"That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die."
- HP Lovecraft
It's September 26th, 1923.
The last few weeks have been unseasonably chilly, yet the weather on this particular morning is fine and warm; balmy, one might say. Perhaps the weather is changing for the better? Despite the reprieve it may bring, you are all busily at work.
Irina removes her full-face welding and silently stares down at the assistant Carmichael had hired to help her. A few seconds pass before the boy hands her a few sheets of paper with the copied schematics of her latest instrument.
“Miss, these are–”
“Wrong.” She grabs one of the sheets, looks at it with an expression of disgust then shoves it back on the assistant’s chest. “Need three kerosene pumps. Above saw. How we have fire without it?”
“The…the stage people thought it was too dangerous and didn’t—”
“Art must be dangerous! Art that is not dangerous is imbecile!” She slams the engine she was working on. “This is piece of fire of proletariat! You need to listen to it and feel it so you are also burning so you wake up and tear down walls.”
Irina grabs the papers again and uses her blowtorch to set them on fire. Waving them very close to her assistant’s face, she begins to rhythmically bang on the metal whilst modulating between three low notes in her contralto voice.
“You feel it, yes! The heat of the furnace that is like drum of revolution!”
After she finishes instructing the wide-eyed boy, she sends him back with the express instructions of rubbing the ashes of the previous schematics on the face of whoever refused to follow her instructions. When he objects, she bends down so they are at eye-level, puffs a cloud of smoke on his face and shakes her head very slowly.
“Weak,” she says before lowering her helmet and going back to welding a sledgehammer on the engine.
"Do you ever dream about it? About our time together?"
Richard Charleston looked up from his notes. It had been over a month since Thomas Jones had started coming in to see him and this was the first time he had brought up the War. He had tried to broach the subject once or twice before but had always been rebuffed. It wasn't unusual for those of his patients who had served, but he had admittedly hoped that their brief time in the same company would have shortcutted some of the process. That was, after all, what had caused Jonesy to seek him out in the first place; veterans were all terrified that seeking a "quack" would make them a coward, but finding out he had been there too, had seen the same horrors they had... Well, that tended to take some of the sting out of it. Didn't mean they were any less resentful of being ordered here, but it made him a better option than most. And frankly, he could use the business. A man broke his leg and had no trouble with seeing a doctor to set it right. A man broke his head and suddenly it was best to carry on like nothing had happened.
"Sometimes. Sometimes, in the darkness of my room, it takes me a bit to remember I'm not still there anymore." He paused, waiting to see if Jonesy wanted to elaborate more on what had made him ask. He could see his jaw working from across the room. It would tense and then grind slightly. He wanted to say more, Richard could tell. So he sat and let the silence drag on.
"So what do ya do then? When you think you're still there?"
He could tell that wasn't really what the other man had been daring himself to say, but he played along. "I look out the window. At all the little dots of light from the city."
Thomas let out a short, forceful laugh. "Ha! Yeah, no way that'd fly in the war. Kraut'd get ya for sure."
"What do you do when you think you're back there, Jonesy?"
The man stiffened. "I know I ain't."
"Yes, but everybody sometimes has that moment of confusion when they first wake up. Before they've fully left their dream and returned to reality."
"I know what's real and what ain't!"
"So do I. That doesn't mean I don't get disoriented sometimes."
"I'm not crazy, Cap! I know it ain't there no more!" He scowled, pointedly not looking at where his right foot used to be.
With careful practice he avoided flinching. Not because Jonesy had once again used his old rank but because it brought back memories of those first few terrifying weeks at the Front. Of other voices that had screamed, begged for attention, for water, even for death. His hands itched under his leather gloves but he resisted scratching. "But it still hurts, doesn't it."
"Something that ain't there can't hurt you." He ground out.
"That's not true, medically speaking. You see, when you remove part of your body that's meant to be there-" He launched into his standard, medical jargon spiel about the body needing time to compensate and neurons and ganglia. The more he spoke and the more medical terms he threw out, the more Thomas seemed to relax, gaze slowly moving from the window to actually look at him.
"So...so you're sayin' there's a reason I can still feel it?"
He nodded. "Absolutely Jonesy. You've heard of optical illusions? Well, what those are to sight, this is to touch."
"It's not just in my head?"
He gave a warm smile. "Not at all! It's a completely explainable medical phenomenon."
Thomas gave a weak laugh. "A medical phenomenon." He looked a little like he was about to burst into tears.
"Well now, I think that's about all the time we have for today. Same time next week?" It was a little early, but he wanted to give the guy a chance to break down in private. He stood up and neatly returned Thomas' hurried salute before showing himself out and making his way slowly towards his next appointment.
It was amazing how much some medical terminology could help some people. It was too bad it was all a lie though.
”Good morning Ernest. Gorgeous out there isn’t it. I think this cold spell might finally be breaking.”
The young woman hangs her coat and hat on a stand by the door, stretches, and looks around for her colleague.
”Ernest?”
”I am here Madeline.”
Ernest Neuman looks up from his desk behind a pile of leather-bound books
”Still cross referencing those papers from Europe, every time I think I have something on ze Yellow King enigma it turns to nothing. I could swear he is laughing at me. First there was Heimlicht and now nothing here either, maybe another missive to London? But no, of course, they have made their position quite clear. If only we had a complete copy of the von Vleich schema…”
His voice trails off as he shuffles papers
”I was talking about the weather Ernest. It’s warmer today.”
”Warmer, yes. Has it been cold?”
”Jeez Ernest. This again, when was the last time you went home? Or left this room for that matter? It’s getting bad again huh? Why don’t you come for lunch with me and Harry today, he’s taking me to Benny’s. I know he’d love to see you again.”
Ernest looks up and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.
”I’m sorry. When is that boy going to make you his Madeline, how long has he been courting you? It must be six months by now.”
”It was a year last week.”
”A year? Well, you know how I lose track of these things. Perhaps I will join you, seems someone needs to have a word with the boy. If I have the time.”
They share a moment’s laugh together then, the sounds strangely muffled by the room. She worried about him. They both knew he wouldn’t be coming for lunch.
Anton arrives at the atelier just before noon. Some of his colleagues call their space a studio or a factory. He prefers the French word atelier. It reminds him where he’s from. The magician and his assistant, Stanley Crabill and Sylvia Frazetta, will arrive an hour later. With the ambient noise of the city louder next to an open window, he gets the acids and other chemicals ready for making flash paper. He turns on an electric fan to blow the fumes out the window then ties his leather apron around his waist. When working with nitric and sulfuric acid, he doesn’t think about anything else beside the task at hand. Most of the paper he soaks is about the size of a business card, but he does attempt to prepare part of the front page for the New York Tribune. Right over the headline. Stanley likes making jokes, maybe he could occasionally do one about current events. This will be a test to see how well it would work.
