June

The town we just left was quite small. From up the hill, it looked just like a checkerboard. Streets cut the land into perfect squares, houses were identical except for the color of the roofs. Trees were trimmed like mushrooms, grown equidistantly along straight lines. The first day after our tent was set up, a few people came by and asked about our show. We handed out schedules and did a few magic tricks on the spot. They nodded, and left. A few minutes later an announcement came through the speakers set at every corner of the streets. “Attention, citizens,” it was announcing our show! We soon learned that the spot we occupied was called the 7th and 8th. “The show will start at 7pm, and the price is 3 per person…” It went on about the programs, as listed in front of our tent. People walked by, nodded to us, with no more inquiries, nor was anyone attracted by our little tricks. S put the deck of cards into its box and went inside the van I stayed out, trying to find a tree that wasn’t in line.

Nobody showed up, it was a quarter to seven. L, our driver, suggested that we pack up and leave. People here seemed to have no interest in us at all. I turned toward K, who lit up a cigarette. He said nothing. It was five to seven when people poured in. Not exactly pouring, since they kept in line when they entered, but they all arrived at the same time, from everywhere. Tickets were sold out in five minutes. The show started right on time. It went smoothly for the rest of the night. But I know we all felt something strange.

The next few days went on the same, people came 5 minutes before the show and filled all the seats. The announcement came out for news at regular intervals. By the fifth day I figured out what was weird, people laughed at every single joke as if they had been the funniest joke they had every heard, and they wowed at every single trick as if they had been truly magical. Even more bizarre was they left as soon as the show came to an end. Children didn’t come to us for balloons, nor did they beg to squeeze my rubber nose. The all clap, and within five minutes, they were all gone.

The next morning we stood out to watch the sunrise, K was smoking his last pack of cigarette—they were not sold in here, nor was alcohol.

“Did you notice the stone we passed at the entrance of the town?”

I shook my head.

“It says ‘Order is the foundation of civilization’.” Then he turned to look at the houses and streets. “Everything is strictly ordered here,” he paused, “and everything seems to be based on some rules.”

Meanwhile a car parked in front of us, a man in official suits came out. A smile on his face.

“According to the law, any performances and exhibitions are allowed in town for seven days. I’m here to notify you that your show can carry on for two more days, and you are welcome to stay for another week. Thank you.” Brief as the announcements. Another smile and he turned towards his car.

“Excuse me,” it was K.

The man turned around with the smile on. “ Anything unclear that I can explain to you?”

“No, just out of curiosity, what’s the population of this town?”

“120.”

I gasped. We had been selling exactly 120 tickets every day.

The next 3 nights I recognized him coming, nodding politely at the entrance. And I made out his face distorted with laughter through the stage light. “You liked our show?” I asked the last night he came. He nodded. “Order is the foundation of civilization. When there’s time to work, work hard; when there’s time to be entertained, laugh hard.”

The cat meows. This is the end of the squared crop field that has spread along the road like a green apron. Ahead, a lake sparkling with gold appears at our left, and the road becomes unsteady. “End of civilization,” S yawns, as the bouncing made it no longer suitable for his nap.