‘Give your father a hand, Max.’
Before doing as he was asked, Max glanced over at his sister Alicia. She had been silent throughout the meal and it was crystal clear from the look on her face that she was miles away, yet for some reason nobody else seemed to have noticed, or they preferred not to. Alicia momentarily returned his gaze.
‘Do you want to come with us tomorrow?’ he suggested. ‘You’ll like Roland.’
Alicia didn’t reply but she gave the hint of a smile and her dark, enigmatic eyes lit up for a second.
‘Ready. Lights out,’ said Maximilian Carver as he finished threading the film into the projector. The machine looked as if belonged in the age of Copernicus himself, and Max had his doubts as to whether it would actually work.
‘What are we going to see?’ asked Andrea Carver, holding Irina in her arms.
‘I haven’t a clue,’ the watchmaker confessed. ‘There’s a box in the shed with dozens of reels and none of them is labelled, so I chose a few at random. It wouldn’t surprise me if we don’t see anything at all. The emulsion used on film is very fragile and it could easily have been damaged after all these years. You see, the nitrates used in-’
‘Dear…’ Andrea Carver said sweetly but firmly.
‘Right.’ The watchmaker nodded.
‘What does emulsion mean?’ Irina asked. ‘Aren’t we going to see anything then?’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Maximilian Carver replied as he turned on the projector.
A few moments later they heard what sounded like an old motorcycle engine struggling to start as the machine rattled into life. Suddenly the beam from the lens cut through the room like a spear of light. Max concentrated on the rectangle projected onto the white wall. It was like looking inside a magic lantern, never knowing what visions might emerge from its depths. He held his breath and in a few moments the wall came alive with pictures.
*
It didn’t take long for Max to realise that the film they were watching didn’t come from the storeroom of some old cinema. It was not a print of some famous film, nor even a forgotten reel from a silent movie. The blurred pictures, eaten away by time, showed that whoever had filmed these images was obviously an amateur.
‘What is this?’ asked Irina.
‘I don’t know, darling,’ answered her father.
The film was a rather clumsy attempt at depicting a walk through what looked like a forest. The person operating the camera advanced slowly through the trees, the images jerking from one place to another with sudden shifts in light and focus, so that it was difficult to pick out where this strange walk was taking place.
‘But, what is this?’ cried Irina, visibly disappointed. She looked at her father, who was staring in bewilderment at what appeared to be a strange – and, judging from the first minute, boring – film.
‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Maximilian Carver, despondent. ‘I wasn’t expecting this… Maybe it’s just one of the Fleischmanns’ home movies.’
‘Is that the people who used to live in this house before us?’
Max had also started to lose interest in the film when something caught his eye in the confused rush of images.
‘What if you try another reel, dear?’ Andrea Carver suggested, trying to keep her husband’s spirits up.
‘Wait…’ Max interrupted as he recognised a familiar silhouette.
The camera had now left the forest and was heading towards an area surrounded by tall stone walls with a gate of spearheaded bars. Max knew this place; he’d been there only that morning.
Fascinated, Max watched as the camera operator appeared to stumble slightly and then entered the walled garden filled with statues.
‘It looks like a graveyard,’ whispered Andrea Carver. ‘Dear, turn this off.’
‘Just a second,’ said Max.
The camera panned across the scene. In the film the garden didn’t look as neglected as it had when Max discovered it. Not a hint of weeds, and the stone surface of the ground was clean and smooth; someone had been keeping the place immaculate.
The camera paused at each of the statues standing at the cardinal points of the large star that was clearly visible at the base of the figures. Max recognised the white stone faces, the circus costumes. There was something unnerving about the rigid poses adopted by these ghostly figures and the theatrical expressions on their mask-like faces.
The film went from one statue to another, capturing each member of the circus troupe without any cuts. The family watched the haunting scene in silence, no other sound in the room except the rattle of the projector.
Finally, the camera turned towards the centre of the star. Standing with its back to the light was the figure of the smiling clown, around which all the other statues were arranged. Max studied its features and felt the same shudder running through his body as when he’d stood in front of it. There was something about the clown that didn’t quite match what he remembered from his visit to the walled garden, but the poor quality of the film didn’t give him a clear enough view to work out what it was. The Carvers continued sitting in silence as the last few frames ran across the projector’s beam. Maximilian Carver stopped the machine and turned on the light.
‘Jacob Fleischmann,’ Max finally murmured. ‘These were filmed by Dr Fleischmann’s son.’
‘We don’t know that, Max,’ said his father, his tone sombre.
They looked at each other but Max said nothing. He started thinking about the boy who had drowned over ten years ago only metres away on that same beach. It seemed to him as if the boy’s presence filled every corner of the house, making Max feel like an intruder. Maybe he was sleeping in what used to be his bed.
‘Can we see some more?’ Max asked timidly.
The watchmaker caught the darting looks his wife was giving him.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Max.’
Without another word, Maximilian Carver began to dismantle the projector, and his wife picked up Irina and carried her upstairs to bed.
‘Can I sleep with you?’ asked Irina, hugging her mother.
‘Leave this,’ said Max to his father. ‘I’ll put it away.’
Maximilian looked at his son, intrigued, but then patted him on the back.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ he whispered.
The watchmaker turned to his daughter. ‘Goodnight, Alicia.’
‘Goodnight, Dad,’ she replied, watching her father as he climbed the stairs. He looked tired and disappointed.
When the watchmaker’s footsteps could no longer be heard, Alicia turned and fixed her eyes on Max.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Max.
Alicia leaned towards him. Sometimes his sister had a peculiar intensity to her, as if she could shatter glass with a single glance.
‘Promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,’ she said.
‘But…’
‘Promise. On your life.’
Max sighed. ‘This better be good. OK. I promise. What is it?’
Alicia shot one last look at the top of the stairs to make sure nobody could hear them. ‘The clown. The one in the film…’ she began.
Max didn’t like where this was going.
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve seen it before.’
‘You’ve been to the garden of statues?’
Alicia shook her head, confused.
‘What garden? No. I mean I’ve seen it before.’
‘Where?’
Alicia hesitated. ‘In a dream.’
Max looked into Alicia’s eyes. She was deadly serious about this. He felt a chill down his spine.
‘When did you see him?’ asked Max, his heart beating faster.
