“Ga.” Ball tried a sound. The paper on the table folded into a mouse and ran into my sleeve. I slapped the sleeve; it applauded from inside. Backstage at Cabaret Voltaire on 23 June 1916, there was nowhere quiet left.
He spoke two more sounds. A paper fish jumped out of a glass. A paper bird landed on his hat. Could we rehearse first? I asked. This is rehearsal. What happens in the performance? He looked at the increasingly empty table. We may need more paper.
The animals were not free. For each one that ran off, another piece of cardboard grew onto Ball. The faster he spoke, the harder his costume became. First his knees would not bend, then his arms. By the fifth line, only his eyes could still register objections.
I tore at the paper and pulled off a rabbit, which immediately bit my finger. I flung it against the wall. It turned into an enormous comma and hung there, making everybody in the room inhale together. Someone took too deep a breath and began to hiccup.
Ball squeezed a voice out of his rigid collar and told me to continue. I took the sheet, unsure where any break belonged. My tongue slipped on a sound. A goose fell at my feet: small, with a large temper. It pecked my shoe, then ate the full stop at the end of the manuscript.
The sentence would not finish. Paper animals kept pouring out. The goose ate every round dot it found, including the little round fasteners on Ball's costume. I quickly pushed him towards it. Pecking its way along, it opened the cardboard. Ball could put his arms out, then bend his knees again. He collapsed onto a chair and swore between breaths. This time nothing appeared.
Someone outside called for the performance. We carried the goose out, seeking something with full stops to feed it. It ate a menu, a notice, then the ending mark on the programme. The whole room began repeating the previous minute. People stood and sat again. A glass fell and stood back up.
I took out the red ticket stub, intending to draw a full stop and trick it. Ball caught my hand and pointed behind the goose. A line of small black dots lay on the floor: what it had eaten, then passed out again. We picked up one apiece and returned them to the end of the manuscript.
The paper birds landed. The glass finally broke. The audience thought the performance had finished and applauded. Displeased, the goose pecked after the clapping. Ball pulled me backstage and we shut the door. Outside went quiet for a moment. Then came a knock, and another short knock, and another, without end.