Chapter Text
Santiago was not so different from Vienna - at least if Marcus squinted hard enough. It was nothing like the orphanage in Romania, nor the little lighthouse on the Flannen Isles, but similar enough was good enough, she tried to reason. Surely Madam Hofmann knew best; surely she must have known what she was doing when she sent Marcus here. She must have known the columns of the National History Museum would remind her of the Court Opera House and the Neoclassical architecture of the city - the very same one she had been transfixed by when she first set foot in Vienna - would take her back to better times.
The library was nice, or would have been, had she understood a single word inscribed on the pages of its books. Learning German had been by no means easy, but at least Madam Hofmann had been there to teach her, as had Klara when she found time between appointments. English was harder, Marcus taught herself through the means of books when she was little. Spanish, however, was nothing quite like anything she knew. It was similar enough to Romanian, similar enough should have been good enough, but in this case the familiarity only served to emphasize the differences. She had almost an idea of what people were saying, she had almost an idea of what the words on the pages of a book meant, she had almost an idea of what to say back, almost but not quite - similar enough was not good enough this time, no.
Not many people spoke any of the languages she knew, even her fellow immigrants mostly spoke Italian, and though Marcus had thought it impossible once, she dearly missed being able to communicate; More than anything she missed being understood, she had missed it her entire life, but now she missed it even more so, even if she was to struggle having her words come across the way she intended them again. Madam Hofmann said to keep an open mind right before she sent Marcus off, and in her letters she continuously urged Marcus to continue turning the page no matter what. This was what she meant, Marcus was certain this was it, but turning the page felt so pointless when the words written in it made no sense. She tried, for Madam Hofmann, she tried so hard to live the life her mentor sacrificed so much to give her.
Her new job wasn’t so bad, she had not officially started her duties yet but the concept of it sounded like something she would enjoy. The H.A Publishing House was close enough to her apartment in Barrio Brazil too, not more than half an hour of distance if she hurried and just ten minutes if she hitched a ride either on a horse or horseless carriage. Madam Hofmann arranged for her every need to be met during her absence, from sending money each month to providing Marcus her own living space - the apartment was not like the ones she was used to back in Vienna, rather than a building it was a proper house, a ‘casona’ as the lady in charge and other residents called it, and she shared the building with a dozen people or so. It was a bit similar to the house of Klara’s good friend Miss Isolde, large and intricate and always looming in the distance, but with way more open space than the Vienna estate; Marcus even had a balcony all to herself, a real and proper balcony unlike the fire escape on her former residence with her mentor - she could almost picture her very own Romeo scaling the vined walls. The publishing house was not too unlike the ones she found in Vienna, a little building full of offices inside, this one with painted terracotta walls and potted plants hanging from the ceiling - they’d made her water them while waiting for the editor in chief to return to work next week with the basement keys.
Madam Hunting was strict but fair, just like Madam Hofmann, Marcus liked to think they would’ve gotten along had they met, likely they would’ve smoked in utter silence together. She showed Marcus around on her first day, then again on her second when she was too anxious to remember where anything was, on the third day she was less pleased but helped her regardless. She spoke English well, and taught Marcus some words in Spanish here and there, just like Madam Hofmann did with German. The publishing house was sitting on a trove of unpublished manuscripts, some old, others very old, it was as intriguing as it was frustrating, having access to so much information yet being unable to understand it. Her job was to catalogue the books down there, similar enough to her work as Madam Hofmann's assistant, similar enough to her tasks in the orphanage. She would do well here, she told herself using her mentor's very own words scribed on the pages of their correspondence.
“It’s, uh, it's a long way down.” Marcus mumbled, holding tightly onto her dictionary and lantern, trying not to make eye contact with the abyss that lay before her. Madam Hunting didn't appear too bothered, smoking a cigarette despite the enclosed state, the ember of the tobacco provided almost more light than Marcus' lantern. The chief editor had dropped by earlier today, and did not appear to be particularly impressed by Marcus and her poor pronunciation of a simple greeting. The chief would have to put up with her, Madam Hunting said, cataloguing was tedious work, not many wanted to spend their day in a dark basement reading and rereading hundreds and maybe even thousands of books. Madam Hunting had called her special in that regard, so had Madam Hofmann, and Marcus had an inkling they were both referring to the same thing.
