"It was love at first sight, and last sight, and ever and ever sight."
- Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
She was seventeen when she fell deeply, madly in love. It was the first and final time.
He stood among the Rodin castings, as still and serene as any piece of artwork while everyone moved about him. His true face concealed by a even truer masque of himself - a gilded lion with enraged eyes and a roaring maw. She too hid her identity with a yet more accurate one - a jewel-toned butterfly masque, fit for Italian royalty during the days of Fortunato and Montressor.
As they stared at one another, between the entangled limbs of Rodin's lovers, she wondered if it was possible to live one's entire life in a single gaze.
"Excella, mingle. Please," her mother hissed. She took another deep draw of her wine and fanned herself. Her daughter though sat, motionless and drab, except for the swinging of her feet under the chair. "This is all for you, my love… the museum we rented out, the banquet… These scientists… they're here for you. To celebrate you, sweetness." She tried a softer tone, a more encouraging one. "You look so beautiful tonight… so sophisticated. Perhaps you'll meet a boy, yes?"
Excella had years of experience with her mother's antics of vicarious glory. She knew the verbal tricks her mother used, the proverbial strings her mother pulled expertly… to get her beautiful daughter to dance to her marionette beat. Tonight, Excella remained steadfastly her introverted self.
The last thing her mother wanted her to do was "meet a boy". She knew she might as well have become a cloistered nun - her parents would object to any dalliances outside of her work. Her name had to be protected at all costs. She was a Travis, after all; a member of Italy's most wealthy, most devoutly Catholic families.
Which explained how she'd made it to seventeen without ever having been on a date.
Never kissed anyone besides her father, on the cheek.
Let alone, lost her virginity. God forbid.
She was destined, she knew, for mediocre success in her field, a field of study which she did even not truly enjoy, and a somewhat-arranged marriage at a respectable age… perhaps 45, if her meddling parents got exactly what they wanted from their only child.
Her mother tossed back what was left of her drink. "I really… I really cannot understand what in the name of our Lord is wrong now, Excella. Really. What more could you ask for - what more could you possibly expect?"
Excella picked at her manicured nails until the edge of a French tip chipped off. There. Much better, she thought to herself as her mother looked on, appalled.
"With my help pushing you through the red tape, you've completed University a full three years ahead of schedule." Her mother sounded increasingly agitated. She always listed off her "accomplishments" when Excella upset her. "And… and your father introduced you to that gentleman… what was his name? Rossi. Jonathan Rossi. And now look where you are! You're the youngest geneticist Tricell has ever hired!"
Excella turned to her mother. "The only reason for any of this is Grandmother, Mama."
Her mother bristled at the mention of her own deceased parent. She glared at Excella and crossed herself before getting up. "I need another drink," she snapped and stalked off.
Excella sipped a seltzer water through two little straws, not out of thirst but boredom. She weaved in and out of little throngs of notable, noisy people without attracting notice at her own grand celebration. It was a testament to the nickname which had followed her throughout her short life: Piccolo Topo… Little Mouse. She sauntered, her gaze on the marble tiles of the art museum's great foyer, one foot just in front of the other, counting her strange tiny steps, almost clumsy in her silver kitten heels. Her eyes drifted up eventually, taking in magnificent works of Renaissance art - The School of Athens, Lamentation of Christ, Lady with an Ermine… and finally, Venus of Urbino.
Her fingers, of their own will, fondled the simple gold cross at her throat.
In the background of the painting was a young girl, digging through a chest, and a matronly woman looking on. In the foreground, there was a bed on which a small dog was curled upon itself, sleeping… and of course, reclining among the pillows was the always-nude Venus.
She followed the curve of the breasts, the pebbled nipples, the soft pale belly, and finally, the hand that rested between her legs. Was it resting though, truly? Or was she… could she be…
Excella lifted her feathered masque and looked down at the painting's plaque. A gift from husband to wife with many hidden meanings.
She tapped her little plastic cup as she read about the training of a 17th Century wife. She looked up again, into Venus's placid face and wondered how a woman could be expected to be all things, at all times. It seemed… an unwinnable war.
Perhaps the nunnery was not such a bad prospect.
She tugged her masque back down over her eyes and noticed, in her peripheral vision, a very tall blond man in an entirely black tuxedo. His back was to her; his masque must have been quite large and elaborate, as even from behind, she could see the tumbling of a golden mane.
She moved on from the Venus of Urbino, thinking nothing more of it, or the man in all black.
A string quartet and skilled pianist played waltzes and mazurkas into the late evening, and the hundreds of guests grew louder and looser with the plying of expensive, but free, alcohol. Women dressed in slinking gowns of lavender, pink, and turquoise ate hors d'oeuvres of buttered escargot and garnet caviar while they laughed too joyously to be truthful. Men held martinis, some with skewers of Spanish olives and others with slices of blood orange, and talked quite seriously amongst themselves about nothing serious at all.
Excella was an island in the crowds. She stood by herself next to Rodin's famed The Kiss. She had long since found somewhere else to stare, as the sculpture, in it's rapturous beauty and divine sensuality, depressed her. She knew the statue very well, anyway - to the chagrin of a professor named Sister Rosalie, she had reproduced The Kiss in a colloquium art class.
