A Shadow All of Light

  “He allows us scant time.”

  “He has no say. The third-phase moon is at the zenith in twenty days.”

  “Ah,” I said, recalling that a chief element of the Feast was that the face of the Jester figured itself in the crescent moon at that hour. The hooked nose, the low brow with its drooping, belled peak, the glaring eye, and the up-jut goatee that almost touched the nose—these features were most clearly visible during that point of the Feast. It was a simpleminded form of apotheosis. Young children marveled to see the Jester sailing the sky; their parents and the other adults chuckled at the image. The features of the moon’s surface that furnished this portrait of the Jester were always present when the moon was visible and could be traced by anyone. But the crescent moon at its zenith forced the imagination to construct a mocking celestial countenance that smirked as it glowered down upon the follies of us miserable mortals.

  Mutano gave a rude snort to signify his disbelief. Then he said, “I cannot conceive how the disruption of an empty ritual can cause great harm. Still less can I conceive why anyone should want to do so. What profit can there be in it?”

  “That question our Jester could not answer,” Astolfo said. “He only had gained an apprehension that this disruption might be taking place. He had observed some peculiarities of behavior—some scraps of talk, some knowing glances. And lately, he said, there had been a large increase in the membership of the Society, though the number of the citizens of Tardocco has not increased.”

  “What then is your surmise?” I asked.

  “I can put no words to it. There are rumors abroad that the pirate Morbruzzo has designs upon the city, to bring his three-master against us, to invade and then to attack and plunder and raze the town.”

  “These rumors are ever-present,” Mutano complained. “When barbers run dry of scandal, they open their tattle-pouches to produce the name of Morbruzzo.”

  “There is talk also that the exiled husband of the Countess Trinia, now lurking in the island of Clamorgra, has gathered a force to bring against our province, as much for revenge as for plunder.”

  “That rumor too has grown threadbare,” I said. “And dozens of others like these you can tally, but they remain baseless, insofar as we can know.”

  He nodded. “’S truth. Yet prudence suggests that we be ware of these possibilities.”

  “Even if one or t’other should prove more solid than vain, I do not understand how a misstep in the burial ritual could more endanger us,” Mutano said.

  “Well,” Astolfo said, with a shade of impatience, “I shall admit I cannot see the consequence myself. We must question our Bennio more closely on the morrow.”

  * * *

  When he did appear shortly before the noon, our Jester was carrying a leather portmanteau of uncommon size and was accompanied by his dog. His name was Mars, we were informed, and certes no animal ever less deserved the name. He was small and white from muzzle to the stubby tail that he wagged continually. Even his spraggle whiskers gleamed steely, like the tines of a hayfork. But his eyes were largish black buttons that might have been cut from a basalt block and polished to a liquid sheen. He looked at the three of us as we stood out in the pebbled carriageway before the manse, turned as if to inquire of his master, and then, receiving a signal I could not perceive, scrambled over to sniff at our boots. Satisfied with a cursory investigation, he returned to his master’s side and sat and regarded our faces each in turn.

  “He seems an intelligent creature,” Mutano said, “though none so bellicose as the name you have given him.”

  “He can defend himself well enough,” the Jester said, “but his best value is as a jongleur. He can dance and prance, leap and tumble with the best of them.” He cocked his hand leftward, lifted his thumb, and Mars leapt to the height of his shoulder and twisted twice in the air before finding the ground again.

  “Well done,” Astolfo said. “Shall we proceed to the instruction for our commission?”

  The Bennio stooped to open his leather bag and brought out a roll of paper. “Here are the dimensions for the coffin, written out and with sketches,” he said. “It would be better to look them over inside so that the breeze does not disorder the papers. And here is the mask I shall don before you cut away my shadow. I must be wholly in the character before it is taken from me. I shall bring the Jester effigy and the little Dirty Bennino when the coffin is ready.”

  “Let us advance to this procedure at once,” Astolfo said. “The shadow separated will make measurement simpler and more accurate.” He led us to the plastered brick wall that enclosed the kitchen garden. A large oblong of porous linen was affixed upon the plaster with brass nails.