“Not too far down, you'll get used to it.” Madam Hunting exhaled smoke into the dimness. Marcus wondered if she was surprised by her tolerance of the smoke, how she had not coughed once, if she would ask and allow Marcus to recount how her mentor smoked like a furnace and that the mere smell of smoke and ash brought her peace. “I will walk you down if you want, Señorita Hofmann.”
“Just, just Marcus please. Hofmann was my mentor, I-I mean she is my mentor.” She mumbled again. Speak louder, be more clear - nothing of that sort came, if Madam Hunting somehow heard her whispered reply, she decided it was clear enough for her. If not, then she likely held no interest in hearing Marcus repeat herself. “She, uh, she took me in from the little lighthouse in the Isles, well it wasn’t little, it was a regular sized lighthouse… I think it was, I haven’t seen any other lighthouse since then, or before for that matter, and, uh…” Why did you speak, Marcus? Why try to be clear and loud? What was even the point of opening her mouth if that was going to be the result? She didn’t look up at Madam Hunting, could not bring herself to do so, even when she heard an ‘awww’ sound leave the older woman’s lips.
“Ay que linda.” The woman cooed, as if speaking to a puppy. It sounded kind, what she said, or perhaps mocking, but Marcus had no way of knowing which it was.
They reached the bottom before Marcus could decide whether she should risk opening her mouth again to ask what Madam Hunting’s words meant. The older woman crushed her cigarette against the terracotta wall. The spot appeared burned even prior to the ember of the stick being pressed against it, likely from the publishing house workers constantly extinguishing their cigarettes there over a long period of time - it was a long way down, after all. The wait between Madam Hunting fiddling with the keys and finally opening the doors felt endless, like the wait between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Prior to Vienna, Marcus had only read about the anticipation from secondhand books, or overheard it from children who had the chance of a family before ending up in the orphanage… it sounded nice. She never got to experience it for herself until she was older, until Madam Hofmann gave her a freshly printed, poorly wrapped copy of The Secret Garden during their first December working together.
“You know what to do, I imagine? The chief should have given you an overview of your duties and responsibilities, but I have a feeling you understand this job better than anyone else I’ve ever seen try.” Madam Hunting said, looking around the dark space and fiddling with the light switch of the apparently newly installed electrical unit. No light appeared. She tried again. Still nothing. She turned to look at Marcus, then upwards at the ceiling fixture - a single unprotected bulb dangling from a copper wire - before shifting her gaze back to Marcus. “I will resolve this, speak with the keeper, but please bear with it for now - the delay with getting the keys here was already enough wasted time.”
“It-it’s alright, Madam Hunting! I’m used to working in the dark.” Marcus replied, squinting as she tried to adapt her eyes to the darkness. The books were scattered everywhere, most of them strewn on the floor, with many shelves toppled over the next like dominos. Chile had strong seismic activity, and with how long it had been since anyone last set foot here, it was of no surprise the basement bore the marks of the last few earthquakes. She knew it shouldn’t be this exciting - annoyance, and maybe even sadness for how carelessly the books had been treated would have been the reasonable response. But Marcus felt almost as happy as she did on Christmas day, practically vibrating with excitement. There was so much work to do, creating a record and cataloguing everything would take so long!
Madam Hunting seemed to notice her barely contained excitement. She finally gave up with the light switch once and for all, then looked around the room - it was no easier to distinguish book from rat from piece of rotting wood than it had been at the start. There was no clock here, no windows, no light. Any reasonable person would go mad if left alone for more than a few hours. While Marcus only saw the opportunity of doing what she enjoyed most, Madam Hunting was more grounded in reality.
“I’ll come pick you up in five hours. There is a bar a few blocks from here - you Germans love beer, don’t you?”
“I-I’m not-”
“Beer’s on me this time, Señorita Marcus. Come up if you need anything… Hmm, I’ll ask for a telephone to be installed here too - it’s such a long way up, after all.”
Madam Hunting went up the stairs after saying her piece. Marcus watched the ember of yet another cigarette slowly but surely fade as the other woman walked further up the stairs. Silence closed in behind her - an absolute silence that not even her own breathing dared disturb.
She created her own space an hour or two into the job. Settled her lantern and dictionary on a table, termite infested as it was, and began to pile book after book in categories only she could understand. The books were so old, Marcus had never even heard of most of them - a majority of them, actually. She’d been expecting translated versions of already existing literary works, and she did find a few of those, but they were outnumbered by the sheer magnitude of obscure, hand bound manuscripts. Some had no titles, those went into their own pile, as did the ones that had symbols rather than actual words. It was oh so frustrating, not being able to understand the words she was reading. She talked to herself, a habit forged from lonely years and extreme self doubt, as she worked sorting the books into piles.
