Five-thirty. The clock’s little hand seemed to always be an unmoving object. I wanted time to go by fast so I didn’t have to think about how many more hours I would have to endure. I wanted time to pass by so that I would finally be free.
I sank my feet into my father’s old hand-woven Persian rug feeling the softness of its edges caress them. This apartment was much too big for me; it was one of those upscale townhouses on the upper Westside of Manhattan. I lived here by myself with no one but Lotte my Siamese cat, and Wilfred my father’s retired butler who slept in the loft upstairs.
Wilfred was a rather silent little man with beady coal eyes and a wrinkled pinched up face. He never communicated with me because he never saw me. I sometimes wondered if he was even still alive, his door was always locked so I never went into his room. The only indication I received that made me believe he was still alive was the faint aroma of his favorite dish wafting down from his room every evening. He left a plate of food for me as well, but I never ate it. It was always left on the breakfast nook counter, until Lotte jumped up on the counter and willingly helped herself to it. She was becoming a rather plump cat. Wilfred wasn’t always so quiet he once had a mind, and an opinion, and a purpose. But after father died he became desolate, slow-minded, and as useless as a bent nail. Something told me I should feel sorry for him, but for some reason I do not anymore. I didn’t feel sorry for anyone ever since Johnny left me.
Ah Johnny, I can honestly say he is the love of my life, or at least he was. I don’t feel that way anymore. I can remember his dark hair that he kept perfectly groomed, I remember the way he picked me up and swung me around a room whenever he wanted to cheer me up. He was so tall, and so strong it was only right for me to be in love with a guy like him.
I glanced once more at the clock. Five-thirty seven, it screamed. Time was slower than ever, I wish it would just end already, yet a few weeks ago I had wished time would be endless. I had wished I could live a thousand years in one night. I had wished for an endless life, and now I count the seconds until that life ends. It could have been yesterday, or perhaps the day before it all seems inconsequential now, but I am certain that it happened at six in the evening.
That’s when I received the letter. The formal letter was written on peach colored stationary in Isabella’s elegant calligraphy. The fragrance of her trademark Chanel No.4 perfume swam off the paper and into my nose. Isabella, like the majority of us enjoyed the decadent and finer things in this life; she was a slender woman with long curls of amber, and a heart stopping smile. Grace came natural to her, and she was highly admired by the local bachelors in our neighborhood. Anyways the letter was the essential value of this memory. It was an invitation to another of her high-scale masquerade balls.
Seven ‘o’clock
October 24, 1917
The Palaccino’s, in the grand ballroom
Excitement was present when I thought of the prospect of going out tomorrow to another party of endless pleasures, but this wasn’t the best time for me. Wilfred had voiced to me in a note that he was in need of medication, Alec and I were supposed to go out to look at engagement rings at Swarovski’s, and I knew there was some need for me to be at my job on that night but all those reminders were nuances. I deserved a night to myself; I deserved to be treated like the princess I once was when father was still alive. How could I deny my right? I couldn’t, it was as simple as that I just couldn’t. I concluded I would just worry about it the day after.
So out I went to Neiman Marcus that very day. There I bought a dazzling gold and salmon pink silk Delphos and a new feathered hat with small pearls circling the rim. I realized I should buy a new pastiche since my old ones were getting a bit too tedious to comb out. After purchasing the new dress the, new shoes, and the new pastiche to go along with my hat I went venturing out for the most essential part of my attire. A new mask, I had hundreds of them of course, and each was special in their own way but it was of great importance that I buy a new one for this event. The only place to purchase authentic Venetian mask were at Biagio’s, a quaint little Shoppe ran by an Italian immigrant whose name I could never for the life of me remember.
I exited Neiman’s and walked a good distance till I reached Biagio’s. Through the shop’s glass windows I could see the most elegant mask adorned with feathers, precious jewels, and decent amounts of glitter. The tinkling of the bell announced my entrance, and as the shop keeper-obviously remembering my common face-waved lightly to me from behind his counter I sauntered over to the far wall where the best female mask were hung. They all sat patiently on their personal hooks, some smiling heartily at me, others looked on somberly. Each had a certain flare to them that I found enchanting making it almost impossible to choose between one. “Decisions, decisions.” A voice whispered from behind me. I turned and saw the valiant shop keeper by my side. Until now I hadn’t realized how alluring his facial features truly were. He had soft brown eyes, and an upturned nose perfectly symmetric to his face, and his bold muscles were only slightly hidden under his blazer. “How can one decide on the perfect mask?” He continued, “I mean after all they are all frustratingly unique don’t you believe?” I nodded lightly it did not surprise me that he spoke eloquently about the mask; he did sell them for a living, but the fact that he had spoken at all. In all my years of dealing with him he never said not one word to me, and now he was holding a light conversation on the choosing of a mask. “You come in here quite often my dear, and each time you make price choices on the mask, that is why I’ve come to you now.”
I perked up suddenly he noticed my eye for choosing the most ideal mask. He must have come to reward me. “What are you saying sir?” I inquired. He leaned in closer to me and began to tell me something that made my heart pound. “In my storage room I have a workshop where I have started creating my own line of Venetian mask. One’s of which are unlike these outdated monstrosities. If you like I could sell one to you for a fair price if you desire.” It was obvious that I was interested in the prospect of owning a true hand-made mask, so it should not come as a surprise that I followed the young shopkeeper to his storage room, and followed still as he lead me down to his secret workshop underneath the floorboards of the storage room. It was dimly light by a naked bulb in the middle of the room, and his workspace was cluttered with paint, glitter cups, feathers, and jewels.
I stood patiently as he dug around madly, he ceased when he came across a medium-sized box. The box was labeled crocevia which I assumed was Italian for something, but the word mask. However once the box was open he pulled out a beautiful mask that seemed to be a face of its own. It matched beautifully as I pictured myself wearing the mask with my new outfit. “How much?”
I asked. He waved a long finger at me as if I had done something wrong. “Price is not the important part dear. It’s about how willing you are to acquire this fine object. I didn’t realize until now incredibly thick his Italian accent was, or how eager his eyes looked, as if he were waiting for me to agree to buy the mask. I raised my change purse and silently counted my remaining cash. I had forty-five, but I have paid two times that much for a mask, and I knew this one was costly. “I sense dear child that you may not have enough, but fear not I am a fair man and have been known to write up agreements for items my customers truly desire.”
I thought quickly, perhaps it would be no more than a hundred, and I could pay it off monthly. I desperately wanted the mask, and I knew that the trust fund was wearing thin, but it didn’t matter. I snatched the mask from him, and sat down near his desk as he laid out a clean sheet of paper, and a feather pen. Most of the things he started to write were meaningless to me, especially the last words which were written in Italian, la sua anima. “Just sign on the line my dear. I picked up the parchment, and attempted to read, but as I slid the paper through my fingers to read the next page I cut my finger. A few drops of the dark red liquid splashed onto the signature line. “I’m sorry I just got a paper-cut, and...”
“Oh that’s quite alright dear you just give me this, and wrap this around that wound.” He spoke quickly taking the parchment from my hand, and replacing it with a hankie he pulled from his waistcoat. I never realized this until now, but after he placed the hankie in my hand I never saw that piece of paper again.
He gently placed the lovely mask inside a brown paper bag, and placed it almost eagerly into my care. “I do hope that mask will bring you your heart’s desire. Have a good day miss.” He tipped his hat, and turned away from me, diving back into his world of crafting petrified faces.