Her mother had booked the damn museum simply because the priceless piece was on loan to Florence at the time of her inauguration into Tricell Pharmaceuticals Incorporated.
And now that it was live, in-person, dynamic… she couldn't find it in herself to look at it.
The irony burned Excella fiercely.
"Poor Paolo and Francesca… doomed to wander hell eternal."
She turned so suddenly she nearly spilled the cup of seltzer water in her hands.
The man in all black, with the elaborate glittering masque, was standing on the other side of the marble lovers. She saw his character clearly then - a furious lion, beset by a jeweled mane, pulling it's feline lips back to reveal intimidating gold fangs. The feathers of her own masque quivered; she felt her cheeks redden, thankfully beneath all of the rhinestones and sequins.
The string quartet retired for a song, staying their instruments for the piano solo - Nocturnes: No. 1 in F Minor. The first haunting notes seemed to float up to the vaulted glass ceiling of the museum and through to the cold white stars above them.
"This was —" he began, gesturing to the marble sculpture.
"Their first kiss," she finished his thought, breathless.
He studied her then and just under the gold fangs of his lion's head, she saw his lips jerk into a tight smile. His eyes were hooded by a heavy, furrowed brow, but she saw that they glinted in the soft, dim light. The world seemed to stop as they stared at each other.
"Albert Wesker," he said after a beat.
"Excella Gionne," she replied, her voice still seeming an unpracticed squeak to his velvety lilt.
"So you… are what all of this fuss is about."
She sighed and nodded, sheepish.
"I detest… essentially everyone here," he said then, his hands in his pockets as he glanced around. No one noticed them, the lion and the butterfly; they were alone together in a sea of familiar strangers.
"So do I," she agreed, refreshed by his forwardness. Her heart beat hard in her chest and she had no idea why.
His fingers found the edge of his masque. He made to pull it off… but then stopped. "I'll show you if you show me," he whispered conspiratorially.
She smiled at him and licked her lips. Her hand, shaking terribly, readied her masque.
"On the count of three," he said.
She smile more widely then, despite herself.
"One."
The music played on.
"Two."
She couldn't hear the roar of the drunken patrons anymore - only his voice.
"Three."
Both of them drew their masques off at the exactly the same moment, and then stood, gazing at each other over the eternally damned lovers.
He was beautiful - not an angel, nor a demon… somehow both. Everything about him, from his bronze skin to his arrogant smirk. Everything made her heart stammer.
"Your eyes…" She managed between halting gasps.
He looked around slyly, as if to check that they were still alone in the world. "Yes. My eyes," he smiled wickedly.
She touched the cross again, her whole body suddenly weak.
Moving so quickly she almost didn't see, he took the hand that held the crucifix in his own and drew her arm across the distance between them. Before she had a chance to protest, he lifted her knuckles to his lips and looked unblinking into her eyes.
The unnatural heat of his mouth seemed to scorch her skin; his lips, wet and hot, seared a brand into her, marking her forever as his.
She felt, all at once, that her life had started and ended in that single moment.
She could do nothing about it. It was done.
"And… if I could get Miss Excella Gionne herself up here for a second," came another American voice, nasal and awkward. Somehow, through her fog of realized predestination, she heard her name called and looked around to see that she wasn't alone… not at all. And the eyes of parents' associates, her new co-workers were upon her, drowning her in the attention she'd avoided all evening.
The American at the microphone tapped it against something metal, sending a vibration and screech through the museum that made the entirety of the ball cringe. "Oops… jeez. Sorry!" he laughed. "Uh… Miss Gionne? Anyone see Miss Gionne around here?"
She turned back to Albert Wesker to find that he'd repositioned the lion's face, disguising himself again from unwanted curiosity.
"Miss Gionne?" the American called and a murmur ran through the crowd. Excella's mother stood off to the side, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
"Go," Albert Wesker whispered, his clever grin still visible under the lion's snarl. "Go now… I'll find you again. I've already found you a thousand times in a thousand lives."
She turned to the man with the microphone then, smoothing the front of her gown… and hesitantly raised her hand.
"Here," she said quietly. "I'm here."
"Excella!" her mother barked. "What on earth are you dilly-dallying for?"
Excella stood on the museum steps as the well-dressed party-goers rushed and stumbled around her on their way to their cars. In the round-about, dozens of dark-tinted vehicles pulled up - Range Rovers, Mercedes-Benz, and Bentleys, ready and waiting for their precious, tipsy cargo. In the chaos, she rose to tip-toe, searching for a lion in a sea of drunks.
But her lion, sadly, was nowhere to be found.
And so she stood there, in a swarm of people she didn't even recognize, waiting for her life to start again.
Her mother stormed up the steps, some stern words on the tip of her tongue… but she stopped short at her daughter's forlorn expression.
"Excella?" she asked in a moment of genuine concern.
Excella only stared at her as if she didn't know her.
"Oh honey… you're exhausted… look at you… Let's get you home, hmm?"
Excella let herself be led down the steps to her father's waiting limousine. Once she was tucked away safely inside, she cast a final glance at the museum, lit up like a Christmas tree.
She saw Albert Wesker standing near a giant spotlight, which sent a great column of white into the night sky. He pushed the golden masque up so that she caught one last glimpse of his stunning eyes as her father's car turned a corner and disappeared.