The books she recovered from underneath the fallen shelves went into another category, if only because most of them were damaged. It took her another hour or so just to gather them all. Original works came in manila folders with the title and author scribed on top of them - some dated as far as fifty years ago - those made up the third pile. Marcus would’ve loved to read them, to go through them and understand just why they were down here, left to rot in a basement, and not up there, leather bound and in bookstores. The fourth and final initial category consisted of translated works. Marcus would go over them last, perhaps even take some home to read alongside her trusty dictionary. She’d learned English just like that, running across the pasture chasing the beacon’s light when the power inside the lighthouse failed, hoping it would illuminate her book and dictionary if just for a second or two.
By the fifth hour, she had brought some semblance of order to the space around her. One step at a time - it would take her weeks to organize everything just right. Madam Hofmann once told her to approach life as she would the contents of a book: slowly and deliberately, ensuring she understood each page before turning to the next. She was not here to listen to Marcus sob from sheer overwhelm, not here to let her cry on her shoulder for a minute or two, not here to tell her to pull herself together and tell her everything would work out. It was just Marcus now, and she needed to be the grown up Madam Hofmann expected her to become.
Only one more shelf remained untouched. They were all falling apart and infested with termites, but that one had endured a lot more stress than the others, crushed beneath every other shelf. She’d tried to salvage whatever lay underneath it - truly she had - but the moment she tried lifting it like she had the others it all but collapsed to dust before her. Her nose and eyes had not quite recovered from her first attempt yet. She had a strange feeling about the contents of that shelf - like Klara when she played those number games with her young Bosnian friend, always claiming they had a ‘feeling’ about a specific one. She should begin to further separate the books into more specific categories, wait for Madam Hunting to come retrieve her and ask her for help with the shelf. She should definitely do that.
“Come on Marcus, you can do this, it’s no heavier than your briefcase… but it’s full of bugs, and-and I can do it!”
Marcus wrapped her kerchief around her face, and tried once more to lift the shelf. The wood crumbled further into dust as she tried to resist her growing panic when termites began to crawl up her arm. Still, she pushed the shelf aside, hoping the heavy ‘thud’ it made when it collapsed on the ground would not alarm her coworkers above. There was little beneath the shelf, much to her disappointment. Klara was always wrong about her numbers, and it seemed Marcus was just as unlucky. Crushed under the weight were more Manila folders scattered across the floor. Marcus began sorting them into the pile with the rest, muttering names she could barely pronounce as she walked back and forth. The humid environment of the basement had created some mold in most of the folders, yet somehow the strange books she uncovered bore no damage. The ones she salvaged from underneath the shelf were by far the worst. For a moment, she considered discarding them, they were so badly damaged. But no, even if they were down here with her and not up there with Madam Hunting didn’t mean they were worthless - they deserved a chance too.
Beneath the moldy pile of folders lay another of the strange books she had found - its cover bound with square pieces of different materials that made it almost resemble a chessboard, or perhaps a door with the way the squares were bound with nails. This one had a title in English: ‘The Rise And Fall Of Sanity’. English titles were not uncommon, Marcus had discovered early on. She had been practicing her pronunciation by saying the titles aloud as she sorted them. It was not helping, she had no proof yet no doubt about it. This one felt different from the others, and not just because it was untouched by the damage that ruined the others. The author’s name was missing, scribbled out with an entire inkwell’s contents, as were the first few pages, visibly torn. It called to her, she couldn’t quite understand nor describe why, just like Klara couldn’t make sense of her numbers.
“How strange…” She mumbled to herself, quietly despite her solitude.
Marcus turned to the first page, squinting hard as she attempted to read the words on the page. It was handwritten as opposed to typewritten, the cursive elegant at times, frantic at others, and just slightly sloppy most of the time. She had no way of knowing what it said, and turning the pages gave her no further clarity. She hadn’t been using her dictionary much, she’d hardly opened it twice in the last few hours, and she’d done so much already - surely a small break was fine.
