Mirrors

You wonder what he does all day. That is, when he isn't blowing things up, killing people, etc. When you come across him he's reading or playing chess. You don't even know how to play chess, so you don't bother asking. The thing is, he would probably teach you—he can't have better things to do. Circular reasoning. Has it come so quickly to that?

You saw his hands once—the first morning, the morning you tasted real butter. The ridiculous apron—it was so pink, you didn't notice his hands at first. You wonder if you should have pointed them out—he wasn't uncomfortable until you said something. They were burned; that much he said.

You weren't about to ask him again who he was; he would spout a torrent of alliterative phrases and, as much as you like Shakespeare, you're not sure you can get through that again. You don't know how to feel about living with him, living underground. Sometimes you wake in the middle of the night and see the books that surround your bed and you feel terror—not of the books, not of him really, but— Where does he sleep? You've never been brave enough to snoop, and you don't think it's polite. Really, Evey, what will he think?

Why should you care what he thinks?

You wonder about inconsequential things like where he keeps his ironing board—his clothes are all perfectly pressed—and where he gets the soft handkerchiefs you found at your bedside without having to ask for them. You wonder if the burns on his hands have something to do with his mask, and why he never, ever removes it. More likely he doesn't trust you and that once you've seen his face, you'll be able to identify him. Still, it's strange—all you've ever seen are his hands.

You wonder what you are doing with your life.

I don't believe in coincidences—but I don't believe in hiding the truth from one's self either. Ever since I read Valerie's note so many years ago, I have recognized the importance of writing as resistance in itself. The Qu'ran was considered in its every word sacred; the writing became a great skill, an art, and there was nothing more beautiful to produce than a hand-illuminated Qu'ran—writing of every kind should be regarded with such reverence. So why should I lie in this journal, which I keep for posterity in the hopes that it may one day be valuable, in a new world? I cannot tolerate cowardice.

I am feeling for Evey more than is—right. More than I can ever reasonably expect to receive in return. The mask was supposed to protect me from this, transform me from a man into a force, an idea. I was not supposed to feel after I put it on. Oh, I certainly do not regret the compassion that led me to protect her from the Fingermen, nor the humanity that prompted me to bring her to the Shadow Gallery. But this is more than compassion, and I cannot allow it to be in any way visible. It could jeopardize my work and her life.

Sometimes I hate the mask as much as I hate the illusory skin beneath it. I have stared at it, before, the empty open eyes, the smirk, the moustache, the impossibly—cherubic, really—cherry cheeks. It is the perfect disguise for my work, but for a person to actually look at it, to try to carry on a conversation with it—it's emptier than no face at all. Sometimes I fantasize about going without it for more than a minute at a time. I toy with the notion of what she would do if she saw. Would she scream? I've heard her scream before.

Is it only natural to feel strongly for the first person to walk into one's life after ages of solitude? No, there is something more to Evey. Can I trust her? No. But could I learn to love her? It's an alarming possibility.

You wake, and you can't breathe. You remember Fuseli's Night Mare and are suddenly glad his tastes don't run to that kind of thing.

You fall out of bed. You hope you aren't heard—why?—and climb back under the covers, catching your breath. It wasn't a nightmare, you realize, still trembling. But you feel claustrophobic. You can't be here, not now. What was the dream? Can you even remember? You can't breathe.

It wasn't a nightmare. But what it was, you're almost too terrified to admit to yourself. You blink back sudden tears. You've heard of the Stockholm Syndrome, but this is ridiculous. You try to make it funny: how long have you been single now? Surely—

You lie back and breathe slowly, but you don't close your eyes. You wish you were unconscious. You stare at shadows.

Kissing, kissing. Warm, soft cloth. Where? Everywhere. Your whole body tingling. Breathe, breathe.

V.

And you never saw his face.

Too many long nights. Too many nights with books. Their voices do come alive, but they aren't human in even the broadest sense. This is why I sleep as little as possible. I willed the nightmares to stop years ago. But this wasn't a nightmare. One thing the moralists and the ethicists could never agree on was whether the thought was the same as the deed. I won't put it in terms of where the sin begins, because I don't believe in sin. Just a concept created to control human behavior.

Shame, they say, is the personal recognition of sin, while guilt is being recognized publicly as having sinned. Which is the more terrible? And to think there she is, sleeping peacefully in another room—further away than a distant star.

She came willingly and did not shrink away. She begged me to take off the mask. I refused, and she did not press it. I almost wept tears of relief. Amazing, to be able to recall sensations I have not felt in a lifetime—so viscerally. (The human mind is really superb sometimes.) I could not kiss her with my mouth, nor even see her with my own eyes—but she lay in my arms . . .

