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Post by Erik Destler on May 19, 2008 15:49:44 GMT -5
Destler hesitated a moment and took a small step forward into the less-dim shadows. In the dark, his painted-over features would look quit normal. He did not consider himself attractive, even with the "mask" in perfect order, but it was far better than what lay underneath.
"Are you satisfied?"
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 19, 2008 16:20:10 GMT -5
*Carlos gazed at the Maestro's face, his eyes searching for he knew not what. The suspense, he realized, was greater than the payoff. Power lay in withholding.
He nodded.*
"Yes," *he said, letting out a breath he had not realized he was holding.* "Thank you."
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Post by Erik Destler on May 19, 2008 16:25:46 GMT -5
"Good." He stepped back, satisfied that his very careful preperations--the perfect skins and the very expensive paint--had paid off. And still, there had not been enough light for Castro to really make him out, only to see that he did in fact possess a face.
"As for your performance, what was missing? You were not able to grasp the feeling behind the part."
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 19, 2008 16:57:42 GMT -5
*But why stay in the shadows? Carlos wondered. Why hide his face, if there was nothing to hide? Unless it was a face others would recognize. Yes, that must be it. He was known, to someone at the Opera.
Carlos frowned.*
"Portraying fear, I might call upon my experience of fear. Portraying the... I suppose it is desperate longing Pinkerton has for his Butterfly... Well, I attempted the same."
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Post by Erik Destler on May 19, 2008 17:02:49 GMT -5
"And you have no experience with this?" He snorted.
"I find that hard to believe. You will have to find the emotion--I demand perfection. We will continue with a lesson tomorrow night, I have things to attend to this evening."
The clasps of a violin case clicked softly. "You have worn your gifts. Do they please you then?"
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 19, 2008 17:13:16 GMT -5
*Desperate passion? Carlos understood many varieties of physical love. And he had known desperation. The two had not, to his understanding, ever occurred together. Nor did he think it natural to. He did not trust the grand emotions of opera. They were, by definition, fictional.*
"They are very fine," *he said, gazing at the cufflinks.* "You have excellent taste, Maestro."
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Post by Erik Destler on May 19, 2008 17:18:25 GMT -5
It was true, perhaps such exaggerated emotions belonged only to fictional characters and madmen. But Destler could not comprehend that. His life was embroiled in such grand and mad things.
"Forgive my angry card left earlier. You will do better tomorrow."
There was silence, the shadow was gone.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 19, 2008 17:41:32 GMT -5
*Carlos blinked at the empty space left by the Maestro.
Had he just apologized?
He removed his cufflinks, the cat, his jacket, and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't know what he thought anymore. But at least he had a vague description for Mr. Holmes. If Holmes showed.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 27, 2008 13:23:07 GMT -5
******NEW NIGHT*******
After a fairly arduous evening roaming Paris in search of the perfect face, Destler had succeeded in his latest hunt and left behind the de-fleshed corpse of a rather young man--perhaps seventeen at the very oldest--and had labored over preparing the new skin and setting it into place. He had found that mixing his usual paint with a very fine amount of setting powder gave the skin a more natural appearance--and matched the shade of his victim quite well. So long as he only wore this set for a few scant hours, he might almost be handsome.
Preparations done, he had attended Carlos' rehearsal that evening, and waited now, as usual, in the boy's hotel room to give his criticisms and lesson.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 27, 2008 13:45:05 GMT -5
*In his arias that night, Carlos had attempted to remember Stevens' image. He boyish feelings. But the memory of Destler's song infringed--not that it was any detriment. He may not have had the feelings exact--he had never felt what Pinkerton and Butterfly must have--but it was closer. He thought so, anyway. Though he still had no proof that this was the correct course. There were looks from the rest of the cast, certainly, but with Carlos' reputation the looks were guarded and no one dared question him.
He tossed his hat onto the side table in his front hall.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 27, 2008 14:08:33 GMT -5
Destler said nothing for the moment--he would let his gift speak first. On the bed sat a box quite larger than the usual, tied with plain black ribbon and large enough to hold a head. This time, the small calling card was left on the outside and printed in the usual spidery scrawl, tucked under the ribbon:
If nothing else, the small sapphires about the neck are real and can be traded or sold for value. You did very, very well tonight. ~M
Inside the box was a sleek, not-quite-adult sleeping cat, silver in color with slightly darker Siamese markings, wearing a collar of the precious stones.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 27, 2008 14:43:22 GMT -5
*Carlos picked up the card, first, as if to prolong the suspense. More because he feared another gift along the lines of the wardrobe incident than for the benefit of anticipation.*
Neck?
*He glanced about, and opened the box carefully, his breath stolen by the combination of surprise and delight. Not only was it not a detached body part, it was an absolutely gorgeous cat. He smiled in unadulterated pleasure, any facade stripped away by the simple joy of a sleeping cat.*
"I wouldn't dream of selling the collar," *he said aloud, softly.* "I cannot imagine it gracing anyone else."
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Post by Erik Destler on May 27, 2008 14:48:22 GMT -5
Destler was pleased--it saved him having to drown the little beast.
"It found itself recently homeless, and I felt it needed a collar before being presented. You are pleased?"
His voice floated around the room, directionlessly.
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Post by Carlos Castro on May 27, 2008 14:57:25 GMT -5
*Carlos' smile was boyish, his eyes crinkling slightly.*
"Does it damage my reputation to say yes?"
*He reached out to softly brush the cat's back, and it opened its sapphire eyes lazily, fixing Carlos with the dispassion only a cat can muster when it finds itself suddenly transported to a strange room with a strange man and a box. It stretched lightly under his hand, seemingly content.*
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Post by Erik Destler on May 27, 2008 15:03:19 GMT -5
"So long as you don't admit to it publicly."
The Maestro's voice settled in his usual corner, and his shape manifested in the darkness there.
"How do you feel about your performance this evening?"
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