Pas de Deux
Entry in non-adult category for the Phoenix Competition.
2nd Place winner.
Gordon
Gordon ducked down behind a row of cellos as the door opened letting in a sliver of light. He looked down at the luminous dial on his watch. Twenty minutes. It's too soon for Anthony. Who just came in? He was careful not to muss his tuxedo as he shifted his crouch. The line of instruments hid him from anyone who might see him from the doorway, but also made it difficult for him to see the intruder.
Anthony was notoriously late. For everything, even a tryst as eagerly awaited as this one. Gordon looked at his watch again. Can't be Anthony. The shape that had moved through the door was much larger than Anthony, anyway. Can't be a woman. Must be a man. Who? These twenty extra minutes were supposed to be spent scoping out the instrument storage room, not hiding from the staff. Is it an employee of the theatre? Gordon heard a soft scuffling near the percussion instruments. He raised his head. There. Someone was there, doing what? Hiding too? The humor of the situation caught him and he put a hand to his mouth to stifle the laugh. I'm going to use this in one of my skits. He leaned against the wall, tucked his feet beneath him and settled in to watch. Maybe this man is also meeting his lover. How exciting.
But the intruder did not appear to be waiting. He was feeling along the wall, moving silently behind the chimes, the xylophone, then the glockenspiel, Gordon had to shift again to keep him in sight. Curiosity overcame his caution and his annoyance. He raised himself up to see better. The intruder passed through a shaft of light from the mezzanine above. It is a man. A man in a black cape and a large-brimmed hat. A Jacobean costume, a Guy Fawkes mask. Gordon ran through the night's programme in his head. Is there a play tonight? He didn't think so. It was to be a string quartet during cocktail hour and supper, then speeches and a vocalist afterwards. No drama was expected. He ran a hand up over his eyes and through his hair. Who is this man and what is he doing? He wished he would do it and leave. He checked his watch. Ten minutes. Even if he is on time for once, Anthony will be coming through the door in just ten minutes. Not much time. I was so looking forward to this and now it looks like it will be spoiled. He tried to allay his disappointment by thinking about the skit he would write about this adventure: He would call it, "Cello? Are you there?" or "Violins never solved anything".
Gordon watched as the dark man came out from behind the percussion instruments and found his way blocked by the grand piano, a huge shapeless form covered with a thick cotton dust cover. The man in the cape stopped suddenly, as though he was surprised to find a piano in the storage room. Gordon waited, watched incredulous as the caped man whisked the dust cloth from the piano, letting the drapery cascade to the floor in folds of dusty white. Will he play? Gordon shook his head in dismay. I will be discovered for sure if he plays even one note. He began rehearsing excuses. I've lost my programme, was looking for another. I was looking for the loo, took a wrong turn. The caped man pulled the bench from under the keys, careful to make no sound. Gordon watched intently as the man sat down, one arm pulled the folds of the cape back and away so the dark fabric drifted over the white drapery beneath the bench.
To his astonishment, the stranger did not play, did not even touch a key. Instead he merely stroked the case. Gordon watched as he ran a gloved hand across the polished surface of the grand piano, stroking it like a kitten. Then ran his thumb along the edge from one end to the other. Not a sound floated across the room. Utter silence. It was eerie, to expect to hear a chord or a note and to hear nothing. Now, strangely, Gordon felt his ears burn with the need to hear a sound from that instrument. It was obscene to watch this pantomime, so much like a silent film. Yet there can be no sound, for we are both hiding. Gordon saw the intruder lean forward, remove his hat with a flourish. The man bowed; touched his forehead to the top of the piano. I am watching another tryst after all. Then the caped man stood, replaced his hat and carefully pushed the bench back beneath the keys. He picked up the dust cover with one smooth motion of his hands; there was the soft sound of the fabric as it fluttered over the instrument. Gordon watched as the man moved quickly past the piano and out the other door. Come and gone so quickly. I will have to come up with another title for that skit.
Gordon heard a crash from the direction the man had disappeared. There was a snapping sound and the feeble light from the mezzanine above flickered and went out. Gordon was in total darkness. He stood up. What the Devil? His glowing watch told him that Anthony was ten minutes late already. Outside he heard faint screams. Screams? More crashing, then the mezzanine lights came back on. He heard footsteps running in the hallway behind him. The door behind him opened. The room lights snapped on. Gordon blinked, turned, still in shock. It was Anthony, one hand on the knob, one on the lights, his face a mask of pale horror. "Gordie! There's been a murder! One of the Party Members!"
V
V moved past the stone archway. No door to open and close. Yet. No fortress to hide within. Yet. Not a home. Merely a rickety camp cot, tucked away inside the flickering shadows created by his kerosene lamp on the craggy walls. A tin of biscuits. A bucket of stale water from a rainspout. This was as much as I could do in a few months. So much time had been spent healing. Now I can start to make improvements. He sank to the cot. Untied the cape, removed the hat. With a tired hand he pushed at the chin of the mask and slid it up over his head, taking the wig off with it. He unfastened the belt and allowed the knives to join the hat and cape on the floor. He lay back on the cot, careful of the wobbly leg beneath his left boot. The pain was back. The drugs had worn off before he had finished. He breathed deeply, moved his mind to that place, that quiet place where there was no pain, no violence, no death, and no screaming. It is harder and harder when it should be getting easier. The mask hurts. It chafes and it's heavy. Hard to see and to breathe, he touched his naked cheek, but this mask is worse.
Six years later. The Art Opening. Gallery Twelve.