By the time the performers arrive, Anton has cleaned up the table. The paper is drying under the rotating fan’s wind. They review the order of the tricks they will be performing and inspect all the gear together to make sure it is properly working. While Sylvia sews the sleeves and skirt back onto her costume, Anton and Stanley brainstorm new illusion ideas. They have the concept of an x-ray box. Maybe swords being shown going through Sylvia? Or Stanley swallowing an egg whole?
At four p.m. Anton helps load the truck with their equipment then Stanley and Sylvia drive over to the theater and At five-thirty he is back home for dinner with his family. Seven he walks over to the theater and helps Stanley prepare for his nightly fifty minute show at eight o’clock.
The card itself appears to be an invitation (with an optional +1) to a gala masked ball at Carmichael's Long island estate, the ball to conclude with a midnight supper, and preview performance of his latest (yet unnamed) production.
As you see his signature, you recall the last time you saw Carmichael himself, about four months ago. You'd disliked his last play, "Sodom", (finding it banal and masturbatory, and not the impressive works you'd come to expect from him), and in a room of theatre-goers, he'd staggered up to you, eyes blood-shot and a convulsion of fury twisting his handsome features. He accused you of always hating him, and hating his success. "You've always been jealous! JEALOUS!" He screamed, as his female escort dragged him away.
Coming back to reality, you note that you've been humming a sharp note, and a mirror on your latest contraption cracks. You can't help but glance at your own cracked reflection.
The card itself appears to be an invitation (with an optional +1) to a gala masked ball at Carmichael's Long island estate, the ball to conclude with a midnight supper, and preview performance of his latest (yet unnamed) production.
Upon seeing his signature, you recall the last time you saw Carmichael himself - perhaps 4 months ago. You were hosting an event for veterans, what was supposed to be a simple thing to help with rehabilitation - veterans and civilians mingling, talking about anything except the war. Carmichael was seated at the head of a long table, telling an anecdote that was making most of the guests convulse with laughter - all except the veterans. They looked incredibly uncomfortable. Despite the fact that you invited him, you were rapidly beginning to wish that he'd never been born. At the high point of his anecdote, you intentionally drop a crystal goblet. Taking advantage of the stunned silence, you begin your own speech. If looks could kill, he would have had you dead on the spot.
Coming back to the present, you notice that you didn't stop slicing at the edge of the envelope - the letter opener has cut through your glove and into your finger.
With a last look of concern, she leaves you to it. As you open the envelope, you see inside - A a gilt-edged card, handwritten (clearly by an assistant) but signed in Carmichael's distinctive bold, flourishing hand.
The card itself appears to be an invitation (with an optional +1) to a gala masked ball at Carmichael's Long island estate, the ball to conclude with a midnight supper, and preview performance of his latest (yet unnamed) production.
When you see his signature, you recall the very last time you saw Carmichael, about 4 months ago. He'd come to you, hoping that you would pen a positive review for his latest play, "Sodom". It wasn't being well received, and while you weren't a critic by profession, he hoped that your position in certain literary circles would lead to other critics listening to you. But you simply couldn't, in good conscience, write a positive review for that play. He'd reacted poorly, a cold rage burning ire in his eyes. His previous charm had turned to ice. "Your morals will cause you trouble." He said with a sneer. "But it is entirely you choice. I can always find someone else."
Coming back to the present slowly, your eyes focus back on the letter, and you notice that you've knocked over an inkwell, spilling ink onto an antique book.
Inside is a gilt-edged card, handwritten (clearly by an assistant) but signed in Carmichael's distinctive bold, flourishing hand.
The card itself appears to be an invitation (with an optional +1) to a gala masked ball at Carmichael's Long island estate, the ball to conclude with a midnight supper, and preview performance of his latest (yet unnamed) production.
When you see his signature, you remember the last time you saw Carmichael, perhaps 4 months ago. You'd built him a small device for his latest play, "Sodom", which was expected to do quite well. Who would have guessed that it would close after only 2 performances? You'd gone to the theatre to collect the machinery, thinking that if it couldn't be used elsewhere, the parts themselves would still have value. To your surprise, Carmichael was there, slumped head in hands at the edge of the stage. As he raises his pale, tear-streaked face, you're overcome with mortal embarrassment. What failure could do to a man. Explaining why you've come takes no time. "You want the device? Take it. I have no need for them, now". He helps you carry it to your workshop, but when you turn to thank him, he's gone. Going to the stairwell, you hear running footsteps retreating. You never even had a chance to say goodbye...
You come out of your distraction just a hair too late, and smash your face walking into a door.
"Give my regards to Harry. Tell him Mr Nuemann wishes to know when the wedding is."
Ernest does not look up as Madeline leaves with a sigh. The envelope has caught his eye. He turns it over in his cotton gloved Hands; looking at the ink used, the depth of the impression, the post mark, the design of the envelope, a thousand small signifiers...
Nothing he recognises. Steaming the envelope open out of habit he removes the card within, subconsciously careful to touch only the edges. As he reads a scowl crosses his face.
"pompöses Arschloch" His accent is thick now.
Roughly returning the card to the envelope he tosses it on a nearby pile, all evidence of reverie gone.
How long had it been? He had no idea. He had no desire to see Mr Carmichael ever again. Perhaps Madeline and Harry would like the free meal. Ernest closes his eyes a moment and stretches out his neck. No idea why that man seemed to get under his skin so easily. As he opened his eyes to return to the here and now he sees an inkwell has spilt over the copy of 'The Spirit of the Stage - Occult happening in the theatres of New Orlean' he had been combing for information.
Blotting paper was in place quick as thinking, but the damage was done. A tragedy. Could this day get any worse? He stares whistfully at the stain.
I hear there are people who think you can read these signs. What's his name... Roger, Rorsak, Rorschach. That was it, German.
---------------------------------------------
It is late afternoon when Madeline returns, this time the slam of the door echoes.
"Bastard!"
The stand barely stays up as she slams her coat and hat onto it.
"The worse thing is, I let him in, you know? I actually thought he... Bastard!"
She goes to sit at her desk, but paces away again
"In she walks "Oh Harold, I thought we were meeting for dinner, who's your friend?" drapes herself all over him. Hussie. Bastard!"
Some time later, after a cold glass of water and a lot of swearing the two of them are sat talking over a hot cup of tea. It seemed Harry wasn't the gentleman he seemed, stringing along at least two girls at once. Madeline was furious, heartbroken.
Ernest had never felt more like an old man.
"You know my dear. There are good men in the world."
"Oh no" she says, with an insincere chuckle "I'm done with men, it's spinsterhood for me. A life alone. It's not so bad is it Ernest?"
That stung, but he knew she didn't mean it. She got like this when her fire was up. She didn't think about what she was saying.
"Not so bad no. But not the life for you I think my dear. Say..." his mind's eye goes to the card on his desk "It's time I re-payed you for your looking after me. Don't think I don't notice. How about two spinsters go out for the evening." He hands her the envelope and she reads it with recognition. He smiles "You remember him then. I think we might be able to have some fun. What do you think?"
