A middle-aged man stands alone on a
darkened stage. A bright spot holds him in its cone. He is immaculately dressed
in a well-tailored, light grey suit. A silk tie, deep red, nicely compliments
an expensive shirt. There is a small flower on his lapel, a lighter shade of
the tie. All of it is understated, elegant.
Silent, the man gazes out toward us,
occasionally pulling at his French cuffs, more out of habit than nervousness. Several
times, he touches his right cheek as if sweeping away an unseen fly.
He smiles. It’s as if he is
remembering something important he wants to share with us but is unsure if he
should.
He pulls down upon his suit coat and
then casually re-folds his hands in front.
He begins to speak to us.
The voice is cultured; his words soothing
and confident. It’s a voice each of us has heard before but can’t remember
when, where or who.
_________________
0 _________________
When I look into the mirror every morning, I’m reminded of other times. And, if truth be told, it was both the best and worst of times.
Back
then, whenever I entered a room, heads would turn. It seemed that women of all
ages wanted to talk to me. Immediately. Urgently. Not wishing to sound too full
of myself, I must tell you that more than a few just couldn’t help themselves.
They’d find any excuse to lightly touch my arm, perhaps a shoulder. I remember
once - a sophomore as I recall - even stroked my hair much like she would have
done with a favoured cat.
Olivia,
my mother – God rest her soul – often called me pretty.
‘You’re
a pretty lad,’ she’d say, ‘Sure to break many hearts in the years ahead.'
She’d
always tell me about the latest fashions, showing me photos in gentlemen’s
magazines. High style was her thing, that’s for sure. Now you might think it
odd for a mother to do that with a son. But I just accepted that’s the way any
mother would talk, especially if her son was pretty like me. These days, I
guess the more acceptable word would be handsome.
‘Remember
this, Vincento,' Olivia was too fond of saying. ‘Clothes make the man. People, my
darling, may not remember what you say, but they will surely remember if your shoes
were shined, your pants pressed.’
One
day, I think I must have been about nine or ten, I was watching her putting on
makeup. I must confess that back then, I was genuinely fascinated by the entire
process. It was just magical. My mother - well, she was what you’d call a natural
beauty. Anyone who ever met her would undoubtedly say so. But when she had on
her makeup, to put it simply, my mother was a knock-out.
Strange as it may
seem, I remember being very jealous of all that love and attention she attracted.
Anyway,
she saw me watching and invited me to sit beside her - both of us side by side
in front of the round cosmetic mirror over her makeup table in a tiny space she
liked to call her boudoir.
‘What
would you like to try, Vincento? Lipstick? Perhaps some eye shadow? Or maybe
just a whisper of rouge on those pale cheeks?’ Her fingertips delicately brushed
my cheek. I can still feel her touch to this very day.
With
each offering, Olivia would hold out the item in the palm of her delicate hand.
I
decided on the rouge powder. My heart felt like it was going to burst right out
of my chest.
‘Excellent
choice, my precious. Here, on one cheek, let me show you just how to do it, so there’s
only just a hint of …’ She hesitated, not able to find quite the right word.
‘So
there’s only just a hint of…’ she paused again, ‘…invitation.'
Admittedly,
it was a most unusual word to use in that situation. But then again, in her
life, my dear mother was all about the invitation.
With
practiced strokes, she rouged my left cheek then leaned back to admire her
handiwork.
‘Now,
Vincento dearest, you do the other.’
And
I did. As I recall, I didn’t do too bad a job of it either.
‘Beautiful,
Vincento. You’re so pretty. Yes, so very pretty indeed.’
She
kissed me lightly on the forehead.
‘My
blessed heart, you look so handsome. No girl in her right mind will ever be
able to resist you.’
Looking
back now, I think that was the start of it.
From
that very moment, I truly believed I was pretty. ‘Stunningly handsome,’ I
recall my mother saying as I innocently posed this way and that - just as I’d
seen her do so many times - in front of the full-length dressing mirror.
I
chose to believe in my beauty, so it came easily for me to act the part.
Confident. In charge. Worth getting to know. And when I was older, definitely worth
loving if you were found to be in my favour.
I
wore fine clothes; bespoke suits of only the most beautiful cloth. Soft leather
shoes, hand-stitched, always polished, of course. A gold Rolex. French cuffs,
always accented with ebony links, the initials ‘VM’ embossed lightly on the
dark bone.
But,
as you well know, there’s far more to living the high life than just being a
sharp dresser who’s always easy with his words. Sadly, I must report my
flattering mother never revealed the secret to me. I had to learn that life
lesson the hard way.
Standing
here, I do confess to you that over the years, I’ve had many women - passionate,
loving, attentive - in my life. For each, I was the irresistible light, and she
was my delicate, summer moth. Now you may think that sounds outrageously
conceited. But it is the truth of it.
Which,
of necessity, brings us to Helen.
She
was my soul mate. We spent eighteen marvellous months together. First, in San
Diego where she had a thriving practice as a much sought after fashion
photographer. Then the final six months when we were living on Canada’s Pacific
coast.
Back
then, Helen was big into yoga. When a teaching position at the famous yoga
centre in one of the Gulf Islands came her way, she joyfully walked away from
her glamorous life in California. Of course, I went along with her.
Looking
back now, I sometimes wonder if she’d gradually become my light, and I was just
her beautiful summer moth.
Of
course, someone as attractive and socially adept as me found it easy to mix in
with the yoga crowd. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that I was very popular,
particularly with some of the younger female students.
That
said, I’m sure you've already figured out how all this is going to end.
In
my defence, let me just say that I was well and truly loved. I trust that now you
can see that such behaviour was just in my nature. For the most part, Helen was
forgiving. Oh, I’ll admit there were tensions between us at times about – what
shall I call them – my overly familiar relationships with her students. But in
spite of it all, Helen remained my soul mate.
Eventually,
Helen had enough. One rainy night in late summer, we had a spectacularly noisy row.
Hurtful words stripped bare our very hearts. Hidden feelings were drawn out
between us; our relationship shredded beyond repair.
The
next day I left on the first ferry out of Long Harbour. I headed for Victoria
and a new life without Helen.
One
week later, while riding a friend’s Harley on a section of twisting highway up
the Pacific coast toward Tofino, I was side-swiped by a skidding Benz. Thankfully,
I was swiftly airlifted to the Royal Jubilee in Victoria. The surgeons there
did a great job of patching me up.
But
my face… well, let’s just say that I’ll never be quite the same again.
_________________
0 _________________
The man unconsciously touches his
right cheek. The fingers linger for several heartbeats then return to his side.
To some, it seems that this simple act is innocent, not full of subtle meaning.
To others, it seems as if it may be an invitation, perhaps to forgive the man
his many trespasses.
The man turns slightly away from us
as if to leave, then pauses. It appears as if he still may have more to say. In
the white cone of light, a long, jagged scar is faintly visible beneath
cleverly applied makeup.
He nods slightly, then steps abruptly
into total blackness beyond.
The cone of light slowly fades.
The stage is dark.
First Published. 'Mirror, Mirror' appears in the January 21, 2020 online edition of Trou Magazine.
The Backstory. I've always wanted to write a short play and eventually experience it performed in a small, intimate theatre setting. The first part of this story starts out with this goal in mind. But, as so often happens during the writing experience, the character's voice and story just took over unbidden and this is the result.
Legal Rights. ‘Mirror, Mirror On The Wall' is the intellectual property of the author, Don Herald. No part of this story may be reproduced in any format without the written permission of the author.
