The Laughing (5) “Are you going to let them torture you like that?” Pagliaccio jumped, startled. He looked deep into the mirror at his reflection. It was moving by itself, with all the makeup and accessories Pagliaccio wore previously. Its grin was wide, and its arms crossed at the breast. “Don’t be such a belligerent crybaby! Show them what you are made of!” The voice was cackling, and it echoed when it spoke. Pagliaccio’s face went from looking red like lava to as white as a ghost. “Crying is no good for the soul. Go out there and correct your mistake,” taunted the reflection. “They’ll laugh at me!” whined Pagliaccio. “I can’t go out there!” He pointed to the door. “Feste and Montresor are plotting my assassination!” A small knock came to Pagliaccio’s door. The reflection disappeared. “Show time in five minutes, Pagliaccio. There’s biscotti and wine if you want any,” came the soft voice of the Dírettore. “I am well, thank you Dírettore,” replied Pagliaccio. “I’m just touching up my face powder and eyeliner.” “Very well, then.” The voice disappeared. Paglaiccio’s reflection integrated. “Smooth one,” it mocked. Pagliaccio faced his reflection. “What do you want with me?” he asked, grasping the mirror. “I want to help you,” replied the reflection. Its sinister smile bared its shiny white teeth. “How do you plan to do that? You’re just a reflection!” “Let me show you.” Pagliaccio closed his eyes, and shook his head. Is this a dream? He rubbed his raw eyes. He didn’t know what was happening. Maybe crying too much is making me hallucinate. He spun his chair around, and jumped down onto the cold floor. He grabbed his hat, a clean and dry suit, and he put his massive shoes on. He walked slowly over to the white red door, his head bowed in sorrow, the bells ringing. He heard a knock come from the mirror. He turned towards it, but saw no reflection. His eyes grew wide when a wide grin appeared in the mirror. It laughed aloud, hysterically like a madman. “Come closer, Pagliaccio! I want to help you!” it said. “You’ll be even more famous when I am through with you!” it chuckled. Pagliaccio, reluctantly, jumped into his chair. He adjusted the mirror to fit his view, and he stared at the grin. It reminded him of the Cheshire Cat. The smile was very dark and foreboding, its teeth shiny and glowing in the light. As Pagliaccio stared, behold, his eyes popped out of their sockets, and stuck to the face of the mirror. He tried with all his might to pull them off, screaming from the pain and the blindness; but they stay stuck, the evil laugh of the grin accompanying his wailing screams. XVIII The intermission had finally ended, the house starting to fill again, slowly but considerably. Commotion arose from the crowd. Some conversations ensued: some talked about how horrible Pagliaacio’s performance was; others talked about how great the other Pierotts danced. “It was absolutely horrid and grotesque,” one Auguste said about Pagliaccio’s performance. That was the conversation during most of the intermission. Pagliaccio’s reputation as an actor was dwindling. No one viewed him as the best any longer, and a few were still even loyal to him. The lights of the auditorium began to dim, and the stage was lit as bright as the sun. Most of the audience in the dark house was munching on biscotti, coffee cakes, or slices of scrumptious pie. The purple curtain began to part, and the silhouettes of Feste and Montresor appeared on the stage. Feste stepped forward as the audience started a chaos of applause and whistles. “Silence!” boasted Feste, raising his hand. “We welcome you all back to the second act of this play.” More applauded. Feste silenced them. “We don’t mean to take time away from this miraculous production. And now, without further adieu, our well-favored Pagliaccio will sing his monologue.” Boos erupted from the dark house like an active volcano. “We all know about his little accident earlier this evening, but it would be most polite to give him your undivided attention,” he continued sarcastically. The curtain further parted, and the small-stature form of Pagliaccio appeared at center stage. His smile made the jester brothers jump. Pagliaccio turned his head slowly, staring at them with possessed eyes, his wide smile showing his white teeth. “What the hell is the matter with him?” asked Montresor, whispering, off to the side. “How should I know?” protested Feste. “He looks like he wants to kill us!” “Don’t be silly. Come—let us go to the wings.” “His eyes are—” “Shut up, will you Montresor!” “STOP THE BICKERING! I HAVE A SONG TO SING!!” Feste and Montresor ceased their argument. Pagliaccio’s face grew disgruntled and angry; he stamped his foot, and pointed toward the wings. Feste and Montresor muttered snide comments, and walked off as ordered. The audience gasped at the act, but Pagliaccio silenced them by a wave of his hand. He cleared his throat, and sang his monologue: “Yes, it is a melancholy night In the lonely, later years! An angel, bright and winged, In veils, drowned in tears, Sits in this theater to see A drama of hopes and fears While the loud orchestra spits fitfully Music of the spheres! “Clowns, in the image of God on high, Whisper and mumble low, And here and there fly— They, being mere puppets, which come and go At the bidding of vast and formless things That shifts the distorted scenery to and fro, Flapping out their holy wings With invisible woe! “That motley drama—be sure It shall not be forgotten! With the Phantom, chased forever, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that will ever return in To the same damned spot, Much of madness, much more of sin; With Horror the soul of the plot. “But see, amid the clowning rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenery of solitude! It moves!—it moves!—with mortal fangs The clowns become its food, And the angels at the vermin fangs In human gore subdued! “Out!