The Meridian Gamble

by Garcia, Daniel

  The woman has reddish-brown hair that flows in luxurious tresses down her back. A few locks hang over the side of her face in a dramatic way. Even with the simple white mask on her face, her beauty is breathtaking. Another man standing at their edge seems handsome enough, with black hair cut short, and a steely gaze. Yet, a third man at their center stands in sharp contrast to the others. He is completely bald with a shine to his head, and his mouth twists into a sickening grimace. And I would swear for a moment that his smile is filled with jagged, sharp teeth. But this simply cannot be.

  I try not to look at the strangers, but I cannot stop myself from taking covert peeks their way.

  The trio put on the casual air of the wealthy elite, but there is something odd about them. And it would seem that my eyes play tricks on me. Waves seem to come from their bodies, not unlike the kind that ripple from the ground on a very hot day, and I must blink several times to make the effect go away. But I am certain there is a strange power about them. The bald one begins to turn in my direction, and I panic, and finally force myself to pay attention to the singer once more.

  I cannot stare into the jagged man’s eyes. They have a certain intensity, like Roland’s do, and I feel he can see right through me. But in the case of the bald one, I suspect his gaze might stop my heart, or make me explode.

  When the sad song ends, applause break out from the assembled guests, and I clap nervously, struggling to hold onto the stick on which my mask is fixed. Waiters immediately enter the room with flutes of champagne carried on trays, and Marjorie leans over to whisper to me, though I can barely listen, as I am so unnerved by the three strangers upstairs.

  “Do you realize who that is performing? It’s Arianne Kremble, the opera singer,” she says, impressed. “This party is amazing, though I’m sure Mother is annoyed they did not tell us we would be attending a masquerade ball. It’s bad form. Who knows, she might even call off your marriage.”

  “We both know that isn’t going to happen,” I say, almost disappointed.

  But for a moment, I wish that Mother would do exactly that, as I am overcome by the bizarre tableau that surrounds us.

  Finally, Roland approaches through the crowd, and I am relieved. Though he wears a round oval mask that covers his face, I would recognize his fair hair anywhere. He removes the disguise to reveal a broad smile, and takes my hand and kisses it, gingerly, before he turns to address my family.

  “Thank you so much for joining us in our home this evening.”

  “The pleasure is all ours. We appreciate your gracious hospitality,” Father replies.

  “Roland, we were not told this would be a masquerade ball,” Mother says, in a disapproving tone.

  A feminine voice rises over Roland’s shoulder.

  “Actually, it is a surprise party, in honor of our Father’s birthday. And we thought, why not stick to the theme and make it a surprise for everyone?”

  The speaker comes sweeping up to Roland’s side. She is a vision of gold, in a sparkling dress with a matching gold mask, which she pulls from her face. Her brown hair falls to her shoulders with a few loose curls, and though her beauty seems simple at first, upon closer inspection, I realize she is actually quite stunning. Her skin is flawless and practically glows, not unlike a porcelain doll’s, and her ruby lips form a perfect heart shape.

  And though her effusive demeanor is somewhat annoying, her presence calms me, just as Roland’s does.

  I am surprised to see that her cleavage is exposed, just a bit more than would seem proper, especially for a girl her age. But, perhaps this is how they do things in Europe.

  “Tell me,” she says, looking about. “Is this not more fun than a stuffy cotillion?”

  Roland laughs.

  “I suppose if you’re going to meet my family, we should start with my sister, Marion.”

  “It is a great honor to make your acquaintance, one and all,” she says, giving a dainty curtsy.

  Marion smiles in a charming way that appeals to the others, and I, too, find myself taken with her grace. She seems almost modern somehow, as though the conventions of society do not quite apply to her, not unlike the demeanor Roland holds. I imagine that she is witty and clever, and were the current circumstances not so intimidating, I might daydream that we could be friends.