Richard returned home briefly. He had about an hour before his next appointment and so figured it would be best to take a quick moment to relax. Seeing the mail had come, he took a moment to sort through it, placing each item in its own pile for further examination. He paused briefly and the somewhat ostentatious card but dutifully placed it in the Personal pile as he continued to sort through the rest of his mail.
What was Carmichael writing to him about? Last he had seen him had been at that veteran rehabilitation event. As he recalled, the man had been drunk. Or high. Or possibly both. To be honest, he hadn't looked too closely to figure out what the exact nature of his intoxication had been, figuring such might be considered rude. Plus plausible deniability and all that given the less than legal nature of such substances nowadays. The poor fellow hadn't realized that the civilians had been laughing at him more than with him. He had seen a couple of the vets chuckling as well, but most had been trained enough no to partake in mocking what amounted to a CO. At least, not in such an open, public environment anyway.
As much as he had tried to politely ignore his foolishness, he had felt a need to step in to prevent the poor man from utterly humiliating himself. He had stood up, immediately getting the attention of the vets. The civilians continued to ignore him but the vets all saw him "accidentally" drop the crystal goblet, letting them mentally prepare themselves for the sound. The civilians were all taken by surprise though, and he used the ensuing silence to smoothly transition attention away from where Carmichael had been about to potentially do permanent damage to his reputation to instead do the obligatory "Thank you all for coming" speech that had somehow neglected to be said thus far. He had, of course, similarly thanked Carmichael for his charitable act of helping to host the event, but based on the look the man had given him, the favor he was being done had clearly gone over his head. But that didn't matter too much; his reputation was intact and even if he wouldn't be helping out any of Richard's charities in the near future, he'd still have enough sway to help out others, and that was what really mattered.
His mail dutifully sorted, he started carefully opening and reading his personal letters, sorting them once more into neat piles according to if he would need to pen a response later. Finally, he reached the gilded card, neatly starting to slice it open.
He jumps as the bomb lands, bayonet taken from a fallen soldier clutched in one hand. That one had been close. Too close. He can smell the sharp scent of blood mixed with the muted tones of mud. And underneath it all, the fetid stench of decay and rot. Ever present and permeating everything. He looks around. He can hear someone calling to him, calling for help. Another wounded soldier in desperate need of his medical skills. He needs to find him. To provide what comfort he could. And if need be... He tightens his grip on his borrowed weapon. He doesn't want to use it, but it will do in a pinch. A dirty blade for his dirty job. A butcher's tool turned into an instrument of mercy.
"Dr. Charleston, what have you gone and done to yourself?"
He snapped back to the present where Evaline Johnson, his landlady, was giving him a concerned look. He followed her gaze to the bloody gash in his left glove and the letter opener held like a weapon in what was probably a white-knuckled grip.
"Ahh, sorry Mrs. Johnson. There was a crash. It startled me. I'll go get this cleaned up." He moved towards the nearest bathroom to wash his hands.
Mrs. Johnson gave a sheepish look at Richard's retreating form. "Ahh, sorry. That would be me. I came in to drop off a few things, and I'm afraid I may have more literally dropped off a bowl. I just came in here looking for a broom to sweep it up. Didn't realize you were home already."
"Yes, just stopped by for a quick break between appointments." He started the hot water running as he quickly removed his gloves and rolled up his sleeves, careful not to get any blood on his clothes. He wasn't too worried; the letter opener had been sanitized shortly before use and the blood was flowing cleanly, washing out any bacteria that may have been in the wound. But still, best to clean it anyway before bandaging it up. He started the process of scrubbing down everything from his hands to mid-way up his forearms.
"Oh, what's this now? A Mr. Carmichael has invited you to one of those fancy galas. You even get a plus one. You know, my Susie's free that night, if you were needing some company."
He winced. Mrs. Johnson was a bit of a busybody, and hadn't exactly been subtle in her attempts to set him up with her daughter. "Err, that's quite all right, Mrs. Johnson. No need to trouble her. I can manage by myself."
He could hear her tsking from the other room. "Nonsense, nonsense. A gentleman of your standing needs a young girl with a solid head on her shoulders to keep him honest. Otherwise, tongues will surely wag: 'Look at Dr. Charleston with that empty arm, wonder what's wrong with him that he can't find a nice girl to see.' 'Look at Dr. Charleston, such a partier, always playing the field.' But having a nice girl with you will keep those tongues from wagging, you mark my words!"
He was pretty sure that wasn't true. He patted his arms dry. His finger had already stopped bleeding, but that didn't stop him from wrapping a small bandage around it all the same. "I'm afraid Mr. Carmichael and I didn't part under the best of circumstances. I would hate to drag Susan into an uncomfortable situation like that. I doubt I'll even be subjecting myself to such a thing."
"Well then, clearly Mr. Carmichael is trying to patch things up with you! Why, it'd be an insult not to accept. I'll go tell Susie to make sure her evening wear is dusted off."
"Ahh, no, that won't be-" He heard the front door close definitively. "-necessary." He sighed. He could go after her and try to talk her out of it, but he hadn't yet been successful is dissuading her once she got one of her ideas into her head. He had no reason to believe this time would be any different. Besides, maybe it would be fun? Though he had heard Carmichael's last performance hadn't been well received. But maybe Mrs. Johnson was right in that Carmichael wanted to mend their relationship? He had figured things were done between them when the other man hadn't contacted him even in the sobering light of the day after the event. For all he knew, this was actually a set up; Carmichael was trying to pay him back for his imaginary slight. No good deed goes unpunished, and all that. No, he shouldn't be so pessimistic. He should try to see the best in people. Though that had admittedly gotten much harder after the War.
With a sigh, he opened a drawer to pull out a new, neatly folded pair of gloves to be worn. After sliding them on, he placed the card in his "to be responded to" pile. He would write a formal RSVP that evening to be carried out with the rest of his mail the next morning. For now, he apparently had a broken bowl to clean up. So much for a moment of relaxation.
Irina grabs the fan mail first, looks through it separating between those which are worthy of a reply and those which are just mindless banality. “You see, Anton, people listen with their blood or people listen with their ears closed. No other option.” After dispensing her wisdom without any further explanation, she takes a drag, looks at him and points with her cigarette at a bunch of papers lying on a nearby desk. “Check those partitures. I copied them, but don’t know, might have mistakes. While you copy, listen to it inside you. Feel it in blood, pumping inside you. If there’s fire, then is good. If you can make fire yourself, is good. You go far.”
After looking at each bill for no more than a moment — and letting out a stream of profanities in russian the whole time — she puts them in the pile of things that only make sense in this rotten country and which she will get the assistant to handle when he misbehaves.
Finally, she reaches Carmichael’s invitation. Whatever her comrades saw in that worthless puny man, Irina could not understand. Some of his work in the past was good, but now? Sodom? Useless. It wanted the world to stay the way it was. It was just pretentious bad sex jokes made by a limp , ashamed penis. The memory of their last encounter came as a distant memory — he had said something irrelevant thinking himself the master of wit, probably. Drunker than usual? The vodka she was drinking then was very good, she remembers that clearly. Nevertheless, she would attend his party. The Bureau instructions were to keep her eyes on him.
