The Black Masque

It is impossible for me to forget the masque.1

I recall awakening in some remote corner, hearing the distant, tidal sway of string music. Relaxing at first, it only stirred my curiosity when I heard its conclusion, followed by the faint sound of gentle applause. Though no dancer, I was curious. I resolved to investigate, a waltz picking up as I rose to my feet, stretching. The marble-floored corridors through which I found myself walking formed a dark and resonant labyrinth; only after this new waltz ended was I able to find the warm and well-lit ballroom, where my eyes took time to adjust to the brilliant splendour below.2

I stood at the top of a twinned grand staircase of shining black marble, gold railings twinkling like shootings stars frozen in ice as they followed the curving stairs. The grand room, which was all constructed similarly in black marble and gold, gave one the impression of floating upward into a clear night sky. Soft-glowing light bulbs and white streaks in the marble lit up the walls as stars and galaxies. I might have sworn to witness mysterious nebulae of orange and violet, had my fellow star-travelers not stolen my gaze.3

Between the staircase sat a tiered platform which bore a string quartet and grand piano player, checking over their instruments, turning pages in books of music. Most curious, each musician’s face was invisible behind a white mask. These masks concealed all features from forehead to chin, and were trimmed about the edges and eyes with small black beads. Some quality I couldn’t place made the idea of studying them closer too disturbing to consider. Dressed otherwise in fine tuxedos, they offered only perfunctory acknowledgment of the applause they received.4

Both hands on the starlight railing, I beheld further twinkling bodies on the ebony floor below; the source of applause. Men and women dressed in gaudy and exaggerated Renaissance finery, mostly a sea of white and pastel reds, blues, yellows. Powdered wigs, a thing I would normally think of only in humor, hung seriously on several heads. Men wore long jackets, belled jester hats, breeches and stockings. The bodies of the women were constricted and boosted into bustiness by corsets, their legs replaced by the floating hems of wide, billowing dresses. Hair was pulled up into patterns sufficiently intricate to cross my eyes when I traced them. All clothing bejeweled, all voices gay and tinkling with laughter.5

All faces hidden with masks.6

The disguises of the dancers were as varied as those of the musicians were similar. All manner of bright colors in every conceivable pattern adorned the masks, themselves speckled with jewels as well. As the audience conversed – in French by the sound of it from my staircase perch, a language I was wholly unfamiliar with – and exchanged partners, the shimmering waves of shifting, shining costumes and masks drew me into dizziness. My eyelids pressed to, I took a seat on the cold black marble, gripping the shooting star above my head. I didn’t feel right, but didn’t feel like examining why.7

Footsteps behind me on the cloudlike rock. Looking up, I beheld a bizarre butler, his face hidden behind a mask of gold beneath his perfectly slicked-back black hair. He held a silver tray bearing a bottle of wine and glasses.8

“Boisson, monsieur?”9

“Yes, I’ll have a drink,” I guessed. Just when I thought perhaps I should have said “Oui,” instead, he began pouring. Understood English, enough of it to give a drink to a newly-awake slob not dressed for the party, anyway. I took the glass, raised it to him.10

“Bonjour,” I said, trying to thank him.11

“Merci, monsieur.”12

“Right, merci. Apologies.”13

“Oui-oui. Excusez-moi, monsieur.” He descended the stairs.14

I held my head, rubbed my hair. I felt hung-over, though drinking wasn’t in my memory. I drank the wine, and was met not only with liquor, but with the sweet, sticky taste and texture of honey. Mead. The stuff slid down my throat without burning, delicious and seductive. I drank a little more right away, and looked back to the dancers. They had paired up again, ready for the next dance.15

A hand touched my shoulder, and a little star burst in the back of my brain. My ears rang for no more than a split-second, then I shook off whatever in hell it was. I turned to look up, finding a strangely familiar mask – the thought was just as crazy then as it sounds now – connected to the red-satin-gloved arm that touched my shoulder. The rest of the woman’s outfit was red as well. Her very tight, shining, curve-hugging red dress that revealed an ample chest, her modern-style high heels, and of course her jeweled mask over her eyes. Intricately-woven brunette hair. Her crimson lipstick was inviting and poisonous.16

“Haben Sie nicht ein Partner?”17

“No,” I answered. “No, I…I’m really not even sure what I’m doing here. Sorry.”18

She only smiled wider and lifted me up by my elbow.19

“Come with me, lovely. They’re about to start again.”20

Led onto the cosmic dance floor, I took one hand in mine, the other I placed at the small of her back. Pressed up against her, I found her body absolutely delightful, tight and warm; it was a relief for the blood to be flowing somewhere besides my throbbing head.21

“This place looks like the Milky Way,” I said. She leaned into my ear, her lips almost impossible to resist kissing as they came closer.22

