Biscuit came out under the shroud carrying a shoe. Behind him somebody kicked. The kick lifted the hem. Then the motor took the hem upward.
Rauf dropped his sandwich.
“Stop.”
The man at the microphone put a finger to his lips.
For the observance they had covered the memorial in black canvas. The names were sewn in white. Lida had crawled under it to finish one. Rauf had already said ready.
He stamped on the pedal. The canvas climbed. He stamped again. A woman's arm came up with it, bent behind her back.
“That's UP,” the electrician shouted.
It had been DOWN at rehearsal.
Rauf pulled the plug. The projection died. Across the memorial, the faces of the dead went out. The motor kept running from its other cable.
The director hit him with the program.
“They've paid for those.”
Lida's knees left the boards.
Rauf caught her round the thighs. She kicked him in the mouth. He tasted a tooth and swallowed before he could stop himself.
“Let go of me.”
He could not tell whether she meant him or the machine.
Her sleeve was winding into the drum. The seam tightened across her chest. He lifted her higher. His back gave a small hot click. Her other hand beat against his face, then found his shoulder.
The microphone asked the families to remain standing. It thanked Lida for the all-clear.
Biscuit returned for the sandwich. The small black mongrel ate the bread and left the cheese.
Rauf screamed for something to cut with.
“Mind the names,” the director said.
The electrician was underneath the platform now. His boots hammered the boards. The motor stopped. Started. Stopped with a sound like a plate breaking inside a pillow.
Lida hung there.
A woman climbed out of the front row. She had a black bag against her stomach. From it she took kitchen scissors.
“They told me to bring a photograph.”
She pushed the scissors into Rauf's hand. He had no hand free. They fell.
Biscuit snatched them by the plastic handles.
“Give.”
The dog backed away. Rauf had taught him this. Run, come back, make a man beg. Behind him the woman began cutting with her keys. One tooth at a time.
“Biscuit.”
Lida's feet pedaled against his ribs. He felt something warm run down his stomach.
“Good boy.”
The dog came within reach. Rauf caught the handles between his teeth. The woman took them from his mouth. She cut the canvas. Then the sleeve. Each cut brought Lida lower until all three fell through the folding lectern.
The microphone struck the boards. The hall filled with their breathing.
Somebody applauded. It spread. The director got the microphone upright.
“Please remain standing.”
The woman slapped him. A short, businesslike slap. She took the microphone.
“There is a woman hurt. Sit down so somebody can get through.”
The electrician came out with the fuse in a rag. He dropped it. Ground it under his heel.
Rauf lay beside Lida. She was breathing. Her bare foot kept searching for the board beneath it.
The director knelt. He put Lida's torn sleeve over the place where her blouse had opened. With his other hand he pulled the microphone away from her mouth.
Biscuit brought the shoe. He dropped it on Rauf's chest and waited for him to throw it.