It took her ten minutes to fully translate the first page, where she met a character named Recoleta, who rode through the Sonoran desert on a pure white steed named Brenalda, searching for something Marcus could not quite translate. Not much happened on the first page, even when the writing grew frantic not much appeared to be happening within the story. The second page took her just as long, and she learned a new word: Fabuloso - fabulous, the girl said upon stumbling into an oasis. Pues no es fabuloso - Not fabulous, she then said when the horse neighed and she realized it was but a mirage. The word felt funny on her tongue. She repeated it again and again, and for once she knew she was pronouncing it right. She hadn’t made a habit of using that word in her native tongue, there was no circumstance where she would’ve ever used it, but similar enough was good enough, and this time it brought Marcus some comfort.
“Had a good day, I take it?”
Marcus jolted, the word breaking into a yelp halfway out of her mouth. She turned to find Madam Hunting by the door, squinting slightly yet looking remarkably relaxed despite the utter chaos, controlled as it was, that had formed in the basement since Marcus’ arrival. Instinctively, Marcus snapped the book shut and sat up straighter on the wobbly chair, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the realization that Madam Hunting had heard her babbling like a child. How embarrassing. Shyly, she nodded, not making eye contact, avoiding as if it hurt.
“Y-yes, the books here are so old, I doubt you were around when they were made… I-I, I mean, not to imply you're old, th-thats not what I meant!” Marcus panicked, finally looking up and at Madam Hunting. Were her squinting eyes due to the dark, or offense? She seemed amused, at least.
“No offense taken, Marcus. Let’s get going then? Like I said, beer’s on me this time - you’ve earned it.” Madam Hunting said as she eyed the light switch, unwilling to step farther inside and eager to leave. “I told the keeper about the light, hopefully you won’t be needing your little lantern for much longer.”
Madam Hunting bought her a sort of tea instead, when they arrived at the bar. Mate, it was called. It was unlike anything Marcus had ever tasted, but she liked it better than she liked beer, so she happily sipped her tea as Madam Hunting drank her beer. Afterwards, Madam Hunting walked her halfway home to the Casona - literally meaning ‘large house’ as she explained along the way - where Marcus had been staying over the last month. The lady in charge was sweeping the mosaic tiles when Marcus stepped inside, and immediately she began shouting in Spanish. Marcus had not a clue what she said, but she sounded less than pleased. Marcus hurried upstairs to her room. Not Fabuloso. She sat in her balcony with her typewriter for some time, eventually surrounding herself in a sea of crumbled papers as she wrote and then rewrote a letter to Madam Hofmann.
Madam Hunting walked her down to the basement again the next day, smoking a cigarette on the way down just like last time, and not daring to walk farther than the door frame once more. After arranging her work space, Marcus found a good deal of manila folders missing, the moldy and damaged ones. Madam Hunting left when she did, it couldn’t have been her… it was likely the keeper or cleaner that came to investigate the light issue. Marcus continued her work, she began to typewrite her annotations then three hours into it realized they were in German. She started over. Now hyperaware of her writing, just like last night in the balcony trying to write to Madam Hofmann a letter she possibly would never get to read.
She didn’t know what was happening in Europe beyond what her mentor wrote to her. The paper was printed in Spanish, and her housemates did not understand her pleas to tell her something - anything at all - about what was happening back home. She spoke loud and clear to herself, only to herself, Marcus checked every nook and cranny of the basement when she realized there could be a ghost listening in - that would be so embarrassing. She spoke of Madam Hofmann, saying aloud what she wished she could say to her but could not properly express via paper. Then her thoughts turned to Klara, she’d left Austria with her friend Isolde last Marcus heard of her, they’d gone to the United States instead of South America like Madam Hofmann recommended they do. ‘But what do I know? I only work in government.’ Madam Hofmann had said when Klara dismissed her. Marcus missed her, even if Klara was too much for her to handle at times - most of the time, actually. Semmelweis… She hadn’t heard of Semmelweis at all since she left Vienna, she should probably ask Madam Hofmann about her.
She read a little more of the book - ‘The Rise And Fall Of Sanity,’ as it was called - when she felt her own sanity begin to slip at the thought of buildings collapsing and smoke rising not from tobacco, but from gunfire. Marcus still did not know what the girl, Recoleta, and her fair steed were searching for, but she diligently translated each word. The desert - they were still roaming the desert. And like Marcus herself, the protagonist conversed with herself. Technically, she spoke to Brenalda, her horse, whose neighs were interpreted as replies. Recoleta spoke quite a lot - more than half of the page consisted of her speaking about nothing at all, only the rain. Like a ghost, she said it was. Marcus liked her, the girl made sense in a way Marcus couldn’t quite grasp, while simultaneously making no sense at all. She spoke like she knew all the right things to say. Maybe that was why Marcus was inclined to believe her words.