When the mirror cracks, Irina stops, raises an eyebrow, lights a new cigarette and then proceeds to crack all the mirrors in her new instrument. Once she’s done, she claps, satisfied, then hums the same note as before. “Is good! Is good, Anton!”
Anton cries holding his face, the invitation dropping to the ground. He wipes his nose and exams his fingers to see if there is any blood. Realizing the invitation is no longer in his hand, he bends down to pick it up.
Placing it back into the envelope, he shakes his head trying to focus on the upcoming performance. Are the stage hands chuckling at him, he wonders. I hope Stanley didn’t see me run into the door. He’d be making jokes about that for months to come. The pain is starting to ease, but his nose still aches. Good thing my face isn’t too important.
He peeks through a small hole in the curtain from the stage’s wing, looking at the audience. An average size crowd, bigger than last week with the cold weather. Nodding in satisfaction he turns his attention to the stage hands, making sure they have the props in the correct order.
”Break a leg, my friends,” he says to Sylvia and Stanley. As the take their places on stage, waiting for the curtain to rise, Anton feels the envelope in his pocket. Maria will be happy for a night out, especially a masquerade. Unless she is feeling too pregnant, he thinks. How kind of him to remember me, especially since we haven’t spoken in four months. I wonder if he has a new play in the production.
”This is so imaginative!” Anton says as he checks the paritures. ”Never would I have thought of this.” He circles the instrument, occasionally kneeling to check the machinery.
As Irina cracks the instrument’s mirrors he wonders if cracking a mirror and then fixing it with a wave of a hand would be a good magic illusion.
He laughs, ”It is good. Where will you be performing with this?”
--
Starting to read the invitation, Madeline shakes her head. "No, I think maybe I'd best-" Her voice trails off. She wanted more than nothing than to stay home, to curl up and forget the world. And she wondered, was that what Ernest did, too? She knew that if she stayed home, he would, too, and she couldn't do that to him. It was so rare for him to reach out, she'd have to meet him partway. Still shaking her head, she shoots a smile at him. "Why not."
"It says it's a masquerade! Do you have something in mind already?"
She looks up at him, foot on the first step, and blushes. "Good evening, Mr. Charleston. M-my mother said you had something you wanted to talk to me about." She phrases it like a question, but mostly as a formality - they both know her mother well-enough to know that Evaline has completely spilled the beans.
At the crack of the mirror, he completely freezes, unsure of how she'll react. When she cracks the others herself, he allows himself a sigh of relief.
His eye catches the invitation from Carmichael, and he looks at her, slightly transformed. "Are you going to Mr. Carmichael's party, too?" It's clear from his face what he's thinking - that seeing her in a social situation, it may change their dynamic. He could show her that he's an equal, that he fits in with the same crowds that she does. That he can be more than an underpaid assistant.
Sylvia and Stanley are both drunk with the success of it when they come backstage, and likely to become actually drunk within a little while. Stanley takes down a bottle from one of the shelves, "Anton, you simply must have a drink with us."
Noticing first the bruise formed on Anton's face, Sylvia looks quite concerned. "What happened to you?"
His fingertips glide over his nose. It still hurts with just a little pressure. ”I walked into a door.” He groans. ”I was thinking about the letter you gave me. An invitation, I mean. I was distracted and boom -- catastrophe.”
He chuckles slightly. ”You don’t break a leg, but maybe I break a nose. Does it look that bad? Any swelling under the eyes?” He lets both of them look at his face before turning his attention to the mirror in the dressing room. “Maybe even use powder so my wife doesn’t worry. Congratulations on the performance tonight. The best ‘Polonium Woman’ illusion yet.”
Anton pats Stanley on the back as he passes and leans towards the mirror. ”What will I do if I lose any more of the meager looks I have?”
As he looks at his face, he tries to image it covered by a mask. What costume should I wear? I guess it depends if Maria wants to go with me. Oh perhaps I can borrow a costume from a recently closed play. Save some money that way. He smiles at himself in the mirror.
"I had a thought or two"
Ernest begins to move around the room, clearly looking for something.
"Do you remember that review of the theatre department's Rococo 'Merchant of Venice' last year? "Gaudy to the point of distaste. Crass over characterisation, matched only by the excess and grossly overpowering costuming." I think that catches the gist of it... Ah, here we are!"
Clearing some papers aside he pulls out a dusty typewriter, an old model but barely used. Grabbing some headed note paper he begins to type.
"'Gaudy and crass' sounds like Carmichael to me. Professor Anderson over in the theatre department owes me some favours any way. What do you say? May I play Balthazar to your Portia?"
Her conspiratorial smile is all the reply he needs.
Dear Professor Anderson
It has been too long since I have had the privilege of immersing myself in one of your fine productions. I have heard good things of this year's Christmas offering. I look forward to it with all eagerness.
It was only last Tuesday, myself and a colleague were discussing the wonderfully bold adaptation of The Merchant that you put together last Autumn. As I remember it was well ahead of it's time, the audience were not ready for such an cutting reflection of their society. I enjoyed it tremendously.
Today, by some strange coincidence of fate, I have found myself in unexpected need of some costumery. Fortune, as they say, favours the brave and I could not in all conscience pass up this opportunity. Would it be beyond the realms of all possibility to obtain a loan of two of the wonderful costumes that were used in that production?
I suppose I should also mention the need I find myself in. I have been invited to a little soiree by one Anthony Carmichael, something of a big player in theatre, but of course you have heard of him. He will no doubt enquire as to the origins of my companion and I's raiment, I could hardly fail to tell him of your own prowess.
I look forward to hearing from you.
E.Nuemann, Librarian.
Richard paused, not expecting to run into Susan. Or for her to want to go through the formality of officially asking her to the event. He was polite enough not to correct her when she forgot that the appropriate form of address for him was 'Doctor,' though he did find himself vaguely curious about what would happen should he explain that the entire situation was a big misunderstanding. He had no doubt she was smart enough to understand, but that didn't mean she wouldn't be hurt by the gesture. No, the proper thing to do was to simply bite the bullet and put up with what he suspected might be a socially uncomfortable evening.
Though I suppose if I *must* go to such an event, perhaps Susan will at least make it bearable. It was better not to think too hard on the fact that had he not been cornered by the Johnsons, he would have most likely felt free to decline the invitation entirely.
He tipped his bowler hat politely to the young woman as he responded, "Ahh, Miss Johnson, yes. This afternoon I received an invitation to a masquerade gala on the evening of Saturday, October 6th. Your mother was around when I opened it and suggested that I might invite you along as my plus one. I'm afraid I can't exactly vouch for the experience, but if you don't have anything else of interest planned on that evening, I'd be delighted if you chose to accompany me. I would understand though, if your time was otherwise spoken for." If her mother was as overbearing as he suspected, he doubted she would be allowed to say no. But Susan was a grown woman after all, so he ought to at least leave a clear opening for her to decline if she so wished. While he might know where Evaline stood on the matter, he had no idea what Susan thought of her mother's matchmaking machinations.