I am glad of the mask. I am not certain the next time I see her I could conceal this.

You have difficulty paying attention to the news. You can't care less about the tripe Sutler is spouting now; still less about the Voice of London. Lewis Prothero always nauseated you anyway.

It's him. There's something about him that's anxious and nervous, not at all the calm, the erudite good humor you've gotten from him before. Sometimes the touch of the nutter, too, but always this composedness. What's going on under that mask? Is he really watching the TV with the avidity and pensiveness that he seems to be? Oh God—don't think about the dream. Whatever you do, don't think about the dream—

"Evey, are you all right?" The mask cocks toward you. You hate it for its lack of expression, when you are so vulnerable—naked. Oh, damn.

"Yes, I'm fine," you snap. You didn't mean to be that terse.

The mask bobs. "We don't have to watch the news." His gloved hand is poised on the remote, but there's reproach in his voice.

"No, it's fine." You get up and sit down again, staring dumbly at the screen. Suddenly it goes black. "What—?"

"I'm sorry to have upset you," he says dully. He stares at you—the stupid mask with its stupid expression stares at you. You think about ripping it off. Ripping off . . . the dream comes back in majestic detail . . . gloves unzipping the back of your evening gown . . . gloves on your bare knees . . . gloves on your cheeks and the nape of your neck . . .

You grimace and look away. "I didn't mind. Turn it back on." You round on him, fixing your gaze with resentment and authority.

He stares. He flicks the TV back on.

You feel flushed. You try to bury your seditious dream. You watch the TV but don't hear or understand a word of it. You're seething, and you're embarrassed. You look over at him; he couldn't be calmer. You look at one gloved hand; it's high on his thigh. Your eyes narrow. An excuse. A poor one. But it must be his fault. A normal person wouldn't have such a dream. It can't come from you. It must come from him . . . "Why do you keep your hand there?"

He seems startled. He turns slowly. "I beg your pardon?"

"That." You shove your chin downwards, not caring how dismal it makes you look. Anything—any accusation—out of you and onto him. "I've been watching all afternoon—I really don't like it."

He lifts his hand. "I don't know what you mean."

You turn away. "Of course you don't. The immaculate V has no acquaintance with vice of any kind." Your voice is sarcastic.

You wait for anger. Anything to dispel this. You want him out of your head. There's only shocked silence. You hear him get up. He walks away silently and disappears before you can turn around. You cover your face with your hands, but don't trust your eyes to close. Gloves. Gloves. Skin. Your mouth, mouth, mouth. Warmth . . . But you never see his face.

Later, you apologize. You begin by looking at your feet, but later you raise your face. You hold in your anger, your frustration, your fear, your hatred of the plastic smiling thing. You try to look beyond it, listen with the ears of the man underneath to what you say. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking," you say. "I was irritated, I was—" You bite your lip, certain that you won't be saying too much. "I didn't sleep well last night and . . ."

He folds his hands, almost as if praying. "Nor did I." You look up, startled. You expect to understand him by looking, but all you can see is blackness. In contrast, you feel like he can see right through you. You don't often think about that night and the Fingermen, but you do now and tremble. You feel colder than you ever have in your life. "Bad dreams?" he asks sympathetically. You nod almost imperceptibly. He takes a step backward. "All men dream, but not equally," he says. "Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind, wake in the morning to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they dream their dreams with open eyes, and make them come true."

You stare. What do you say? It's certainly not Shakespeare. Your heart races. Do you accept it, then? How can you?

"That's T.E. Lawrence," he says humbly.

"Of course," you reply stiffly.

"Are you hungry? You haven't eaten today."

You have no appetite, but you lie. "Yes, I'm starving."

It won't be easy to replace the glass. I suppose it's the least of my worries. I have a lot to prepare for. I know it was a foolish, self-indulgent thing to do. Perhaps the mirrors were foolish and self-indulgent in the first place.

Nothing to do now but sit in the dark, with those ill-fated dreams of her rosy fingertips, coral lips, ivory skin, the fringe of her eyelashes—to be able to touch her with my own hands . . .

"As she leaned the lamp over to have a better view of his face, a drop of burning oil fell on the shoulder of the god. Startled, he opened his eyes and fixed them upon her."

Would it that all I felt was the burning of an oil lamp.

Lawrence quote from The Seven Pillars of Wisdom

Bulfinch translation of "Cupid and Psyche" by Apuleius (1846)