Manavi Sinha
A Note About the Nighttime Show
When writing The Nighttime Show, I began with the notion of “unland,” a German noun used by Paul Celan in his poem Havdalah. Translating to “no place,” unland holds utopian potential and yet its textual connotation is infinitely much more sinister and is largely communicated through narratives with eerie, macabre, or haunted elements. Given the post-Holocaust context from which Havdalah emerged, the unland is heavily based on inconceivable tragedy – the need to escape from this world and any world like it where such a thing might happen. That said, The Nighttime Show by no means claims to position itself as adjacent to post-Holocaust literature. In writing this story, I sought to render the unthinkable aspects of an unland with elements of dysphoria and horror that can both shape and deteriorate reality.
Further reflecting on other unland-ish works including Tarkovsy’s Stalker, Kafka’s The Castle, Calvino’s Invisible Cities, Adorno’s Minima Moralia, Le Guin’s The Poacher, and Borges’ Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius, I fell in love with the architecture of the unland. The Schrödiger's cat of spaces, its unfinished quality allows it to become infinite ideations. This is not to say that the unland exists to be completed – precisely the opposite, the unland thrives on ambiguity, on being a liminal space that is also a conduit for change in that it is fluid and ever-evolving.
The unland fundamentally cannot be understood in entirety – that is what makes it obscure and otherworldly. While embracing the elusiveness of unland is key to understanding (understanding that we cannot understand), more often than not, narratives about the unland seek to contain it epistemologically by attempting a complete ontological rendering of its space. The consequence is that, like a Chinese finger trap, the more one struggles against the mystery of the unland, the more confused one becomes. It is an infinite escape where, even after we eat dinner with the dead or have our greatest fantasies fulfilled, even after we have explored it to our capacity, we are only once slice fuller, one shade deeper. Perpetually adapting to new laws of physics – both literal and literary– the unknownable nature of the unland defies logic, meaning that the total character of the place can never be defined by our singular narrative.
Narrative is a crucial part of making an unland, and for this reason The Nighttime Show’s narrative is warped, confusing, and at times inaccessible to both reader and protagonist. Seeking to combine Adorno’s dissatisfaction with stasis and the effectiveness of language and aesthetics, both architecture and dialogue becomes malleable and decay. In addition, I sought to draw upon Calvino’s use of negative space and the rendering of place through storytelling with the plasticity of Borges’ narrative and with Kafka’s missing context – The Nighttime Show is filled with logical holes. Imagining this story as more of a movie, I hoped to emulate Tarkovsky’s dream-like quality as well as a sentient environment shaped by fear – unsuspecting anxieties manifest with little warning as material consequences such as a baby on a staircase. I attempted to pair my favorite childhood book, Alice in Wonderland, with Le Guin’s unintrusive retelling of an established narrative and a sprinkling of Coraline. Mixing gothic elements with the phantasmagorical possibilities of electron-wave theory (anything is possible when the lights are off) to subvert conventional space, The Nighttime Show is my attempt to balance established narrative with the unknown. Styled after Lewis Carolls’ beloved childhood bedtime story, The Nighttime Show is, at its heart, about a little girl who is afraid of the dark. I hope you enjoy.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
Edgar Allen Poe
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
Edgar Allen Poe
The Nighttime Show
Usually, Alice fell asleep by counting the animals atop the shelf. After her parents had tucked her into bed, kissed her goodnight, and turned out the lights, she would watch the Nighttime Show. The Nighttime Show only happened in the dark. Staring up through the blackness, she would fixate on the fuzzy silhouettes of her stuffed animals until the lighter grays of a rabbit, a mouse, and cat would pull forth from the deepest dark of the backdrop. Filling the corners of the room with a shadow so unseeable that even her wildest imagination dare not pierce its vacuous blackness, this was the sort of darkness that scared Alice. Yet she knew this blackness, opaque as a lake on moonless night, could not hurt her as long as the animals sat in front of it on the shelf to put on the Nighttime Show.
Each night, Alice watched in awe as the plush, curvy bodies of the White Rabbit, Madame Mouse, and Kitty morphed through the colorless space before her eyes; this was the dance of the animals. The longer Alice stared, the more her toys would move. Watching them fall into amorphous blobs and reappear somewhere slightly farther down the shelf than before only to rebuild their forms in the blink of an eye was mesmerizing and hypnotic. If Alice contemplated the dance of the animals for too long she got the chills, but her toys were always there when she woke up in the morning, sunlight pouring over her room, restoring saturation and stillness. She didn’t want to understand.
Seeing the phantasmic masses of her stuffed animals rise and sink to a waltz of unheard waves had always put Alice to sleep, but tonight something was not right. The White Rabbit was missing. Alice knew she had not misplaced him for her parents would have been very cross. In fact, she had watched the White Rabbit get up and leave before her very eyes. What was even curiouser was that, no matter how hard Alice alternated between blinking and peering into the darkness, the White Rabbit did not assume his usual position at the helm of the bookshelf. Had he really just gotten up and marched off without saying goodbye? In that moment, Alice could feel the blackness she so feared settling inside of her, making its home in her stomach.