It rained on her way to work on the third day. Marcus watched the falling raindrops from the window of the horseless carriage. Indeed, the rain carried a certain melancholic loneliness - no one walked the streets due to it, and the drops streaking down the glass almost looked like tears shed by some invisible sorrower. Madam Hunting greeted her by the door, newspaper in hand. Marcus swallowed hard against the bile that rose in her throat at the sight of an imploding boat printed on the back of the page. La Gran Guerra, it said, The great war. That was the first phrase she searched for in the dictionary that day. Marcus paced back and forth, speaking not while she worked but while she sobbed. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, so much like the raindrops on the carriage window.
“Control yourself, Marcus, you can’t be doing this anymore.” She sobbed, imagining it was Madam Hofmann saying those words instead of herself. “You need to grow up, you have to.”
Her typewriter ran out of ink halfway through her record-keeping. Marcus’ throat became raw after shouting back and forth with a coworker for ink, she finally began to understand why Madam Hunting wanted a telephone installed. Like the past few days, she read a little more of the book before leaving. Recoleta no longer spoke of rain, she spoke instead to another wanderer - a man riding a camel. Why a camel? Marcus asked, as did Recoleta moments later. He did not say, instead he continued on his way. After him came another man, this one walking alongside a mountain lion. Brenalda neighed in distress, urging her mistress to flee, but Recoleta held the reins tightly and remained them both in place. Why a mountain lion? Again, the man did not say, and continued on his way. He must be looking for something to feed the animal, Recoleta thought aloud, otherwise he would be eaten instead. She loosened her grip on the reins and allowed Brenalda to go wherever she pleased - likely she would go to a place far away from the mountain lions.
She saw a camel on the way to work on the fourth day. Marcus’ heart nearly stopped, and her feet actually did. Camels may belong to Chile’s fauna, Marcus did not know, but they certainly were not common in the city, as everyone stopped to stare as it walk on cobbled streets. A man with a large straw hat rode atop the animal on a throne-like saddle, not holding onto any reign, letting the animal go wherever it wished - and it knew exactly where to go. A place without mountain lions, Marcus’ mind supplied as she forced herself to look away, resuming walking. Madam Hunting saw it too. She seemed only mildly surprised by the anomaly, then she laughed at Marcus’ worry about mountain lions. ‘This is a city’ She had said, ‘There are no lions here, there is not even a zoo.’ Almost immediately after, a mountain lion walked past the open jalousie windows and door. Marcus fled down to the basement while panic erupted upstairs. Just a coincidence,she told herself. It was just a coincidence. It wasn't possible for a book to be able to foretell what would happen - she was losing her sanity, that seemed awfully ironic given the name of the manuscript.
Cataloguing, Madam Hunting had warned her, was tedious work. While Marcus loved what she did, she was also inclined to agree at that moment. It was fun in a way only she found it to be, but anxiety was eating at her today, making Marcus unable to enjoy the repetitive tasks she usually found so much comfort in. Marcus could not wait until the end of her shift to continue reading, and she almost immediately gave up trying to organize the rest of the books. Instead she sat down with her dictionary and lantern, opening 'The Rise And Fall Of Sanity’ once more.
No longer were they in the Sonoran desert, Recoleta was now in a bar in the jungle of Colombia, drinking mate, and enjoying it way more than Marcus did when she tried it. ‘It’s my favorite drink,’ Recoleta said to no one in particular, the author made no mention of other bargoers thus far, ‘It’s not common in Europe, is it?’
‘No’ Replied a man with a thick accent, the book stated, ‘I’d never heard of it before,’ He was a seller of the arcane and obscure, the book also said, he tried to sell Recoleta a magic quill pen, it could make any drawing come to life.
