Gracie watched as Darius stirred the contents of the saucepan on the stove. The movement, which had been slow at first, had been gradually increasing in speed, and now Darius was beating the paste thoroughly. It must be already thick, Gracie thought. Now Darius would set it off the stove and let it cool down, still beating it, and then he would take it to Papa's room, where Papa and Uncle Nadir had locked themselves right after the doctor's visit.
Gracie thought it was foolish they had closed the door and proceeded with such secrecy, for she had already guessed what they were doing. It wasn't the first time she had seen paste been made, and she knew what it was being used for. She and Papa had made a lot of figures of papier-mâché in the past and Papa had been quite uncomfortable without his mask these days. He had repeated over and over that he'd make another one as soon as the bandages were taken off, and the doctor had said that same morning that the wound on his forehead had healed.
What she didn't understand was why they didn't let her help. Perhaps they deemed the sight was not fit for a child's eyes, just as they said their whispered discussions, in which they called each other arrogant, hard-nosed, self-righteous camel and stiff-necked, sullen, over-suspicious mule, were not fit for a child's ears.
Gracie didn't mind they left her out of their conversations. She listened to bits of them from the hall, anyway. But it was boring to be left alone the whole morning. Besides, she didn't like it when she couldn't check on Papa now that he was ill. She was afraid he would faint again. She quivered and felt, once again, the urge to see him, to make sure he was doing all right.
"What is it, Gracie? Are you cold?"
Gracie lifted her eyes to meet those of a concerned Darius. She shook her head.
"Are you sure?"
Gracie nodded. Darius nodded too, though he could sense there was something wrong with the child. It would take some time to coax out of Gracie whatever was bothering her, and he had to bring the paste to Monsieur Erik before it was too cold. He headed out of the kitchen, but he hadn't crossed the threshold when a timid voice called after him.
"Darius. . ."
Darius turned around briskly. He had known there was something amiss.
"Yes?"
"When will they finish?"
"They are almost done, Gracie," he answered, before he went down the hall and into Monsieur Erik's room, with Gracie at his heels.
He couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt as he closed the door behind him. He had trouble dealing with Gracie's pitiful look of pleading.
The room was in complete havoc. Not that it had been very tidy since the onset of Monsieur Erik's illness, but today, with all the activity that had followed the doctor's visit, it seemed something close to a bazaar. Monsieur Erik had insisted on sitting up for the process of making the masks, so the armchair, usually by the fireplace, had been placed by the window, besides the desk. It's back and arms had been covered by towels. The desk held a bowl of water, bandages, pieces of ripped paper and the two masks that had already been finished. Pieces of paper had flown from the desk and lay scattered on the floor. The fire was burning low on the grate. Neither Monsieur Nadir nor Darius had time to stoke it. There were empty, dirty teacups on the nightstand, besides the usual half-filled glass of water and bottles of prescriptions. That day's newspaper was splayed out on the empty, disarrayed bed. Perhaps if Monsieur Erik could be persuaded to sit up a little bit longer, mused Darius, he would have the chance to change the sheets. Monsieur Erik had always been quite peevish about order and cleanliness, and now that he was once again coming close to himself he'd started noticing the small chaos of which he was the centre.
Darius left the pot with the paste on the desk and soaked a piece of paper in it. He handed it to Monsieur Kahn, who applied it to the partly finished half-mask on Monsieur Erik's face. Then Darius held the mirror up so Monsieur Erik could look at the process.
"We'll only need a couple more," said Erik.
Darius noticed Monsieur Erik was now reclining his head on the back of the chair, and the movement of his hand, which indicated the place where the next paste-soaked piece of paper had to be applied, was slow and a little bit vague. He must be terribly tired already.
After the mask was finally placed besides its two companions, Darius set the washbasin on Monsieur Erik's lap and handed the water jug to Monsieur Kahn.
"I need to arrange the bed, Monsieur Kahn," he explained.
"I can wash myself," interrupted Erik curtly.
"It will be easier if someone pours the water for you, my friend," replied Nadir.
"I'd rather do it."
"It will be faster this way. Gracie is waiting."
Years as the Daroga of Mazanderan had trained Nadir's voice to modulate with a tone of finality that could not always be contested. Erik sighed and cupped his hands to receive the water.
Gracie had been gnawing at her thumbnail and measuring the precise distance that separated Papa's door from hers. There were exactly twenty-two feet. If Papa measured it with his, it would surely be no longer than ten feet or so. She turned around and flattened herself against her door to check that she had measured correctly when the door to Papa's room opened. Instead of closing it straightaway, Darius made space so she could come in. Her eyes fell immediately on Papa's bed, and a sick feeling tightened her stomach when she saw it was empty, the covers carefully smoothed and open. She was elated when she spotted Papa, in a clean nightshirt, sitting on the armchair. She ran to him and leant her head on the blanket that covered his lap. Papa's hand caressed her head.
"Look at the masks we've made, Gracie," Uncle Nadir's soft voice spoke from behind.
She lifted her head and peeked over the arm of the chair. There were three of them, not just one!
"Go have a look," said Papa.
She went to the desk and climbed on the chair to get a better view. They were half-masks, very similar to the porcelain one he had always worn, but they didn't have any eye slits.
"What about the eye?" She asked, turning around.
She was shocked still when she noticed Uncle Nadir was grabbing Papa's forearms to help him stand. Slowly, falteringly, supported by Uncle Nadir, Papa crossed the room. He didn't answer her, as if the few steps required all of his concentration. Only when he was sitting on the bed, he seemed to grasp the meaning of her question. He smiled, but the smile didn't brighten his eyes.
"We'll have to wait until they're dry to cut the eye out," he explained, as he clumsily leant on his side and lifted his legs.
After what seemed an eternity, he was lying on the bed.
"And then we'll also have to give them a coat of paint. Would you like to do that, Gracie?"
"Not to the ones I'll take to the porcelain maker," interrupted Uncle Nadir.
Papa furrowed his brow.
"You're such a bore, Nadir," he complained, and despite his frighteningly slow and clumsy movements, despite the dread that his weakness provoked in her, Gracie smiled.
"Can I put on the ribbons too?" she asked.
"Of course you can, love. Unless there's some Persian rule of decorum against it."
Uncle Nadir cast such an offended look at Papa that Gracie couldn't help but giggle.
