I returned to the backstage area and saw Commis was alone on the stage. I was in the shadows, way back in the wings. I believe he did not know I was there, because for once he seemed to be concentrating on his work. He was moving about the stage, blocking in his moves. He used a piece of chalk to make minute marks on the boards, then made a brief practice of his mime in those places. I saw him start to struggle with an umbrella in the wind, I saw him trying to remove a piece of sticky paper when it landed on his face, I saw him prepare to take a bath. He did this quietly and expertly, without apparent consciousness of an audience, or of a colleague he wished to torment with his endless tomfoolery.
His presence in my life always made me take actions I might later regret. I could not ignore the discovery I had just made in his dressing room, that I had without knowing it already met Commis several times, out of role. I felt I understood him for what he really was. I realized all that as I went to the access stairs, even through my seething anger, even as deep down I recognized that what I was intending was wrong.
I reached the rigging loft, I found the hemps that held the huge sheet of glass in its place, I loosened two of the ties. I left them just tight enough to hold the glass safely. Probably.
When I looked down at the surface of the stage, I saw, as I had expected, that Commis’s blocking marks were directly beneath the suspended pane of glass.
I went from the theatre at once, exiting through the scenery bay. I purposely left the largest door ajar, letting in a persistent draught. I felt frightened and guilty, but I would not, could not, return.
Outside the theatre, in the narrow streets of the town, the sun was shining and a brisk but pleasant breeze was coming onshore from the long fjord. There was still some time before my bus was due to leave, so I walked slowly by an indirect route, down to the closest wharf and then from there along a narrow lane that followed the shore of the fjord. I had never walked that way before and immediately wished I had. It was at a lower level than most of the town, closer to the water, and I could barely hear the noise of the traffic that passed constantly through the town.
It was a moment of symbolic liberation for me: I had abandoned if only temporarily the world of theatrical make-believe, of artifice and illusion, of light and shadows, mirrors and smoke, of people who played roles, who acted, who made themselves look and behave differently from their real selves.
The mime artiste was the extreme example of the common activity: his make-believe could never exist, even within the fantasy he created. Released from all that, I walked along the peaceful path, feeling the warm sunlight and being sheltered from the breeze, looking at the greenery of the spring’s new growth, the sudden flowers, the signs of a coming summer. I was thinking of home.
Then behind me, disruptive and insistent, came the sound of footsteps. Someone was hurrying along the path behind me, a quick pace, almost a run.
I glanced back and realized that my pursuer was almost upon me. I could see his small determined figure, the bright-blue beach shorts, the fluttering yellow shirt.
When he saw me looking back, he raised a fist and shouted, ‘I want words with you, pal!’
I suddenly realized how precarious my situation had become. I knew already the violence Commis was prepared to use when he was out of his role — here on the waterside path there were no houses in sight, there was no passing traffic, no other pedestrians walked along the lonely track. Just the trees and flowers, the deep and silent waters of the fjord.
I shouted no reply. I was genuinely frightened of the man, what he might be capable of doing to me. The guilt that was already in me deepened: perhaps he had already worked out the trap I had laid for him in the rigging loft above the stage.
I turned and ran, but behind me Commis started to run too.
I saw the path ahead: it showed no sign of coming to an end, of leading back to the main road, the houses of the town. It extended along the shore, at least as far as the next headland, created by the sheer side of a mountain as it met the water.
I was carrying some of my baggage, weighed down by it. Commis was closing on me.
Suddenly, I realized what I had to do.
I flung my bags aside and turned back to face him. He was now only a short distance away from me, and I saw him raising one shoulder, starting to measure his pace, just as I had glimpsed him doing that day he came skidding across the frozen ruts at me, felling me violently with a sliding tackle. I braced myself for impact, but in the same moment I lifted both my arms, strained at some imaginary weight, and raised a huge sheet of heavy glass between us.
I held it at the vertical, clinging to its sides, ramming it down against the loose gravel of the path, making a place where I could let it stand unsupported.
I leapt back and in the same instant Commis ran headlong into the glass. His body struck it first, but an instant later his head banged against it and he was thrown painfully backwards.
The glass collapsed down towards me, so I leapt back from it to avoid being struck as it fell. Perhaps it shattered on the stony surface of the path, but now there was nothing between Commis and myself.
He was standing away from me, turned to the side, slumping forward, holding his head in his hands. He kept moving one of his hands down to where he could see it, looking at the palm as if blood was pooling on it. He shook blood off the hand, emitted a low cry of pain. He pulled out a kerchief, mopped his brow, buried his nose inside it. His head was rocking up and down. I could see him breathing heavily, and just as once before I was momentarily convinced I had really injured him.
In a state of bizarre contrition and concern I stepped back towards him, to see if he needed help, but as soon as I was closer to him reality returned to me. I heard the words he was using, a string of vile invective and threats against me.
I went away. I grabbed my baggage and hurried on down the path. In a short distance I saw a place where I could with some difficulty scramble up the slope through the undergrowth. I could hear traffic not far away.
As I started to climb I looked back. Commis was still where I had left him, still in the same pained posture of defeat. I gained the road, soon saw where I was, and found my way back into the main part of the town towards the bus station.
I heard nothing more of Commis. All my way back home, and for a long time afterwards, I kept thinking about him — for all I knew he was still standing there beside the fjord where I had left him, or he was not. And I often thought remorsefully about the heavy pane of glass hanging above the stage, or it was not.
Junno
PEACE EARNED
JUNNO is a small independent nation, comprising three islands lying in the subtropical zone of the Midway Sea.
Although mid-summer can be hot and humid, for most of the year the climate is moderated by the Southern Oscillating Stream. All three islands are heavily forested, with vast areas set aside as hunting reserves. The largest of the three islands, Junn Maio, has a range of mountains defining the southern coast: there are rich mineral deposits here, including iron, potash and copper. On the second largest island, Junn Secs, there are apparently limitless reserves of oil shale. These products are exported from the only harbour in the country: Junn Exeus, an immense industrial sprawl that disfigures a long stretch of the eastern coastline of Junn Maio.
Junno is one of the most prosperous places in the Archipelago — it is also the principal source of the world’s atmospheric pollution, directly and indirectly.
It can be a difficult and unattractive destination for travellers, by air or sea, as apart from the local ferries calling intermittently there are no scheduled services. Because of its position in relation to the Equator, connecting flights have to be chartered privately. Only sub-vortical flights are allowed at that latitude, which causes delay. The sole working airport on Junno is operated by the Faiand military authorities. In theory, the Faiand Federation is under notice to relinquish their hold on the airport, but in practice most of the population of Junno is in favour of them remaining. There is brisk two-way trade with the base.