The incident in the shop would make anyone suspicious, but not me; I was enamored with my new mask and wanted nothing more but then to show it off, and the first person who laid eyes on it was Johnny. “It’s beautiful I won’t deny that, but don’t you think you have enough?” He asked with that same chastising tone he used whenever I went out, and came home with shopping bags full of extravagant clothes. His tone was even more condescending when I came home with a new mask. “A girl can never have enough of her favorite things, and besides I’m going to need it for tomorrow night.”
He glanced at me then, his attention once again diverted from the Daily News. “What’s happening tomorrow night?” He questioned, I silently handed him the letter I received, he wrinkled his nose from the smell of the perfume, and his facial features went from nonchalant, to vexed. He didn’t want to go, this I knew for sure but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. It took a full hour until he complied with my wishes, but it didn’t come without a price. “You are not going to buy anymore mask or clothing until I say.” He stated, claiming that was the only way he would agree to going to the ball. I may have agreed to that, but it wouldn’t last long, and he knew that. Why did he even bother cutting deals with me when he knew as well as I did that if I wanted something I would simply get it.

The night of the ball was a memory I have forever branded into my mind, to me it was the best night of my life. Johnny could not deny how gorgeous I looked, even though the irritation of donning on his dinner coat was evident. Oh how he detested parties especially Isabella’s. “Full of coquettish women charming their way into the hearts of ignorant aristocrats.” I heard him comment the last time we were at a gala. I however couldn’t get enough of them. The elegant way the other woman sauntered around the room letting the feathered or laced ends of their dresses slide gracefully on the marbled floors, the way the men huddled together smoking cigars, and talking about their prosperous business ventures, or judging which broad had the slimmest form, or fairest face. The way they all danced together to the swinging jazz music. The feathers on the hats flapped around wildly, and at least half the women would abandon their dog kennels to join the party. However a masquerade was a completely different affair. It’s as if you were plucked out of oblivion and placed into a decadent world where everyone was someone else. The women were not the same friends you stopped and said, “Hey, hey, hey” to on the street. These dames were sociable dumbbells pushed over by fast talking ritzy gents who showed their true colors behind their masks. The pleasures of the nighttime’s exotic world came to life at a masquerade where everyone will talk about the event the next day, but no one would dare mention which mask they hid behind. Yes this is how I felt every time I attended a masquerade, but this night gave more ecstasy, this night, no this mask gave me visions and desires I never felt or dreamed of. This mask was a new and exciting part of me.
I danced all night, it didn’t matter that Johnny was like a stop on a log the entire time, only engaging in the men’s games to humiliate the ossifies, or checking out the dames slender gams. No it didn’t matter because there was a never-ending supply of eager guys wanting to swing me around the dance floor. And they were eager, even after my feet started to swell from the continuous motions of the dance, the men followed me. Offering to get me a drink when I felt thirsty, keeping me entertained with stories about their many accomplishments, and begging me to go with them to some of the vacant rooms of the hotel. Denied them I may have, but it wasn’t done with ease. I may have said no to their first offers, but when the time came for them to place one right on my kisser I didn’t hold back, I welcomed them, I welcomed all of them. Each had their own personal flare that made the kiss memorable, but the thing I most remembered was the way their mask looked. One was a Batu mask as white as a wedding dress, but with a deceitful and conniving look about its eyes. Another was an Abadea, a foolish mask with an upturned mouth red and green based colors, and an expression that seemed to laugh boastfully. Colombians’, Harlequins’, Capitanos’, Zannis’, and Pagliaccios’, they all came and they all left with the same satisfaction they so desperately vied for.
I on the other hand was satisfied by their sheer appearance. They all came with one motive, yet they did not share the same expressions. They were diverse in their features, and that was what excited me. They were nobody to me, but they meant everything to me because their expressions would never change. Whether they won their heart’s desire or lost it, those unmoving faces always stayed the same.
