The Motion of Puppets(5)
If anything made their first months together difficult, it was his impatience and her independence. They had fought about it when Kay first landed the part to join the cirque for the summer.
“I’ll be so busy with rehearsals and the show. You can stay in New York and work on your translation, and I’ll find a sublet with some of the others in the cast,” she had offered.
The suggestion poleaxed him, and the thought left him speechless. Kay sat next to him on the sofa, rested her head on his shoulder. “Of course, you could come up for the weekends. I’d miss you too much.”
“I can’t imagine being apart like that just when we are finally together.”
“Be practical. I was only trying to save a little money.”
Frantic at the thought of separation, he had juggled his schedule at the college in New York and used the advance from his publisher to find this place on Dalhousie, where he could work while she was off performing. The whole episode left him questioning how she prioritized their marriage and her career.
Shortly after noon, with still no word from Kay, he thought to call the stage manager at the warehouse rehearsal hall to see if they had any information on her whereabouts. The number, fortunately, was posted on a sticky note next to the fridge, but unfortunately no one answered his call. Too early for the performers or crew to arrive and prepare for that evening’s show. They would all be sleeping now, the upside-down world of theater people. He decided to go out and look for her, and, taking a page from his notebook, he scribbled a note saying to please call if she came home before he returned.
Bright June sunshine fell across his face as he stood outside their apartment considering the possibilities. She could be anywhere or nowhere at all. Injured and lying in a gutter or whisked off to a hospital. Or worse. He quickened his pace, following the familiar path between the apartment building and the warehouse, turning down rue Saint-Paul, past the cafés and antique shops, hurrying along the street till he reached the quayside farmers’ market where they often went to shop in her free hours. Old Town stretched out over his left shoulder, the hotel Frontenac loomed like a castle on a mountain. He had to cross several busy streets before coming at last to the warehouse where the company had kept the enormous sets and contraptions that went into making their outdoor show a few blocks away. Now, it was largely empty, save for the few giant props that had not made it into the final version of the show. The large sliding doors at the front of the building were chained shut, so he went around to the side entrance, only to find that door locked as well. He banged his fist against the metal door, the echo empty and melancholic.
From deep inside the bowels, a shout worked its way forward, alternating in French and English, urging patience, s’il vous pla?t. A deadbolt snapped, tumblers turned in a lock, and the door slowly swung open to reveal a rather sleepy-looking dwarf, who scowled in the sudden brightness. They considered each other for a moment in mutual suspicion. The little man rubbed the stubble on his chin.
“Go away,” he said. “Nous sommes fermés. Come back at four.” He began to close the door.
“Wait.” Theo raised his voice. “I’m looking for my wife. She’s with the show.”
“No one is here. Cast and crew arrive at four o’clock. Tickets at five. Come back when the box office is open.”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you—”
“Well, you have a funny way. I was fast asleep.”
“It’s just that she didn’t come home last night after the performance.” He held up his phone. “And she’s not answering my texts. I even tried to call, but no luck.”
The doorman gave him a jagged grin. “Well, she wasn’t with me, whoever she is.”
“Pardon?” Theo looked over the little man’s head into the cavernous room.
“I meant nothing by it. Just a bit of a fat morning, and you’ve caught me out of sorts.”
“An acrobat with the show,” he said. “Kay. Kay Harper. I’m her husband, Theo. I thought she might have spent the night here, with the other performers.”
“Egon Picard,” the little man said. “Assistant to the stage manager, and major domo of this empty building. Look, bub, if you want to come in and wait?” Egon widened the entryway, and then without a backward glance, he turned and led Theo through the dark passageway to a ramshackle office tucked into a far corner. A rumpled blanket covered the bottom of a small cot, and the room also held a tiny sink and a counter with a hot plate and an electric kettle. He produced a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet beneath the sink and two highball glasses, indicating with a gesture his offer of a drink. Theo nodded and inspected the room with a casual air.
Taped to the walls was a gallery of sepia pictures, nineteenth-century postcards of women in various stages of undress. In the one above the pillow, a fully clad gentleman reached beneath the skirts of a maid seeming to enjoy the experience. Another showed a woman with a riding crop resting against her bare bottom. Swinging on a trapeze, a third woman leaned back in all her glory above a trio of circus clowns just out of reach.
“That’s quite a collection,” Theo said. Ambling around the room, he paused to inspect the more provocative poses.
Handing one glass to Theo, Egon downed his own drink in a single swig. “My spécialité,” he said. “I won my first beauty playing poker with a man from Fargo, North Dakota. Full house. Knaves over deuces to his hearts flush. And he had no money, so. Out of such chance comes obsession. Do they offend you, Mr. Harper? Do they scandalize you?” The little man was goading him, waggling his hairy eyebrows and leering.