Chapter 5
MOLLY
I make my way over to him. I’ve put my phone back in my clutch bag and I'm holding the mask up to my face as I approach Mysterious Sad Man.
He looks poised, with one hand in his pocket, as he stares at a painting on the wall. I walk up to him and give his arm a light poke.
He turns around, head cocked.
“You are alive.”
“Excuse me?”
My mouth falls open as I catch his eyes.
The slits in his mask are bigger, so I can see his eyes better than he can probably see mine.
And what I notice is something sad. I can't tell if it's exhaustion, or boredom, or loneliness.
I'd need to read the rest of his features to get a gauge, but I sense that he's carrying something heavy.
I don't know what.
How would I?
But I notice it, nevertheless.
I nod to myself, feeling satisfied. “You're real.” This guy has done such a great impersonation of standing there like a waxwork dummy, he even had me fooled.
“Excuse me?”
He sounds irritated.
“I-I was checking that you're not a dummy,” I explain.
“Excuse me?” I can't tell if he's puzzled or vexed.
“A mannequin, a waxwork, one of those things that are made of stone, you know, like a statue.”
He watches me in silence, and I, anxious to fill the gap, ramble on.
“Sorry. So sorry for poking you, but I couldn't resist. Anyway, I can see that you're not a mannequin, you know, a waxwork. And you're definitely not made of stone.”
I poke him again but he just looks at me. His lips twitch and I can't tell if he's suppressing a smile, or deciding what to say.
I feel nervous now. And a little silly. Like I’ve imposed myself on him, and all he wants is to be left alone.
“I'm not a waxwork, no,” he says eventually.
“Clearly.” I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't. “You're not very talkative,” I add, after another long, awkward pause.
“So I've been told.”
I chuckle. “I can believe it.”
His lips twitch again but he doesn’t speak. My arm starts to hurt from holding the mask up for so long. While I do like hiding behind it, I can’t do it for much longer.
“That’s clever.” I nod at his mask.
“What is?”
“Your mask. It’s a tied one. I wish I’d bought one like that.”
The only problem is, with this man wearing his mask, it means I can't read his expression, though he does have nice eyes.
Eyes the color of rich, dark chocolate. I don't feel like he's brash or arrogant.
He's not rude, either. He could have cold-shouldered me, believing I was crazy—I've been known to have this effect on people—but, so far he hasn’t walked away.
He looks around. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“Me?” I shake my head. Now I'm confused. “Waiting for what?”
“I don't know.” He looks around again, before turning to me. “Have you confused me for someone else?”
“Uh ... no.”
“Did you mean to talk to me?”
“Would you rather I didn't?” I throw back.
“No, no, it's not that.” He does that twitching thing again, like he's battling between saying something and deciding against it.
I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. I'm not used to being around someone who doesn’t talk. My classroom is mostly noisy, and the children are boisterous, always talking and laughing. I love the chaos and the joy that six-year-olds bring.
Now with this man, I find myself in unfamiliar territory. He strikes me as someone who is unassuming; someone who is careful with his words.
“Do you come here often?” I attempt a tried and tested question to break the ice.
This time he actually laughs.
“Not often. No, I wouldn't say so. Every so often I guess.”
Our eyes meet again.
“I'm not even sure what that word salad was. You’ve said a lot of words but you haven't actually told me anything.”
He tilts his head.
“Nice mask,” I say, struggling to find something to talk about, because what else is there to say?
“I could say the same to you.”
“Thank you. Unfortunately I have to hold mine up the whole time.”
“You could always take it off,” he suggests.
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's an Evening of Masks,” I say, recounting the words from the invitation.
“There's dinner later so you'll have to remove it, unless you want to eat one-handed.”
I giggle. “It's a struggle.”
“I noticed you found a table.”
He did notice me.
“You noticed me earlier and you didn't come up to me.”
“I don't make it a habit of just going up to people I barely know--”
“You should try it. I went up to you and look at us now. We're friends.”
“It's a little too soon to be calling us that, don't you think?”
“Oh, touchy!”
He frowns, and lines crease his brow.
“We seem to be getting on just fine, given that we're not friends,” I retort.
He makes a low noise in the back of his throat. A long, drawn-out “Hmmmm.”
I don't want to walk away because this is better than experiencing tonight alone. I'd better get used to Mysterious Non-Speaking Man.
I turn and look at the enormous painting he seemed so mesmerised by before I disturbed him. It takes up most of the wall, filled with robed figures, dramatic skies and what looks like an awful lot of suffering.
