Masque by Bethany Pope Read Free Book Online Page B

have had no reason to recognise me if I had been silent. I had not seen myself in years, but when I could think lucidly I felt the scars and pustules and knew that I was worse.
    I was singing a song that the nuns had taught me long ago, ‘Au clair de la lune mon ami Pierrot prête-moi ta plume pour écrire un mot ma chandelle est mort. Je n’ai plus de feu ouvre-moi ta porte pour l’amour de Dieu.’
    â€˜Erik?’ I looked up into his fat, wide-eyed face. I did not know him, but the word he spoke itched at my brain like a phrase in a forgotten language. ‘Erik? My God, lad, is it you?’
    I could not move; such shame filled me, such deep terror. I sat there, trembling in filth. He spoke to me softly, until I calmed enough to remember my life and tell him of my troubles, of my betrayal at the hands of our former foreman. It all returned to me as I spoke, along with a rising sensation of resentment that he, of all people, should find me like this! I was silent, my song departed.
    Knowing that our time was brief, I hurried in my narrative, speaking as clearly as I could, clutching the bars with my hands which he touched, once, giving as much comfort as he could stand. He knew that it hurt me terribly to speak. Still, his eyes slid from my face.
    I was used to baring my visage to the air, I knew how terrible it was, how the youngest children cried at the sight of it while the adolescents hurled their gobs of wilted lettuce wrapped around round apples of horse dung. How the men came from farms and dockyards to compare the hard part-healed lesions on my face to particular pieces of female anatomy. I was used to the way the young women either covered their nostrils with squares of perfumed silk and hurried past, or gawped up at me like over-bred hens drowning in a rainstorm, beginning to laugh after the horror-blanche had fled their faces and the nervous laughter bubbled up.
    I’d made a lot of money for my owner. His investment paid off.
    Garnier left quickly, almost as soon as I had finished speaking, after slipping me a knife so that I might slice free my wire-bound fingers. My hands were always fastened to make eating more difficult and increase the spectacle of my ‘act’. The padlocks on the door were filled with lead solder; when Garnier returned that night he brought a pair of strong bolt-cutters that sliced the lead like butter. We escaped without incident, disturbing neither dogs nor big the bull elephant that slept in its chains, and I spent the remainder of the year recovering in the sane, ivy-covered villa where Garnier rested between projects. I made a new mask, acquired new bearings, planned. There were vineyards on the property and I walked them, pacing the rows in my new tailored suits, learning the craft. At night I caught up on my music composition and architectural studies. The lush rococo forms I favoured were coming into vogue and I knew that with the right commission I could earn a lot of money while fulfilling a long-held, treasured dream combining both my prime interests. I took up boating for a while, early in the morning. I loved it then, when the world was quiet. I developed a taste for the sea.
    6.
    It seems to the world that politics and art are joined masters. Certainly, if one wishes to advance in the world, one must be seen to bow to convention. I will not bow, and my face was not made to wear a simper, so it would seem that my desires were doomed to be thwarted. This was not so. I paid a steep price to survive my life in the cage. Something vital was burnt out of me (and I was only half-human to begin with – I have not much spare) but something also was gained. My will was hardened. Even Monsieur Garnier acknowledged this change in me and expressed it in our relations. The former-Master became my mask, facing the world with his form and voice but strictly adhering to my decisions.
    When Emperor Napoleon III decided that he wished to commission a new