“I think the actors are somewhere up there,” Barbara said, and started running up the stairs so fast that Magdalena had a hard time catching up with her. The basket in her hand was full to the bursting point and getting heavier with every step.
On the second floor they indeed found the troupe. The area was dominated by a huge dance floor, surrounded on three sides by a gallery with a walkway. At the opposite end, several actors were standing on a stage normally used by musicians. They were setting up a structure whose purpose Magdalena didn’t understand. After a few moments she spotted the tanned youth again, now sweaty and wearing an open shirt, doing gymnastic tricks and putting together a pole from two pieces, at eye level, dividing the stage in two halves. Magdalena was amused to see that Barbara had spotted him, as well, and was once again playing with locks of her hair.
“Ah, I see the ladies are admiring our equipment,” they suddenly heard a voice behind them say. “Good gracious! You two would truly make charming queens.”
Magdalena turned around and saw the haggard man who had given the dramatic speech earlier. Despite his height, he was as thin as a rail, and his body was wrapped in a long, black coat that fluttered like a scarecrow’s. He was pale and poorly shaven, and he had dark eyes that appeared to bore into everyone he spoke with. Strands of a cheap wig curled like dead snakes down to his shoulders. When the man noticed the women’s hesitation, he bowed slightly.
“My dears, I completely forgot to introduce myself,” he continued in that strange, soft accent that Magdalena had noticed before. “My name is Malcolm. Sir Malcolm, to be precise. I am the director of this outstanding theater group.” He gestured to the men on the circus wagon and bowed. “We strive to entertain you. Or, as Shakespeare once said, ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’”
“Shakespeare? Entertain?” Barbara’s mouth opened wide in amazement. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. .”
The gaunt man’s laugh sounded like the bleating of a billy goat. “Don’t tell me you beautiful ladies have never heard of William Shakespeare or Christopher Marlowe? Well, then you can count yourself lucky, because Sir Malcolm’s troupe of itinerant actors is the best, the most sensational, and”-he gave a conspiratorial wink and lowered his voice-“surely the most risqué in the whole German Empire.” His smile was so broad that Magdalena was able to see and admire a row of astonishingly sharp white teeth behind it. “I would be delighted to welcome you to one of our next performances-perhaps tomorrow afternoon, when we shall present Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus-you surely have heard of our legendary production?”
“Well, I’m not sure. .,” Magdalena began, struggling for words. “What kind of play is it?”
“Doctor Faustus? Oh, it’s an ancient tale of a learned man who made a pact with the devil. Lots of hocus-pocus, smoke, and goose bumps. Sometimes the people run out of the theater screaming, because they’re so terrified.” He bared his teeth, like a wolf. “In other words, they love it.”
“And the devil also appears in it?” Barbara asked.
Malcolm nodded. “I play that part myself, and in all modesty I must say there’s no more diabolical devil in the entire German Empire. Markus plays the part of the old man, Faust, and Matheo the beautiful Helen of Troy. Markus, Matheo! Come here! I’ve found two admirers of our art.”
Two of the men working on the stage looked over at them. Barbara’s eyes sparkled on seeing that one of them was the suntanned youth. The other was a pale man of around forty with a strangely magnetic, melancholy look. Magdalena thought she could sense in his gaze a glimmer of infinite sadness. Both men jumped down from the stage and approached them.
“Matheo comes from an old Sicilian family of jugglers,” Malcolm explained as Barbara tugged excitedly at her linen dress. “He can juggle balls like no one else, and he always plays the part of either the handsome hero or the beautiful girl.” He lowered his voice and whispered, “It’s true that nowadays you see more women taking women’s roles, but here under the auspices of the bishop, we thought it better to keep things the way they are. We don’t want to do anything to spoil our relations with His Excellency, of course.”
“Certainly Matheo is quite qualified to play either role-the handsome hero or the beautiful maiden,” Magdalena said with a grin, and looked at her sister. “What do you think, Barbara? Don’t you think he’d make a beautiful girl?”
Barbara rolled her eyes as if Magdalena had just said something terribly embarrassing, but Matheo just laughed and curtsied.
Magdalena now turned to the pale man that Sir Malcolm had referred to as Markus. “For the role of an old scholar you are astonishingly young,” she said, curious.
The man smiled, but the sadness in his eyes remained. “You have no idea what a little makeup can do-and sometimes I really do feel very old.” He nodded toward the haggard director. “Sir Malcolm is a miserable slave driver.”
Malcolm let out a bleating laugh. “I pay my slaves damned well. And besides, soon everyone will be talking about you, and not just in Bamberg,” he said, turning serious again. “Markus Salter is not only an actor, he is also our playwright,” he continued. “We take the original plays of William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe, and Markus gives them. . well, the necessary polish.”
“Aren’t the plays good enough by themselves?” Barbara asked.
“Well, for the general public they’re sometimes just too difficult and dry, so we cut out the long monologues and concentrate on the funny parts and, above all, the bloody passages. Many of the pieces have not yet been translated into German, and Markus takes care of that, as well.”
“I butcher Shakespeare’s plays by turning them into bloody spectacles for the masses,” Markus sighed in despair. “Carefully constructed pentameter, beautiful images-for that the world clearly has no taste nowadays. The more blood, the better. But I myself have written original pieces that-”
“Yes, yes,” Malcolm interrupted, “that would be enough to make Shakespeare cry, I know-or simply put him to sleep. I’m afraid you’re boring the ladies, Markus. Just like your plays. We can’t afford experiments. After all, I have a whole troupe to feed,” he said, clapping his hands. “But now it’s time to get back to building the stage. Will you excuse us?” He bowed to Magdalena and Barbara and stomped off toward the stage, but not without first casting a final, reproachful look at his two actors.
“Old slave driver,” Markus mumbled and followed him, while Matheo paused a moment and winked at Barbara.
“Then can we look forward to seeing you again at tomorrow’s performance? We’ll save a few seats for you up in the gallery. Ciao, signorine.”
“Ciao,” Barbara said, batting her eyelashes as Matheo, in one single, flowing movement, jumped back onto the stage.
Magdalena grinned at her sister. “Ciao?” she asked. “Is that the way a Schongau hangman’s daughter says good-bye, or are you an Italian contessa addressing her prince just before their wedding?”
“You. . you are a rude, stupid old biddy, do you know that?” Barbara snarled, back to her familiar tone of voice, as she ran for the exit. Magdalena followed, laughing, but her sister was so fast that she lost sight of her rushing down the stairway in the central dome.
Barbara was positively foaming at the mouth. As she ran out into the square by the harbor, she thought of a dozen choice curses for her big sister. How Magdalena had humiliated her! She still treated Barbara like the little girl she used to read bedtime stories to and take to pick blueberries, though she was now fifteen. Fifteen! An age at which other young women were married.