HARLEQUIN

HARLEQUIN

Harlequin was bored. He put aside his mask and carnival clothing and changed shape for fun. Sitting in a Knightsbridge Costa, he checked over the girls chattering around him. Two blondes in Pashminas, long boots and flicking hair; No. A brunette; hair to dark, faux fur coat; constantly on her I-phone; No.

The girl with red hair? She arrived carrying her Latte and searched for a seat. He looked up and smiled, moving along the bench seat to make room. At first, she glanced elsewhere but he had chosen carefully and kept space on his table. With a diffident smile, she sat down carefully placing her China mug on the table. He glanced at his Times and then caught her eye.

"Busy time--have you enough room?"

She murmured something in reply which he didn't catch. He noticed her hands were long and thin and the way she held the drink, as if a precious thing, so delicate that it might break if she put it down.

"Much better in a china cup, don't you think? I hate those plastic beakers!"

She looked at him for a second and nodded but she said nothing. He leant forward, not too far but, just enough to engage her attention and try his best smile--the one he used to show his sincerity. He met her gaze with his blue eyes.

"Can I ask you a question?" He spoke gently and he waited for her reply.

"What is it?" She looked back, curious.

"I have the feeling you are a musician," he said, he held up his hand and smiled again.

"Don't tell me yet! I want to know if you find that too intrusive."

"I don't mind," she said and put the mug down on the table. "I'm just working in the Art Gallery in Montpellier Street, I'm afraid. No musician."

He put on a grimace, showing his even white teeth as he bit his lip.

"Oh Dear! I know you are artistic but certain you were musical!"

"How would you know that?"

"Because I'm a natural!" he laughed and ran his hand through his wavy blond hair. "I'm never totally wrong. You must have some connection with music."

"Well, I sing in a choir at home but not down here."

"I knew it, will you allow me to boast, if I say I was part right at least?"

She laughed and he noticed how the corners of her mouth lifted as she smiled exposing her neat even teeth and heart shaped lips.

He moved to leave. It was time to go; first step done. He folded his Times and stood up. She didn't see him slip a paperback book onto the floor near her feet. He moved away swiftly, to make sure she could not catch him and return the book on the spot. That would be annoying. He had left his mobile number and assumed name on the fly leaf to set up the next move.

The afternoon went by slowly. he spent the afternoon in the Art Galleries of New Bond Street, away from Knightsbridge, but full of the latest trends in expensive art. He bought catalogues for several upcoming exhibitions and studied them. At the Albemarle, he gave one of his cards to the receptionist.

"Yes Mr Harlekan, we will be open for you on Friday, of course."

He nodded and left. His thoughts turned to the credulous simplicity of modern life. How appearance had become the one essential feature for communication in this age.

In Medieval Times he often assumed the guise of a penniless scholar and bewitched princes and courtiers with his wit and poetry. He sang for the Medici Popes and slept with their paramours when just a simple acolyte. What a change had taken place in the last thirty years of human behaviour; Deception rode a wild steed through the mores of ‘civilised’ society. It was almost too easy.

On Monday, he scanned the Costa to see if she had returned. She had not rung him to return his book, and he wondered if she might have missed it. He went in and sat at his usual place. Then she walked in. Her auburn hair pinned up on top of her head and her long neck accentuated by pearl earrings. She looked round and saw him and smiled shyly. He waved to her, she hesitated but gathered up her cup and came over.

"I wanted to catch you," she said," I found this book under the table last week. Is it yours?"

"Thank God! I am reviewing it for the Guardian," he lied, “I have a deadline!"

He asked her whether she read it and she shook her head. She blushed and lowered her eyes in confusion. His eyes glinted with malicious delight as he saw the effect he created.

"No, I didn't read it” she said, "But I hoped to find you here again.”

She handed over the book without another word.

"Does this mean you forgive me for my intrusive questions?" He laughed and grinned easily to relieve her embarrassment.

"I am thrilled you thought of me and so kind of you to return the book yourself. You don't know how much it means."

She sipped her coffee and looked up at him for the first time. He liked her large green eyes and how the light from the room caught the deep red tints in her hair. She really was a prize. They chatted briefly. When she got up to leave, he offered to walk with her the few hundred yards as far as Montpellier Street. They spoke about her work in the gallery and the exhibition on show there.

"Look" he said "Can we meet sometime this week? I'd like to show you a Paul Klee I've seen on the Albemarle Gallery, which I like. Would you come?"

"To buy?" She said.

