Death (XIII)

Tucked away in a dark corner of The City That Never Sleeps, a little theater experienced what they could only describe as bedlam. The mainstay troupe lost its favorite actor. No one knew where he went, nor why he disappeared. With little information about one another’s identities and little contact outside the theater, they grieved over this beloved friend, in loss and in anger, but the show simply had to go on.

Toward the back of the dark stage stood several flat cutouts of castle walls, merchant booths and knights’ armor propped on stands. A switch was pulled in the theater with a loud clunk, and blinding spotlights beamed onto the platform. Out from the shadow of the folded curtains stepped five actors, four of whom were adorned with fancy, Renaissance-era attire of reds, blues and greens; the fifth, an older gentleman who shied away to the back of the stage, wore heavy grey robes and a large hood over his head. The others stood in a circle, prepared to discuss urgent matters in front of an empty auditorium.

The crowned woman, better known as The Empress, quietly approached the tall woman in blue. “What happened earlier? What happened to—”

“Killed off his own character,” bellowed the man in red robes—The Hierophant. “Someone, presumably a co-conspirator of his, arrived dressed as Death and came in with a fog machine. Interrupted our show, just to announce the end of our dear friend’s role. It caused quite a commotion from the audience, and we are led to believe he will never come back.”

The Empress stepped back in disarray. Her expression read of quiet horror. “He told no one of his plans?”

The tall woman—The High Priestess—cleared her throat. “No,” she replied sternly. “It’s quite a shame. His presence on the show gave us much-needed attention, as well as profits, and helped us attain our crowd.”

The optimistic Fool perked up—he adorned green tights and a ragged, flowing shirt. Keeping to his energetic character, he chimed in. “We’re only down one actor. It’s not like we had the whole Tarot deck to begin with, no?”

The young Empress spoke up drearily. “Our rules and routine helped us maintain our creativity, our improvisation. To have left us so suddenly, so silently… How can we go on like this? He was the star of our show.”

The Hierophant added on, stroking his beard, “Now, we may host here an improvisation group, but we rehearse our shows meticulously and with collaborative effort. Without every individual attendance, we wouldn’t have the show we have now. So, with our Magician’s unplanned, idiotic character-suicide, we’re bound to lose our audience. He is nothing more than a traitorous deserter.”

The High Priestess cocked her head to the side in thought, a small frown slipped on her lips. “If only he’d told us instead of acting out as his own authority…”

The Fool, having lost his boastful glee, stood with hands on his hips and glanced among the other actors. “Then what shall we do now? I miss him as much as the next person, but… we cannot stop showing up for our audience.”

The rest, scattered around in their makeshift circle, likewise glanced around themselves anxiously; it was as though there were a silent acknowledgment that the missing man was their driving force, their sole spring of morale in making it to rehearsal every day.

“I think,” the Hierophant started with a sigh of defeat, “it goes without saying we may miss our Magician character. You can’t help but wonder what prompted him to snap.”

The Empress, who looked at the ground in her bashful manner, swayed in her stance as she daydreamt. “He was here on my first day. I could confide with him our shared feelings of burnout and inadequacy.”

“It was my first day here on the stage, too,” The Fool commented. “I remember fondly—he encouraged me to express myself. I had little acting experience. He approached me first with an unmatchable energy, and bid me welcome into the circle. We laughed about how I had no costume; and I think it was he who deemed me ‘The Fool’ ever since.”

The High Priestess smiled bitterly and folded her arms over her sky blue dress. “Perhaps he is the real Fool all along. I understand the mournful sentiment; however, given his selfish expulsion out of our troupe, let us all move on with much diligence and preparedness for our rehearsals to come.”

“An unpredictable sort, he is,” said The Hierophant. “But nevertheless, this is a new trick. Perhaps he’ll come back with words of apology.” With his arms folded behind his back and trodding to the backstage door, The Hierophant exited with closing words. “May he ride the waves of change.” The Empress, hugging a golden scepter close to her chest, left much quicker than he.