Irina wipes the sweat off her brow and looks at Anthony with her usual harsh expression. “Da.” After a few seconds thinking, she goes to a cabinet, takes a couple of glasses and a bottle of vodka, then sits in front of a table next to the boy’s. “What do you know about Carmichael.” Though it is a question, Irina’s tone is flat.
After the assistant replies, she fills the glasses to the brim. “Поехали. You want come, da? Can you drink?” She continues her interrogation/test of drinking abilities of the boy for some time after this. “And this…masquerade, why? How you hear about it?”
Like usual his wife and children are asleep when he arrives home. Even in the dark, he can navigate the room well. While in the bathroom, by the light of the solitary bulb in the ceiling, he writes on the invitation’s envelope:
Maria,
We have been invited to a gala masked ball on Long Island. I know you like dancing. Please, let’s go. For a costume do you have any ideas? I can ask some of the recently closed shows if there are any available, but that may limit our choices compared to something from a shop.
After putting the envelope on the kitchen table, Anton folds his clothes and places them in a laundry basket. Finally, he quietly gets into bed next to Maria and attempts to fall asleep.
Madeline smiles at the idea. "I do love The Merchant of Venice." She replies.
"The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God Himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this:
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which, if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant
there."
"Ah, Portia." She says, almost wistfully, before snapping back to reality. "Gaudy and crass sounds perfect... It's true what they say about him, isn't it? The drugs, the sex - both men and women. This won't be one of those... degenerate parties, will it?" Though she asks with some trepidation, there's a part of her that sounds almost excited about the possibility, though maybe that's just residual anger from Harry...
A hard life and overbearing mother had worn Susie down a bit, but she wasn't unattractive. At worst she could be considered a bit plain. But when she smiled, as she was now, it was as though those years had never happened. Her father had never gotten sick, wasting away with her at his bedside. Her mother had never put the weight of the world and responsibilities for the building on her. She looked as she ought to be - a vibrant and joyous young woman.
"Yes, of course I'd love to accompany you! I'll begin sewing us costumes immediately." She pauses, having forgotten her manners in her excitement. "If that's all right with you, of course."
Irina had never cared much about keeping up with Carmichael’s movements as it was far too much trouble for very little gain: the man was always involved in some highly publicised event or scandalous debauchery that more often than not either bored or aggravated the Russian. She hears the news of his disappearance and return with some curiosity. She continues interrogating the boy as much as he will stand it.
“A hospital? That is new. What did he have? Probably venereal disease. Saw a man go crazy with syphilis once. Wish my singers could scream like that.”
“And play, what is it called? Is not Sodom? What is it about?”
Her curiosity sated, she continues drinking in silence, thinking and observing the boy. Finally, after a completely arbitrary number of glasses, she speaks again.
“Da. We make stupid masks tomorrow. Must make them shake with fear. You can use workshop.”
—
The next few days, she starts working earlier than usual, dedicating the first, less productive hours of her morning to welding a mask. Though she scorned the masquerade, the object itself quickly became a much more time-consuming side project than initially anticipated.
She creates a polished metallic visage of an expressionless woman with a few holes hidden on the eyes and nose. There are two peculiar aspects to the mask: first, knowing that it would be a long night, Irina makes it possible for the mouth part to be detached for easy drinking and smoking. Second, she sections the mask in a broad grid and attaches a spike of either broken glass or metal to the corner of each square.
Anton looks at his face in the mirror, trying to dismiss the nightmare while judging the damage to his nose. That dream, where in the world did that come from? When was the last time I had a nightmare like that?
He remembers the passage across the Atlantic Ocean, then imagines the creature from his nightmare compared to that ship and not the boat he leapt from in his nightmare. And he jumped in the nightmare. That perhaps was the worst part of the nightmare. The feeling that suicide was better than the creature. He sighs. If I could take some of the imagery though and use it in an illusion, it would almost make the nightmare worth it. A creature under water. Maybe an escape from a tank? Or is that too much like Houdini?
After preparing toast he sees if his wife replied to his note.
On the way to the atelier, he stops at a payphone at a pharmacy and telephones some of the costume people he knows asking if they have anything he could borrow for a masked ball.
Richard raised an eyebrow in surprise. With his full time job as it was, there was no way he would have been able to find the time to make two costumes from scratch even if he had the skill. With her responsibilities doing the majority of the work keeping the apartment building running, Susan would most likely have to spend every spare moment on sowing just to get her own outfit done.After all, they only a little over a week, and she'd have to go out and get the raw materials no doubt. Clearly, she was either being polite or she had gotten over excited. Either way, he wasn't about to let her work herself to death over something that was meant to be fun.
"I'm afraid I intend to just wear a tuxedo as normal with a mask to the event A bit dull, I know, but I'm afraid something more elaborate simply wouldn't suit me. If you wish to make your own costume that is, of course, completely up to your own discretion. Simply do not do it on my account; I would hate to think of you toiling long into the night and foregoing other actives you might prefer on my behalf."
Then there was, of course, the fact that having her sow him a full costume would be a bit, well, intimate, what with the measurements she'd need to take. Hardly appropriate for a bachelor and young maiden. They would need a chaperone to make sure their reputation remained intact and, things being as they were, that would most likely fall to her mother. Hardly an event to look forward to.
Ernest looks up at her sharply
"No it will not Madeline"
His face softens slightly
"Though I don't doubt that he will do his best to make it seem that way."
He smiles, then the smile falls from his eyes as they settle on stained book.
"That is settled then. It will be good, fun. What could go wrong right?"
Ernest falls silent. The moment stretches but does not break, even when they both return to their work and busy themselves the silence remains, sour in the air. Silence was not strange in this room, quite the opposite. But this silence was different, to Ernest it was an uncomfortable silence of waiting, of apprehension.
The silence cracks as Ernest clears his throat
"Could you deliver this to Anderson for me, you pass his office on your way out, no? You can leave early tonight if you like, you've had a hard day."
----------------------------------
Once Madeline has left the silence is a bit quieter. Ernest busies himself in a well practised routine. Switching off and snuffing until only his personal desk lamp provides any illumination. Locking the door and lowering blinds. He returns to his desk, his books.
"to sleep, perchance to dream"
He shrugs, "I don't know what the new play is called, or anything about it. Unveiling it during an event like this is certainly in line with his typical theatrics..."
That night, Irina has a fretful sleep and terrible dreams.
Faces look up pooled and expectant. You sit with the others, the violin pinched between chin and shoulder as you’ve seen others do and done hundreds of times yourself. Your left hand is on the strings. The music starts up and the orchestra crashes into its brief life. But are you the only one playing a role? Isn’t the audience applauding and calling out in the wrong places? And the other musicians — they’re competing, sounding their instruments randomly. The conductor points at you. You glance at your music and the notes move around, forming a strange symbol. It looks almost like a triskelion with tentacles. The symbol writhes and squirms and seems ready to reach out for you. You must assuage it. Hastily, you start to play to its rhythm building the sound yourself note by note.
