Twinkle and Die--

Part II:

"Then must you speak
of one that loved not wisely
but too well;
Of one not easily jealous,
but being wrought
perplex'd in the extreme"

There is always an energy in the air before a performance, a force so tangible I can almost taste it when I take a breath. This flow of emotion, fueled by anticipation and the surreal feeling of magic that accompanies a night out, emanates from the crowd as Clarice and I make our way into the theatre. I pause for just a moment to admire the architecture of the old building. The wood is dark, rich, and beautifully carved. Paintings and sculpture adorn the sides of the stairways, making the ascent all the more pleasing to the eye.

We take our seats in a private box almost directly over the stage. In the short amount of time before the house-lights fade to darkness, the audience murmurs and points at the majestic domed ceiling that hovers far above the auditorium. Clarice grasps my thumb, and we discuss the upcoming show.

As the curtains rise I catch a brief glimpse of a seemingly familiar face. However, it is too dark to be certain. When I look again the face is gone.

-------

In light of the economic upheaval and violence in the country, it is fitting that this Argentine-based theatre company has chosen to perform a tragedy. One of Shakespeare's more focused tragedies, at that. Othello. Adapted into Spanish whilst preserving the iambic verse, and with, astonishingly, the minimum of lumbering contrivances. Shakespeare translations rarely work well, in my experience. I am pleasantly surprised to find myself enjoying the show. The cast is small, but they succeed at capturing the flawed humanity of the play. In all its ... glory. Yes.

Iago, swathed in jealousy and dissatisfaction - Shakespeare's greatest failing is his tendency to reduce his characters to a set of influences, one exception of course being the delightfully nihilistic Aaron, another Moor, though one infinitely less stupid than Othello - constructs a labyrinth of corruption with a dark sort of grace. It is this quality that allows him to manipulate and control. The ease with which mankind can be coaxed has always struck me as a source of amusement, as well as being ... convenient.

Thus far, the language is the only factor of the performance that I find even remotely tedious. I prefer the translation to be in English so that I can experience the full effect of Shakespeare.

On the stage before me Iago deceives Othello into believing that Desdemona is having an affair with Cassio. Then the house-lights gradually rise again, and it is intermission.

I am impressed enough by the performance to purchase a souvenir booklet from a theatre attendant. I browse the first few pages at a leisurely pace, and watch with mild amusement as Clarice entertains herself by counting the number of diamonds that sparkle in the crowd below us.

"May I see that?" Clarice nods at my hand, indicating the small booklet I hold. I pass it to her, and she flips through the glossy pages. Several loose papers tumble out, covered with advertisements from the local businesses that sponsor the theatre. Clarice scans through disinterestedly, and then abruptly stops. Suddenly, her demeanor is unnaturally strained; as though she is again in the field as an FBI agent, and is unsure of whether she is hunter or prey.

"What is wrong, Clarice?"

She absently chews her bottom lip - an endearing practice seen only when she is concentrating hard - and then draws a shaky breath, before launching into her explanation.

"It appears that the local authorities are desperate to locate our waiter from earlier this evening. They've inserted a bulletin all about him among these advertisements...unfortunately it seems he has a rather interesting hobby."

"Hmm? Well, it can't be more so than mine," I say neutrally, and wait for Clarice to continue. She rolls her eyes, a barely noticeable smirk playing across her lips.

"Well, according to this," Clarice tells me, indicating the insert she holds, "he enjoys stalking women, brutally killing them, and for days after the murder engaging in acts of necrophilia. He's the killer the newspapers have labelled 'Amante de Muerte'."

"His idea of romance is certainly charming," I reply and gaze at the picture. Clarice's voice gains momentum as she continues in a very professional manner. She could almost be reporting to Jack Crawford, as she had on so many occasions in the past.

"Three victims so far, and a fourth who narrowly escaped and was able to give the police a description. Hence the photofit. Hot off the press, it seems - I expect it'll be in the papers tomorrow. It isn't perfect, and he's altered his appearance since the one that got away... but I recognized him."

It is indeed the revolting creature, though his nose is not so prominent and he is brandishing a well maintained goatee. But his complexion is still the same, as is the hateful fire in his eyes. I strongly doubt that contacts of even the highest quality could suppress that dire presence.

I voice my agreement and find myself thinking back upon my possible sighting of the killer. I decide to inform Clarice of the situation, I know all too well that wariness is necessary for survival.

"Clarice, I believe that I might have seen this Amante de Muerte in the audience."

Clarice arches an eyebrow, and nods slowly in understanding.

"I will keep my eyes open," she replies.

It is the only assurance I need.

The end of intermission discourages us from conversing further. But although I am now engulfed by the spell of the stage, in the back of my mind I am already beginning to decide how to resolve this situation...


-------

Dancing on the terrace is a habit that Clarice and I indulge almost nightly.We don't always need music. Sometimes we create our own. With every step I spiral even further beyond the horizon of reality. The only sensation I know - or care to know - is that of Clarice, gracefully gliding against me. In these moments every molecule of my body yearns to consume her completely, and merge with these valuable seconds to forever exist in this dance. There would be no past and no future, only the very sense that defines completeness.

As if one thousand teacups shatter on the floor, the dance ends. But the experience lingers far into the night and will dwell permanently in my memory palace.

--------

Morning brings to light the simple pleasures of life. A light breeze carries in exotic fragrances from the city through the window, fluttering the curtains. As Clarice sits before the mirror in our bedroom, slowly brushing her hair, I find the sight of the sun highlighting her face enchanting. I approach her, unable to resist, and lower my lips to murmur seductively in her ear.

"How do you feel about going out to breakfast this morning, Clarice?"

Gooseflesh is suddenly wracking her frame, and I reward her responsiveness with a whispered kiss. Our eyes meet as we look into the glass.

"I think that is a wonderful idea." Her eyes widen innocently. "I'm famished."

"How terribly gratifying to know, my dear. Shall we go to the Café de la Plata y del Hierro, then?"

Clarice nods in agreement. "Why don't we give the servants the afternoon off?" I pause for an instant, beholding the unspoken promise in her eyes. I offer a casual smile in return.

"A thoughtful idea, Clarice. I'll send a message."


--------

The driver pulls up in our sleek Mercedes as soon as Clarice and I step outside. I open the car door for her and she settles into the backseat, looking dashing in Armani with her hair swept off her neck in a delicate twist.

The Café de la Plata y del Hierro is a quaint establishment nestled among many shops and tourist attractions. The pastries served here are worthy of L'Artisan Boulanger Patissier in Paris. Clarice and I find an empty table and wait patiently for someone to come with a menu. Behind the counter is a row of ornate antique mirrors, which I take the time to appreciate. Through the mirrors I am able to examine the streams of people passing by outside the Café windows.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, the very man that I have recently come to loathe appears. He is peering in the Plata y del Hierro display case, pretending to window shop. But his eyes are really fixed on Clarice, as she innocently peruses a freshly delivered menu. My own lies untouched on the table before me. The killer does not realize that I observe him. I watch his every move until he is again swallowed up by the swarms of people on the streets outside.

My plan to discreetly and completely eliminate Amante de Muerte in a timely fashion has been thwarted. Unfortunately time is not something I now have at my disposal. I must take a much more immediate course of action. From what I have gathered from the police bulletin and the news, mere days pass in between one victim and the next. Therefore I can only be certain that he will strike again soon.

And clearly, this killer has found his next target.