Father Panic's Opera Macabre (9 page)

Marisa laid the mask back in the wooden box and arranged the cover sheet over it. She closed the lid and fastened the hasp, and then looked up at Neil with a quizzical expression on her face.

"I was a history student at university," she said. "You write about history. But do you have any idea how much history is here, in this cellar? I mean real history? What they saw, what they lived through?"

"Look at them," Neil said, his voice suddenly loud. "Your parents and grandparents, all still alive. All that history. You should get them to tell you about it, everything they can remember. Write it down, or better yet, get it on tape. Marisa, you can still do this."

"Ah, they won't talk," she said with a shrug of resignation. Then she smiled again. "Come on, we're not there yet."

Between Sleep and Death

They only had to go a short distance farther. Neil noticed that they were nearing one of the outer walls of the cellar. The dark expanse of rock loomed above them, and it was laced with alkaline encrustations, which in certain places appeared to glow with a faint greenish phosphorescence. Neil could only wonder at the age of the house and the labor that must have been involved in the construction of the cellar walls alone.

They stepped out of the shadows and stood beneath a lightbulb in a small clear area in front of what looked exactly like a miniature house. There were two wooden steps up to the narrow door, on either side of which was a tiny square window. The house was only about eight feet wide and not quite twice that in length. The back end stood flush against the cellar wall.

"This was one of the wagons they used a hundred years ago," Marisa told him. "Probably long before that too. Who knows."

"A wagon?" Neil was surprised, but then he could see that it made perfect sense. He saw where the wheels had been, and that the front steps, as he first thought of them, were in fact where the driver would sit when they were travelling. The house was painted in blue and gold and the curved roof was red-at one time it must have been very bright and eye-catching, Neil thought. There was even a small but ornate overhang above the door. It was a relic of history, as Marisa had said. Neil could easily imagine a train of these wagons making their way over the unpaved roads of a Europe that had long since vanished.

Marisa seemed to sense what he was thinking, and said nothing for a moment. Neil was still taking in details, like the small wooden box fastened beneath each window, to hold a flower pot.

"It's astonishing how much they brought over," he remarked. "I don't know how they ever managed it."

"They were lucky to get out," Marisa replied. "They told me it was the end of the war, but I believe they must have started long before that. They probably began sending the wagons overland at least a year before. And how they managed it, that's simple. They bribed their way."

"Oh, of course."

"Gold, jewels."

"You must try to get them to tell you more," Neil said. "The details, what it was like every day and night for them. Real history is not just in the big events, but in what ordinary people lived through. You should do it, not necessarily because you want to do anything with it, like turn it into a book, but for yourself. For you to know."

"Yes, I should." Marisa turned to a small table nearby. She took a wooden match and lit a candle. No electricity inside.

Neil followed her up the two steps. She opened the door and went in. She put the candle on a shelf and then lit a couple of others that were already placed around the room. Neil had to duck his head to get inside. One of the candles must have been scented because he immediately noticed the fragrance of lavender in the air.

"Close the door," she said, smiling broadly. "Take your shoes and socks off, make yourself at home."

Neil slid the bolt in place-this door actually locked. Marisa pulled the tiny curtains across the windows.

The floor inside the wagon was covered with an old oriental carpet. There was almost no furniture, just a small low table surrounded by cushions and pillows- dozens of them, in various sizes and colors. On the table was a bottle of wine, already opened, with the cork sitting loosely in place, two glasses and a platter of antipasto covered with a glass lid. There was even a shallow bowl of water filled with floating purple flowers.

It all reminded Neil of the way that some guys he had known would prepare their apartment when they were having a girl in for the evening. But here-in this dismal pit of a cellar beneath an old house out in the middle of nowhere. His poor Marisa. It was touching, but ultimately so sad. And yet, Neil was happy to be there with her.

"It's great," he said. "You must have done a lot of work."

Marisa gestured as if she were wiping her brow, and then stifling a big yawn. "You had a nap today. I didn't!"

"Ah, baby. Let me pour you some wine."

"That sounds very good."

They stretched out together on the pillows, halfsitting, resting back, their bodies touching, Neil's arm around her shoulder. He unbuttoned her blouse enough so that he could slip his hand inside and hold her breast.

"Mmmm."

They relaxed like that in silence for a few moments. Neil was still thinking of how to phrase what he wanted to say to her when Marisa began to speak, her voice quiet, reflective.

"Do you believe in life after death?"

"What?"

"I mean, my family does. They're devout Catholics- more Catholic than the Pope, my uncle always says- and they believe in life eternal through Christ. I was just wondering, do you?"

"I was raised a Catholic too."

"And?"

Neil smiled, admiring the way she wouldn't let him dodge that one. "No, I stopped believing that a long time ago."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, yes. But you never really know. Until."

"Ah."

"Do you?"

"Do I what? Believe that?"

"Yes."

"Not the same way," Marisa said. "But I think maybe we do live on in another form. You know what I think it is like? Have you ever been just a little bit awake, but still almost totally asleep? You have an awareness, but you feel like you have no body. You feel like you're floating in a vast ocean, but it's not water, it's not air. There's no color, nothing to see. You are just being there, and there is nowhere. You're alone. All alone. You don't see anything, you can't smell or hear anything. Nothing touches you, because you have no body. There is nothing you need, nothing you want. You don't even have any thoughts. No memories to please or hurt you. And yet you do have some kind of awareness. I don't know what other word to use. Awareness. Like, you know you exist. And you understand. Yourself. Everything. Your awareness encompasses all your memories and experiences, and more, but it isn't limited just to them, it never calls them up as scenes or words. Do you know what I mean? Your awareness is complete. In this-nothing. And the amazing part of it is, all you have is this awareness, but you are content. You can be this way forever, regardless of whether you're lying in a grave or your ashes were scattered to the wind. You still are, and you're content."

