Blue was the colour he saw in the mirror,
streaked under his eyes like nesting peacocks. He reached into the open makeup
jar for more of the decoration and streaked it this time across his mouth. He
examined the effect this had on his visage. It was similar to a deranged clown,
but ice cold. He could feel the chill radiating from the mirror. He nodded in
satisfaction, this was the mime he wanted to present to the world, Marcel
Marceau be damned. Black did not convey the emptiness in his soul like blue
did, blue would be his salvation. This time people would take him seriously.
As he pondered this, his eyes lit on the
jar of glitter he stored near his makeup brush. He considered adding a touch to
his face to finish off the canvas. No, he finally decided with a shake of his
head, today was not a day to sparkle. He did one final check of the white
greasepaint he had caked his face with at the start and then donned a pair of
white cotton gloves. They slid on his hands effortlessly, his fingers slotting
into place as if this was his skin that he had removed earlier and finally was
replacing. In some ways, it was.
He took a step back from his mirror and
examined the full experience of his outfit. The face, he decided, was perfect.
The blue on white was exquisite and the ‘war paint’ stripes under his eyes gave
their already striking grey the appearance of hard, crisp ice. He had considered painting on blue tears in
the usual tradition, but no, this was a war. He was crying no tears today; only
vigilance would guide his hand. He adjusted the beret on his head to the
regulation angle, eighteen degrees and tugged on his stripy sleeves, making
sure they were even on both arms. He briefly considered changing from black and
white stripes to blue and white to match his distinctive makeup choices but
decided it was probably too much. His slacks and shoes were also regulation
black.
What would be a perfect finishing touch
though? He searched the room around him and discovered in a corner a plastic blue
rose. Perfect. He pushed it into his lapel and gave himself another once over
in the mirror. Yes, this would do fantastically. His mentor would be proud,
though would likely tut at the break from tradition in the makeup. No matter.
He sighed at the thought of his mentor, likely feeling his way around the
invisible glass walls of Paris for euro-cents. He picked up his suitcase carefully, making
sure not to disturb the gelignite within, opened the door, walked through it,
carefully closed it behind him, then went on to the real door, opened that, and
closed it behind him locking it carefully.
--
Menhaus watched as the clouds overhead
slowly drifted across the giant moon in the sky. The moon was an unearthly
yellow colour and the night sky was a deep blue that reminded him of his
grandfather’s fading journals in their antique leather binding. His Earth
grandfather, anyway. Menhaus was certain (at the least 95% sure) that the ones
he knew as “Mum” and “Dad” were actually just stand-ins for his real parents out
in the stars somewhere. He knew this because his intuition told him so, along
with a dream he had where a message was sent to him from the sky. The message
itself was lost, but he would never forget the way it was conveyed – a spark
detached from the sun, a tiny star, and came down from the sky shooting across
his grandparents’ backyard and passing through the back door. The door was of
the sliding glass variety and it cracked as the bright light vessel passed
through it. The light shot around the room then swooped down and flew into the
big grandfather clock in the lounge room where it faded.
Menhaus remembered the next time he visited
his grandparents, he saw that the sliding door had a big patch in it where
there was a crack and a few days after that it had been replaced with a new
pane that had a white stripe along it just under eye level. He decided to bring it up with his mum.
“Hey mum?”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when that glass on the
door broke?”
“Yeah I remember. Do you? Were you here?”
“Of course I was here!” And Menhaus
described the events in detail, being sure to mention how the glass cracked as
it went through the door.
“…and then it went into the clock and that
was it!”
His mum stopped what she was doing, setting
the table for dinner and turned towards Menhaus, “I think you might have dreamt
that. The door broke because Grandpa walked into it, that’s why we have the
line on it now so he can see that there’s something there before he hurts
himself.”
“But… I saw it…” Menhaus’ voice petered out
as he noticed the bandaid on his Grandpa’s bald head. Still, he knew it was
real, it had to be. Maybe it was a dream, but it was a sign nonetheless.