Gordon
Gordon lifted a Champagne glass from the tray as the waiter walked by. He bent his head just a little to observe the waiter's departure. No sense in being obvious, but I'm not going to miss the opportunity either. He watched the young man work the crowd, watched him exchange glances with the other waiter. Yes. Opportunity…knocking rather loudly now…
"Gordon, so nice to see you here."
"Ah, good evening, Mr. Creedy. A lovely presentation, fabulous food, brilliant music, and some very interesting art. I believe Gallery Twelve has outdone itself tonight."
"Perhaps. I have not come for the food and the music. There is a particular painting that is not in favor at the moment." Creedy tipped his head pointedly at "God Save the Queen".
"Oh, you mean that little bit of scribble. Well, it is harmless enough. The artist is a Colonial, after all. Can't expect much."
"Yes. I've been told that you have spoken to this…American."
Gordon tensed. In his best actor's voice he replied smoothly, "I have been introduced to each of the artists showing work tonight, Mr. Creedy."
"I see. Well. Enjoy the food and the music, Gordon." Creedy disengaged with little attempt at courtesy. Walked away. Gordon saw him heading toward Dascombe. Gordon's Champagne tasted sour now. He set it down.
V
V watched them. No one loves a blind man. He clutched his white cane defensively in front of him as he watched the well-dressed art patrons file past. Some of the women looked away as they approached. Even the men would clear their throats uncomfortably as they passed. V sat as still as a corpse on the bench closest to the door. It had occurred to him that some patrons may find it odd to see a blind man at an art opening, but V had not come for the art, though the paintings were interesting enough in a modern sort of way. No. I have come for the music. The newspaper had said there would be a string quartet, and that they would be playing Mozart and Beethoven and Schumann. He turned his head slightly, just enough to take in the musicians warming up beneath the featured painting, "God Save The Queen". It wouldn't do to move his head too much, the blind may cock their ears to hear, but appearing to look around would be a dead give away. Literally. He waited, enjoying the uncomfortable stares of the well-to-do. No one loves a blind man. And no one will ask me to leave. Besides, I am as well-dressed tonight as any of you.
His disguise was an easy one, and effective. Thick black wraparound glasses, a fedora and a bit of stage make-up and spirit gum. A very fine suit as well. The finest he could steal. Ah, they have begun. The musicians began with a Mozart piece. He smiled and leaned back against the wall. To hear live music being played. In an art gallery. He sighed, closed his eyes, allowed himself to enjoy this blissful encounter. Music is the only thing left to me of my humanity.
When the music was over, he listened to a boring presentation. The Gallery owner gave a speech. The artists were given a minute to introduce themselves. V sat very still. Two men were standing too close to him for comfort. The room was crowded, the Opening a great success, but the increasing press of bodies made him nervous. His escape route, earlier so carefully planned, now lay in shambles. There was no way anyone was going to leave this place in under ten minutes, even with a white cane. I was foolish to come. I won't make this mistake again. Never another opening. Never another concert. I cannot risk going to where the art and music are. I will have to stay in my dark tunnel. Forever. Now he felt a different kind of pain.
One of the two men, standing so close to V's bench that the hem of his jacket brushed his shoulder, said to the other, "That American's painting is causing quite an uproar among the Party members."
"Yes. Party Leader Creedy is investigating. I hear the painting will disappear by the end of the night."
"No kidding?"
"No.
"And the artist?"
"He will disappear too."
"Egad."
"A sad day for art. That means we will probably be seeing only landscapes and portraits from now on."
"Large portraits. On the sides of buildings."
"Not funny, old man. Not funny."
No one loves a blind man. No one sees him, either.
Gordon
The limo pulled up outside Gallery Twelve. I thank all that is good and holy in the world that it is a black one. He rolled his eyes. Some of the newer ones were painted in patterns that would make a kaleidoscope puke. The doorman reached out to get the handle for him. Gordon was ready with his tip. As he sat down in the soft leather a young man in the seat across from him extended a champagne flute.
"Thank you," Gordon said, taking the glass. The young man smiled, poured a glass for himself, then lay back on the cushions. This is going to be a very nice evening. Gordon took a sip. Lovely vintage. He let the bubbles tickle as he enjoyed the tang. "What's your name, sweetie?" he asked.
"Matthew."
Oh yes. Matthew. This will be a very nice evening. I need it to be, after having to spend two hours with Creedy and his minions. Gordon took another sip of the champagne to wash his mind of that memory. This deserves a skit. He glanced over the rim of his glass at Matthew. It's thirty minutes home from here. I can think of a skit in thirty minutes. I will be laughing all the way to the bank. He smiled to himself, letting the creative wheels turn. Scene one: An art opening in Soho. Everyone who is anyone is there. A painting is unveiled to a shocked, yet appreciative crowd. Music is played. Enter, stage left: A grumpy old man in a trench coat. He approaches the lectern. Gordon took another sip of champagne. The old man speaks, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God to join together these two men: Our beloved Chancellor Adam Sutler and Andy Warhol." He snickered, choking a little on his Champagne. He always laughed at his own stuff. It was the only way he knew he was getting it right. Tomorrow he would fill it in, send it to the actors, get the art director involved. The show girls would need to be bridesmaids…maybe some ugly color brides always inflict on their bridesmaids… yes, hot pink and lime green, each one carrying something other than a bouquet of flowers, what should it be? I know. Each bridesmaid would carry an AK-47. Yes, Not a shotgun wedding, a repeating rifle wedding. Gordon laughed out loud. This is going to be good.
Mathew leaned forward with the bottle, "Another glass Mr. Dietrich?"
"Call me 'Gordon'."