That evening on the beach below her hotel, Miranda was seized by a loneliness she couldn’t explain. ‘Good night, Jeevan.’ Hua disconnected and Jeevan was alone in the snow. He died three weeks later on the road out of the city. Of all of them there at the bar that night, the bartender was the one who survived the longest. They drank for a few more minutes and then went their separate ways in the storm. In the lobby, the people gathered at the bar clinked their glasses together. But now there was a prickling at the back of his neck, a sense of being watched from above.
That’s a ridiculous thought, Jeevan told himself. He was thinking about the way the dropped curtain closed off the fourth wall and turned the stage into a room, albeit a room with cavernous space instead of a ceiling, fathoms of catwalks and lights between which a soul might slip undetected.
No one looked at Jeevan, and it occurred to him that his role in this performance was done. He swayed, his eyes unfocused, and it was obvious to Jeevan that he wasn’t Lear anymore. But Arthur Leander was running out of time.
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