2 - Mephisto

       Evening has fallen over the party, though we scarcely noticed it. The boys Luce hired for the event have lit candles in a thousand lanterns, which are strung from every branch and bush, encircling all with their warm, gentle light. And so the light of the evening is wrought into a light hardly different in color from the rich sunlight the summer afternoon had brought... But there is something in the appearance of unnatural light which I find especially appealing. There is warmth in it, a personal aspect, which I quite like. I suppose it is the touch of theater, which it lends to everything it lands upon. A spotlight, a flood light, the heat rising from the foot lights into the heavy air of an actor's endless pleas for connection with those before him...
       Ah, even when I am not before it, I am seduced by the passions and pretenses of the stage! But that does remind me, isn't my little singer supposed to perform for us tonight? I ought to go and find him; it has been some time since I saw David in this crowd. I do hope he has not been stolen away by someone else. I am so looking forward to hearing him sing! But I suppose I would not hold anyone to blame, as his voice is equally lovely in any of its various exercises, whether musical (in the literal sense) or otherwise.
       I stroll casually around the rose garden, passing from one conversation to the next, though my attention is truly on what I see rather than what I hear or what I say - he must be here somewhere! But his dark hair blends in too well with the shadows and the suits, and he is never dressed in any remarkable fashion (despite my best efforts). He is too love a boy to be attired so drably! One cannot raise one's status if one goes unnoticed. If he dressed to his potential instead of to suit his origins, he should be nearly there already!
       Azal calls me over to him, to show off the florid beauty hanging on his arm this evening. And she is indeed lovely – her deeply tanned skin setting off the dramatic carmine ruffles of her dress, her manner and appearance an emboldened repetition of the hibiscus she wears in her hair. But I have seen so many such as this, and her beauty is as fleeting as that flower. All such beauty wilts and fades, its color drawn away by the touch of a thousand days, of a thousand admiring caresses...
       The only thing that lasts is the artistry of a perpetual façade: That intricate art of detailed deception, of paints and proper colors, of crèmes and exotic extracts, of fabrics and arrangements which beguile the eye. Azal has not yet let this knowledge into his awareness, for though he tosses his playthings aside as frequently as anyone, they are always as soon replaced, with whatever new beauty has just arrived on the scene, picking a fresh bud off the same plant as soon as a petal falls from the first flower. He is always surrounded by things in full bloom, but he must constantly replace them, almost daily culling out and cultivating his gardens.
       How dreadfully dull and repetitive. That is the sort of tedious work for which we have servants. I much prefer to have only a few choice roses, which I can care for with tender attentions, cutting away a discolored leaf, or painting lightly over a slight blemish. There is an artistry in maintaining constant beauty... Meres, I think, understands this, with his attention to detail – but where is dear Meres? That is one diversion of conversation I should actually enjoy, but I have not seen him for quite some time...
       If his disappearance and that of my boy are not coincidental---! I shall have some sharp words for the both of them. While we do not let the petty jealousies of man sully the air among ourselves, it is quite another matter to have a favorite toy stolen without permission.
       "Mephisto, I had hoped to find you! Here, do aid us in our dispute."
       "Oh you are perfect, dear, just who we wanted! Now, pray tell us, did you select this evening's music?"
       I smile, though inwardly I sigh at the interruption. Carey and Adir - the two are incapable of ending an argument. Each is always completely enamored of his own position, and will simply not hear of someone else being correct. "Of course," I answer. "Who else should we trust to chose for such a marked occasion? But I only suggested the musicians - their program for the evening was entirely Luce's idea."
       "Ah! That must explain it."
       "Oh but it does not at all!"
       "Of course it does. If Luce dictated the evening's score, then he of course influenced the stylistic approach to be used. Thus any method of interpretation they chose to use must have been at his suggestion."
       "Not if they, as a group, always take interpretations in that direction. If they are a modernist group, then they shall have a tendency to use experimental approaches. If they are an old and traditional group, then---"
       "But would not Luce have ensured that they---"
       "Gentlemen, gentlemen!" I interrupt dramatically, gently waving them apart with a wide polite smile on my face. "I am certain that each of your arguments is a worthy one, but why not simply ask Luce if the apparent incongruities in the music were his intent or not? I am certain he would be happy to detail for you all of the varied preparations he has made for the evening. You know there is no factor he does not plan out - why, I should not be at all surprised if he had intended for the two of you to have this very argument!"
       There is laughter, and I lift my hands to pat them both on the shoulder. "Now, I am sorry, but you must excuse me. I have someone I am looking for..."
       They answer with some polite response, and I walk away, weaving through the dense crowd of sable and crimson. Luce had requested that all the ladies in attendance dress in red, and the men in black, to further enhance the setting of the party. I must admit, the results are quite striking, particularly with the fall of evening. The dark dress coats blur into shadow, leaving pale faces to take on the dim and dreamy glow of lamplight, while the scarlet fabric swathed about the women falls languidly about them, as silken sheets in a candlelit boudoir. The voices have altered with the change in light; they are deeper now, lower and shaded with subtleties. Discrete confidences are made with all the imagined privacy of a darkened theater - one can often feel safest in the middle of a crowd, for one feels there are enough other conversations and thoughts going on around one, that one's own murmurs shall be automatically dismissed or politely ignored.