‘Why would I buy that? I am not good at drawing, not good at all, I can’t even draw the sun!’ Recoleta laughed, her words were followed by a neigh coming from the open window, her steed agreed. So did Marcus, she smiled at the doodles on the margins of the page - a camel and a mountain lion - they looked silly, with lolled out tongues and goofy eyes. Marcus’ smile dropped as she made the connection. The text explicitly stated the quill was but a sham, a childish whim acquired only due to Recoleta’s desire for it to actually work and flawed mathematics about store prices. This was a book, and books were magical, but only through the means of educating the masses - not by actually making its contents come true! Maybe a circus was coming to the city? That was much more likely than the Camel and mountain lion she saw today coming from the pages of a book! Marcus turned the page, frantically swiping the pages of the dictionary as she began to translate the contents yet again.
Recoleta walked through the main dirt path of the small town she was on, and for the first time thus far the author described her appearance. Green eyes, she had green eyes and brown hair that blended well to the jungle. She was still looking for something, something that Marcus was now certain had not yet been mentioned, as opposed to her having lost the meaning in translation. Recoleta was terribly charming, Marcus couldn’t help but notice, as she held a destitute young woman in her arms and challenged her crooked husband to a duel for her freedom - she had a blinding smile, was the third descriptor the book provided. Recoleta was victorious, as was expected, though Marcus omitted translating much of the actual duel - action scenes made her nervous. Recoleta raised her golden sabre up in the air and declared herself victorious over the crooked man’s not quite dead but badly battered body. Charming, and chivalrous too, as she gave the woman her military coat and magic pen, urging her to write a letter to her mother.
‘You already know what you need to say, so write it down and send the letter on its own journey, it’ll only take a fortnight for it to reach the underworld!’ Recoleta said to her.
Madam Hunting walked her home that day, she was quite shaken by the appearance of the lion, even if she didn’t outwardly appear to be. She walked her all the way home, sighed and responded back to the lady in charge’s shouting when Marcus walked scurried inside the house, Madam Hunting appeared mildly offended by her words. That night, seated once more in the balcony, once more surrounded by crumbled paper, Marcus attempted to type a letter to Madam Hofmann for the second time. She knew what she wanted to say, and more than anything she knew what she wanted the response to be. Marcus wanted Madam Hofmann to be alright, to be safe and hale. Marcus wanted to know of Semmelweis, where she had gone to and if she was safe. Marcus wanted to know if the succession building still stood as awkwardly next to the other buildings as it was before the war began. Marcus wanted to know if her favorite cafe, the one that served the silkiest Sachertorte in all of Austria still had its massive lines. Marcus wanted to know when things would go back to how it was before, when she could finally return home.
Marcus woke early on her fifth day of work. She walked to the post office and dropped off her letter to Madam Hofmann. It would take a fortnight to arrive, said the clerk in broken English, then another fortnight for a return - Marcus nodded and went on her way. Nothing too strange happened on her way to the publishing house - except maybe for a duel on the street, but both she and the rest of everyone in Santiago were used to such displays. Her coworkers seemed happy it was Friday, though they still had a half day of work tomorrow, and Marcus was not looking forward to not having anything to do Sunday. She began her day as she always did, and ended it just like she had these last couple of days. Recoleta was no longer wandering the jungles of Colombia; now she was in Ecuador, roaming the Andes. Recoleta made Marcus’ cheeks flush a little, though that wasn’t too unusual. Marcus had always been more drawn to literary figures than real people - even those as charming as this protagonist.
Not much happened in the Andes, the author painstakingly explained through the course of five pages. Marcus translated them all, read through them all with interest, if just to read the protagonist going on and on about the dry weather of the mountain path she followed. Recoleta spoke of the woman she had helped in the jungles, it had been a long time ago the book stated the events in Colombia to be. So long in fact, that the woman had returned home to her mother and remarried, Recoleta sounded disappointed. Maybe she thought she would have a traveling companion?
‘I do want some company, yes. No shame in admitting to the loneliness in your heart - it’s not a bad thing.’ Recoleta said to no one in particular, not many wandered through this mountain path the book had previously stated, and Marcus’ heart fluttered at the thought Recoleta could be talking to her. Marcus liked to imagine the characters were, when they spoke like Recoleta did. ‘Not that you are bad company, Brenalda, but you know what I mean!’ The horse neighed in response, and Recoleta went on and on.