“Let’s float away.”23

The quartet began playing, something soft and dreamy that cooled down the pain even further. As we danced, I began feeling that odd sensation like when she had touched my shoulder, but more drawn out this time. Like a brook flowing over pebbles rather than that sudden snap. Almost pleasant, really. It really did feel like drifting into the sky, into the void where everything was, but surrounded by nothing.24

It wasn’t until the music ended and she kissed me goodbye that I realized I had spoken to her in German the whole time. I wondered, scratching my head, where I had picked up the tongue. Hadn’t I grown up in Innsbruck? Not likely. I was American. That was why the prospect of a masquerade struck me as so odd, right? No one has masquerade balls in the United States. I looked for my scarlet beauty, but every swatch of red I detected wasn’t quite right. My own jacket, which I had seemingly failed to notice before, was a fairly close color. It was quite a spectacle, much like the clothing of the other men about me. I thought about jokingly asking to borrow a powdered wig, but these people in masks were a bit too unnerving to risk offending.25

A robust fellow in green floated by, putting a hand on my elbow to avoid bumping into me. Polite guy. He didn’t say anything, though. Watching him, I saw he locked elbows with a curvy little dame in pink, and led her towards a place where liquor was being poured out. Even the bartender wore a mask of bright violet over a similar-colored vest and bowtie. I didn’t feel like more to drink yet.26

I straightened myself up, a feeling of new strength in my muscles. Maybe that dance had done me well. I got the impression that it disposed of a part of me that was perpetually worn out, and buried beneath had been the power to keep going. The red woman must have been quite a dancer to lead me like that; I hadn’t missed a step.27

An older woman in yellow caught my eye, if only for the vibrant hue of her dress rather than any looks she might have retained; she had a mask on after all. I straightened out my jacket – looked more brown, now that I paid attention – and joined her for a dance. What the hell, right?28

I had to stand a bit away from her for the next one – another waltz, the Blue Danube this time – because of her large dress. More intricate steps, still I knew them. Cake. An interesting sense of maturity washed over me, though I put it aside as unjustified pride. We must have looked a strange sight, her all up in yellow like a new-cast bell, me in my orange jacket and clean, white trousers tucked into my polished black boots. I thought I was really gaining the hand of this masquerade thing. No trouble at all.29

We parted as the music stopped, and I bid the Lady Zaudējumu good evening in her native Latvian. I was quite the wordsmith, it seemed. A clear mind is necessary for situations that call for social grace, as my mother always said before my etiquette instructions. Dining like nobility I scarcely retained, but – well, my headache was gone, at any rate. What a dreadful thing that had been!30

When the next song began, I sat it out with a glass of champagne. Laurent-Perrier. Not the best I had ever tasted, but suited for the occasion.31

No. Something was wrong.32

I didn’t drink champagne; I hated the stuff. I didn’t know German, or Latvian, and I had never seen the Lady Zaudewhatever before in my life. I hadn’t come here dressed in the finery of the eighteenth century, and I had no clue how to dance like these people.33

Right?34

I spied a woman in a ravishing turquoise dress through her full-face mask, itself swirling with hues of cerulean and gems that had captured a clear summer sky. I didn’t want to dance again, I wanted to get the hell out of there. I think. I downed my drink and took her arm, leading her out. This was the wrong place to be.35

The dance was quick, lively, the steps swift and complex, nearly violent. Who was I? I felt as though I were being danced with in several places at once. Here I was with the turquoise woman – was she cornflower now? Did I know the difference? Her mask had to have changed since we began dancing – but I myself saw from within a dark red mask, my heated body sheathed in tight crimson as I danced with the strong fellow in green.36

I shook my head. The weight of my endless grey hair pinned above my head only increased my sickness. I must have picked this feeling up from that new fellow in the brown, the wretch; who knew where that drunkard had come from? As I vomited into a corner by the piano, I gripped the shoulder of a fellow in silver beside me, and – who was this grabbing my shoulder? She was getting sick everywhere! How had I come to be standing beside her?37

Whirling around, pulling myself back together, but it wasn’t happening. I fell away from the woman in the sky-jeweled mask, whose gems now held bits of red and orange. I fell away from her, I was her. My shoulders rippled as I went toward this fellow that had just fallen down; I almost ran into him earlier. Poor fellow must have stumbled in from somewhere. I turned him around.38

No, that couldn’t have been me. I hadn’t had a mask on earlier. The features looked close enough to mine, to his, but no sense trying to pull my mask off. That would ruin the whole point of the masquerade, wouldn’t it?39

My sickness, confusion, arousal, strength. I looked through my gold mask as I served mead to a young couple from the Czech Republic – their fingers brushed mine as they accepted it, and we drank our fill. Poor woman over there must have had too much. That fellow who fell was getting up though. What an interesting costume, all in black. Every color joined together at once, you know. Like the room, like the marble. Everyone together, sharing this lovely night.40

Sharing. Everyone.41

It is impossible for me to forget the masque.42