Fantôme – Chapter 9, Part 8

Catch up with Fantôme from the beginning

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Ah! But it is not fair to say that Viscomte Raoul had the most imposing costume, for as the clock struck midnight another man appeared. Seemingly he had arrived in more subtle dress and changed within the walls of the Opera itself, for the first place he was seen was the top of the Grand Staircase in an assertive pose. His mask was a foul, terrifying thing, and his costume a cruel joke, for he dressed as The Red Death.

Descending the stairs, he joined the party to gasps and hoots. Admirers surrounded him, certain that behind the intricate porcelain mask was an influential person with a sense for the degenerate pleasure found in bad taste. The mask itself was a horror: colourful enamelwork on the edges caused his neck and eyes to flash red in the candlelight and fat, wrinkly jowls disguised the face so completely, creating the effect of mockery and license. Though it seemed the hideous, skinless jaw of the mask articulated, he didn’t speak, only gestured with his hands for what he wanted, and those who followed served him implicitly, some even prostrating themselves before him in a theatrical display of subservience to this nameless lord of hell. Nor did he eat or drink: not interested in the champagne coupes, the macaron towers, or the wine heated with Christingles and nutmeg, he tilted his head near constantly in quick, unpredictable jagged motions as he looked around the party for who knows what. Perhaps he was truly an assassin.

Wherever a feather from his hat or cape tickled he found himself shocking anew when the recipient turned and saw the reason for the tingle down their spine; as such, he was followed not only by admirers, but also by disgust.

Coco, a dancer from the company, was entranced by him. Dressed as a snowflake, the gauze and taffeta layers of her dress and voluminous sleeves were spangled with silver applique she herself had sewn over the rips in an old ballet costume. Her silver silk pointe slippers were tied with icy blue ribbon she had salvaged and smelled faintly of chocolate – perhaps an enticement to kiss upwards from her athletic ankles? Around her waist was a garland of blue-and-white silk flowers she had cut to look like the facets in each flake of falling snow, and hanging from her forehead was a beautiful, delicate pendant in the shape of a snowflake. The Red Death, though, saw none of this: encountering her from behind he saw only her great hooded cloak, in pale grey, trimmed with winter-white fur. He extended his arm and his hand in a graceful and powerful moment, to touch her shoulder, and when she turned to see the red glare of his eyes flaring in the candle and his high, noble bearing staring straight past her, unmoving, like he was one with that porcelain mask, she fell into a révérence à terre. She kissed his hand. She met his eyes. She rose, her chin still low, into a gentle arabesque, her costume falling gracefully down from her thighs as her bare leg rose revealing a spangled pin over her shapely calf. She stretched her hands out to the masked figure who bowed a perfunctory bow, seemed to think twice, then raised her hands to his mouth for a gentle kiss. Coco moved seamlessly into a retiré passé as the stranger pulled her upwards.

His motions were soft to her, but his masked head still moved in a staccato manner like an automaton. His gloves of blood-red leather were stained around the thumb and index-finger in dark grey dust that smelled like acrid tobacco and he moved with military precision as he threw his cloak over one shoulder to reach the clasp. Coco understood intuitively: she unbuckled her own overgarment and let it sink to the floor in a pool of wool and blue fox before letting the stranger take her in his arms.

Had the assembled crowd not been watching The Red Death before, his technique with a professional dancer would surely have drawn eyes. He pulled her close to him, and she barely moved her graceful feet as they pushed and pulled towards each other. Somebody called for the band to play a tango or a march, and after being lured into a dance the mysterious gentleman proved to be in some ways adept: a skilled leader, winding his partner about in ways which showcased her lithe body and inherent musicality; certainly graceful, mellifluous in his movements and balancing power and lightness in every ebb and flow; yet, somehow, he was stiff – perhaps po-faced behind the mask, perhaps disdainful of the pleasure he was giving to her. Perhaps that sternness was his particular style.

Beautiful Coco could not stop dancing after this. She pulled the timpani-player to be her next partner, then all night had a crowd around her and crowing to join in. Even when her silver shoes were shredded, she and La Sorelli could be found in a seductive pas de deux, each understanding the others’ body like only a fellow ballerina could, both as light as spun sugar whispering the names of moves to one another that they could move in a perfect, unchoreographed, synchronicity. To those non-dancers watching it seemed obscene – and the men of the party certainly thought it was for their benefit that a woman held another in her arms – but to an artist, the greatest joy of being equally matched was obvious in both ladies’ eyes, and all night Coco’s motions had the quality of ecstasy that she could never quite bring to bear on stage as La Sorelli always could on command.

The stranger was lost shortly after his dance. His acolytes had stayed back for the duration, awed by his fatherly disinterest or his evident power, rhythm, or compunction. Each had their own private fantasy about who this gentleman was, and what might be his next move, but as they fixed these pictures in their minds and argued with the newer members of the crowd gathering around him, he was gone. His vulgar crimson cape lay in a puddle on the floor – expensive, yet easily discarded, even in the cold winter night. Nobody took it, even though they all wished to. Either their leader would come back to claim his property, or it was Coco’s prize by rights. Many stayed in the same room, sitting and drinking and waiting, until they could bear it no more and went home.

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