  We stood our Bennio before the cloth, adjusting his stance and posture until we were satisfied that he was casting the best umbra of a Jester we could obtain. The sunlight was bright and unhindered and the shadow was sharply defined at every edge and contour. It was the very Idea of a Jester: The hunched back curved like the belly of a goblet, the hands were elongate at the sides of the round stomach, the legs stood apart, knobbly and crooked. The large mask he wore threw a shape demonically mirthful, with aggressive eyebrows, great hooked nose, upthrust goatee, and a wide, feral grin. Over this countenance the peaked cap drooped a bell low upon the forehead.

  “Now then, Falco,” said Astolfo.

  “Well, but let him speak as the Jester,” I said.

  “To what purpose?”

  “To try to gain some sense of the nature of his shadow,” I said, though my only true reason was curiosity as to the way this affable man might ply his role in public.

  He spoke:

  “Crambo and crooked Bennio goes,

  But what the Jester knows, he knows;

  And what he knows the Jester will tell,

  To set you a-laughing or rend you to hell.”

  Then he uttered the maniacal cackle that was the very soul of his sword-edge humor and even though I had expected to hear it, the hairs prickled at my neck. His voice was louder than in ordinary discourse and the timbre much changed. There was a metallic, harsh clatter at its center and a heavy breathiness around the syllables. I thought there must be an amount of space between mouth and mask, so that an indistinct echo was produced. Perhaps a metal contrivance had been inserted as a mouthpiece. His was an unsettling voice; I judged it might frighten children more than it would amuse them. Yet he would alter his performance to suit his audience of the hour, softening it for the very young.

  I stooped and excised his shadow at the outer edge of his scallop-topped black shoes and Mutano and I rolled the cloth and laid it in the shade of the oak that grew by the garden gate.

  While we were transporting the umbra, the little dog uttered a long and piteous howl. I would not have thought the small creature capable of such a houndlike cry. He stared at us with an angry accusatory gaze and I wondered if the minuscule warrior might rush to attack. A gesture from the Bennio quieted him, but he kept his black eyes fixed at me, whom he must have regarded as principal in the thievery.

  “He does not like the new shadow—or, rather, the old one,” the Bennio said.

  Upon the space where the linen had hung stood revealed the man’s true and present umbra. Of medium height, it was as straight and unremarkable as the shadow of any man. Indeed, one might suggest it as a representation of the upright life, the integer vitae that the ancient poet spoke of. I said of it, “Here is the shade of as honest a man as you might meet on any summer’s day.”

  Mutano spoke the other thought. “This shape lacketh the savor of a true Jester. It is hard to picture so respectable a figure turning cartwheels, contorting into bow-knots, dancing fandangos with a dog, and spitting acrid rhymes.”

  “Yet it is the shadow of our Bennio,” said Astolfo.

  “His true name is not Bennio,” I said.

  “But that you knew already,” our client said. “All members of the Society go by that name. It is the one people know. My birth name is kept sec
ret so that my words can have the smart of the whip-snap and my private house and family may go unharmed.”

  “If this shadow is that of your true figure, the role of Jester must be onerous in the extreme. For it twists the actual person you are about its central axis like a well-rope around the winch,” I said.

  “The part of the humorist is proverbially a heavy one, is it not?” Astolfo said.

  “Yes,” I admitted, “but I had never expected to see the proverb so starkly illustrated.”

  “Well, ’tis a burden he must take up again,” Astolfo said, “for Bennio has already chosen the shadow which is to replace the one we have severed. Shall we go into the hall of mirrors and try it on?”

  “Yes,” said the man in a tremulous whisper. But he did not move forward. He fell face-first to the ground, senseless.

  * * *

  It required the better part of an hour and two cups of a fiery pear cordial brought from the cellar to restore our Bennio. Mars was dreadfully anxious, trotting round and round the chair in which we had deposited our Jester. He now professed gratitude for our bringing him into the cool dimness of the library, with its thick drapes and dark shelves. “Forgive me. ’Tis but a passing spell. I am sound.”