“There’s a lot of these around here,” I remark.
“A lot of what?”
“Paintings.”
“There would be. It's the Doge’s Palace.”
“Do you think they dust these every day?”
He opens his mouth and closes it again. Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he's not thought about it.
I turn to him again.
“Would you mind if I walked around with you?”
I figure it would be nice to look at these paintings with someone like him, who probably knows more about these things than I could ever hope to. I’m still gawking at the side of his face. If I could see it properly, I'm sure he'd raise an eyebrow or two.
After a long pause, he answers, “No.”
“No?” My heart sinks.
“No I wouldn't mind if you walked with me.”
“Oh!” I poke him again, in the arm, because I feel ridiculously happy again. “Are you sure?” I need to double-check.
“No. I think I don't mind.”
“You think you don't mind? Then you probably do mind.”
“No,” he says quickly, firmly. “I don't.”
“Oh! Good. And thank you.”
His lips twitch, but he says nothing. We walk around some more looking at the next few paintings.
But I'm not concentrating on the paintings. I’m watching a waitress who’s hovering close by with a tray of new canapés.
These little morsels of divine bliss are so delumptious, and they make me so insanely happy, but they don't fill me up.
I still want some more.
“Would you mind holding this for me, please?”
I hand him my clutch bag because while I can keep it hugged to my side with one arm, how do I eat, especially now that I don't have a small table?
“Could you take this as well?” I hand over my mask.
He looks at me, and tilts his head. I'm so glad I can see his eyes otherwise I'd be reacting blind to him. His gaze flits all over my face.
“You're staring at me.”
“You took your mask off.”
“I have to eat. I'm getting ready.”
“For what?”
I cock my head to the right. “Do you see those canapés? New batch. Never been offered before, as far as I can tell.”
“You’ve been collating info?”
I wince. “Is it so obvious?”
He smiles this time, full and wide. He has nice teeth. He probably thinks I'm greedy, and uncouth and have no manners. No etiquette.
Do I care?
I do not.
When the waitress comes over to me—I'm not surprised that she has, given the amount of times I've eyeballed her—I grab a few napkins and, newly freed from my clutch and mask, pick four delicious-looking bites and place them on my napkin.
“You’re not having any?” I ask Mysterious Man when I find him watching me. His lips are slightly curled up at the corners, like he finds this entertaining.
“I’m saving myself for dinner.”
“Oh, I intend to have dinner, too.”
I see a waiter wandering by with a tray of champagne glasses, and my mind explodes at the possibilities.
“With you holding my things, I could also have a glass of champagne.”
“Wouldn't you need someone to feed you?”
I reach for a glass of champagne and huff out a breath at my friend. “I only have two hands. It severely limits me.”
“Shame you're not an octopus.”
“That's exactly what I thought!” I blink at him a few times. “Funny you should say that. In this situation it would most certainly help to be an octopus.”
“Except octopuses wouldn't be guests at a masked ball at the Doge's Palace.”
“No, but what if they could?”
He looks at me, but I can’t tell if he’s surprised, or shocked, or something else. What I wouldn't give to rip off that mask. It's infuriating but even so, I like the sense of mystery. Of having to work harder to guess what he's thinking.
“Why don't we go and find one of those tall tables again?” He gestures at a few empty tables behind me.
“That's a fantastic idea.”
A little fizz of excitement pops in my heart. This evening has become so much more interesting. So much more fun.
Not only am I standing here inside the Doge’s Palace eating the most delicious food I’ve ever tasted, but now I have someone to share it with. Someone who doesn’t seem to mind that I talk too much, or that I have no idea what I’m doing here.
For the first time tonight, I don’t feel so out of place.
He leads, and I follow, being overly protective of my canapés and champagne now that he’s holding my clutch and my mask.
I take in the sights and sounds around me.
Music drifts through the palace, mixing with the laughter and conversations. Masked guests move around us. Everywhere I look there’s gold and art and glittering chandeliers.
It's all so overwhelming. I've never experienced anything like this before and now, as I follow the Mysterious Masked Man, the surrealness index of my evening has shot right up.
“Oh!” I gasp with relief, setting down my napkin of canapés and my glass. “This is better.”
“Good.”
“I'm sorry,” I say, “I'm really, really, hungry.” I start eating. “Want to try some?”
“No, thank you.”
He has no idea of what he’s missing.
Imagine turning down this scrumptious food when it's being delivered to you in such abundance.
When I've devoured everything, and taken a sip of my champagne, I realize we’re engulfed by silence again.