       I am reminded of a scene a few evenings before this (I do not know quite the day, but what do days matter, in our eternal years?). I was, as I often am, at the theater, waiting for the scenery to be changed between acts, and in the heavy blanket of shadow which covered all the gathered crowd. My companion for the evening had removed herself briefly, to get a bit of air, but I had chosen to remain, not desiring to miss any of the play. The two lead roles were played by particular favorites of mine, and I had been quite entranced by a new face portraying one of the side characters, a young man I had hitherto not been aware of – though I now know my David quite well indeed. He had such striking eyes, I could tell even at a distance, and his unusually long hair set off the flush of his cheeks with the exquisite care of a painter's loving brush strokes.
       There were two young men sitting behind me - I had taken note of them before the curtain rose. A handsome pair, really, both with dusky blond hair, dressed with that peculiar mix of style and poverty which eternally marks the student. They spoke in low voices, but not so low that I could not make out their words.
       "She is quite fond of plays, you know. One of us ought to have brought her tonight."
       "Oh, but he had planned for weeks to take her out tonight - did you not notice how she refused to make any engagements for the week-end at all?"
       "I had noticed she was rather melancholy, the few times I chanced to meet with her this week. Does he really not suspect how miserable he makes her?"
       "How could he! She is such the actress, she treats him with all the respect and admiration one could expect from a young woman engaged - all that is lacking is the dreamy-eyed doting, which I doubt he would care for, even if she could pretend it. He is such a dull sort."
       "Which is why we shall save her from this mess, shall we not?"
       "We? I am quite sure it will be I who rescue her, and sweep her away to the palaces of her dreams---"
       "You are one to speak of palaces! You barely made your rent last week, I heard."
       "If she wanted money, her heart would be his already. I offer her dreams! A life of romance and all the beauty of the arts, I---"
       "You! You entered this wager only because you cannot find any other girl who will even consent to walk beside you on the street."
       "And you! You are incredibly lucky that she has never come near the campus, where she might hear just how many girls you have had walk beside you, and not just walk but---"
       There was jovial, jocular laughter between them, and I smiled to hear it. It was all I could do to not turn around and join the conversation, offering them advice on how best to obtain their goals. But my companion arrived, just as the stage lights returned to full and the lead actor burst into passionate song...
       Song! There is song around me now! Oh my dear boy, you are yet here, and already you have begun! I rush toward the sound - oh but rush is the wrong word, that would be quite indecorous of me and I am not so human as all that. But I move toward the sound with renewed energy and purpose, and will not stop for any side conversations. He stands in front of the musicians, looking shockingly young and small and inconsequential... until you realize that the voice is his, this voice which permeates all the air with an indescribable sweetness, yearning toward the highest beauties, catching in its wake all the lesser beauties along the way and thus combining them distilling them condensing them into one melody of sheer rapture... His eyes are closed, his dark hair combed carefully back from his delicately-boned face, his lips of flushed rose parted in song. His stature is slight, and it does not seem that music in such volume and profusion could possibly be held in something so small... but perhaps that is the answer to it, that it has been misplaced into his small frame, and now expels itself in almost violent passions, after having been constrained for so long.
       I find a seat nearby, waving over a servant, who carries a tray of crystalline glasses filled with some exquisite wine. (Luce has always the best stores - Meres may find the most exotic elements, in food and drink as in all else, but with Luce, it is always quality, and the very, very best at that.) I take a glass, and make myself comfortable, my eyes held by the thousand subtle motions of the singer's body, drinking in the myriad cues to the emotions which run rampant within him, spilling over from the song which was meant to contain them, bursting out of tiny fissures in the dam of his body.
       I sigh contentedly, my eyes tenderly tracing the nuances of his form, my thoughts lost in the soaring notes of the song, which tangles among the stars, pulling them out from their day's rest. It seems the starshine lends the boy a glow, his slim form almost luminescent, and if it is from the light of the stars or the heat of his soul I do not know. I take slow sips of the wine, which warms my thin blood, flushing my pale cheeks. Ah, what an evening! I would have this boy sing for centuries, I do not think I could ever tire of it...
       A shrill voice pierces the air high above the murmurs of the crowd, and the voices surrounding grow louder in answer. One of the ladies has fainted, at the sight of some horrifying thing out in the garden, and the woman she had been walking with is making a ridiculous fuss.
       I smile wryly into my wine. One should know the chance one takes, walking through such gardens at night - especially in the gardens of Luce, for he is always plotting the most interesting chains of reaction.
       The music stills in the uncertain atmosphere, and my mood sours. "Do continue!" I call out, while waving over the servant for a refill of my glass. "Drama is hardly worth viewing, dears, if there is no musical accompaniment."
       A few of the musicians smile at this, others are too busy scanning the crowd to see what the fuss is about. I am disappointed in their lack of professionalism, I had thought them better than this. But they play well, so I will forgive them - if only they will play!
       Ah, there, the first violinist is cuing the rest to begin a new piece. The singer clears his throat and resumes his straightened poise, relaxing into the music as it swells behind him, seeming almost to lie back against it, as a bed of gentle down.
       The song is an aching one, in a minor key with occasional yearning breaks into a major one, which are almost immediately overtaken by sorrow again. His voice reaches high, yearning toward those stars which shine so faintly beyond the false light we have given our world. He stretches a hand toward some invisible thing of heartbreaking beauty, his eyes staring pleadingly toward it, and oh, my back aches to again have wings, that I might lift him toward that for which he so longs!
       And though the music wrenches my heart in pain, it is a comfortable pain, for it is a pain which will carry me away from my own. I close my eyes and let my thoughts slip away, letting down for a time that barricade which I keep around my heart, letting the ache of true beauty trickle in and fill the emptiness of a heart I will not let feel... I can feel the warmth and softness of the song's passionate swells against my own back as I watch him, the caresses seeping into my skin, embracing my blood and even my heart...