The sound of Alice’s little feet pattering down the hallway filled the house more noisly than she remembered, the ceilings and walls having grown and stretched now that the lights were off. She couldn’t see, but the house could certainly hear her stomping through the vulnerable corridor between chambers, her thoughts loud as her footsteps. How am I to tell my parents that the White Rabbit is gone? Alice dared not look around let alone behind her for the path seemed to stretch longer and longer the farther she ran. The White Rabbit is gone! Panting as silently as possible, Alice burst through the door of her parent’s bedroom only to find it was empty. Gone! Silver light poured through the window on a freshly made bed: two pillows, a top sheet tucked over a white duvet– everything else was shrouded in pitch black. The thing in her stomach did a little flip. Mounting the big bed, Alice nestled herself between the crisp, cotton sheets and covered her head with the comforters. In the dark envelope of the covers, Alice felt something rub against her shoulder and held back a shriek. Surfacing with a gasp, she slowly turned her head and came face to face with none other than the White Rabbit.
“Have you seen my parents?” She reckoned she might as well ask while they were both there.
“Pourquoi tes parents seraient-ils ici? Cet endroit n’est pas pour eux.” Alice looked at the White Rabbit, puzzled, and decided to try again, but more slowly this time.
“Do you know where my parents are?”
“Je te l’ai déjà dit! Ils n' habitent pas ici,” the White Rabbit pointed out the window, “ils ont leur propre maison.” Alice followed the line of his paw through the window pane to the house across the street. How curious thought Alice, that looks like our house! Indeed, it did look like Alice’s house: two floors, six round windows, four white rose bushes, and a sloping storybook roof.
“My parents are over there?” Alice turned back to the White Rabbit but he was gone. Returning her gaze back to the window, she could make out his long, creamy ears as he stood on the doormat of the house across the street. If Alice didn’t hurry the White Rabbit would disappear again.
Braving the darkness and all it might contain, Alice made her way down the long hallway and the long creaky stairs. The stairs did not seem to want to end. Alice wondered if she might not reach the landing and find herself on the bottom side of the earth instead. At this rate the sun shall surely rise by the time I am only half way down, muttered Alice, exhausted. What was even worse was that, with each descending step, the stairs groaned louder and louder in a symphony of complaints that wrung in her ears like a scream in the silence. Shhh whispered Alice to the staircase, you’re being awfully noisy, you’re going to wake up the baby! At that moment, the stairs took a turn and sure enough, there was the baby at the bottom of the stairwell, sound asleep.
As Alice’s feet hit the last step, the baby began to cry. Alice bent over and picked the baby up, shushing it, rocking it against her. There there, she whispered tenderly, but as Alice moved aside the blanket, what she saw nearly made her drop the baby. From beneath the tiny bonnet peaked a tiny snout which issued a tiny snort. Why I didn’t know the baby was a pig! Cradling the pig in a blanket to her heart, Alice contemplated setting the baby down. I can’t just leave it here, thought Alice, it might be a pig but it is still a baby pig. So along the two went, into the vestibule, out the front door, across the street, and right up to the house that looked like her house. Not a single window lit, the only illumination of the Other House came from that of the moon. The White Rabbit had disappeared from the doormat, however, in his place lay a white envelope. Alice set down the baby, still swaddled, and picked up the letter. It was addressed to her!
“You mustn't open that, it’s hiiighly confidential,” purred a velvety voice from behind her. Alice looked all around but there was no one there.
“Up here, Aliceee,” she tilted her chin towards the sky, and slowly, a long, thin, toothy smile began to materialize across the moon. She blinked and the mouth was followed by pointy ears, a long fluffy tail, and claws. Only its eyes remained glowing.
“Kitty! Where is White Rabbit? Oh, where are my parents!”
“I do not know of any Kitty,” he hissed cooly, “but if you are looking for the Cheshire Cat, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“My apologies Mr. Cheshire,” responded Alice, extending her hand only to be met with a swipe that left gashes on her palm. Alice winced and clenched her fist to stop the blood from sliding down her fingers.
“Careful Alicee, you mustn't get blood on the letter, it’s verrry official, hiiighly confidential. Only the queen may paint the roses red.”
“The Queen!” Exclaimed Alice, “But I don’t know of any Queens.”
“Ah yes,” Cheshire Cat replied as he smacked his lips with a long red tongue, “it’s better that way, after all, the Queen is dead. Red as a raspberry tart and just as delicious!” These words sent a chill creeping up Alice’s vertebrae and she knelt down to pick up the baby, but the swaddled piglet was gone. In its place lay a singular meat pie upon which someone had inscribed “eat me.” Alice gawked in horror at the treat.