  “We might have warned you,” said Astolfo. “Many there are to whom the sudden loss of his shadow brings on a fainting. Some are attacked by a vertigo; others suffer cold sweats and vomiting. It is no sign of a weakness within you.”

  He breathed quickly and unevenly. “For me, it was the onset of a too-swift exhilaration. I felt such a high elation, so sunbeam-quick a happiness, that I fell down dazed. It was the sudden purity of an immense relief.”

  “It may be you are ill suited to the Jester occupation,” Mutano said. “If the shadow of Bennio weighs so heavy upon you, perhaps you should not put it on again.”

  “But I must,” he said, “for the burial ceremony is urgent and if I do not fulfill the part, many evils will ensue.”

  “Evils of a kind you cannot describe,” Mutano said. To show his impatience, he poured a thimbleful of cordial into a glass and drained it off.

  “This much I know,” the Bennio said. “The role of the Ministrant at the interment is supposed to be given out by lot. But there was no chance involved in the choosing of me. Because the steward who passed the box was clumsy, I saw that all the tokens were marked with my sign.” He extended his right hand with a gold ring on the third finger. The red stone was marked with a gold symbol of Mars.

  “Might you have been allowed to see the deception on purpose?” Astolfo asked.

  He pondered. “I cannot comprehend why that should be.”

  “Do you know why you should be so singularly honored?”

  “It is regarded as an involuntary honor—of a sort. But every Society member knows that this office entails the loss of shadow. That is the rule.”

  “Could this be at least in part a reason your name was made certain to be drawn? Might some one or two of the Society desire to see you shadowless?”

  “Again, I can fathom no purpose in’t.”

  “Nor can I. Let us go to the hall above where the shadows are stored and you shall choose one to replace the other.”

  “It must be in the figure of Bennio.”

  “Because you must act the Ministrant in that guise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we shall think upon that point. But let us go up. We have only a small stock of Jester umbrae, but there must surely be one to suit for the time being. Mars will come with us. The dog will be the ablest judge of what best fits.”

  * * *

  Our plan of action required that we summon the aid of our crabbish old acquaintance, Maxinnio the ballet master. I did not dote upon his company, but Astolfo enjoyed irritating the irascible fellow, goading him to heats of exasperation. We found him in his rehearsal hall.

  “Go away,” said Maxinnio. “Your breaths are unwholesome, your faces are ugly, and your bodies are clumsy beyond repair. Whoever admitted you into the house shall be dismissed upon this instant.”

  “Good morning, Maxinnio,” Astolfo said. “I am pleased to find you in humor. The day is bright and inviting.”

  “How did you gain entrance?”

  “My colleague, the rash Falco, offered to slice the gizzard of your porter if we were turned away.”

  “My ‘porter,’ as you call her, is a female of but fifteen years. I do not doubt he would show courage sufficient to attack her.” He was seated at his desk in a small room adjoining the practice room of his dance studio. That space was deserted just now.

  Whatever project Maxinnio had under way was in an early stage of progress. On the desk before him lay sheets of diagrams blocking out the choreography of a new ballet. There were about a dozen of these sheets, most of them disfigured across their expanses with large X’s. He was searching his way to a scenario.

  “It is you who are so severe upon young girls,” Astolfo said. “Falco is tender of heart on that head and would never threaten. A few polite words and a modest coin, and—lo!—she allowed us to enter. She smiled also, and that is a habit your Missana could not have learned under your tutelage.”

  “Missana? I had not heard her name spoken. I suppose that you will tell me she is my newest discovery, a future ballerina of great renown.”

  “I think not. She is plump and cheerful. You could not abide her presence.”

  “I cannot abide yours, but here you are. By what means can I get you gone?”

  “Let us be more amicable,” Astolfo said. “Did not the other girl I commended to your attention become a dancer of excellence? She too was a doorkeeper and hearth-sweeper, living here with her abilities unrecognized. I am of mind that you are in my debt for her discovery.”