When Marcus returned to the surface and left the publishing house, after shyly bid farewell to the few coworkers staying late, she noticed the immense dryness in the air was unlike that of the morning - or even the past few days. Santiago was dry in the summer and a little less so during the winter months, but it was ever so slightly more humid at night, becoming so at around the time Marcus left work. Marcus did not have as many things to say about the dry air as Recoleta did. It was just drier than usual. Marcus liked how Recoleta could say so much from so little, how she could spend entire pages talking about something as simple as the air. Marcus hurried up the stairs before the lady in charge saw her, taking the chance now that the other woman had her back to her. Marcus did not sleep well that day - it was too hot, too dry, she was not used to anything like this. She was used to snow and thick coats, she did not even own something thin enough to sleep in that would combat the heat. Marcus slept on the floor that night, it was colder than the bed.
Saturday passed by quickly, but Sunday dragged on endlessly. Marcus thought of visiting the bar Madam Hunting had taken her to on her first day, but she hadn’t liked Mate all that much, not enough to put herself in a situation like the one she might encounter at the bar - loud, rowdy, perhaps even violent. Recoleta might have gone. She would have, at least Marcus thought so from the still limited understanding she had on her character. Recoleta was bouncing from country to country with nothing but the clothes on her back, searching for something not even she herself seemed to know. Recoleta would’ve endured a barfight for the drink she so enjoyed, maybe even participated in it, with that golden sabre of hers. Nothing happened on Sunday, nothing at all. Marcus did not even leave her room that day, and not only from fear the lady would shout at her again - though that did fill her with anxiety - but she stayed home because of the loneliness she felt. There was no Klara to take her to art exhibits, No Miss Isolde to allow her to explore the backstage of the Opera House, and no Madam Hofmann to invite her for cake. Perhaps there was an art exhibit taking place, an opera house of some sort, and a cafe that baked cakes just as silky, but there was no Klara, no Miss Isolde, and no Madam Hofmann here.
Marcus quickly established a routine after her first week of work. She woke up early, before the woman did and had the chance to shout anything at her - her ears could not handle the yelling that early in the day. She walked the same route to work every day, and walked back home the exact same way. She did her duties in the basement, no longer as dark thanks to the new light installation, and read a little more of ‘The Rise And Fall Of Sanity’ at the end of each work day. She was no closer to discovering what the plot of the book even was, but she liked reading Recoleta’s adventures across South America. She was stated to hail from Santiago, and Marcus wondered if she had ever walked on the same cobbled streets as the Protagonist.
On her seventeenth day of work, Marcus read about Recoleta’s journey through Uruguay, making her way through the City of San Felipe Y Santiago De Montevideo - or just Montevideo, as everyone but Recoleta called it. There was a circus in the city, it was stated to have appeared out of thin air, nor an unusual occurrence since the book also stated the people appeared joyful rather than surprised. There were elephants and sword eating men and all other kinds of exotic. Recoleta wanted to join the circus.
‘It’s just like what I’m doing already, we both travel with a purpose, why not do so together?’ Recoleta asked Brenalda, who responded with a half distressed, half disappointed neigh and began making a ruckus on the street, almost kicking several passerbys, ‘Alright, Alright, point taken…’
On the Eighteenth day, on her way to work, Marcus saw the big top of a circus near Barrio Patronato - by Recoleta Avenue. The realization made her blush. The circus had not been there yesterday, nor had there been any sign of it being set up. It was as if it had arrived out of thin air. Yet instead of being joyful at its arrival, the people around her looked tense, confused. Strange things had been happening lately - from the camel and the mountain lion, to the sudden dryness that enveloped Santiago, to the duels on the streets that seemed almost choreographed. And upon finally translating the skipped pages Marcus had realized they were. And now this, a circus. Marcus loved reading Recoleta's whimsical adventures across South America, they were undoubtedly the highlight of her day, and she’d learned so much from her, but they were scaring her now.
“Uh, I’m sorry to bother but- I mean, uh, Disculpa… el circus, es comun?” Marcus asked after mustering enough courage to approach someone. The young woman she addressed did not seem disturbed by the circus's sudden appearance, unlike the others. She turned, the golden medals on her military jacket jiggling with the movement. She smiled at Marcus - not unkindly but with a strange hollowness that unsettled the younger girl. Marcus did not understand her reply, the woman’s Spanish sounded unlike anything Marcus had heard while in Chile. The medals caught the sunlight, shining with a blinding brilliance that reminded Marcus of a sabre - of a smile. Her cheeks flushed again, though this time the giddy warmth shared space with horror.