  More Bennetts approach, an older man and two younger ones, who must be the father and perhaps more sons. One I recognize as Adam, from his green eyes, which sparkle under a mask. And they lock with my own for a moment.

  “And, of course, you’ve met my father before, James Bennett. Though sadly, only briefly.”

  “So good to see you again, James,” Father says, shaking his hand.

  I am not sure when they had the chance to meet, perhaps on the night voices whispered from behind Father’s office door. I had thought that James Bennett was in Europe on business, but clearly he goes back and forth. Roland’s father is a tall and distinguished looking man, handsome, though his eyes are a brown color and not quite as striking as his son’s. Marion stands at her father’s side, and wraps her arm around him in a loving way.

  “It is Papa’s birthday soon, and he will be leaving on business, so we decided to celebrate. And we have some very special guests here tonight to help us enjoy the festivities.”

  “Yes, my children are quite thoughtful,” James Bennett says. But there is almost a note of sarcasm in his voice, and I sense that he is less than pleased.

  “Well, congratulations and good fortunes to you,” Father says, cheerfully.

  “And these are my brothers,” Roland says. “Thomas and Adam, who you have also met.”

  “It is such a great honor to meet you,” Thomas says.

  His brothers bow to us, and shake Father’s hand. Thomas is tall like Roland, with sandy blonde hair that is not quite so light as his brother’s. But he is exceptionally handsome, with a strong jaw. And I begin to notice that the Bennetts are unnaturally attractive, far more so than average mortals. This does not go unnoticed by Marjorie. She does not seem picky about which brother’s attention she catches, and quickly gravitates toward Thomas, giving him a generous smile.

  But Adam doesn’t seem jealous. Again, I sense that he is looking at me from beneath the mask he leaves on. It is unnerving, somehow. And yet, as I am around him more, I am still convinced that there is something oddly familiar about him. I am more certain than ever that we have met somewhere in past, though I am not sure when. And I find myself wishing he would reveal his lovely green eyes.

  “It is so nice that our two families finally have the chance to meet properly,” Marion says. “And I am thrilled to discover that I am to have sisters who are tres jolie et charmantes.”

  Marion has a slight Gallic accent, and her speech reminds me of a more refined version our maid Cecily’s.

  “Are you French, Marion?” I ask.

  “Non, but I was schooled there. However, now that I have returned to London, I will have to practice sounding like a proper Englishwoman.”

  “Nonsense,” Marjorie says. “Your speech is absolutely lovely. We are studying French ourselves.”

  And Marion’s face lights up.

  “How wonderful! We will all be able to practice together! And I can become reacquainted with your custom of English tea. Won’t that be lovely?”

  “Yes, that will be nice,” I say, with a laugh.

  “Now come, let me show you the fun we have planned for you all.”

  Marion takes my hand, and leads me through the crowd of guests inside, as my family follows. We walk out through double doors that lead to their gardens. And my eyes widen at the spectacle I see taking place.

  The party is even more vast than I had imagined. What we stumble upon is magical; the garden has been decorated to look like a circus, or some exotic carnival.

  The space behind the Bennett house is not so elaborate as ours; it is more of a flat, grassy lawn with bushes at its periphery, though there is a wonderful view of the ocean. But colorful
lanterns have been strung across poles, and more music greets our ears, played in a lively tone. Acrobats perform juggling tricks on a wire suspended in the air and an elephant stands in one corner, kneeling to allow guests to pet it. There are fountains of chocolate in which various treats can be dunked, and it is all very amusing, everything that upper crust parties in England typically are not. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I have been truly transported to a foreign land. The wondrous setting erases all thoughts of frightening guests upstairs.

  There is a small stage set against a wall of the house, and a banner that hangs above it that reads, “Count Jerome - Illusionist.” And it would seem that a performance is about to begin. A magician steps from behind the curtains, wearing a black tie and tails, and he removes his top hat to reveal a balding head that matches his pallid complexion. And though he has not yet spoken, I already detect a bit of arrogance about the man from his smug expression.

