My Amputations (Fiction collective ;) (26 page)

As he approached the Ducor to turn in for the night he felt like Moll Flanders (“Who was . . . Twelve Year a
Whore
, five times a
Wife
 . . . Twelve Year a
Thief
, Eight Year a Transported
Felon
 . . . at last grew
Rich
, liv'd
Honest
 . . . ”) but he wasn't. Had he let his Hobby-Horse grow headstrong? Mason suddenly felt a breeze. The Prince without a principality was smooth as polished wood. His stride was indistinguishable from
that of a man of noble birth. Then a hand reached out of the darkness and yanked at his sleeve. Mason swung around. It was The Devil, still on stilts. The diabolical fella stank of his own sweat. He hissed. He bent toward Mason's head. Whispered: “You be an irreligious—an infindel, like me: you no unspotted one. A circle will be drawn around you feet. Be careful where you stand. Don't cross the cross. The full moon watches you as you sleep. Stay away from swastikas: they be bad signs for a scoundrel the likes of you.” As the demon whispered in Mason's ear Mason cringed, struggling to free himself from the fallen angel's powerful hold. “Hear me out! You'll go soon enough!” Two Chinese men got out of a taxi and went in the Ducor. Mason shuddered: he was a Francis Bacon figure in a bleak landscape: half-formed, trapped—deformed. The Devil's voice became sharp: “Don't let you dereliction go you to the wrong way: don't weave spells with them in Tabli-Gablah. It will be cause the end of you.” Then before Mason could form the obvious question The Devil disappeared down the dark walkway alongside the Ducor. He thought of chasing but quickly realized how pointless it was since the archfiend's stilted footfalls couldn't even be heard on the stone.

The taxi driver refused to drive him into Tabli-Gablah. “They got a pact with The Devil. Me best not go there, Mister.” He'd parked his Buick just outside the village at the mouth of the dirt road that led in. He held out his hand. Mason gave him four tens. Then got out. The air was heavy. It was eleven-thirty but felt like midnight. No sun. Giant trees caused a medley of shadows along the road. Goddamnit, had he so completely fallen out of Joyce Kilmer's? hurt himself? lost the formula? forgot his P's and Q's? his Z's? his C's? What the hell was a “smart” guy like Mason doing out here on a back road
alone
walking toward some unknown, uh, event? He started out. Heard the taxi leave. Then a vehicle on the highway a moment later. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a holi on its way to Monrovia—crammed with passengers. Absently, he felt the wooden mask in his shoulder bag. Should he put it on now or . . . ? He felt foolish. Sure. Why not now. He stopped and sat on a rock alongside the road. Opened his bag. He liked the mask a lot. It reminded him of the face of the woman who'd shown up at the Sommerfield party in Greece. Mason heard voices. But he saw nobody. Quickly he placed his mask over his face and adjusted the string around the base of his head. A weird tiredness gripped Blackface Hermes. He couldn't breathe properly with the mask on. Or . . . was something else . . . wrong? Then he saw three figures—men?—coming from the direction of the village—his way. The Prodigal son stood. His foolish wooden mask felt heavy like freshly grafted skin. His mouth tasted like Robert E. Lee's old boot. Mason waited—his eyes burning behind the slits. He watched the men approach. (“The
Man
Who Rode Away”?) No. You wouldn't get off
that
easily! Before the three were at arms' length he could see they too were wearing masks made of wood. He felt his mudfrog disappear. They stopped before him. The shortest one spoke: “Follow us.” The tallest one quickly added: “We must hurry.” Then they set off at a trot. Mason tried to keep up. . . . On first sight the village of Tabli-Gablah seemed normal: except there were no people. Mason followed the three toward the large hut at the base of the village square. They pushed him in. Inside, he couldn't see anything—at first. Then, by candlelight, he saw that the room was packed with people sitting on the ground in a circle: all wore wooden masks. An old man in a red robe came in. He told Mason to sit. Mason sat. The old man then sat on the ground next to him. The three escorts left. The circle was then complete. The old man spoke: “The envelope, please.” Mason pulled it from his pocket and handed it over. The old man ripped it open and read aloud: “
Keep
this nigger!” He then looked with calmness at Mason. “Are you the person referred to here?” Mason didn't think to hesitate. He chirped. He felt the
gravity of the situation—the serious presence of the circle of wearers of masks. Pastiché? Something linear about this circle . . . ? Mason scanned. He thought he recognized the flicker of an eye in a slit, the gesture of a body, the turn of a head, the shape of a set of breasts, the curve of a big toe. But he couldn't be sure. Not absolutely. Then the old man said, “One can carry the disease one covers oneself against on the fingers one uses to secure the cover. You, my son, have come to the end of your running.” But by now his words were meant for himself alone. Far away in the distance they all could hear the sad bullhorn of a Muslim and shortly thereafter the crier with his mournful whining appeal from the upper window of a mosque. It was hot and muggy. The hut smelled of, of, cow rocks, turtle piss and smoke.