"Yes, I have a small collection and enjoy adding to it." He spoke as if it was a matter of minor interest and noted the effect when she opened her eyes with surprise.

"Do come" he said "can you make Friday afternoon?"

"Well, yes I suppose. I could get away at about four."

"It's a date." he said. "I'll come round to the gallery and collect you. I'm James Harlekan, by the way"

"Jane Spencer."

They exchanged mobile numbers, and he took her hand as he left, just a moment's contact, but enough to signal his interest. She gave a brief wave and he walked away. The smile on his face was not one he wanted her to see.

Friday morning, he chose some expensive jeans and a cashmere polo neck for the occasion. He spent the late morning and lunch at his club, revelling in the sedate atmosphere which spoke of a time when his charm and good manners had achieved wonderful conquests. Where were the Society Hostesses who ruled that world? Yet, the corruption of purity was still the greatest thrill of all. He wondered if here, in a city of such poor moral quality, he could find a soul untainted. He decided to walk through Green Park to Montpellier Street. It was a warm day, and the silky air reminded him of other times. The summer days with Nero at his palace with the Nubian Princesses; what fun there had been and such fearful consequences!

She was waiting outside the gallery when he arrived. He hurried forward.

“I walked through the park and forgot the time, I'm so sorry!"

"Well, we close early on Friday. Most people have gone away for the weekend." People meant the wealthy Knightsbridge crowd.

They took a taxi to Piccadilly and chatted on the way about favourite painters. She adored Hockney and disagreed about Francis Bacon and they arrived at Albemarle Street in a delightful dispute.

A young man was waiting for them. "We always have time for an enthusiastic client."

He showed the way into the gallery. It was carpeted with fine rugs and breathed a fine atmosphere of luxury. They were conducted through into the gallery itself where an elderly man with a goatee beard awaited them. As if he had known him for years, he greeted Harlequin, pressing his arm in a familiar way. Champagne and canapes were laid out on a Pembroke table. It was amusing to see the antics of these mortals with their minor cupidity, prostrating themselves for money. Under soft spotlight, two paintings, mounted on easels, caught the eye with dazzling colours splashed across the canvas.

"So fine," said the elegant older man, leaning back to admire. "He took several years to recover from the war, you know."

"Still, his output was prodigious," said Harlekan, "I prefer his later work and I'm looking for smaller late pieces for my collection."

The old man nodded sagely, "Yes, I understand, so much more sophisticated, would you say?"

He turned to Jane "What feeling do you get from these two? Do they resonate with you?"

She said, "They are museum pieces, not for a small private collection, if I am allowed to say so."

"Of course, you can, dear lady, you show a very wise judgement, if I may say so." The old man smiled at her with gritted teeth, his eyes like hard stones.

"Anything later?" Harlekan dismissed the two masterpieces with a wave of his hand.

"Well, we are sure to have something to intrigue you within the next few weeks." Harlequin smiled at this.

"By all means let me know while I am in London." He offered his hand and wished him good day.

"What conceit!" he said as he escorted Jane across Piccadilly. "Let's wash the taste away with tea in Fortnum's" She laughed and was relieved that he valued her opinion and agreed with it. Soon they were chatting freely, and time passed quickly.

"I suppose you have plans to go down to the country this weekend?" he dangled the prospect of further meetings with a smile which quickened her heart.

She blushed and Harlequin noted the charming colour that came to her cheeks. For a single second he felt a twinge of compassion for this immaculate young woman, but the impulse to torment and win was too strong to resist.

He took her hand and held it gently. "I can't imagine what is happening to me" he said "I feel as if we've known each other for a long time, yet there are so many things I want to learn about you. Could we meet again soon?"

"I don't know what to say," she said, "we are strangers; I suppose yes," -here she looked down--"I would like that too."

He busied himself with the tea things, making sure he was inept so she would take over. Predictably, she enjoyed the simple task.

He smiled appreciatively. "Well, am I too pressing if I ask, would you like to see the new film at the Curzon tomorrow night?"

She smiled, "I'd love to. I wanted to catch it and haven't had a chance." "That's wonderful," he said and dropped the subject for the moment.

They talked happily. He told her lies about his foreign background and banking interests which kept him travelling most of the year. She accepted all of it and he enjoyed the fantasy as she gazed at him with innocent credulous eyes. When the time came to leave, he hailed a taxi, On the way, he made the arrangement to pick her up at seven for the show at nine p.m. He was comfortable.