That night, Richard's dreams are strange and unnerving.
Your window is wide open, and you arise, feeling the cold. The curtains sigh into the room. You move to the window to close it, and turning, see Richard still in bed, sleeping, wrapping the sheets more tightly around his shoulders. You see that the sheets are ripped, shredded into long streamers. You have the same around you, clad like a robe. You stumble out of the room, along unfamiliar corridors and across large chambers. You see marble, carpet, glass, velvet hangings, brick and porcelain, and gold wood. One of you is muttering,"It's all a distraction, all a distraction." There's a mask on the wall and you take it up, put it on. You sees a sword and pick it up. Clad in your robe of tattered cotton, you have a dignity commensurate with your task. Then you see someone in side corridor, watching you. Your doppelgänger, eager and worried. Suddenly furious, you hurry over, gripping the sword tightly: [b]"You think you can stand in judgment over me? You think this has nothing to do with you?!" You wonder just what you're capable of.
That night, when Ernest goes to sleep, he has terrible and strange dreams.
You stand among finely dressed people, talking and laughing. Your surroundings are gracious and music plays and your eyes are upon a particularly lovely girl here in white lace and muslin. One by one men approach her but after a brief moment each quickly slips away and you notice they look panicked and lost. When the last has gone she raises her fan to her face and turns towards you. You walk over and then your fingers are against the small of her back, guiding her in the dance. Her perfume fills the room, and now the two of you are alone in a gallery with glass doors all along one wall. You realize you’ve not yet seen her face and suddenly you’re afraid. A chill comes off her, and you shut your eyes tight. You feel her hand on your face, cold and questing.
Richard didn't think much of his dream. True, it was a bit odd for him to have remembered it at all, but it hadn't been a nightmare, which was a blessing. Though thankfully those too were coming less and less frequently. Just because he knew they were simply his unconscious attempting to work through and process experiences didn't mean he enjoyed them. He certainly wasn't one of those superstitious fools who gave into flights of fancy about their "meaning."
He spent some time the new few days looking into what kind of a gift Carmichael might appreciate. It would be rude, after all, to show up empty-handed, and putting in the little bit of extra effort to make sure it was something the host would enjoy would demonstrate that he harbored no ill will towards the man.
The nightmares keep interfering with Anton’s work during the day. At first he thinks of making an illusion based on the nightmare’s imagery. As he sketches some ideas, feelings of despair and desperation reawaken in him.
Magic should be mysterious and wondrous, he thinks putting down his pencil. It should inspire awe not dread or despair. Indeed I committed suicide in the nightmare to escape that creature. But what...what if the illusion reversed the horror? What am I even thinking.
Anton for a moment almost crumples up the paper. Instead he folds the paper twice and puts it in the file folder for preliminary ideas.
Once Stanley appears to check the equipment and have their pre-show discussion, Anton on occasion seems distracted. When Stanley asks if he is feeling well, Anton replies ”I feel a little tired. My sleep was not that good last night. Pay it no mind.”
"Nein!"
Ernest wakes and slaps the hand away from his face like swatting a fly...
But no, there is no fly is there.
He realises his eyes are still closed. But he doesn't want to open them and see the face of his...
It was a dream, there's no-one here.
"Ernest, öffne deine Augen"
With an intake of breath he snaps his eyes open and looks fitfully around the glass walled gallery...
No. I'm still in the library. My books.
Ernest gets up and turns on the lamps. There is enough work to do that an early start won't hurt.
As the early hours play out Ernest fells the ghost of those cold fingers on his face, probing. His tension rises and it is with almost desperate relief that he greets Madeline when she arives for the day.
Irina wakes up in the middle of the night and stares at the ceiling for a long time, frowning. “This country is making me go insane,” she thinks and then reaches for a glass on the ground. In her mind, she continues to see the tentacles writhing in that weird shape. She plays the dream in her head again, but this time instead of trying to follow the symbol’s orders, she pictures herself with a blowtorch in hand, then setting the papers, the violin and everything else on fire. Though these thoughts are hardly as present and strong as the dream, they are enough to cradle her to sleep. Her last thought before unconsciousness is ‘I should bring a blowtorch to the party.’
Anton hands the cash to the salesclerk and pockets the receipt and claim slip. Thank you, miss,” he says. ”I will pick up the two costumes before closing on October 6th. My wife will be happy with harlequin mimes." Anton returns to his atelier in time to load the truck with tonight’s show’s equipment.
Finally, the big night has come. Your last few days have been stressful, with recurring nightmares and trying to ensure that every preparation has been made to allow you a night off from all other responsibilities.
Any of those traveling by train have an early motor-coach waiting for them at the station, others may be taking a carriage. Those coming with dates may be turning the hours beforehand into a sort of "date night". But as the party draws nearer, the exhalation mixes with fits of anxiety. Did we remember the invitations? Dear, is my slip showing? What if our costumes aren't good flashy enough? And where has Carmichael been for the last months?
No time to dwell on that now. The wrought iron gates of the Carmichael country estate loom before you. The lights of New York City glare, hours to the west but still lighting the sky. Four policemen guard the gate, and a few annoying journalists stand nearby, attempting to snap photos of attendees, knowing how wealthy and of what status many of them are.
The air is crisp and brisk - not unpleasant for traveling. The cold stars shine balefully down from a clear night sky. A thin mist swirls around the base of the trees, fences, and buildings, that makes them seem to soar upwards from nothing towards the sky. The moon encompasses the sky, luminous and orange. The autumn moon. It seems to follow them as they move around the grounds.
The trees lining the drive and surrounding the house are decked with Japanese lanterns, spilling yellow light onto the misty ground. Their leaves have all but shed, and the lanterns hang like some kind of strange fruit. Or like the rings on the clutching fingers of a drowning man.
Your vehicle moves up the gravel drive towards the wide-open front door of the house. You catch a glimpse of an ornamental lake to the side of the house, out of whose icy, black surface, the reflected shape of the moon gazes like a drowned and bloated face.
Cars and carriages are parked along the driveway, their chauffeurs gathered in groups, gossiping and sharing cigarettes. The mansion is patterned after an English country house - a structure of stone, with the main steps leading up to the second floor. Exterior ornamentation is sparse, but vines, moss, and small trees soften the building's lines.
Bustling, cheerful servants are at the door, taking bags and coats, and as you get near the door, you're ushered into a well-light hallway. The blast of hot air hits like a furnace. Peoples' cries and greetings ring out around you. Somewhere in the house, a lively jazz band strikes up.
Despite the many, many guests, there are rooms for all, and you're shown to yours to freshen up, to change if you need to. The rooms you move through are rich and grand. The works of modern Expressionists lien the walls. To get to your rooms, there are seemingly endless stretches of dark, shadowed passageways and narrow stairs. Portraits of less well-known and definitely less cheerful members of the family make their appearance, gazing somberly from their age-blackenend frames. The rooms you're shown to are pokey, little ones, right up the back of the house, on the fourth floor.