  Our group moves to the edge of the crowd, to better view the stage.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentleman. I am Count Jerome, and I live for your amusement,” he says, with an overly crisp pronunciation that could only have come from years in the theatre. He gives an exaggerated bow and a wave of his hands to the audience, which they heartily applaud.

  “Thank you so much for allowing me the great honor of performing for you this evening. Though I am sorry to say, I must start things off on a bit of a sad note, as it would seem my assistant has taken ill. Which requires me to request the generous aid of one of our guests.”

  I am shy by nature, and silently pray that he does not pick me.

  “You, young miss. Perhaps you can assist me?”

  I look up, afraid that he has chosen me, but I am grateful to see that he points to another young woman at the front of the crowd. And there is a momentary commotion, as his victim resists. But finally, those standing around the girl coerce her to take the stage.

  I recognize the tousled hair of the young man who gives her a push to move along. It is Gregory Lawlor who encourages Philippa to take part in Count Jerome’s show.

  She wears a bright yellow dress that fails to flatter her figure, and Marjorie looks to me with a satisfied smirk when she sees it.

  “Tell us, what is your name, my dear?” Count Jerome bellows to the crowd.

  “I am Philippa. Philippa Price-Pearce,” she says, timidly.

  “And what a lovely blossom you are, dear Philippa. Perhaps a daisy, one might say. Or a sunflower who’s face widely blooms,” Count Jerome offers, in a mocking tone. And poor Philippa stands there awkwardly with a dim-witted expression, not understanding his slight.

  I lean in to Marjorie.

  “That dress is hideous,” I say.

  “It is quite vile,” Marion adds, from her other side.

  “She looks like a thick-waisted bumblebee,” Marjorie says.

  And Marion looks to us with interest.

  “Do you know this girl?” she asks.

  “Sadly, we do,” Marjorie hisses, under her breath. “She is the fiancée of a man who toyed with my affections.”

  “And that will prove to be a very poor choice on her part,” Marion says.

  Marjorie smiles in delight, and we both giggle, though I’m not sure why.

  The performance continues onstage, and I can now detect some of our friends in the audience; the Lawlors are here, of course, as well as the Price-Pearces. And I suspect I see the Edmingtons as well, hiding behind their masks. And they all watch the show unfold with rapt attention.

  “Now, Philippa, my dear,” Count Jermone continues. “To be my assistant, one must be able to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Do you think you’re up to the task?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I am not quite sure that I can,” Philippa mutters, almost so softly that we cannot hear.

  “But if a man as simple as myself can perform such a feat, certainly a young lady of your good breeding could do the same, wouldn’t you say? Oh, why not give it a try and see if you surprise yourself?”

  Count Jerome offers his top hat to Philippa. She hesitantly reaches inside, and her expression brightens to one of delight, as she pulls a fluffy white creature from its depths, to the amazement of the crowd.

  They applaud her success.

  “Good show! Now let’s try something a bit more difficult. A giraffe, perhaps? No, I know. Something even more challenging. A porcupine …”

  “A porcupine?”

  “Yes, yes. It’s quite safe, I assure you …”

  Philippa reaches in once more with a look of trepidation, and pulls out what appear to be several quills. But she squeals in terror, and drops whatever she holds back in the hat. And Count Jerome tips the bonnet onto a nearby table, as a plump, young porcupine crawls out.

  The trick is amazing. I cannot imagine where the beast came from, as the illusionist was holding the hat in midair and the animal could not possibly have existed within its depths. But I feel sorry for poor Philippa, as she appears to be hurt. She holds her hand to her mouth, sucking on her finger, and when she extends it, I can see a drop of blood, even from this distance.

  “Ow,” Philippa says. “You said it was safe, but it hurt me.”

  “And can one assume you’ve never been pricked before?” Count Jerome asks.

  The crowd laughs, as her face drops in disappointment.

