Afterword

Death Mask

An Archmime was a jester who imitated the manners, gestures, and speech of the deceased and walked behind the corpse at funeral processions, performing impressions of the dead as if they were still alive.

一

The inky fabric felt cool against the back of Francisco’s hand. It drew into itself the only light in the cramped space, and its blackness was unchanged to his eye. It dipped between the spaces of his fingers before he squeezed them together, crushing the fibres with arthritic knuckles. A few tired pops met the silence of the room.

“Are you satisfied?” A small man, even older than Francisco, spoke from the corner.

“You’ve done well, Guilherme,” Francisco said, almost too gentle for the tailor to hear.

Guilherme, leaning in, nodded and released a slight exhale, betraying his calm manner. “Then I am pleased. I know how important this is.”

“You have met a significant occasion with a garment that befits it, Guilherme. Thank you.” Francisco reached for the tailor’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Do you remember the first robe you made for me?”

“It is embarrassing to think on now, Francisco.”

“It was a fine piece, Guilherme. You only think it embarrassing because of the quality you achieve now. If you were to live a second lifetime, you would find even this robe a disgrace.”

The tailor eyed the robe, indulged in a moment of admiration, and replied, “I think not. This is a perfect piece.” The old man smiled.

Francisco chuckled. “I suppose true masters only require one lifetime.” He sighed. “I’ll miss this, Guilherme.”

“As will I. Shall I send in the bereaved?”

“Give me a few moments to dress and then, yes, send them in one at a time.”

Guilherme nodded and left the room.

Francisco was alone now. Dust swirled through the air around him like tiny moths propelled by Lisbon wind and sound. He looked to the high window punched into the brown stone wall near the ceiling. From the basement room he could see the ankles and shoes of men and women and children passing by as they walked the market along Campo Santa Clara. It started to rain and the feet, caught unprepared, scurried along, looking for shelter.

Francisco wrapped the dark robe around his body and it settled across his shoulders and fell across his chest, weightless. He turned and took two large strides from the tall mirror to the narrow table and took a seat in one of the two wooden chairs. The fabric stretched with his long steps and he relaxed into the cloth. He ran his smooth hands across the table to a mask, face-down, in the centre. He tugged at the loose fastening ribbon, bringing it within reach and, gripping its plaster edges, turned it over to face him.

The face of the dead stared up at him. The eyelids had not been closed during its making and a thin white valley like a crescent moon lay between the unshut lids. It unsettled him. He flipped the mask over and fit it to his face. It glided across his cheeks and his forehead and nose and mouth filled the mould. He tied the ribbon in a too-tight knot behind his head and donned his wide-brimmed, flat-top hat.

The death mask kept all light from his eyes; he would be blind during his performance. Anxiety rushed into him when he reached out for the table and touched nothing but air, but a quick adjustment had him find it again and pushed the worry from his mind.

There was a knock at the door.

Francisco cleared his throat. “Enter.”

A young man poked his head in. “Senhor, it is Miguel.”

Francisco waved him in and motioned to the empty chair.

Miguel took a seat. They listened to the rain for several moments. Then he shifted his position as if to ready himself and said, “My mother, my whole family, we’re honoured that you will be at my father’s funeral.”

“Thank you, Miguel, but I will not forget that it is not my day. It is your father’s.” Francisco’s voice cracked. “I am sorry. My voice has been hoarse for several days.”

“I’ve only ever known one archmime, my father. I hear you are the very best.”

“I am now also the very last,” Francisco said with a warm smile he hoped came through the plaster of the mask. 

They were silent again. The rain splashed onto the street above. 

“Do you know how an archmime prepares for a funeral, Miguel?”

“Not really. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t take an interest in my father’s work.”

“I will meet with you, your sister, and your mother, and you will each tell me the one thing about your father that you will never forget. And from those qualities I will perfect an impression of the man to perform at the head of the funeral procession from this spot, through the Feira da Ladra, to the Church of Sao Vicente of Fora, where the ceremony will take place.”

Miguel swallowed hard. “Senhor, can I ask why you do this?”

“To remind all who attend of your father in the physical way that he no longer can. I am a final image for those who could not imprint one on their minds before he passed.” 

“No, sir, you misunderstand. I mean, why do you dedicate your life to this, impersonating the dead?”

Francisco ran his hand across the grain of the wood table. “I suppose I was never any good at anything else. Miguel, do you know how you would like your father to be remembered?”

Miguel nodded. “I do.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know how you can do it.”

“That is my worry, not yours. Tell me.”

“When I was a child, my father and I would run through the narrow streets of Alfama. He would chase me like an animal and I would hide in every doorway and alcove I came across. It was for fun, but it scared me too. That mixture of excitement and fear, it is why I am a matador. It is why I do not fear having lost my father, because I will see him again and again in the arena. The crowds will cheer my name and they will applaud a thousand moments of my father rushing past me, searching and searching, but never finding me. It will be like in Alfama, always.”