“You’ve taken the baby Cheshire Cat! Give him back this instant or my parents shall be very cross.” All of the Cheshire Cat’s teeth gleamed bright in the night as he laughed. There must have been hundreds of them.
“I’ve done nothing of the sort, Alicee. I’ve munched on Hatters and frogs and playing card queens and teeny tiny mice wearing teeny tiny clogs, but I have yet to eat a Little Pig in a Blanket. Now gobble up, it’s your only way into the Other House.” Indeed, there was no handle on the front door, or windows for that matter, in fact, the longer Alice stared at the house in the dark, it became clear that it wasn’t her house at all. She stuffed the meat pie in her mouth, her tongue slick with tears. I hope I haven’t really eaten the baby, thought Alice. Her stomach replied, but Alice didn’t want to know. Somewhere in the distance, the Cheshire Cat laughed.
Alice rubbed her eyes, she was standing in a parlor identical to the one in her own home. She called for her parents but no one answered. Perhaps, thought Alice, they have gone out and this letter will tell me when they are due to return. The letter was still clutched in her hand, slightly crumpled and newly adorned with a few crimson specks. She smoothed it out for further inspection. There were no light switches in the house, but through the dark she could surely make out “For Alice.” This might not be her house, but she was definitely Alice. Or was she? Whose house was this really? Did this Other House have an Other Alice? Were there Other Parents? Where were her parents? Had they scurried off into the night like the White Rabbit? Am I alone? Even in the darkest of moments of the blackest hours, Alice had never before let such a thought occurred to her.
Sitting down at the foot of the steps where she had only just picked up the baby, Alice began to cry. At first it was just a trickle, but loose tears turned to weeping, and weeping gave way to sobs, and suddenly Alice was gulping and gasping for breath as water filled the first floor. Being submerged in the fruit of her sorrow only made Alice cry harder, and within minutes the house was completely inundated in her tears. Untraceable currents pulling her body up and up, Alice floated through the Other House, the letter still clutched tightly in her hand.
The water began to dislodge things in the house. Alice could make out their shapes and she wept, but only slightly. She thought she saw the connected crescents outlining a caterpillar float by below, but when she tried to look again the shape was gone, only a few hazy rings of smoke wafting, stretching, and dispersing in its place. A mouse floated by, a big top hat, playing cards, tarts; these watery apparitions scared Alice but she was not sure why. Everything beneath her feet was black and the blackness kept moving towards her, up and up. Even the house was moving. The mystery of darkness unveiled though no light shone, Alice could see with certainty that the architecture of the house did in fact ominously morph, stretch, and recombine just as she had always imagined. This was not like the dance of the animals, this was a nightmare show.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alice thought she saw the White Rabbit bound through the water into the parlor and swam after him in pursuit. As if no longer bound by gravity, the objects in the room had come away from their places and now swirled weightless through the water. Oh this is all a big mess and my parents shall be very cross, thought Alice as her mother’s good china glided by. Reaching for a saucer and joining the invisible tea party of devoured guests, Alice’s fingers unfurled from around the envelope but she was too late. Everything moved in slow motion underwater, but not the White Rabbit.
In the blink of an eye, the White Rabbit was beside her, snatching her envelope between his teeth, and bounding towards the looking glass on the mantle, his hind legs pushing the water back with such force that Alice fell back. Sinking further into the deep, Alice turned her gaze up to the looking glass, its reflection glowing with a ghostly light that seemed to come from somewhere beyond that room composed of shadows. Through the looking glass Alice saw herself, except something was different. This Other Alice wasn’t falling into the unspeakable. The Other Alice stood in the black corridor in front of her parent’s chamber. The Other Alice seemed unafraid of the house, unafraid of the blackness. The parlor room had stretched in every direction, as all places in the dark, and yet, the White Rabbit had nearly reached the looking glass with the letter. Struggling against the weight of the gallons of ink holding her body down, Alice tried to swim towards the looking glass but movement had become indescribable.
“Arrêtez ça! Arrêtez ça!”Alice belted at the White Rabbit to stop. He paused for a moment and looked back into the blackness, one ear cocked slightly in confusion. She tried to call out to him again, but all that left her lips was the groan of the staircase. Unsatisfied, the White Rabbit gave a little sniff and turned back to the looking glass. Delicately placing first one paw and then the other through the glass, the White Rabbit hopped into the dry corridor where the Other Alice waited with her parents. Deep down, Alice knew she must breach the looking glass but could not get the thought to form in her mind. The house arching and curving and swallowing and regurgitating and emptying and opening around her, Alice’s words had become meaningless. It was clear that not even a common establishment like a family home could claim verisimilitude anymore. Perhaps it had always been that way, perhaps meaning was subject to change.
In that moment lasting centuries built
of shadows, blackness, and words lost underwater,
The reality in Alice was neither her mother nor her father
But the story that sat in her stomach
never reaching her head
With all the other unspeakable things found in the darkness,
A black page haunted by the Unknown, the Unsaid…