“Did you see the circus, Marcus?” Madam Hunting asked when Marcus walked inside. The younger girl was breathless and flushed red, both from the dry heat and from running. Madam Hunting experienced every emotion in the mildest of ways - not too much, not too little. Just like Madam Hofmann. Now she appeared only slightly disturbed, but not too much. Marcus nodded. She did not trust herself to speak; if she opened her mouth, she might end up revealing the book. “We haven’t had one in a long time, are you planning to attend, Marcus? Marcus?”
Marcus heard Madam Hunting’s voice shift into confusion when she realized the younger girl was no longer beside her. It was rude to leave like that - Madam Hofmann would’ve scolded her if she’d done this while in her presence - but Marcus needed to get to the basement before her nerves got the better of her, as they often did. The books, every one of them, were right where Marcus had left them the day before, including ‘The Rise And Fall Of Sanity’. It laid open on the table beside her lantern and typewriter. Marcus rushed towards it, nearly face-planting against the concrete floor when she tripped over the tangle of cables from the light installation. Sparks burst from the wires, briefly illuminating the now dark room.
“Come on, Marcus, Focus!” She told herself, now on the verge of tears. Marcus stepped forward, blindly flailing her arms around to feel for the table, promptly colliding with the frail wood which shook everything atop it. Marcus planned to put the book right back where it was, though perhaps she should hide it so no one else stumbled into it like she did, but something about it called to her once more, almost as desperately as she’d called for Madam Hofmann once the boat that took her here took off. One more page, one more page wouldn’t hurt, right?
“No, No, I shouldn’t…” She muttered to herself, yet picked up the book despite her own pleas not to do so.
She began reading where she left off. Recoleta had been in Uruguay last Marcus read, she’d sat atop her white steed looking decidedly prince-like, the book had stated though Marcus felt inclined to agree - no, Marcus, focus! She’d been weaving poetry at circus goers, delighting the young ladies, and once again Marcus- Marcus needed to focus! Recoleta was no longer in the circus, not in Montevideo, not in Uruguay. She was in Chile now, in Santiago, in a dark basement. The book almost slipped out of Marcus’ hands at the realization. Could it be? Had there really been a ghost here all along? Her mind was not in the right place. Marcus felt her sanity begin to slip; such thoughts should not exist, and fiction should not be mistaken for reality. Perhaps this was what the book’s title was referring to all along.
‘Marcus held the book super tightly, she should probably relax a little.’ Recoleta said, her words written in English. Marcus gasped, unsure if what she was reading was real - could this all just be a dream? She always had nightmares when she was stressed. ‘Just keep turning the pages, Marcus, don’t be scared - I don’t bite, though Brenalda does bite me sometimes.’
“Who, what, are you?” Marcus asked, her voice faint and terrified.
‘I’m Recoleta, you know who I am!’ The words that were initially written on the page morphed into the answer, leaving behind a faint gold afterglow in the page. ‘I’ll explain later, but what’s important right now is that you keep turning the pages.’
Now why would I do that? This is crazy! Marcus thought as she followed the protagonist’s instructions and turned yet another page. The golden glow of the shifting words reappeared - faint at first, but quickly growing in both strength and intensity. Somehow, a whirlwind formed in the enclosed basement, scattering loose pages, it quickly grew intense enough to lift a few manila folders throughout the room. Marcus clutched the book tightly, closing her eyes and hoping this - whatever it was - would end quickly. A bright golden streak flew across her face, and instinctively Marcus opened her eyes. Glowing feathers spun in the wind. They were coming from the book, she realized. A sudden weight made Marcus drop the book, yet somehow it did not fall to the ground with a resounding thud that would close it and make this stop, instead it floated just above her palms.
Marcus nearly ran. Instead, she stood trembling with fear, watching as a figure emerged from the book. Glowing bright gold just like the feathers, it slowly shifted colors, and even slower still began to take a tangible form. Fair skin appeared first, dotted with moles, until the face revealed more of itself - bearing a single beauty mark beneath the left eye, resting atop a dusty pink cheek. Next came the hair: short, just above the chin, the strands a could be blonde, could be brown color. The eyes appeared next, a vivid viridescent that, indeed, blended well with the jungle, they shone with whimsical joy Marcus doubted she had ever experienced in her own life. Lastly came the smile and clothes: a cavalry officer’s uniform, Marcus recognized it from her brief visit to the museum around day eleven. Her gaze quickly returned to the figure’s face.
Just like the book said, Recoleta’s smile was blinding.