Thanks, everyone, for the reviews - Aphaea21, Pensez-a-Erik, Child of Dreams, smrb, MaFerviolon, Phantomgirl24, SloaneDestler, SpookyMormonHellDream, phanrose, peantutpup, crawfordphantomluvr, lindaweng, Badpixie06, FleshofMidnight, and Batty Dings for the lovely reviews!
Enjoy!
Erik
Chapter 73
The Performer
My journey from Vienna to Moscow was a blur of cheap tavern beds and magic tricks. I went for the lowest-tier places, the establishments in slums, because no reputable business wanted a tall, thin young man in a mask. So I never stayed in one place for long. When I wasn't performing magic, I was purchasing books, reading them, and promptly leaving them behind (when I was unsuccessful selling them). I was playing music in my head, imagining there were keys beneath my fingers. Or I was walking through cities, not wanting to sit still and do nothing for long. I brought a lasso with me, hidden in my coats on a cold day, or brought a knife in my pocket on hot days, never forgetting Giovanni's lessons in self-defense should I find I need them
The silent moments were when images and voices emerged. Lost souls that I'd never see again.
So I never allowed myself silence. Never allowed myself rest. Even when I slept, I didn't dare put my head on the pillow until my mind couldn't stay awake any longer.
I was seventeen, performing in the streets at dusk, several streets from the Kremlin - just so far away that its star-shaped tip was visible - when the requests began.
People asking to see my face at the end of my performances had not been anything new. Every night, at least once, a person would ask for me to remove my mask after a magic performance. I knew that was what they were asking - they would speak, I would say I spoke French, and they would point to their own face, pantomime removing a mask. But I always ignored it. I walked away.
But this time, it was most of my onlookers. They demanded it. They were insistent.
I'd stayed in Moscow too long, I realized. Several weeks, much longer than I normally remained in one place. And now people were spreading word - talking amongst themselves: what lay behind the mask of the mysterious street magician?
And in that moment, I just - I didn't care. I was so far past caring. I'd already endured years of mockery and terror at my appearance - then a reprieve of peace and love. Now it was only fitting that I should return to my life before.
What could result from my showing my face, really? What could the outcome be?
At worst - the sound of screams. So gut-wrenching. So insulting. So what?
At best - an even larger salary when those with a fetish for the macabre paid handsomely for the sight of my face.
So I obliged them.
The best and worst at once.
Screams, yes, but even more money in my canvas bag.
At least this time, I was in control of my earnings. Of when and where I showed my face. And in that way, I felt power. The pain of what Javert forced me to do couldn't hurt me if I took ownership of it.
So as the crowd deepened, Moscow's interest piqued. Day by day, I added on what I'd learned to do so many years ago. All of the knowledge I'd learned combined into one performance.
Once the magic ended, and they demanded my face, I showed them. I sang a song - a deeply sad, horribly dark song, about a corpse in a grave who falls in love with a bouquet placed at his tombstone; but of course he can never touch her, for the cruel earth, nature itself, separates them.
I didn't dance. I didn't sing frightening songs - my visage was horrifying enough. No, instead, I wanted them to feel what I felt.
Loss.
Heartbreak.
Emptiness.
And they did. Every night, they did.
And they always came back for more.
At a certain point, I realized, I was not leaving Russia. The tavernkeeper was advertising that the Masked Magician was living there- I was paying half the rate just so I would stay. And I was making more money than I ever had.
But I was not comfortable. I never would be, not ever again. Nothing felt right or whole. I was simply existing for the sake of existing. No real meaning to life other than to merely stay alive.
I nearly fell asleep thinking these thoughts when thunder began overhead.
And I didn't know what it was about it, but the sound brought the image of Sasha, hanging from the tree, straight to the space behind my eyes.
I sat up, electrified, breathing deeply.
That night had been one of the worst in my life, and though I'd certainly been uncomfortable with the sound of thunder after that point, I hadn't feared it. I hadn't reacted to it like this.
But now, I think, the loneliness - the hopelessness and pointlessness - brought those memories back in full force. And though I'd done such an excellent job all my life of pushing those thoughts away, I found that now they wouldn't release me.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the room momentarily through the opaque curtains.
I closed my eyes, anticipating the roar, wincing when it came.
I was here because my family was dead. I was alone in Moscow, scared of a little thunder in the middle of the night, because my family was dead.
My family was dead because I tried to steal the necklace.
I tried to steal the necklace because I fell in love with Luciana.
I fell in love with Luciana because I decided to stay with Giovanni. Because I was offered a home. Because I tried to steal from Carmelo and Vincenzo. Because I ran away from France. Because I killed Javert. Because Javert killed Cerberus and showed cruelty to me for years. Because I was sold to him to be an attraction piece. Because Marie died. Because Sasha died.
Because I let Sasha outside.
Because I gave her a bit of cheese.
That was why I was here.
All of it - every moment of pain - could have been avoided had I eaten that cheese rather than given it to my dog.
Thunder continued to rumble outside.
I closed my eyes and imagined myself folding, piece by piece, into myself. Folded one time. Two times. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Seven.
The common knowledge was that a piece of paper could be folded seven times before it could no longer bend. Before it simply wouldn't budge, and it was either stagnant or had to be unfolded.
How many times had I been forced to fold? Surely more than seven. How many more times could I continue to double over until I could no longer move? Until the only solutions were for me to stand still or unfold altogether?
How much more could I bend until I at last snapped completely in half?
