“I had, sir, but I forgot some of my things.” Marco’s eyes travel over the papers and blueprints strewn on the floor. “May I ask what you are doing, sir?”
“I might ask you the same question,” Chandresh says. “What is all this?” He flips the book open again, the pages fluttering and settling.
“Those are records for the circus,” Marco says, without looking at the book.
“What kind of records?” Chandresh presses.
“It’s a system of my own devising,” Marco says. “There is quite a bit to keep in order with the circus, as you know.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Doing what, sir?”
“Keeping all this … whatever this nonsense is.” He flips through the pages of the book, though he finds he does not want to touch it now.
“My system goes back to the inception of the circus,” Marco says.
“You’re doing something to it, to all of us, aren’t you?”
“I am just doing my job, sir,” Marco says. There is an edge to his voice now. “And, if I may, I do not appreciate you going through my books without informing me.”
Chandresh moves around the desk to face him, stepping over blueprints, stumbling though his voice remains steady.
“You are my employee, I have every right to see what’s in my own house, what’s being done with my own projects. You’re working with him, aren’t you? You’ve been keeping all this from me the entire time, you had no right to go behind my back—”
“Behind your back?” Marco interrupts. “You cannot even begin to comprehend the things that go on behind your back. That have always gone on behind your back before any of this even started.”
“That is not what I wanted from this arrangement,” Chandresh says.
“You never had a choice about this arrangement,” Marco says. “You have no control and you never did. And you never even wanted to know how things were done. You signed receipts without so much as a glance. Money is no object, you said. Nor were any of the details, those were always left up to me.”
The papers on the desk ripple as Marco raises his voice and he stops, taking a step away from the desk. The papers settle again into disheveled piles.
“You have been sabotaging this endeavor,” Chandresh says. “Lying to my face. Keeping god knows what in these books—”
“What books, sir?” Marco asks. Chandresh looks back at the desk. There are no papers, no pile of ledgers. There is an inkwell next to the lamp, a brass statue of an Egyptian deity, a clock, and the empty brandy bottle. Nothing else remains on the polished-wood surface.
Chandresh stumbles, looking from the desk to Marco and back, unable to focus.
“I will not let you do this to me,” Chandresh says, picking up the brandy bottle from the desk and brandishing it in front of him. “You are dismissed from your position. You shall leave immediately.”
The brandy bottle vanishes. Chandresh stops, grasping at the empty air.
“I cannot leave,” Marco says, his voice calm and controlled. He speaks each word slowly, as though he is explaining something to a small child. “I am not allowed. I must remain here, and I must continue with this nonsense, as you so aptly put it. You are going to return to your drinking and your parties and you will not even remember that we had this conversation. Things will continue as they always have. That is what is going to happen.”
Chandresh opens his mouth to object and then closes it again, confused. He glances at Marco, then back at the empty desk. He looks at his hand, opening and closing his fingers, trying to grasp something that is no longer there, though he cannot remember what it was.
“I’m sorry,” he says, turning back to Marco. “I … I’ve lost my train of thought. What were we discussing?”
“Nothing of import, sir,” Marco says. “Just a few minor details about the circus.”
“Of course,” Chandresh says. “Where is the circus now?”
“Sydney, Australia, sir.” His voice wavers but he covers it with a short cough before turning away.
Chandresh only nods absently.
“May I take that for you, sir?” Marco says, indicating the empty bottle that is once again sitting on the desk.
“Oh,” Chandresh says. “Yes, yes, of course.” He hands the bottle to Marco without looking at it or him, barely registering the action.
“May I get you another, sir?”
“Yes, thank you,” Chandresh says, wandering out of Marco’s office and back into his own study. He settles into a leather armchair by the window.
In the office, Marco gathers up fallen notebooks and papers with trembling hands. He rolls the blueprints and piles the papers and books.
He takes the silver knife he finds discarded on the floor and returns it to the dartboard in the study, stabbing the blade into the bull’s-eye.