       I awake from my blind reveries to find the music gone, the air empty. My heart falls away beneath me and I nearly cry aloud at the sudden vacuum of that most glorious of sound. I find myself quite cold. Looking about, I see few candles lit, the lanterns glowing dimly in the false light of pre-dawn. Have I slept? I suppose I must have, for I can recall nothing of the party quieting or the sky brightening.
       My eyes catch sight of a warmer light in the distance - ah, from the house! The party must have merely moved indoors, to avoid the chill of morning dew, and the even colder morning light.
       I slowly rise to my feet, very aware of the stiffness that has grown in my limbs. I sigh, casting my eyes about me. The servants have worked well - there is scarcely any residue of the soirée, only a few tables and chairs remaining, and of course the lanterns strung in the trees and bushes. Just enough left in place that any few who might wish to return for a bit of air shall find the place comfortable. But there is no-one here now, it has grown so silent! The emptiness of the air makes my ears begin to ring in the desolation... I make my way toward the house, following the paths darkened by the passage of many footsteps, my thoughts achingly void, in the vacuum of silence. My lips curls in almost fearful distaste, and I move more quickly, anxious to be away from the wretched emptiness.

       Indoors, I find the number of the party diminished. Some have left altogether, but in large part the gathering is merely divided. Some are in the drawing room, smoking and drinking and talking in voices both boisterous and secretive. Some have gone into the harem rooms, to indulge in the pleasures of beautiful men and women, senses heightened by exotic spices and incense. Some are lingering over a meal in the dining room, some have retired to private rooms, for rest or for more exclusive tête-a-têtes.
       I find a seat in the drawing room, a softly cushioned chair not far from the fireplace. A servant offers to get me a drink, and I have some terribly indulgent cocktail brought to me. And so I linger there for a time, soaking in the various confidences and loud gossip being thrown about the room, trying to drown my own thoughts by drinking in the sound surrounding me...