Anton takes in the wealth of the estate with an appreciation for the craftsmanship and care to create and maintain it. From the marble floors and the thick carpets, to the wood paneling and electric lamps. For a moment he remembers his grandparents talking about the family’s mansion that was lost in the First Partition. He wonders what it looks like now as well as how it appeared at the height of his family’s power. He shakes his head slightly, amused that’s he’s actually thinking of Poland. When was the last time that occurred?
”Imagine living here...” his wife says as they are lead to their room.
”It’s hard to do,” he replies. ”Though it’s beautiful and so much space.”
Anton and his wife change into their costumes in their room. He uses his stage skills to put on white grease paint on his face and draws two diamonds on his cheeks.
”It will be good to dance,” he says smiling at Maria. Suddenly he knocks the side of his head. ”Oh, I should have asked about the meal! How hungry are you?”
The last few days have been quite intense. Ernest has had a lingering dark mood that he just couldn't shake, irritable and sullen. Madeline is clearly still struggling with being cheated on.
But as they open the boxes that were couriered in from the theatre department together the cracking of the seals seems to crack the atmosphere. They laugh and joke at the absurdity of it all and immediately find quiet nooks to change in.
The outfits are strangely matched. Ernest's costume is very detailed but The colours are garish and clashing, candy pink and custard yellow while Madeline's huge skirts are the same pink but paired with an acid turquoise. They both feel ridiculous.
The masks come out of the last case and they, by contrast, are rather plain coloured. But truly grotesque. A pair of snarling ugly imps or daemons, all hooked nose sharp teeth and cruel eyes. They are quite awful to look at.
"Look at the time Ernest!"
He had no idea how long he had been looking at the mask, when Madeline snapped him out of his fascination.
"We need to go!"
They left the library and as he turned the key to lock it up he realised he was carrying the ink spoiled book from his desk, he didn't even remember picking it up.
-----------------------------
Ernest was quite terrified as Madeline drove them to the party. She drove the car, her car, a guilty gift from an absent father, like she owned the roads. Swerving from side to side around other road users all the while recounting a story of some weekend escapade, hands gesticulating. If Ernest wasn't concentrating so hard on holding on he would wonder how she was driving in those skirts.
-----------------------------
They arrive at the party arm in arm fully costumed and cutting quite a picture, periwiged and fabulous.
As the nightmares continued, Irina’s supply of vodka dwindled. The alcohol did not prevent the night terrors, but somehow did take the edge off them, cradling the composer to sleep and interspersing occult symbols and monstrous presences just out of sight with memories of the days of the revolution.
She let her night horrors seep into her work, creating first a tambourine with broken mirrors instead of metal for the jingles and then small drums with whole mirrors inside — the idea was that one would hit them with a hammer and the sound would change as the objects inside shattered.
Anthony, the assistant, was enlisted in both drinking and composing a piece (Small Sonata for Tambourine and Drums: The Day-to-Day of the Proletariat). It was also largely thanks to his anxious reminders that the Russian managed not to miss the coach that lead them to the estate.
Once they arrived, Irina noted the difference in rooms and rolled her eyes at what she perceives as a petty vendetta against her comments.
“Антон, one day this will be yours. This will be your people’s property, used for your pleasure, not of some rich socialite,” she says as she puts on her black trousers, shirt and vest, crowned with her mask.
Richard finished his preparations for the party well before the appointed day arrived. Having discovered one of Carmichael's preferred wines, he had bought a bottle. He had then promptly put the entire affair out of his mind until the day before, occupying himself with his work and...well, mainly just his work. It had often been joked that had he ever been shot, he's simply brush the wound off if only to continue working. But there was a comforting rhythm, a pattern, to work. One that was all too easy to get lost in.
But nevertheless, the dreaded party day had arrived. He made sure his tuxedo was pressed and his shoes polished to a shine before he dressed himself. At the appointed him, he met up with Susan, donning a white half-face mask with subtle, pearl designs inlaid in it. He made sure to make an appropriate show of complementing Susan on her own outfit, hoping the girl hadn't spend too many long night sowing the thing. Or at least that if she had, she would find future opportunities to wear it. Or to at least re-purpose it, though he had no idea of the feasibility of that idea. While he had a passing familiarity with men's fashion, typically of the more formal variety, he knew very little about the modern clothing habits of the female of the species.
The carriage ride to the event had been surprisingly enjoyable. The air, wonderfully refreshing. He made a mental note to himself to open his window more often so he could enjoy it before it became too cold. It was really a bit of a shame when the two of them were ushered inside, but he supposed it was important to keep things warm enough for any of poor constitution who were in attendance. He blinked in surprise as one of the doormen offered to show them to "their room," sharing a quick look and an awkward laugh with Susan before politely declining. Instead he looked for the appropriate place to put his gift.
Susan is in good spirits, and has been for the entire ride. While many others find travel taxing, you get the sense that it has been quite some time since she has gone anywhere, and every sight and sound gets her full attention and sense of wonder.
Now, with the awkwardness of the shared room looming, one of the ushers steps forward to ease the situation. "Of course, we understand that not everyone will be interested in spending the evening, but we like to have rooms ready early to avoid confusion later for those who may... imbibe." He nods to the bottle of wine you brought. "I'm sure you understand." He continues chatting and explaining, suggesting that even if you aren't interested in staying, you should still have a room to put any items you don't want to leave in the carriage, and perhaps most importantly, as a place to be able to freshen up. Susan is interested in going for that alone, even if Richard isn't.
Leaving your rooms, you all begin the journey back from the cool and dark corner of the mansion towards the warmth and light of the lower rooms. It feels like it would be excruciatingly easy to become lost in here, and the scope of the place is such that you can't help but wonder how many days - how many weeks - it would take to learn the layout.
Still, though you haven't been here before, something does feel familiar about it. It's like coming back to the town you grew up in after decades away, and noticing that while many things have changed, it still feels exactly the same. It's a strange feeling for a place you've never been before, but luckily it ebbs away as you get closer to the main rooms.
Following others to a large ballroom, you're greeted at the door by Eustace Fishe, Anthony Carmichael's secretary. Fishe is costumed as Death, with a long scythe and a longer list - names he checks off as people hand him their invitations. He does so with a distracted air.
Those of you who have met Fishe know him as a nice young man, nicknamed "Red" because of his blazing red hair. Currently, he could also be called "Red Death". As you get closer, Fishe takes your invitations, passing them to a butler. He isn't cold, but seems very distracted, likely thinking of a thousand different arrangements for the party, and what could go wrong at any moment. Another servant stands on the opposite side of the doors, dressed plainly in black and white, and is handing out simple domino masks to anyone who arrived without something more elegant or interesting.
