In the center of the fair was a large reddish tent, ballooning up like a sail with the wind beneath it. As I approached, I could make out the muffled strains of oriental instruments weaving their intoxicating melodies inside. When I reached the door of the tent, a dark man with a thick black beard and loose-fitting pants in the Turkish style pulled the opening away so that I may walk through. I ducked my head so that my fez cap would not be knocked off by the doorway's low frame and was immediately met with an assault on the senses that I had not expected. The air was heavy with incense and the smoke of hookah pipes. It was stiflingly warm and I found it difficult to draw in a proper breath. All around there was a crowd of men, women, and children in a circle surrounding some fascinating center.
As I pushed my way through the crowd, I was surrounded on all sides by the spectators' muttering and whispers. Finally, I made my way close enough to the front to see over the heads of those in my way. What met my gaze was like nothing I had ever seen before, and nothing I would ever see again. It was as if detached images, plucked from my boyhood dreams and nightmares, conjured up by the mesmerizing tales I had found in some forbidden book, beaten and old, had been arranged together in that tent to haunt me yet again. In the center of the circle of captivated onlookers was a large chair, reclined and looking rather worse for wear. In it was seated the most extraordinary sight I had ever seen.
A man, clad in a Chinese robe in the shades of a peacock's bold plumage, leaned back in the chair, his ankles crossed on the footrest before him. His hands were folded serenely in his lap, the long, bony fingers intertwined like reeds in a basket. His hair was black as night, groomed back into a slick mass against his scalp, trimmed to reach just past the edge of his skull in the back. His thin frame was draped carelessly over the cushion of the chair as he surveyed the crowd, an amused expression in his eyes. (I recall being faintly amused that he should be studying them, when they came to gawk at him.) And on his face—a mask. A black silk mask, covering his entire face and leaving only the greyish skin of his forehead to be seen. The children gasped and their parents looked on, fascinated by the sight before them. After five minutes had passed, the man stood, to the shock of the crowd. He did not speak; he merely took a breath... and sang.
The notes washed over us, silencing every throat, causing chills to run through our bodies and tears to come to our eyes. It was the voice of an angel, powerful, yet beautiful. He sang in Russian, for this particular fair was in St. Petersburg, but every soul in that tent, whether French or Italian, Indian or Chinese, understood the story he wove of love and denial. It came to an end too soon, and the silence that followed was broken only by the occasional sniff. The man then took a shuddering breath and bellowed, in a tone strangely laced with sadness, "Behold! Your Angel of Hell!"
At that moment, he brought his left hand to his face and ripped the mask off of it, exposing the horror beneath. His face evoked screams of pure terror, and immediately, all those around me stampeded towards the way out. I alone remained, frozen in place, my eyes glued to the sight before me. His face was yellowish-green, almost transparent over the skull beneath and riddled with blue veins. His eyes hid deep in their sockets, like two black caves, only a golden shimmer staring from within. He had no nose whatsoever, as if he had never had one to begin with. As I continued to stare, rendered completely immobile by my fascination, his face contorted in anger, a low snarl escaping his lipless mouth, his teeth bared in fury. This new shock freed me from my spellbound trance and I quickly began to stammer excuses and explanations.
"Forgive me, sir, I meant no rudeness. I was merely... stunned. I have never... seen..."
He scowled at me before adjusting his mask on his face and tying the black ribbon at the back of his head. As he turned on the oil lamp on the small table next to him, the golden shine which I had previously acknowledged as his eyes dimmed and grew black.
"Who are you, imbecile?" This direct insult was hardly expected by me, a high-ranking police inspector for the Shah of Persia! "What do you want, pestering me like one of those damned African flies?"
"I am... I work for the Shah of Persia, and I am here to request, on his behalf, your presence at the royal court." This was the task his holiness had given me, but it did not seem to impress this Angel as it would the average man.
"You can tell him that I am not interested." He picked a grape from a cluster in a bowl on the table and popped it into his mouth, chewed quickly with his teeth gnashing, and swallowed, such as one with congested sinuses eats.
"Not... not interested? I don't think you realize-"
"I assure you, I am no foreigner to the Persian culture, but still I tell you, I am not interested."
"This is no mere invitation, sir, but the request of a king! His godliness is granted what he desires!"
"I'd prefer you didn't use such a ridiculous title. That man is in no way a god." His treacherous insult towards his majesty shocked me, but the smooth voice with which he delivered it distracted me from his words.
"I think it would be best-"
"I think it would be best if you left me now."
He walked towards an opening in the opposite wall, his dazzling robe swirling behind him.
"I'll be here again tomorrow!" I called out, knowing perfectly well that he could hear me, though he gave no reply.
I left the tent, realizing that this was no mere man in my way. It would take a sweeter honey to tempt this fly.