The Arsenal Files 6/The Arsenal Files 6 (Arsenal Computer).ISO/epub/df9601r.zip/DFG

Text File | 1996-01-01 | 10KB | 198 lines

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THE FINAL FACE
  by Alasdair Stuart
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  Joshua had been working since nine that morning, and was
convinced that he could feel every bone in his hands. For eight
hours he had been planing and sculpting, constructing what he
knew was the finest piece of work of his life. And now, as he
gazed down at the last mask he would ever make, he felt the one
thing he hadn't felt in years. Satisfaction.

  Stretching, he massaged his callused, aching hands and stood,
heading over to the coffee pot. Joshua ran a hand through what was
left of his hair, grey and close cropped, and poured himself a cup.
He smiled a little sadly, and looked around the shop.

  Joshua Henley was a practical man, and had always had an
overwhelming desire for order. His coffee cups were colour coded,
his kitchen (A tiny alcove in the back of the shop), was divided
into food groups. And his masks were arranged in the order he'd
made them.

  By the door was the first mask he'd ever made, at twelve. He
smiled slightly, remembering the self-consciously angry young man
that had spent so long on something which, now, looked so average.
It was a simple enough affair, black leather with flames painted
down one side. The mouth, of course, was screaming. He looked at
it, and smiled wryly. He had been so young and so foolish. And, he
reflected, he missed that time so much. The first mask was above
the door, so customers wouldn't see it when they came in. He often
wondered whether he was faintly embarrassed by it, or didn't want
something so personal on display.

  The second mask answered his question for him. This one was
mounted on the wall next to the first display case, itself a gift
from Diane. The case contained all the masks he'd made during their
marriage, still pristine and bright as the day he'd made them.
Joshua tried to avoid looking at the cabinet when he worked. It
reminded him too much of what life had been like then, and the part
of him that had died since that time had passed. Secretly, although
he would never admit this to anyone, the cabinet scared him a
little. The masks, their blank eyes staring out, their expressions
ruthlessly happy, reminded him of a trip to the museum as a child.

  At first he had been entranced by the stuffed animals, running
from aisle to aisle, examining each one like a new treasure. The
novelty faded quickly, and he found himself surrounded by dead
creatures, each staring at him with their eternal, accusing stare.
He'd run from the museum and never gone back. That, he thought with
pained amusement, was the start of his disagreement with education.

  Moving his gaze upwards, his eyes fell on Diane's mask, and
something in his stomach knotted. He had captured everything about
her, from the precise bob of her blonde hair to the faintly
upturned chin. The cast had been almost impossible to do without
her knowing and he'd spent weeks looking at photos of her from
every conceivable angle. Finally, he had sat and worked for eight
hours without a break and fallen asleep on his bench when he'd
done.

  The result was a mask of fine white wood, almost china-like in
it's delicacy. The skin tone had been achieved by mixing the dyes
his father had used, and applied using an airbrush, his one modern
luxury. The eyebrows and hair had been her own. (The hairdresser's
face when he asked for the cut off hair would stay with him to the
grave.) And the mask had been attached, spectacle-like, by two
delicate loops of thread over the ears. It was perfect, as perfect
as the day they'd been married. She wore it throughout the service,
only taking it off once the ceremony was complete. His art and his
life had been married, moulded into one person. He'd never been so
happy, and knew, instinctively, that he never would be again.

  Separated from Diane's mask was a series of three, smaller
than the others. These were made of porcelain, and at first glance,
appeared to be a pastiche of the classic drama faces, of happiness
and pain. However, when one looked closer, it became apparent that
these showed far stronger emotions. These were his funeral masks,
the masks he had made during the time he had spent in that hinter
land of emotion, not knowing whether to grieve or accept what had
happened.

  The first was made of a light grey porcelain, it's face clearly
his own. The mouth was set and seemed tight, the nose long and
proud. The high forehead, wide eyes and mouth all combined to give
the impression of a man keeping his emotions tightly under control,
and barely managing to do so.

  The second was longer and narrower, as if someone had grabbed
it by the chin and hair and stretched. The mouth was wide open,
an empty scream, it's interior, he'd added this deliberately,
painted black. The eyes were narrow and drawn downwards, the nose
pointed and warped. Down each cheek was a line of dark brown,
flaking a little even under the varnish. He could never remember
cutting his arm to get the blood, only smearing it down the cheeks
of the mask in precise, straight lines.

