Masks On the Counter

November 12, this year
Venice, Italy
11:16 am CEST

Astrid is dreaming.

She sits in a cold classroom. It is late February. Ice clusters in the corners of a huge plate window. She shivers. Professor Clive Wadden’s lectures. His baritone vibrates the air—the walls—the sheet of note paper beneath her fingers.

“It is as easy as A is for Apple. A is an A. We need not make it complex. Tell me, how is the apple of the Ancients and the apple of the modern era dissimilar? How are the Egyptian pharaohs or Christ, and the Fab Four, dissimilar? All are stories. All are brands. All are icons. They are the characters of narrative despite their organic reality. An apple grows on a tree. We make a pie. Now, an apple from the Tree of Life is a different matter, of course. A taste of that apple will open your eyes to sin. Today’s apple connected to the internet will open your eyes to the modern information age—or cat memes. Pharaohs and gods preach peace and love just as the Beatles sermonized, All you need is love.”

Hands go up. Wadden says, “Sylvia?”

“Pharaohs were gods, the Beatles were a pop group.”

Wadden stares at her. Waits. He then replies, “I could as easily say that the Pharaohs were a pop group and the Beatles were gods.”

Sylvia shakes her head, “Well, no. The Pharaohs as gods managed to build pyramids—they were worshiped—”

“And the Beatles weren’t worshiped? Come now. Beatlemania? I think both Christ and Mohammed would have been slightly jealous—John Lennon was absolutely correct on every level when he stated during an interview that the Beatles were more popular than Christ. The problem was, the Christ fearing American public had no idea of what a god looked like when they saw one. They were, and perhaps still are, expecting white-bearded ghostly fathers, galloping horses from the clouds, or rays of phantasmic light from Heaven. It is a new day. Humanism has begun to blur the supernatural branding. We’re getting too smart. Elvis, Madonna, Steve Jobs, The Beatles are emissaries sent to teach us about how we believe in stories.

“And as far as building pyramids? Well, perhaps The Beatles did not build pyramids, but they were certainly involved in constructing something far more enduring than a megalithic structure of stones. They and their contemporaries gave us a completely new foundation to thinking—a new perspective on humanism. They helped us all to think for ourselves. To question the old tales—the old mythologies. War is out, love is in. Blind ignorance is out, searching and thought are in. They gave us the keys to our own minds—that due to thousands of years of superstition, fear, and the ignorance of bondage, were locked away in the churches and temples. They gave us the weapon that would kill god. Our minds.” He laughs. “And because we know better, we don’t regard John Lennon as a lightning throwing, all seeing, ruling from on high god. At one time, a walrus, maybe. But his brand, his symbol, his message, his place in the cosmic drama is fixed. His story, like every deity, is the same.”

Astrid’s hand goes up.

“Miss Finnley?”

She says, “Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?”

Professor Wadden smiles. “Ah, Nietzsche. He was the fifth Beatle, you know.”

“Astrid. Astrid. Wake up.” It is Marcel. He is whispering. “Ravistelle is early. He is here. Astrid…”

She sits up quickly. “What?”

“Ravistelle is in the storefront,” he points to a place she has not yet seen.

“How long have I been asleep?” Outside the day is brighter, but not by much. The silver sky leaks out an even sheen while clusters of slate clouds knuckle their way in from the ocean. She rubs the drowse from her eyes. Fausto’s desk, his web collage, his books and his new friends from the United States are hidden—curtained off from the rest of his living space. The adrenaline rushing into her bloodstream is becoming an expectation.

Marcel stands, crosses to the curtain and peeks. “Just through the door there is Fausto’s storefront. He sent me to wake you as soon as he saw Ravistelle turn the corner.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Not a minute.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

Astrid stands. “Is there a way we can see him?”

“Probably,” Marcel says facing her. “But Fausto said we should stay in here.”

The adrenaline converts to confidence. “I did not cross the planet to hide in a back office while Albion Ravistelle is in the house.” She slips through the curtain and moves quietly in the direction of voices.

“Aren’t these the people that wanted you dead?” Marcel whispers, following her closely.

She does not respond. She rushes silently to the opposite door, leans her head through and listens. She hears voices. Some laughter, someone says, “Oh, look at this one.” Astrid descends three stairs, and enters into a room of high shelves—a maze of rows. Upon the selves, lit up bright with a spectrum of color, and displayed for sale are hundreds of empty-eyed masquerade masks. Tiny white price tags dangle on strings and whirl in the warm furnace breeze. Through the rows she sees shoppers. A couple of Americans, “Honey, look at this one…” An elderly woman with her hands behind her back peruses in the far corner of the shop. Fausto is speaking quietly to a man at the front counter. The man wears a suit of deep grey. A long coat is folded over his arm. His back is to Marcel and Astrid.

Rounding a row, careful to remain behind Ravistelle, the two position themselves within hearing. As they cross the aisle, Fausto and Astrid catch eyes. His expression is unmoved.

“What beauty, my friend,” Albion says. He leans down to inspect the mask maker’s work. One hand hovers over the piece sitting upon the counter as if he were placing a blessing upon it. “I have never seen anything like it. Fausto, my friend, you have yet again outdone yourself.”

Fausto appears relieved and delighted with the compliment. What might be thirty-seconds tick by when the front door opens and a quaint shop bell rings. November’s chill rushes in as the American couple and the elderly woman exit.

“Buongiorno,” Fausto waves.

Ravistelle continues to admire the mask. He issues a satisfied sigh every few moments. Fausto remains still, his pupils flitting to the shelves seeking for the fugitives he is hiding.

“How is my bride’s mask coming along?”

Fausto nods, looking tense now. Albion’s attention is still immersed in the treasure upon the counter. “It is nearly finished. It will be the perfect counterpart to your mask here, though it is beyond anything I have made before. It will be my masterwork.”

Albion breathes out another sigh of satisfaction. “As it should be for my beloved.”

“And how is Helen?” Fausto asks. His tone is simple and neighborly.

“She is well. She is traveling, currently, but she will return in time to join the festivities.”

“And your daughter, Crystal. She is well I hope.”

“She is,” Albion replies. “She, too, is abroad with family.” He raises up and stands straight. “You will have the masks delivered to my house?”

“I will,” Fausto says, placing a soft cut of velvet over the mask. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

Astrid can now see Albion Ravistelle’s profile through the shelves—a face that has haunted her dreams. His eyes are dark and complex. His posture is elegant, reverent and noble. The tone of his voice demands attention and something near worship. “I thank you,” he says.

Then there is a shift. An expression barely perceptible in his face, the way the quality of sunlight changes as a single high altitude cloud casts a distant shadow. “There was no need for her to run, Fausto.” The mask maker does not raise his focus from the delicate process of wrapping his work. Albion says, “She must have been terrified. I know she is here.”

Astrid is suddenly aware that she has been holding her breath. And now, her lungs thirst for oxygen. She closes her eyes and allows her lungs to drink in the air, slowly—silently.

“I know Astrid Finnley is here, and I know you are hiding her.” Albion’s voice is quiet with both a quality of sadness and something else—something cruel, pitiless.