"What would be the point?" Neil asked after a moment.

Marisa laughed, dispelling the solemn mood. "We used to talk like this at the university, late at night. Student talk."

"That's all right. But I have no answers."

"Of course, nobody does. I was just talking, imagining out loud," she said apologetically. "I've gone so long without anyone to talk to."

"You have to get away from here."

Marisa propped herself up on one elbow. "Impossible."

"No, it's very possible."

"Never mind that now. Let's be bad. Let's fuck."

Neil smiled. He started to pull her to him to kiss her, but she slipped out of his arms, giggling. She crawled across his body and reached behind a large pillow for something on the floor. Neil ran his hand up her leg, stroking her thigh, his fingers teasing. She murmured happily and wiggled her feet in the air, but rolled off his lap and sat up.

"Here."

She was holding a wooden box. It was just like the ones on the tables outside that contained the masks.

328 Figures in Wax

"I want to try something with you," she said, her eyes shining with promise and anticipation. "If you don't like it, that's okay."

"What is it?"

"You'll see!"

Marisa put the box down on a pillow beside them. She pulled her skirt up and swung her body so that her legs straddled his and she was facing him, half-sitting on his lap. She loved this position and so did he. Neil put his hands on her bare thighs for a moment, and then finished unbuttoning her blouse while she did the same with his shirt. She was wearing a half-bra that unhooked in front. She looked wildly sexy with her clothes hanging open like that. She kissed him teasingly, her mouth wet, her tongue dancing and licking lightly, but she pulled back every few seconds. She had his slacks open now. Her touch was tantalizing-again and again Marisa's fingers brushed slowly along his cock, and then moved away. Neil cupped her breasts in his hands, bending forward to suck and tug her hard nipples between his lips, teasing them with his tongue. Although they were still only playing-their eyes were open, smiling, widening, urging each other on-he was already cornpletely caught up again in the long beautiful whirl of desire and arousal. But then she put her hands on his face, holding him for a moment.

"These are the most remarkable masks my great-grandfather ever made," Marisa said as she reached to open the box-Neil had almost forgotten about that box. "I put one of them on once. It was incredible. Now I want to do it again, with you. I want you to see what it's like."

It sounded kind of silly, but Neil shrugged. "Okay."

"Ah, my lover, I love your romantic soul."

"And I love yours."

Marisa carefully lifted a mask from the box. It was clearly unlike the one Neil had seen before, on the table outside the wagon. This mask hung in the air almost like some clingy, nearly transparent fabric. Marisa spread her fingers and the facial features in the mask became apparent. The eyes, nose and mouth were open, though little more than slits.

"Me first," she said.

Neil gave a short laugh. "Fine."

She tilted her head back slightly, closed her eyes and shook her hair away from her face. Then she raised the mask and let it fall gently into place on her skin. She blinked her eyes a couple of times and moved her lips open and shut, twisting them once or twice. She smiled at him. She looked almost the same, but different in some subtle way Neil couldn't immediately define. Younger? Her strong features even stronger, more dramatic? They wore these masks in Bible stories, he reminded himself. Like masks or makeup for opera singers, they were probably intended to heighten and emphasize certain basic character features or flaws for the benefit of an audience. With Marisa, he thought, the mask made her look even younger than she was, like a fierce, precocious teenager. Her expression seemed to convey even more forcefully the great depths of her powerful sensual nature.

Neil touched her cheek, and was astonished. It still felt like her skin, warm, soft and silky smooth, and yet he thought he could also feel some added vibrancy, like a wild hidden current that suddenly finds its outlet. The mask fit the contours of her face amazingly well.

Marisa picked up another mask and held it open for him. But before Neil would put it on he had to test it and make sure that it wouldn't trigger an asthmatic reaction. He thought of wax as essentially odorless, but there was no way of knowing what chemicals might have been used in the preparation of the mask. He put his face close to it, and inhaled. Again, closer and more deeply the second time. Yes, there was something, but it was not the kind of chemicals Neil had feared. Mint? Anyhow, it was all right.

"It's hard to believe this is actually wax," he said. "It's so fine and supple. It's almost as thin as plastic wrap, but it has body."

"I know, but there are dozens of different kinds of wax in nature and they are very adaptable. Are you ready?"

"Sure."

Marisa helped him position the mask over his face. It seemed to float in the air for a second before settling down on his skin. Neil blinked his eyes a couple of times-he could feel the mask close around them, but there was no impairment or discomfort. He touched his eyebrows-he could feel the mask over them, yet at the same time Neil had the illusion of touching the hair itself. It was remarkable, just as Marisa had said.

Now he caught the essence of the mask in his nostrils and mouth. He thought he detected a sweetness, like honey. As in honey, bees and beeswax? That made sense.

Something else, stronger than any of the mints. It had to be wintergreen, Neil thought. He could almost feel it shooting light into dormant and dark corners of his brain, it was so invigorating and stimulating.

Marisa ran her fingertips over his face, smoothing down a few loose parts of the mask. Her touch was exquisite, setting off tiny flares of pleasure in his skin. She smiled when she saw him react.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," he replied.

"Are you sure?"