  The third mask had no expression. The features were again his,
but they seemed blurred, half formed. The nose wasn't as prominent,
the cheeks sunken and the forehead accentuated, as if the entire
face was collapsing in on itself. This mask was also slightly
fatter, a nod to the weight he'd put on at the time. Of all the
masks, he looked at this one the most. He liked to think of it as
an acceptance of the damage her death had caused, and that it would
never be repaired.

  There were other masks after the death trio, ones he had no
clear memory of making. A man's face with cine cameras for eyes,
made for a movie star who had befriended him when he was
fashionable, an every man mask, a shallow imitation of the final
mask in the death trio and a whole row of vast, nightmarish masks,
constructed during his time in South America. That, he realised,
was an area of his life he had far too clear a memory. Every night,
he would consume as many drugs as he could find, and every night
he would work feverishly, attempting to banish the nightmarish
creatures in his vision by capturing them in Hessian and paint.
And screaming abuse at them once the mask was finished, as they
danced around him, taunting him with his wife's voice.

  The final mask he'd mounted was a joke at his own expense.
South America had eaten his savings and, as the doctors seemed so
proud of telling him, a sizable portion of his life. He had been
given three years at most and with them, a choice. To spend the
rest of the money sinking back into the pit he'd just crawled out
of, or to do something positive with his life. In the end, it was
no real decision at all.

  The final mask, above the counter, helped him not to lose his
head. Every time he felt ideas swell and buckle under their own
weight, he would look up at it, smile and start making his goals
achievable again. The mask was his own face in profile, the chin
massively accentuated, the head miraculously filled with hair
again. He had even broken his own rule, and given the mask eyes,
the piercing blue kind he;'d dreamed of as a child. Unable to
resist it, he'd even mounted the mask, a long, meandering print of
the Nevada desert. It had spent the last two years gazing proudly
out over the countryside, looking noble, true and slightly absurd.
It had helped him a lot and that, he'd long ago decided, was the
mask he'd miss the most.

  It had all happened so suddenly, in those last two years.
Opening the shop, the first exhibition and the use of his masks in
a film (directed by and starring the old friend) had all come and
gone, leaving him with, if anything, more money than he'd had
before Diane died. He had enough money, if he so desired, to go
back to the old habits, and finish his days with the visions that
taunted him, and spoke in his wife's voice. Or, as he had done
earlier on that day, to donate everything to the first charity in
the phonebook.

  Now, everything was ready. The final mask was placed with
reverence next to the profile mask, straightened and, finally,
framed. The glass case that went around it was quite deliberate,
and had been built by Joshua at the start of the week, when the
idea had taken him. He wanted this one to be distinct from the
others, as distinct as the heavy metal mask above the door, and
of equal importance.

  The mask successfully mounted, he drunk his last indulgence.
The twitchy doctor in the street clinic had guaranteed him it would
be painless and quick, before shaking his hand and saying he'd
always admired Joshua's work. The little man had looked too upset
to be lying.

  Joshua cleared his work bench and lay back. From here, he
could watch his masks, his life, fall gently away from him and
still enjoy the sensation of passing. As everything began to
blacken and dim, his gaze travelled around the shop one last time.
The last thing he saw was the final mask, and it brought a smile
to his face. A smile of peace.

  They found him like that the next day. The movie star had
stopped by to ask whether he could have the cine camera mask
and when he'd seen the light on, but the door locked, had become
concerned.

  Now, he and two uniformed police officers stand around the
bench, each looking uncomfortable in the presence of such peace.
Above them, unnoticed, the masks watch, and the final mask gleams.
It is made of wood, battered and creased by age and painted a low
white. The final mask is blank.

                               (DREAM)

Copyright 1996 Aldisar Stuart, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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Alasdair has been writing for almost eight years and specialises
in Science and Detective Fiction, with his Detective fiction series,
"Metro East" now in it's fifth year. He also writes entertainment
reviews and poetry, and is presently persuading his local paper to
employ him. Email: [e-mail]
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