Francisco breathed in. “But you must kill the bull in the end.”

“I do. And that is me letting go of my father. I will celebrate his life and remember his death every time I fight. It is a morbid thought to many, but I know death differently than most. I’m sorry if this is not appropriate.”

“Miguel, it is a perfect memory. Watch for me in the square as I lead your father’s procession. You will feel the secret streets of Alfama. You will see your father as you did a child again.”

“Thank you, senhor. I will get my sister.” Miguel stood, paused in front of the mirror, and left through the door he entered by.

There was a knock a few moments later and a small girl, twelve years old, her hair unkempt, wild, the ends of which arched out at odd angles like brown lightning, stepped inside. “May I enter?” she asked.

“Of course,” Francisco waved her in and motioned to the chair opposite him the same way he had Miguel.

She took two large strides and jumped into the chair. She stared at him without speaking, without moving.

“Does the mask frighten you?” he asked.

She nodded, then followed it with a sound of agreement when she realised he could not see her.

“I apologise. I need you to see me as your father. It will help with my work,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

“Do you know why you’re here, Babetta?”

“To tell you a story,” she whispered.

Francisco nodded, trying to shake the menace from the mask for the young girl.

“I don’t have a story. It’s just something he said to me once.”

“What was it, child?” Francisco asked before clearing his throat, his voice still gruff.

“He found me in my room crying once. I was sad because my brother was leaving. It was only for three days, but I thought he was going forever.”

“What did your father do when he found you?”

“He sat on the floor beside me and asked me why I was crying. He said, ‘Babetta, you cry because you are afraid of being alone. You cry because you are human and you love your brother and you love your family, but you are afraid that if Miguel can leave, then we might also leave.’”

Francisco moved his hand across the table again in a wiping motion, pushing invisible crumbs into place. “Was he right?” he asked.

“He was, but I was too young to understand him and he knew. So he looked at me and he smiled and said, ‘Babetta, I will tell you one secret that you must never repeat to anyone else but me.’” She sniffled and wiped her eyes.

Francisco reached into his chest pocket for a handkerchief before realising he was wearing the robe. “Babetta, it is all right. I will tell no one else. Only you will know the truth of what he said to you when you watch me.”

He heard her breathe in, the air catching in her chest in brief staccato. She jumped from the chair and hurried to the door. Francisco heard it open, but she did not leave. “He told me, ‘Babetta, you will always be my favourite. You will always be my favourite.’ And I believed him and I have only ever repeated it to him.”

Then she left Francisco.

The rain had stopped. The sounds of animals, cows, chickens, rattled their way into the small chamber.

Without a knock, the last visitor, the wife of the deceased, entered the room. Francisco stood. “Djanira, please,” he motioned to the chair for a third time.

She sat down, her heavy dress brushed against the wood chair as she took her seat. “Archmime, you do my husband a great honour,” she said.

“You do your husband greater honour, Djanira. Your children are thoughtful and...my tailor, he tells me you spend great effort in the markets. The merchants of Alfama respect you. I suspect you will not have trouble providing for your family.”

“No, I will not, but a family does not live on coin alone.”

“Of course not.”

“Archmime, I must confess I don’t recall my husband ever mentioning you. It surprised me to see your name in the letter he left us. He had no friends I was aware of.”

Francisco placed his hand over his heart. “It surprised me, too. We had not spoken since we trained together. I must have made an impression for him to recall me so many years later.”

“Yes, quite an impression.” Djanira crossed her legs, and the dress rustled again. She tapped her foot in midair; her ankle clicked each time. “I have thought about this conversation for days and I still don’t know how I would like you to honour my husband.”

“Your children have both told me stories of a man I wish I had known. You may do the same or you may share another detail. How he walked, or spoke, a favourite turn of phrase, a particular movement, any detail that might help me bring him to life for you.”

She chuckled.

“Why do you laugh, Djanira?”

“I will tell you, archmime, that he walked with the lightness of a man who was not married, spoke with the ease and naivety of a man who had no children, and the only phrases he turned were tired aphorisms. He spun his hands when he spoke, twisted them at the wrist and flitted his fingers in a most unbecoming way. That is a man I do not wish to see brought to life.”

Francisco leaned back in his chair; the wood creaked beneath him. He tugged on his hat, ensuring its position.

“The man your children spoke of left me with quite a different impression.”

“It was not fatherhood he failed at, but manhood.”

Francisco coughed, but his voice remained raspy. “Is this failure what you would have me project?” he asked.

“No. I just needed someone to know.” Djanira stood and took quiet steps towards the door. “My husband was a conflicted man, archmime. I grieved the loss of our marriage many years ago. Today, at last, I want him to feel uncomplicated for the first and only time. That is my gift to him. The only gift he might have ever used.” She exhaled. “Perform well.”

Then Francisco was alone again. He removed his hat and pushed the death mask up and let it rest in his thinning hair. Many feet crowded near the window above him. A slow, silent mob of black filled the square outside.