He watched as a large mass of cloud cover
rolled off the moon leaving it completely exposed in the navy blue sky for a
few seconds. The landscape around him seemed to lighten. He got up and raced
over to a nearby unused pot that his grandmother had filled with soil and dug
into it with his fingers, trying not to let too much soil fall out of it. He
shifted the soil around left and right till he saw a glint of red and pulled
out the large stone triumphantly. Most likely it was costume jewelry, a piece
of glass, but to Menhaus it was a large ruby and it had special powers. It was
a beacon to his real parents, a way for them to track him and take him home.
He blew the dirt off the stone then ran
back to his spot where he could have a good view of the moon. He held up the
red stone in front of the giant white celestial object and admired the deep red
of the stone and held his hand up in front of it to see the red patch hazily
paint itself across his palm. Hopefully they would get this message. They would
receive it, and they would come. Hopefully. He looked up at the moon again and
watched as another large continent of clouds covered the moon once again. He
sighed and replaced the stone in the pot and covered it with soil again.
“Menhaus!” His mum calling from inside. He
quickly wiped his hands off on his pants. “Coming!” He yelled and ran to the
sliding door, briefly stopped to touch the rough white line that was on the
replacement door after the star/head damage, then flung the door open and ran
inside.
--
The air contained the smell of
anticipation. Anticipation and… cinnamon. Cinnamon? The mime sniffed the air again.
Definitely cinnamon. He looked along the beach front and saw a small food cart
advertising hot doughnuts. He looked at his watch; well, he lifted up his arm
and performed the motion of looking at his watch, though he wasn’t actually
wearing one. Still, his instincts told him that he had time to go and get a
doughnut. He swallowed in anticipation and quickly shuffled over. The vendor
looked him straight in the eyes and then looked away. “What would you
like?” he said, carefully looking at the tray of cinnamon and sugar in front of
him.
This presented a conundrum for the mime. He
waved his hands about trying to get the vendor’s attention but to no avail.
After about twenty seconds of uncomfortable silence the vendor said, “Oh,
that’s right” and looked up again. The mime held up three fingers and mimed
rubbing his stomach for extra effect. “Yeah… no problem.”
The vendor walked behind the big metal
machine that contained the dough and pulled a lever. Soon balls of dough were
dropping into the pool of hot honey and oil below the spout at the end. One,
two, three. After a minute or so of cooking, they floated to the top where they
were caught by the moving slightly barbed conveyor that brought them up out of
the boiling mixture and took them across to a tray of cinnamon and sugar where
they were lightly flipped and then placed by the vendor into a paper bag.
“Three dollars.”
The mime counted out three dollar notes and
tried to hand them to the vendor.
“Very funny. Real money please.”
The mime looked down and realized that he
had only mimed getting the money out. Instinct. He mimed his deepest regret,
including a short bow, and then reached into his pocket and found a few coins
with which he paid for his delicacy. He took his suitcase and the small paper
package and set off in search of a bench to eat the doughnuts at while still
being able to keep a close eye on the suitcase. He found the location he was
looking for and eagerly rolled down the now greasy bag around a doughnut and
gingerly took a bite. Hot and delicious. He swallowed with great relish. This
was as good a last meal, if it came down to that, as he could hope for. He
finished off the last of the doughnuts, being careful not to let them touch his
white gloves, and then tossed the bag into a nearby bin. He stood and grabbed
his suitcase, then scanned the area. The pier was quite dead save for a few
people walking briskly down the seaside footpath, their coats up against their
neck. They walked especially briskly past the mime, possibly because of his
unusually vicious makeup, more likely because they didn’t want to have to
endure politely watching him walk against the wind and then have to give him a
few coins to escape.
The mime walked away from the street,
towards the sea. He could see the moon reflected in the waves., it looked
gigantic and yellow. He smiled a slight smile as the smell of the salt hit his
senses. He remembered the feeling of escape. Ten years old,
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