The Hermit, the older man in grey robes who had not spoken a word as of yet, crept from the back of the stage toward the exit. As he passed the young Fool, he uttered the phrase, “There is nothing impossible… to they who will try.” The young lad, taken aback for no particular reason, said nothing.

The High Priestess, too, made her way to the door before pausing for a last comment.

“Fool, a moment, please?” she inquired. With a wave of her hand she motioned the young man to come closer. He hopped over in his quiet leather shoes. Barely above a whisper she uttered, “This sudden disappearance hits our Empress the hardest. Remind the others to be kind to her, will you?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Without a farewell of any sort, she offered him a warm smile and ducked away into the shadows. As the backstage door closed behind her, The Fool was left on the stage, alone in the beams of white lights.

———

Having removed his ragged attire, which made him feel like a disillusioned hippie anywhere except the theater, The Fool wiped off whatever little makeup he had on. The black smudges of mascara tracked down his cheeks, and he wiped those traces away with the same rag. The wig he wore to hide his shaven head laid limply next to the mirror. The mirror itself was lined with several bulbs that shone in the man’s hazel eyes. He let out a strong exhale, thinking about the events of that evening. The Reaper emerging from a black smog, his voice booming, the lights above flickering and thundering false lightning. It was as haunting as it was beautiful.

The performance shocked him, sure, but not as much as it did everyone else. He was new to it all and so everything came as a surprise to him. The Fool supposed that his own lack of bonding time with the others made this feel much like it was meant to be another loss. Maybe, he thought to himself, this was a common outburst from desperate actors; after all, from time to time he, too, found himself wishing he were in a different role.

The last to leave the building, he came out wearing a grey tank top and sweats, and carried a bulky athletic bag on his right shoulder. His costume had been shoved away into the depths of the bag along with the many dirtied rags he used to clean off makeup. He trotted along down a dingy alleyway, the ground of which was wet from rainwater. The puddles reflected the lights of neon signs at the end of the path in foggy pinks and blues. With his head lifted toward the sky, the young man counted the dots speckled throughout the blankets of clouds. One, two—not nearly enough to count constellations. This was New York City, after all. He couldn’t see much past the tall apartment buildings to his sides anyways. He sighed sorrowfully and readjusted the sling upon his shoulder, carrying on his way down the alley.

“Psst. Hey. Over here.”

The Fool stopped, alert at the howling whisper. He swung his head left and right, eyes scanning the dim surroundings.

“Over here!” the voice hissed. “You idiot—I’m behind the dumpster!”

As his eyes landed on the source, The Fool approached the dumpster with caution yet boldness. The familiarity, the cadence of those calls, could have only belonged to one man.

“Magician?” he spoke. “Is that you?”

“Yes, yes, it’s me, now give me a hand, would you?” his voice echoed. “I need some wipes. Have to clean off this shit from earlier.”

The Fool scrambled as he spun the bag around to his front, unzipping a pocket to pull out a few small, dirtied rags. “Will these do?”

The Magician’s head peeked from behind the dumpster—he had already made significant progress it seemed, with only a few smudges on his beige face and dark hair in a light tousle. He nodded with a sharp smile, “Thanks. ‘Preciate it.” His eyes flickered the same glint of conniving trickery as they always did.

“Why are you out here?” The Fool began, cocking his head to the side. “The others have been worried sick. You left without a final act.” Behind the dumpster ensued a raucous of shuffling, stomping, and the shucking off of articles of clothes. The lack of response stung The Fool, a lump of hurt forming in his gullet. “Everyone misses you. And they’re angry about it, too.”

“That was my final act,” The Magician began amidst the clinking of a loose belt.

“But why are you abandoning us out of nowhere?”

“That lot—I’m tired of their dogmatic nonsense. I don’t believe in any of it: the roles, the mysticism, nothing! They couldn’t stand me breaking character, playing a different role—not once. They’re stupefied. Stuck in their ways.” His words slung out like slow poison. “I came here to act out of passion, not to satisfy the scripted fortune tellers of their predictable affairs. This troupe of ours—it’s been holding me back. I have to find a new group, a real improv group. They can’t make me a slave to routine any longer.”

