“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, fo
r 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