Johnny caught me; I hadn’t realized he was standing near me, for I was too engaged with another eager looking Capitano. He was livid of course, but I couldn’t understand why. So I kissed a couple of guys who weren’t my fiancée did that warrant for him to tear his mask off, fling it the floor, and roughly escort me out of the joint? He didn’t bother opening the door for me when we reached the car which I found rude, but I heaved it opened myself, and plopped right into my seat. He kept his eyes focused on the road ahead of us, he never spoke, he never yelled, he didn’t even look at me. I wanted to say something maybe give him an explanation on why I did what I did, but I didn’t have any motivation to give an apology of any kind. Instead I simply looked through the window and gazed at my lovely mask that rested so perfectly upon my face.

Home was no different I sat patiently on the couch, and watched him pace up, and down. He seemed to be muttering to himself, but I couldn’t be sure. Finally he stopped halfway, and turned to look at me. “Well what do you have to say about this Lotte?”
I hesitated searching for something to say, but came up blank. “You’re not even going to say sorry to me for giving it out to all those guys? You’re not gonna give me a good explanation as to why you did what you did?” Again my mind was as blank as a new born babe. What did he expect me to say?
“I expected some empathy from you! Some remorse, but apparently that’s asking too much ain’t It.? And for God’s sake take off that dumb mask!”
It was difficult for me to comply with that request, but at the risk of making him more put out with me I removed the mask.
The moment I removed it however, made things different. The world wasn’t as colorful as when I had worn the mask, a flood of emotions slammed into me, and I soon recalled and regretted everything I did at the party. Tears rolled down easily from my eyes smearing my makeup, and staining my dress. It was almost painful, these feelings that were being thrown upon me. I wanted them to stop it hurt too much, but what was to be my release. An apology? No it wouldn’t be enough the pain would still be there, he wouldn’t completely forgive me, and things wouldn’t be the way they were. No I saw only one thing that could make it bearable. I placed the mask back on my face.
The emotions were gone. As if a switch went off in my brain ceasing the flow of emotion from entering it. I felt relieved. “I’ve got nothing to say to you Johnny baby. I did what I did, and I enjoyed it.” I didn’t really mean to hurt Johnny by saying those words, or at least I don’t think I did. I want to feel bad about cheating on him, but that would require emotions, the very emotions I was trying to hold back. The mask protected me from those kinds of feelings, the miserable feeling I went through all those years after father died, the sorrow I felt everyday from living in his home. The shame I felt that I never lived up to father’s expectations, or that I’m not the same daughter he raised. Yes it was those particular feelings that I was trying to keep out, and the mask was my only friend, so I refused Johnny.

He decided to leave me. I watched him walk up the stairs, he stayed up there for a long time, but when he came down he had his suitcase in tow and a defeated look on his face. Again I felt no sympathy for him, I’m certain he wanted to say something to me, maybe a goodbye but he just turned and walked silently out the door. Leaving me with nothing but Wilfred’s appearing and disappearing figure, and my fat lazy Siamese cat that I named after myself.


Like I said, recall I cannot how long ago these events actually took place, or how long I have not moved from this very spot on the couch. However I can remember the day I decided to remove the mask, I decided that my loneliness was unbearable; I decided that I would comply to Him if he would just let the pain end. He entered my dreams and agreed to my wishes.
I removed the mask last night precisely at midnight, and I promised that I would suffer through one day without it. One day I would allow all the emotions in and let them swim about in my head, taunting me, provoking me, whispering and yelling at me. I made this promise to Him, and he agreed. All day I have been fixated on the motion of the clock’s slow moving hand; just waiting. Waiting for the eleventh hour, the hour I would finally remove myself from that spot on the couch, and make the same journey I made-God knows how long ago-to that quant little mask Shoppe named Biagio’s. I was waiting for that familiar tinkling the shop’s bell would make, signaling my entrance. I was waiting for the shop keeper-I could never remember his name- to smile at me once he saw my familiar face. I was now one of his most elite clients, and I knew he was eagerly waiting for me too.