The Fool gazed in quiet awe. “Well, can’t argue with that, but… we just wish we knew.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued. “The Empress misses you the most.”

The shuffling of fabrics stopped, and the man behind the dumpster arose to rest his arms along its rim. He wore a tweed flannel, which was outlandish compared to what the young man normally saw him wear. The Magician feigned a frown and eyed his companion with a curious expression. “Tell me, Fool, what’s your real name?”

Surprised at his sudden directness, he answered. “It’s Peter. Peter Lewis.”

His counterpart reached around the wall to give him a proud handshake, which The Fool took reluctantly upon seeing the dirt on his hands. “Javier Garcia. Now, do me a couple favors, will you?”

The eccentric Magician ducked back down in a flash, and The Fool in grey sweats could hear the crinkling of a full garbage bag hauled up from the ground. The hiding man appeared once again and held out a bag to the side of the dumpster. “Here, take this.”

The Fool received the odd gift and, peering into its contents, looked back up in astonished fear. “Death’s clothes. Why do you have Death’s clothes?”

He heard The Magician fixing a pair of boots onto his feet, shoving them in. “First off: don’t tell anyone,” he started. “If there is any promise I could never forgive you for breaking, it’s this one. Don’t tell the others of my stunt. And second: take this costume for yourself.” Once again he sagely laid his arms against the rim of the container as he observed The Fool, and grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“I… understand… but I don’t know what you’re suggesting—”

“If you want to see me again,” interrupted The Magician, pointing both indexes at his counterpart, “if any of you do, you’ll have to meet me halfway.” He kicked the heel of one boot against the ground, adjusting it into place and ensuring it was on. He stepped out from behind the metallic mass, fully transformed into the common man The Fool had met for the first time. “You’re their Fool; that is the first card, isn’t it? According to your role, you’ve got the highest potential. That makes you more important than even authorities such as The High Priestess. So next show, go do something crazy with that, alright? The rest, if they’ve got any brains left, will follow suit. Make ‘em question the meaning of real performance.”

The Fool, having processed the tremendous amount of power in his hands, nodded in bafflement. At his visible despondency, his friend came closer to clap a hand on his shoulder. He opened his lips to say a few more words, but none came out. He then started down the opposite direction of the alleyway, away from where The Fool had intended to travel.

“Oh, and…” The Magician, never good at polite goodbyes, trailed back. “Since our meeting is a bit of a secret, would you… mind turning around, so you don’t see how I get home?”

“There are only two paths here, Javier,” The Fool chuckled gloomily.

The other man nodded. “Yeah, I know, but for the sake of dramaticism, and pretending we’ll never see each other again, that whole deal—just do it so I know I can trust you.”

Sighing in the muggy air, The Fool gave in and turned around with the new bag held tight against his chest. “Is this your last trick?”

“As long as you allow me to deceive you again, yes, it is.” He took a few steps forward and, in haste, jogged the opposite path down the alley.

The man in grey stood and listened as the splashes in puddles and crunches against concrete trickled down in volume behind him. He pondered over his last meeting with The Magician, how they’d met and how this whole troupe business came to pass, how the beginning of his acting career may very well have been a mere transitory point for this seasoned actor. It was only a matter of time before the light plodding disappeared entirely.

———

It was another overcast day. A line of people gathered outside the small theater’s entrance, a brilliant red door which was squeezed between a couple overbearing offices. The people chattered about, gossiping and giggling with leaflets in hand. The leaflets read, in an antiquated font, “The Tragedy of the Best Friend.” Under that in fine print were the details of the last performance a month ago, and a cliffhanger to entice the audience further. Though fewer in number, the attendees awaited the next performance—What was the cast to do next? Was The Magician going to be replaced by a new, even better role? What were the fates of these temporal characters lost in time?

The curtains rose, and the audience clapped with great glee and anticipation. Beams of light cast down on the stage, and four actors came out in front of the audience. On the other side of the backstage loomed a young man in the shadows, who had been deemed missing by the other four that day. Wearing the wrong costume, he sported a long, black robe and an intimidating scythe, and waited for his own cue to enter the limelight.