He stood and faced himself in the mirror again, adjusted his robe, relaxed his body, and breathed.

“The last archmime,” he whispered, the hoarseness in his throat now gone.

By the time he left the room and ascended the stairs to the street, someone had already positioned the casket to begin the procession. Grey clouds threatened the drying streets and a cool wind slid through his robe.

Francisco pulled the death mask over his face and repositioned his hat. He took two long strides from the doorway and the crowd noticed his presence and parted for him. He was blind now, but he had walked this path a hundred times, a thousand times.

It was twenty-seven paces in a straight line to the front of the procession. They would not begin until he took his position. The air became still as he approached the head of the column. The quiet rolled through the crowd like a blanket suffocating fire. The exertion from the men lifting the heavy casket reached his ears as he approached. There was a brief and hollow scrape as it left the stone street.

He dropped his head, letting the death creep into his bones, fill the tiny spaces between his joints and beat against the tiny bones in his inner ear. When he raised his head again, he had transformed in the eyes of all around him. It was a subtle effect, but convincing. The body inhabiting the disguise was gone. Only the deceased remained.

He stretched his arms out wide and spun in wild circles, lunging towards the crowd. They recoiled, then laughed. He babbled gibberish and threw his hands out in a most unbecoming manner. Mourners turned to revellers as he ran circles around the procession. By the time he reached Feira da Ladra, the crowd had tightened, and he jumped into their arms and they pushed the blind fool back into the middle before he ran to the opposite side and did the same.

Francisco’s performance enraptured the surrounding crowd and they swelled around him. He danced across every stone; he touched every inch of the square and every struggling weed between the rocks knew his presence.

“Point me towards the family!” he shouted and one mourner gripped him by the shoulders and aimed him towards the mother and her two children. He knelt down on one knee and placed a hand on the dusty stone. He grunted as a wild boar and charged the trio.

With each step, he shifted away from the jester, from the fool, from the most unbecoming, to the exciting, to the loving, to the feared. The crowd cheered him on as he closed the gap between himself and Djanira, Babetta, and Miguel. He heard Miguel’s laugh, deep and excited, followed by him clapping his hands together. 

Francisco continued his rush towards Miguel, and at the last moment stood upright and spun towards Babetta. The black cape rolled outward from Francisco’s body and stretched around the girl, hiding them both from the gaze of the mob. He reached out to her, and felt her sweet grip on the tips of his fingers. He held the pose until she released him. She laughed through her sobs. 

Francisco spun and ran back to the centre of the square to prepare himself for the last act. He crossed back in front of the procession. The sky had blued, and the sun warmed his neck. Energy from the crowd filled him and he was, at last, uncomplicated.

In his ecstasy, he lost focus, and his foot caught an upturned stone and he fell forward in a whirl of black silk and pooled into a mass in front of the procession. His jaw connected with the stone first and the death mask snapped; its rough edge caught his lip and fresh blood pumped into his mouth and spilled to the street. He lay still. 

The men carrying the casket did not see the fallen body in time and tripped over Francisco’s arms and legs. With their balance broken, their grip faltered. The casket fell to the earth, and the impact split the wood. The lid fell open and from inside poured dozens of sizable stones. They struck the ground beside Francisco with a quake he felt from inside his own chest. 

The carousing stopped as the crowd returned to their quiet. The remaining pallbearers let down the rear of the casket. It was all gasps and murmurs now. Francisco remained motionless, with half of his face pressed against the dirt beneath him.

“It’s full of stones!” one shouted.

“Where’s the body?” another asked.

The mob pushed closer and soon Francisco, ignored, saw dozens of feet stamping around him, voices clamouring to view the evidence with their own eyes. 

It was then that Francisco, confident he had become irrelevant to them now, pushed himself up and with the one eye he could now see with, made his way to the shadows of a narrow Alfama passage.

He stayed there for a time and watched the crowd in secret. He saw Djanira staring at the surrounding din. She clutched Babetta to her side, whose face was expressionless. Miguel sat in the dusty street beside them. Wind whipped his hair around his stretched face.

“Goodbye,” Francisco whispered.

A tiny figure approached from the end of the street. He pulled two horses behind him. The beasts made little noise, their hooves muffled by grass growing over stone.

Francisco approached the man, and the shadow slid from his face. “Guilherme. I was wondering if you might not make it.”

“The horses were less than cooperative,” Guilherme said.

The two men threw their arms around one another. Guilherme’s head nestled under Francisco’s chin.

The mob dispersed, the distraction of scandal now waning. “I see the procession did not go as planned?”

“I tripped near the end. They discovered my body was not in the casket.” 

Francisco mounted a horse, as did Guilherme. The two men turned their backs to the thinning crowd. They nudged their horses forward, pushing them towards the very edge of Lisbon and beyond.

“Do you have any regrets?” Guilherme asked.

Francisco looked over his shoulder, then back ahead. “Only that I do not have two lifetimes.”