       "Well, it seems that - you know how that girl Martha has been clinging to him for weeks now."
       "Oh of course, who doesn't?"
       "Terribly possessive - as if any of us could be so restrained! Her lavish attentions and petty demands are nearly sickening, or they would be if Adir showed any pretense of indulging her for long..."

       "...gone to that gathering at Azal's, which turned in the end into a veritable orgy?"
       "Oh rumor is always near the truth - but never too near, you know..."

       "But he allowed her to walk him home, and put him to bed, and fuss over him dreadfully for an hour or two before feigning sleep. When he was certain she had returned to her own chambers, he returned to us - but not to the party at large. You remember the powder room..."
       This catches my ear. I remember that night, though only vague impressions. It was some weeks ago, Meres had decorated a suite of rooms to appear as an Oriental opium den. Adir left, and then returned when none had expected him again. I don't know how Meres managed those servants, they spoke only their native tongue, but oh, the girls had no need to speak a word, the mystery in those shy, slanted eyes! But then... no, no, that was only a drug-induced dream, my thoughts were confused by the smoke and the thousand draperies of silk, there was no flame, there was no falling, only gentle oblivion and the pleasure of skilled hands and tongues...

       "...this was in the later part of the evening, when--- Oh but you know what transpired there."
       "Mmm, indeed I do. I was... occupied, elsewhere, for quite some time, but I have heard."

       But is this what we are reduced to? Seeking physical pleasures, and recounting past conquests, only to repeat the process endlessly through the years? There is more, there is so much more to us of course but there is also more to this world. The passions of the stage, the yearnings of song, it is all so much more than this, it almost, at times, gives glimpses of---
       Of nothing. Of earthly delight. Stronger, deeper pleasures than those merely of the body.
       I wave a servant over to refill my drink.

       "Oh, no, not at all! He somehow made his way back to his room before she arrived in the morning to make him breakfast. And when she commented on how pale and tired he looked---"
       "She assumed it was the illness! Such a simple trick, but so well played!"

       "...Ha! She thinks he loves her, then?"

       Story after story of tricking humans – as if that is any accomplishment. And yet, there is a depth, that I feel some of my fellows are entirely missing, there is... the unexpected, unconscious wisdom of a child in their art. Something more than mere bestial instincts flows through them, their souls have far more breadth, far more potential for emotion and... and that yearning, that longing, that passionate reaching beyond the world about them... that is something we have lost... lost, long ago...

       "Ahh, of course! It is Adir, and for all else he might be, he is an excellent lover, and an exceedingly persuasive one..."