  “She was troublesome and still is.” He sighed dramatically and pushed his chair back. He gestured toward the papers strewn on his desk. “She hath conceived a grand new tragic role for herself as Queen Dido who dances many long, dolorous solo passages before she immolates herself at last.”

  “Yet are you not her dance master?”

  “Go away.”

  “Thou’rt a lean and querulous creature,” Astolfo said. “A physician might declare that you are distempered by an excess of the bilious humor.”

  Indeed, Maxinnio did appear changed since last we spoke with him. His face was drawn and more wrinkled than before and he appeared more restless in spirit.

  “If I am peevish, thou’rt no palliative. Why have you not departed?”

  “I desire your aid. Do you expect this new Dido piece to match the success of your ‘Sorrows of Petralchio’? I recall those performances with pleasure.”

  “My ‘Petralchio’ had the advantages of surprise and variety. The setting was a traveling carnival with animals and acrobats and fire-eaters. The dancers mimed many different roles.”

  “Two clowns also were included,” Astolfo said, “the long-faced Petralchio and the mischievous jester Bennio, who led Petralchio’s lovely Columbina astray. That was a sequence filled with interest.”

  “What is it you desire of me? The last reserves of my patience? You are quickly draining those.”

  “I recall also the shadow-play upon the backdrop as your Bennio tumbled and cavorted. It seemed that in watching I could almost hear his imbecilic and insulting rhymes. Did your dancer cut those shapes or was the figure of a puppet behind the scrim brightly illuminated from the back? The staging was so adroit, I could not tell.”

  “That shadow belonged to the dancer, Cocorico, who was of great aid in designing his dance and its umbral counterpoint. In his narrowly limited fashion, he was a sort of genius.”

  “Was, you say?”

  “So far as I know, he no longer performs. We had a falling-out and he departed my troupe in a fury and forever, or so he vowed. He vowed also to take revenge upon me, but all the principal males who leave make the same identical threat. They are a contumacious flock, these dancers.”

  “Why do they s
o cross thee? Certainly, you are a sweetly tempered man and as patient as a ten-year calendar.”

  “Yes, that is so, though I am much a-weary of thee and thy Boffo.”

  “Falco is my name,” I said.

  “Falco, Flotto, Farto. Begone and take thy names with thee.”

  “With whom has this Cocorico taken up in these latter days?” Astolfo asked. “There are some secrets of his craft I would learn of him.”

  “Purloin from him is the truer phrase. Thou’rt in ill luck. He has given up the ballet for some trade more suiting his disposition. Treason, mayhap, or assassination.”

  “Do you know of his whereabouts?”

  “If I did, why should I tell you?”

  “Why, to be rid of me. You make that out to be a happy state of existence.”

  Maxinnio blinked weary eyes at us, then rubbed each with the heel of his palm. He was tired of staring at his papers. I deduced that a new scenario that would satisfy his diva was not easy in the conceiving. He leaned into the back of his chair and stretched his arms before him. “Yes, that would be a blissful relief. Yet I do not know for certain where he may be. If he has given up performance, as he threatened, he shall have found an ancillary employment—as a director’s assistant or in the design of costume or the placement of lights. He would never wholly forswear Terpsichore.”

  “If he is out of temper with you, he may hire out to your closest rivals. Which of the masters would that be?”

  “There are none. My company is nonpareil.”

  “Yes, of course. But if some ignorant rustic were to imagine that you had a close rival, whom should he choose?”

  “If he were devoid of proper judgment, he might alight upon the Draponi Troupe. If he were curious about the art, he would seek out the Signora Anastasia. It is not usual for a woman to lead a dancers’ company and I doubt that Cocorico would encamp there. The Signora will brook not the slightest insubordinate gesture and Cocorico is of a surly and disputatious cast of mind.”

  “To the Draponi we shall march. I thank thee most prettily for your kindly aid and bid thee farewell. I hope you can forgive our hasty exit.”