Entering the ballroom is like entering another world. The house was proper, and fancy, but the ballroom is all a glitter, filled with a gaiety not found in the rest of the house. Gorgeously costumed and arrayed people are dancing to music performed by a 16-piece jazz ensemble. Ornate chandeliers fracture the lights, splintering them into a thousand glassy reflections. The satin walls are lined with gilt framed mirrors, making the room look even more enormous than it already was.
And inside, quite a few people, nearly all of them in costume. There's a pudgy Egyptian mummy covered with magical symbols. A black cat embraces Mary Antoineette. A large frog dances with a laughing Tutankhamun. There's a portly Red Indian with a bandaged hand. There are Pagliaccis and Carmens, Brunhildss. At least three Sir Launcelots and a Napoleon. There's a Queen Elizabeth. A lamb dances with a sour-looking vampire in a red cape. Cowboys dance with ninjas, Indian nautch girls with queens. There's a pirate, complete with an eye patch and stuffed prarot on his shoulder. There's a pretty actress wearing an insipid fairy costume, one wing of which has already been crushed. All told, there look to be at least 200 people in the room.
To the left side, a refined female photographer takes flash-photos of those who wish to have their faces circulated to the selected daily press. She appears professional, largely blending in, and clearly has experience working with the upper strata of society.
On the right side of the room are several banquet tables, and a buffet, the likes of which you may not have ever seen before. On the far side of the ballroom, broad french doors open to terraces and gardens beyond. There is dancing and drifting, gossiping and guzzling, laughing and lounging, a veritable human sea of gorgeous costumes and masked faces, all ages and all times flung together in an unholy confusion.
The scene is at once entirely overwhelming and feels very wrong, in a way that is hard to pinpoint. Is the noise of the band too frenetic? Are the masked dancers laughing, a little too hard, as if forcing themselves to? The heat and babble of people's conversations shouted over the music mingles about your ears.
The lights shine off the mirrors, and in the reflection, you see a cloaked and hooded figure. It is hunched over, the black fabric of its costume tattered and dusty, with a baroque mask mostly hidden. Turning from the reflection, you can't spot it in the room itself, and there's nothing odd in the mirror when you turn back.
As Susan chose to avail herself of the offered room, Richard stood patiently in the lobby. After all, tongues would wag should he accompany her sans chaperone, even if they were entirely innocent. Sometimes perception of guilt was just as damning as actual guilt.
He briefly considered going over to talk to Mr. Fishe, but seeing the somewhat harried expression on his face, decided better of it. He was hardly going to make the man's work harder by insisting upon his own entertainment, even if he was ever so curious as to if the man's costume had been an intentional reference or simply fortunate happenstance. So instead he took the chance to look around. It appeared many of the party-goers had taken a rather liberal interpretation of what a "masquerade" was, instead opting to use it as nothing more than a simple costume party. He couldn't quite tell if this was willful ignorance on their part or genuine. Either way, he was glad he had chosen not to partake. If he had actually gone out of his way to pay for a one-time-only actual masquerade costume, he would have looked doubly the fool. No, this had undoubtedly been the better choice in a variety of ways. It was fortunate he was not prone to flights of fancy.
When Susan returned, he offered his arm to escort her inside. After giving her a moment to adjust herself to the mass of people and variety of sights, he leaned in slightly. "Anything catch your fancy, m'dear? If nothing else perhaps you will honor me with my first dance of the night?"
Arm in arm, Anton and his wife wander the party, greeting people they recognize and marveling at people they don’t recognize (which is most people). Though he wonders if introducing himself as Anton Roskuszka defeats the purpose of the masks.
”I don’t see Irina anywhere,” he tells his wife. ”I should have asked her what she would be.” They wander the room more, sampling more food, and laughing at how good it is.
”How much would a copy of a photo cost?” Anton asks the photographer. He indicates him and his wife with a quick wave of his fingers.
The reflection of the cloaked figure in the mirrors stuns Anton. As a stage illusionist and engineer, he is extremely familiar with using lighting and mirrors to cast images across a stage. He studies the mirrors in the room curious about this illusion.
He asks his wife, ”How do you think this effect is made?”
After a little time, he sees a man not in a costume and approaches him. ”Excuse me. My name is Anton, Anton Roskuszka. You look like someone who is...well informed, knowledgable. Do you know how that mirror illusion is made?”
Irina is happy to be wearing her mask, as it allows her to avoid talking to the crowd of dilettantes around her. “Антон, is shame you don’t speak Russian. Keep away from those,” she gestured towards a group of people. “Idiots, every one. Those other ones: idiots again.” She looks at a third group. “That one, the blonde. Is smart. Is good woman, good violin player. A bit soft, like all Americans, not enough pain in her strings, but good.”
She stops a waiter, grabs a glass of wine and downs it in one swig. “Comrade, you have vodka, yes? Good, bring two bottles, then we share drink.” A few moments after the man walks away, she repeats in her deep contralto. “Bottles!”
Irina continues walking around the room, stopping only when seeing the hooded man. When he seemingly disappears, the Russian frowns. “Is wrong. The music. No? And everyone looks like stupid idiots. Ah, come, Антон. This man is not idiot. Is…how do you say it…magic man, illusion man. Good mechanic.”
Irina walks to Anton, who sees only a tall figure clad in black with a horrifying metal mask encrusted with broken mirror spikes. “Comrade, you are here in hell with us. Let’s drink. Anton, this is Антон. Антон, this is Anton.” To those she does not know, she simply nods. “Irina Ustvolskaya.”
”Антон,” Anton repeats offering his hand. ”I’m Anton. This is my wife Maria.”
He laughs at the comment about hell, lifting his drink as a toast. ”This is quite the event. Quite a spectacle. Did you see that man in the mirrors? I’ve never seen anything like it. Much like your mask, Irina. How long did that take to make and what inspired it?”
Richard adopted a politely neutral expression as he was approached by no doubt the first in an annoyingly long line of strangers oddly intent in talking about meaningless things. He had really hoped he would have been able to get in at least one dance before being forced to suffer through this. He was just fortunate that he had a great deal of training in keeping up a neutral façade, a task was further aided by the mask hiding the upper half of his face.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintances. I am Dr. Richard Charleston and this is Miss. Susan Johnson. As to this 'man in the mirrors,' I'm afraid I must have missed him in all the hustle and bustle of this room. Illusions are hardly my area of expertise anyway." He supposed it would be rude to immediately walk away, much as he would have preferred an opening dance with Susan. Which would, of course, then be followed by checking out the food spread. Then perhaps a nice stroll outside to let the food digest before more dancing.
But he was getting ahead of himself, so instead, he turned to his companion. "Did you happen to see this mirror illusion of Mr. Roskuszka?"
“What always ‘inspires’ me, comrade Roskuszka. The coming revolution that will give this,” Irina gestures at the opulent room they are standing in, “back to the people who builded it.”
She empties another glass before continuing, leaving enough time for the silence to become awkward but not so long that anyone feels free to interrupt.
“Da. I see this man. Is wrong. Music too. Wrong. I do not know him. You know him?”