  “Worry not, my dear, you are fine. And I suspect this is but the first of many.”

  Philippa looks annoyed and perhaps a bit angry, and I suspect she might leave the stage. But before she can, the curtains part again, and two men roll out a device that looks like a white box made of stone or marble, one that is speckled with tiny holes over its surface. But I realize the contraption is not quite a box, the back is raised, as well as the sides, and it almost resembles the shape of an armchair, though not quite. And it gives me a chill, just to look at the thing.

  The assistants unfasten several latches, and pieces swing open in the front and over the arms, to reveal an actual seat that has been carved into the contraption, filled with tiny holes of its own. And it would seem that Philippa is meant to sit in the device. But she looks at it, hesitantly.

  “And now, if you feel up for it, let us try our next trick. This one I call, ‘The Human Pincushion.’”

  “Well, I’m not quite sure that I should. Perhaps someone else could …”

  “But, I’m certain you don’t want to disappoint your adoring fans. Now, do you?”

  Count Jerome waves his hands, and looks to the crowd, slyly. And they begin to cheer her on. Philippa smiles, encouraged by their adoration, and acquiesces. The magician gently helps her to take her seat, and he and the others clamp the box shut, leaving only her head showing.

  Marjorie, Mother and Father are all mesmerized by the antics onstage, as is the rest of the crowd. It seems out of character, at least on my parents’ part; this is the sort of entertainment one would find in a grotesque show on one of the lesser stages in London, the kind of place my family would never visit. In the past, I would beg Mother to take us to see a mentalist who could hypnotize an audience, or have deceased family members contact one from beyond the grave. I would ask to see magicians perform their disappearing tricks, but always my parents would refuse. Yet, here they sit now, with their eyes firmly focused forward.

  Count Jerome searches the crowd once more.

  “I am afraid that for this trick, I will need more assistance from the audience, from a man far stronger than myself,” he says.

  Without even waiting to be chosen, Roland’s fair-haired brother Tom raises his hand, and approaches the stage with a good-natured grin on his face. And the crowd parts for him, seemingly by unspoken command.

  From behind the strange chair, Count Jerome pulls out what looks like a quiver of arrows.

  “And what would a pincushion be without pins?” he says.

  “I think I may need to take off my coat for this,” Tom says with a laugh.

  He does, and y
ou can see the muscles bulging beneath his shirt. Marjorie smiles at them appreciatively. Even Philippa seems to notice his beauty, despite Gregory’s presence in the audience, and her eyes follow Tom from her trapped position within the torture device.

  The magician offers the quiver to Tom, who pulls out a long, gleaming straight pin from inside it, which is like no other pin I’ve seen before. It must be a foot or two in length, and shines brightly, like a piece of silver from Mother’s jewelry box. Though I detest Philippa, I am suddenly afraid for the girl. And a wary expression crosses her face.

  “Is this going to hurt?” she asks.

  “Well, of course it’s going to hurt. That’s the whole point,” Count Jerome says, with a laugh. “So think of your poor pincushion’s tribulations the next time you choose to sew a pretty frock.”

  Tom unceremoniously plunges the needle into one of the holes on the contraption, apparently above her arm, and the girl screams in shock and dismay. I am startled, and my hand goes to my mouth, to stifle a gasp.

  The crowd looks on in amazement, twittering with excitement, as Tom takes another pin from the quiver. Philippa still screams, and looks to the needle in terror.

  “No. Please, no more!”

  “No more? But that is impossible! We have so many left to go. Please do be a good sport and try not to complain.”

  Tom plunges another one into the other side, through what I imagine is her right hand. And I have never heard wails of pain like the ones that issue from Philippa. It horrifies me.

  “No, for the love of God, no! Please, someone help me!”

  But none move to assist the girl. Instead, the crowd watches, talking amongst themselves, seeming to hunger for more. And Tom plunges another pin through her stomach without mercy, as Philippa screams and screams and screams. The tears flow profusely from her eyes.