—out go the lights—out all! And, over each shivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall; Comes down like the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pale and hot, Uprise, unveil, sing with woe The play that is the tragedy Pierott And its hero Pagliaccio!” XIX In the darkness of the wings, the jester twins watched in brutal amazement. “That is not a song to the play!” ejaculated Feste, flipping through the pages of the thick script. “What the hell is he singing?” “Don’t ask me! I’m not the Dírettore!” protested Montresor, hiding behind his bewildered brother. Feste dropped the script to his feet. “He sang everything that was going to happen!” shrieked Montresor. “He predicted our tricks and such!” “Don’t jump to such conclusions!” hollered Feste, threatening his brother. “Although, he has been acting rather strangely as of now. I wonder what has gotten into him.” He placed a palm upon his cheek, and he thought. Montresor stood behind his brother, shivering in fear. The audience was completely silent. They were rather shocked to see Pagliaccio smile so evilly. His eyes even donned a dark-yellow tint to them. A change must have occurred within him. He bowed, and looked up toward the house. They sat still, staring at him. His body was lifeless and frozen. He erected his body, then laughed hysterically like a madman. “FOOLS!” he boasted. “How dare you laugh at the Great Pagliaccio! Feste and Montresor caused my tragic accident! Prepare yourselves, lads! You shall feel my wrath!” He aimed his tiny arms toward the sky, still laughing. The jester twins suddenly grew frightened. They cringed, holding each other tightly as the shadow of Pagliaccio engulfed them; his hungry eyes staring them down, making them helpless like children. Feste kept his eyes open. Pagliaccio crept closer. He heard the audience clap and cheer. They think it’s part of the play! he thought. Feste felt his brother shake violently under his arms. Pagliaccio, with his hungry eyes, towered over the twins, arms outstretched, saliva dripping from his chin. “What’s the matter, Feste? Are you afraid of me? No! You’re afraid of little old me?” His voice grew high pitched. How sounded like he was on an overdose of some drug. Feste didn’t reply; he only shook and closed his eyes. “What, can’t answer? Does Feste have a guilty conscience? All those years you and your stupid brother have caused destruction and tomfoolery! You can dish out the damage, but you can’t take it! Boy, what a pleasant surprise!” He grew closer to them, inspecting their fear with his eyes. “P-Pagliaccio, p-please!” stuttered Feste. “Oh? Have I found your weakness? Have I buried you in a hole? You can’t possibly dig yourself out in front of all those viewers, can you?” Feste rose to his feet, releasing his tormented brother. He poked his head out slightly from behind the curtain. He smiled and waved to the audience, but he received no reaction. They sat and watched impatiently to see what was going to happen next. Montresor quickly dazed from beneath the wings to join his brother. He accidentally ran into him, and both rolled out onto the stage. Their teeth clattered, and their bodies shivered. They knew they were caught. Pagliaccio had foiled their master plan. And they were going to be punished for it. Montresor tugged at his brother’s shoulder, and pointed in the direction of the wings. Pagliaccio had disappeared! The twins gasped, pondering horrible thoughts about what might happen to them. Then, a muffled sound came to their ears, much like a heartbeat enclosed within the ribs. It grew louder and increased in rhythm. Feste looked down toward the house, and found that the orchestra had begun to play. Feste’s eyes grew wide at the sight. There were no musicians! The orchestra wasn’t supposed to play until the third score, and Act II only just begun! Feste shook his head like he had left a daydream, but the music grew louder still. The brothers dispersed, looking around the nooks and crannies for the elusive Pagliaccio. The twins exchanged horrid glances, and both shrugged their shoulders. Montresor’s eyes froze. He pointed to the origin of the orchestra. Feste followed his brother’s glance. The instruments were floating lifeless, like they had a mind of their own! As they stared at the haunted instruments, a voice echoed from above the stage. It had a melancholy tone, sad and lonely. It was the voice of the noble Pagliaccio. “Ha! ha! ha! he! he! Truly a good jest indeed, eh? I hope this teaches you two a valuable lesson. NO ONE MAKES A MOCKERY OF PAGLIACCIO!” The twins looked upward. They saw the Pierott sitting on the railing to one of the sets. His feet were dangling; he waved to them. To his left was a giant replica of the Masks of Happiness and Sorrow. From the mouth of Sorrow came thin white strings, which ever-so-slowly fell, attaching themselves to the shoulders of the horrified brothers. They instantly became wooden puppets. Pagliaccio jumped down from the set. He picked them up, and drew a juggling stick from a pocket in his pants. He aimed the stick to the air, and twirled it. The tip caught on fire. He swiftly brought the tip to the dancing puppets, and they were engulfed in hungry flames. Pagliaccio tossed the fiery mess into the purple curtain. The flames hungrily ate at the purple felt, and eventually made it to the wooden frame. Pagliaccio opened his mouth wide, and he burst into a rampage of laughter. He rolled around upon the stage floor, clutching his belly, tears flashing out of his eyes. He kicked his feet. He wiped his eyes dry, and jumped to the masks. And all the while, during the fire, a hideous creature fell upon the stage, emitting a red glow as it descended upon the house. As for the other marionettes, they were destroyed in the fire, their spirits dancing against the howling wind. Paglaiccio’s body ran out of the burning building. He was also on fire, which ate away at his clothing and skin. He fell to the dirt road, melting in the midnight glow of the moon.
Copyright © 2006 Zachary Taylor |