       I have let my gaze fall unfocused into the fire, as my hearing fades in and out of attentiveness, nursing my drink absently. I failed to realize I had grown so distant, until my sightless stare is interrupted by Carey, pulling up a chair to the side of mine, smiling as he offers me a fresh glass. "You simply must try the cognac, dear, it is quite a fine vintage. Such lovely floral notes - violets, I think."
       I smile gratefully and take the glass, handing my now-empty one to a servant who appears almost instantly at my need. (Ah, Luce! You truly do hire the best.) "It does have a lovely aroma... Have I missed anything of great moment this evening? I was... in the garden, until a short time ago."
       "Nothing terribly interesting, no... but I had been looking for you, there was one bit of gossip I wanted to be sure you heard."
       "Anything, darling, I am in the mood for stories." For sound, anyway - it hardly matters if I hear the words... "This is an excellent cognac, do you know its origins?"
       "I am afraid not; Luce is keeping that a close secret this evening, and inciting a good bit of envy in doing so. He is, as I am sure will not surprise you, having samples be given to everyone in attendance, but refuses to name the vineyard from which it comes."
       "Ha! You are right, it does not surprise me."
       He sighs, and takes a long, slow sip. "Do you ever tire of his endless manipulations, Meph dear? I must admit, there are times when I do..."
       I consider for a moment, wresting my thoughts toward the question while staring off into the sparkling fire. "Oh, I suppose there are a few occasions... but really, it is a fairly harmless amusement. I only find it tiresome when it interferes with something I should like to know or do."
       "Yes, I suppose so... And one really can't blame him for being so full of self-importance, can one?" We laugh, knowing that it is a trait common to us all, as inevitable as the sun rising.
       "But there, you had something to tell me, darling?"
       "Ah! I did. Has anyone told you about the priest that attended the evening at Nila's last week?"
       I raise an eyebrow, and a pleased smile curls across my face. Here is something which might push aside the unsettling blankness of my thoughts. "They had not! What a lovely development, however did it come about?"
       "Here, another drink for us both!" he calls out gleefully, and, when our glasses have been refilled, he moves his chair a little closer to mine and leans forward, his eyes glinting with delight. "Now, darling, this is of course not to be common knowledge - not yet, anyway. But it seems he was coerced into attendance by some boy he has taken a fancy to - oh I hardly know how to tell the story, there are so many delicious elements all at once!"
       We laugh, and I clink my glass lightly against his. "Don't trouble yourself, my dear, I am certain I shall be able to piece it together properly if need be. But do go on." I settle back into my chair, letting my eyes settle back into the soothing motion of the flames. Such lovely subtleties of color...
       "This priest, he is a younger man yet, not long out of seminary. Young enough that he still has many questions about his faith and his order, and has an open mind about certain interpretations. Young enough that he still thinks he can update his religion, and make changes where he feels he knows more than the hundreds of years of predecessors."
       "Such an interesting age, is it not?" I comment idly, only half-listening. "So full of ideas and longings and desires, and thoughts of greatness, but so naive! Almost endearing, really." I smile wryly into my glass, reminded of David.
       "And easily manipulated, of course."
       "Mmm, of course..." That old game. I grow weary of it, of the trouble of it all, of hearing endless variations of it from others. It is such an old game, played without thought by most. They could at least take the trouble to make it more interesting, to make their deceptions the artforms they are capable of being... there is a sort of honesty to flagrant lies, but clothed in glittering shrouds, seen but not seen...
       "You know Claude, that boy Nila introduced us to... The painter, you know, the one who does those lovely Grecian scenes? The priest, his name is Douglas, Mark Douglas I believe, was looking to have a painting done, for the sitting room of his new parsonage. He has much entertaining to do, of course, for he is eager to make close friends of certain key social figures - it is a fairly wealthy parish. He is a great believer in admiration of natural beauty, the human form being merely one aspect of it. Having seen some of the boy's work, he thought he might produce an admirable Biblical scene."
       This catches my attention. I cannot help but look up into Carey's eyes, with rather surprised interest. Claude's paintings are gaining quite an audience among us, for not only are they beautifully done, but are also quite erotic in nature. Blatantly sexual, in point of fact. Not exactly an obvious choice for religious work! "And what subject did they decide upon?"
       "Ahh, quite an interesting one." He pauses a moment for dramatic effect, his eyes gleaming into mine. "The scene of sorrowful parting between David and Jonathan, as David must flee Saul's wrath."
       "Ha!" I burst into laughter of knowing approval, clapping my hands together, and Carey joins me. "'Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women '! Tear-stained kisses are the subject, then? Oh do go on! I like this priest more all the time."
       "Well, of course, it is to show the ideal brotherhood between all of mankind, or so the official explanation goes. But, oh you must see the painting, it is too divine. The looks exchanged between the two - very strikingly beautiful - young men are absolutely wonderful. Clutching desperately to each other, I'm sure you can imagine. The priest is delighted with the piece, and, it seems, with Claude. He looks to have taken the boy under his wing, or so it seems in polite society. Truly, though, the boy is leading him farther into a world he has too long been sheltered from... all under pretense, of course, of broadening his understanding of the human race in its present conditions. One cannot preach to those one does not understand, you know. One must know which sins exist among the people, in order to correct them, and properly guide the flock."
