised, I followed her. Inside, a short
spiral
staircase led upwards. The Uggly climbed it briskly. ‘Our private box,’ she announced as we came out on a little balcony at the top of the steps. There was a hint of pride in her voice.

I went to the parapet of the balcony and surveyed the auditorium. My initial impression was that it looked bigger than I’d expected. Far bigger.

‘It’s the same with everyone,’ Inazia remarked, not that I’d said anything. ‘No idea how it’s done. There are bigger auditoriums in Zamonia, but none that
looks
even half this size. These people really know something about creating illusions. Wait and see.’

We sat down in the comfortable armchairs, which were upholstered in black velvet. Two pairs of opera glasses were lying ready on a little table between us. The fact that one of them must surely have belonged to Kibitzer made me feel a trifle uncomfortable for a moment. To distract myself from that unpleasant thought, I leant over the parapet and surveyed the scene below. The stalls were rapidly filling up with theatregoers.

This was no normal theatre – that much could be said without exaggeration. There wasn’t just one big curtain, but seven of various sizes disposed in a semicircle. One was all of red velvet, another pitch-black, another of gold silk and four were embroidered with fairy-tale figures, musical notes or abstract patterns – not a particularly tasteful-looking feature. All around the auditorium, the walls were lined with tall mirrors that visually doubled the rows of seats and contributed to the false impression of size. The obligatory fire buckets of sand and water stood everywhere.

What was genuinely impressive was the design of the dozen boxes encircling the auditorium, which were skilfully modelled on the skulls of mythical creatures. It looked rather as if huge dragons, horned sea serpents and gigantic gryphons were thrusting their heads through the walls of the theatre. Each box was individually designed and lined with black velvet, the balconies being richly adorned with ornamentation and gold leaf. The other boxes were quickly filling up too, I noticed.

The ceiling of the auditorium was unusually high for a theatre. It could hardly be seen in the gloom because it tapered to a point like a circus tent. Plain but many-branched chandeliers hung down on long cords, casting only a dim light because few of the candles were lit.

‘The interior designer must have worked on a trapeze,’ I remarked with a grin.

‘Hm …’ said Inazia, giving me a sidelong look. ‘People here still attach great importance to the origins of Puppetism. Most of those employed here used to be in street theatre. Far from rejecting that provenance, they’re proud of not belonging to the established, highbrow theatre. Does that worry a successful winner of the Golden Quill like you?’

‘No, no,’ I said with a laugh, ‘I enjoy light entertainment. What’s it to be tonight,
King Carbuncle’s Lost Weekend
? Spit it out, I can’t escape now.’

‘You’ll see soon enough. You’ll be captivated.’

The Uggly fished out a paper bag of wholemeal biscuits and proceeded to crunch them without offering me one. I spent the rest of the time leaning over the balcony and inspecting the audience.

They were a motley crew. Many different species of the Zamonian population were represented. Dwarfs and Moomies, Norselanders and Voltigorks, Druids and Hellrazors, locals and tourists, adults and children – the auditorium was packed down to the last spare seat. I saw some masked Biblionauts sitting here and there – an alarming sight. The barbarous old-time Bookhunters would never have attended a cultural function – it would have caused a certain amount of trepidation if they had – whereas these Biblionauts seemed to be attracting little attention, far less disapproval. On the contrary, some of them were chatting animatedly with their immediate neighbours – one of them even with a child who was happily laughing up at him in spite of his horrific insect mask. Most of the theatregoers were festively attired and conversing in polite whispers.

I felt rather ashamed that all those people down there were
familiar
with the evening’s cultural highlight, whereas I didn’t even know the title of the play. Indeed, I was probably the only philistine who had been dragged here against his will and hadn’t bought a ticket. That suddenly reminded me whose seat I was currently occupying. I rose to my feet with the uneasy feeling that I’d been sitting on a ghost.

‘Going already?’ Inazia said with her mouth full. She was strewn with biscuit crumbs. ‘You’ll miss out if you do, my friend. Why? Because the play is about
you
!’

I flopped down on my chair again. ‘About me?’ I exclaimed in astonishment.

‘Whoops!’ she said, blowing some crumbs in my direction. ‘It slipped out! I’m not giving away anything more, though.’

A play about
me
? Was the old scarecrow pulling my leg, or just coaxing me to stay? Just a minute! Were they staging a satire that made an idiot out of me and did she think I’d find that amusing? I had to be prepared for anything. Ugglies have a strange and sometimes inconsiderate sense of humour.