By Ryan Rahman
I wake standing. Something cold hugs my neck. Iron. Or steel.
I move, but my head won’t.
A single lantern flickers above the dim and damp room.
It reeks, much sharper than a slaughterhouse.
I call out. Nothing. My voice is hoarse.
Shapes and shadows line the walls. I squint.
Bodies. A dozen of them.
All of them dressed like fools.
All of them dead.
I can’t look down but I know I’m also dressed like them.
I can hear the bells from my hat jangle whenever I move.
Jester’s privilege, he said.
I remember now.
The invitation was signed by Don Radunarsi himself.
Demanding I arrive alone.
Dressed as a court jester.
A servant grinned as I arrived: “The Don has granted you jester’s privilege tonight.”
The other guests arrived dressed in elaborate costumes of velvet and jewels.
None were dressed like me.
Radunarsi greeted me on the steps of his palazzo in a costume of golden silk.
His face was hidden behind a golden mask painted like the sun.
Jagged rays emanated from its crown.
He took my hand and said:
“Even at night, the sun still shines on the fool.”
Perfume wasn’t enough to bury the eye-watering stench emanating from him.
I could only wonder how the others endured it.
The Don led me to a private room as the night went on. He insisted on giving me a tour.
There, we toasted to something.
Laughter is all I can remember.
Footsteps. Above. Approaching. Slowly.
A door creaks open.
Don Radunarsi enters, still radiating in gold.
He walks between the bodies and comes straight to me.
He holds a small lamp to my face.
“You’re awake,” he says.
“I thought you’d still be sleeping.”
He stands in front of me. I can see my ridiculous reflection in his mask.
“This is my gallery,” he says. “Every one of them believed they were different.”
I try to speak but nothing comes forth. It doesn’t matter. He speaks enough for both of us.
“They think they’re clever, all of them. Some cry, some pray for a miracle.
They think if they’re charming enough, I’ll let them go.
In the end, they plead and beg, bargaining with all their might.
And when they don’t get their way, they get angry.
That’s when I turn my back and walk away without saying another word.”
He leans in. His stench seeps through the mask. Riper than the corpses.
“They go quiet with despair after that.”
He places the lamp down at his feet and puts his hands to his mask.
“You’ve been wondering all night, haven’t you? I know you have.”
I don’t respond.
The mask comes off.
“They call me Don Roquefort behind my back. I don’t mind. I’ve heard it since I was a boy.”
His flesh is pale, marbled with blue, his eyes milk-white.
The nickname is fitting.
He leans in even closer. He’s fully aware I can’t stand the smell of him.
“I enjoyed your jokes tonight, but it seems you no longer enjoy my hospitality.”
He lifts the cap from my head, bells jingling, and presses his mask onto my face.
“There. The sun still shines on you, even in the dark.
You’re a fine addition, Attento. Whether you speak to me or not.
Another fool to complete the collection. Perhaps, I’ll come back tomorrow. Or not.
We’ll see how you fare.”
He tugs at my collar, as if testing its strength.
“Stay put. Nobody’s coming to save you, so you might as well get comfortable.
Sleep if you can. If the rats allow it.”
I remain silent, resisting the urge to weep as he turns around and walks away.
When he’s gone, the tears come.
I tug at the collar once more to no avail.
I don’t even bother removing the mask. There’s no point.
I imagine freeing myself and plunging a dagger deep into his chest as he sleeps.
Even if I did, his family is powerful enough to exact vengeance without consequence.
He did mention it in his toast.
And yet, I didn’t think to leave.
The fantasy quickly dies.
I begin to laugh. The others don’t care.
I’ll join them in their paradise of fools eventually.
That day can’t come soon enough.