       "Oh, but of course. I do hope this is all being done gradually? It would be a shame to scare off such an interesting visitor."
       "Oh it is - the boy is an artist in more ways than one. He is quite wonderful, really, able to show a face of bright innocence while saying the most deliciously immoral things."
       "It sounds as though you have had a few personal encounters with him, dear Carey."
       "Mmm, well, that is another subject of discussion altogether... But to return to our own dear priest. He is quite attractive, even surprisingly so. Such striking green eyes! And really, a lovely body, though of course he covers it up terribly all the time. Modesty and all. But I am sure we shall talk him out of those dreadful clerical robes before long... The stagnation inherent in all tradition, you know the sort of thing.”
       "Oh the possibilities with this one are wonderful! I quite look forward to this... Do let me know if you hear of his planned attendance to any events in the near future, I should love to be there."
       "As would we all, though, as I have said, this is not news I should like to have spread too much. You and I, of course, know the importance of patience in these matters, as does Nila. But... not to criticize, but---"
       "Luce." He nods, and I chuckle quietly.
       "I would simply hate to lose this one before we have properly had our fun... and while Luce's plans are always brilliant, they can, on occasion, prove to be just a little excessive."
       "Yes... Oh but that reminds me, whatever was that commotion with some woman fainting in the garden earlier?"
       I had kept my tone carefully nonchalant, but he still looks quite surprised. "That was hours ago – you haven't heard about it?"
       "Ah, as I said, I was... indisposed for some time."
       "Mmm, indulging in that lovely young singer you brought us, then?"
       I merely smile secretively... and wonder again how I should have fallen into oblivion so fully and for so long, unplanned. I ought to have more control over myself than that... I do have more control than that. I wonder what it was... I cannot hope that it was unnoticed by all, as it was by Carey, and I must find some innocuous answer to give out.
       Carey continues talking, in a low, confidential tone. And I do listen, of course I listen, it is an interesting story, and it would not do to fall behind on the gossip of a party I myself am in attendance of. So I listen, and respond as I should, laughing and smiling as always, pausing only in slow sips of whatever drink has been put into my hand. But my thoughts are truly elsewhere, coated in the scarlet light of the crackling fire. Was it something in the wine? I doubt that, for it would have affected others as well as myself. I suppose it must have been something in the song... something that it touched, in the deep cellars of memory. I do recall closing my eyes, of course, to better focus on the music... but why should it have lulled me so, into complete absence of presence? I do not have any memory at all of those hours. Mere sleep would not have caused such a thorough blankness as that - even had I been asleep, my mind would still have recorded the various stimuli detected by my senses, at the very least. And if I had slept, I would undoubtedly have dreamt... What happened to me, there in the garden? I can think of nothing that would have caused something as strange as that...
       But this has happened before. This emptiness is a terrifyingly familiar landscape, bleak and---
       No! I found myself lost in it when I tried some new drug, it happened when I had indulged in a number of stimuli in a new, and apparently ill-chosen, combination. It happened that one evening with Meres, when we visited Azal's desert palace, it happened... there was always some reason. This time I can find none... Oh I should listen to Carey, but I have lost my grasp of the conversation, my gaze has been stolen by the abyss which has opened within me. What lies inside that darkness, which so grasps my heart! Oh I cannot stand it, it is so dark and hollow, it aches in loneliness though I am surrounded by companions...
       Carey. I should listen to Carey.
       “...arranged quite artfully, it seems, the blood drawn about in peculiar patterns. Which of course made some think of...”
       Oh what do I care for idle talk, it is so dull and empty! I need something fuller, something louder, passions so strong that they will flood this empty space and---
       But if all is washed away I am truly left with nothing, as it was in the garden, I---
       "Darling, are you alright? You seem to have... faded from me, a bit."
       I force my increasingly chaotic thoughts aside, and push a smile onto my tired face. "It is nothing, dear, only the drinks going to my head a little. I am oddly tired this evening, I think I shall retire." I cannot remain here, I need something stronger...
       He leans over and pats my hand, kissing my cheek lightly. "Do rest, then. If you should want him, I believe I last saw your singer in the library, listening intently to some story or another being told by, if you can believe it, Veri. Some tale of a lost love, or something equally melancholy, you know how he is."
       "Mmm, thank you."
       I get slowly to my feet, and find that I am a little unsteady. But I bring my focus to the motions, and make my way relatively gracefully to the stairway. There is an entire wing of guest rooms in this house, and it takes little effort to find an empty one. I close the door, and sit on the bed, intending to call for some company, some beautiful little thing to soothe my body and distract my thoughts, to burn away the vacuum which threatens to consume me. But I lay back, and the bed is exquisitely soft and comfortable, and so I close my eyes again.....