Pleased with progress, he gave the cabbie instructions to drop him at Shepherd's Market off Park Lane. This was an area he had known since Georgian times. He knocked at the door of number 73 and a black man opened the door carefully, then he smiled broadly.

"Welcome back Mr Harlekan. Good to see you Sir! Your usual table?"

"Thank you, Bob, can you get me some company?"

He spent the rest of the night with two beautiful Russian girls and plenty of white powder to sustain him. Strangely, in the still moments between the highs, he felt it was all too familiar, too repetitive and stale. He left early, at three o'clock, and made his way back to Albany, off Piccadilly, to sleep a dreamless sleep. Waking at four in the afternoon, he ruminated on what to wear and how to arrange his evening entertainment. Then he bathed and chose his clothes with care.

At seven precisely, he arrived. She smiled and offered her cheek shyly as gesture.His heart gave a strange skip. What was wrong? He ignored it.

Her hair was loose and as she moved it flowed around her pale face in a glossy wave; a fragrance of Chanel clung to her hair. Something was wrong. His fingers tremored as he sat alongside her; he gripped the door handle of the cab to steady himself. She chatted excitedly about the film and never noticed how silent he was. When they reached The Curzon, he felt better; Nothing to worry about, then. The film was a black comedy created by some avant-garde Italian director. At one point, she rested her head against his shoulder and her soft scented hair brushed against his cheek. It was a gesture he had never felt before--a natural touch, not a deliberate move as he had known a thousand times. Something strange and yet exciting. Again, the little throb made his heart beat out of time. He became a little dizzy and sweat gathered on his forehead. He wiped it away and sat upright.

She touched his hand, concerned, "Are you alright? You seem uneasy?"

"No. I'm fine. It's just a little hot in here."

As they left, she took his arm naturally and he sensed the warmth of her body next to his as they strolled towards Piccadilly; it felt good. "Where are we going?" She asked

He smiled his special dazzling smile and tucked in her arm protectively. "Wait and see."

The Albany is set back from Piccadilly in a courtyard with elaborate gates away from the bustling street. Built as apartments in the early nineteenth century, it remains, perhaps, the most exclusive address in London. Lights gleamed from behind doors of mahogany and glass; beyond were Persian carpets and gleaming brass fittings.

"Come and see where I live." He said and threw open the door to his apartment. Jane stiffened a little as she wondered at the luxury of the scene. She gazed at the opulent drapes and bright colours of the room with some surprise. It was as if she had passed out of modern London into a world of Arabian Nights.

Without consulting her, he ordered a meal and champagne.

"Are you hungry?" he smiled and kissed her hair as he passed by.

She felt nervous but excited. "Yes, I'm famished!"

When the meal arrived, they both ate with appetite and laughed a lot. Harlequin joined her on the sofa. She sat close to him and afterwards, he played a little on the piano in the alcove of the room. She sat next to him. and he looked at her in the warm lamplight. Her hair was soft and natural unlike the sophisticated styles of the women he was used to. Her skin was radiant, but with a glow of good health and her green eyes reflected the light in such a way that he saw his own reflection clearly in them.

He began to play, and she got up and danced. He watched her as he played, her feet tracing a delicate pattern across the carpeted floor; He was enchanted. She had the grace and a lightness of an innocent soul. He played on with some difficulty; his mind began to falter. He gasped for breath, and his fingers would not follow his commands. She stopped dancing immediately and ran to him. He stumbled from the piano and she helped him to the sofa. His face was ashen, and he sat back against her arm as she cradled him.

"What happened?" She cried "Is there something I can do?"

He shook his head; he knew what the trouble was.

"You must go," he said, "Forgive me, I have to be alone tonight. Can you ask the porter for a cab?"

"But I must stay; I can't leave you like this!"

He moaned at every word she said. He writhed with pain as she held him in her arms. Every innocent gesture was a shaft of pain. Her innocence and untouched beauty were like a caustic poison scorching his soul.

He turned his face away and felt the transformation begin.

"Go! I said go!"

He looked down and the shame of deceit welled up inside him. She hesitated, uncertain how to deal with this stern unexpected order.

Gathering all his strength, he stood and turned towards her.

"Now GO! The Comedy is over!"

She shrank at the sight of his face. His eyes blazed like hot coals; his face was a pallid bony shape; his lips, red with paint, exposed yellow pointed teeth. On his head, a black skull cap. He stared with a luminous glare, then he crouched down on the floor and sobbed. Faced with pure innocence, he was forced back into an eternity of pain. He knew that whatever pain he could inflict, he suffered eternally. Pure innocence was sublime and invulnerable.