“Tell me everything,” I said. “What brings you to Perth? I know you’re here for some kind of photoshoot, but I want the details.”
She tilted her head to the side and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “Tell you everything? And you won’t even tell me your name, Jason.”
“My name’s Jake,” I blurted out. And I didn’t regret it. To hell with being careful. What good is being free if I condemn myself to be alone?
She furrowed her brow, looked pensively off to the side, and uttered under her breath, “Jake, Jake.”
“Ring any bells?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “I might not have made a good first impression. Now, I get a chance to try again. I like that.”
Greta smiled and nodded. “I know the feeling. Seems like every two or three years Hans and I moved to a new city. We always got another shot at making a first impression.”
“Get to reinvent yourself each time,” I suggested.
“So much reinvention,” she said with melancholy, “you never get the chance to be yourself, or find out just who that self is.”
“Is that where you’re at, Greta, trying to find out who you are?”
She thought about it for a minute then shook her head. “Nah, I prefer reinvention. I just haven’t invented the right version yet.”
“I know the feeling. Reinventing myself is my job at the moment.” I stared absently at the curtain. “I’ve been playing some rather odd roles lately.”
“Did you finish making the devil mask?”
I chuckled. “It’s horrible. But I’m hoping in dim lighting it will pass. Wanna see it?”
“Definitely,” she said. “Let’s have a show.”
Of all the sets and masks I’d created recently, the devil mask was far from my finest work. I didn’t care. I was overcome with the urge to share everything with Greta—all my struggles, my shortcomings, my stupid off-the-grid ideas for getting out of the poor house.
I slipped behind the curtain to change into my costume. “It’s not finished yet,” I called out.
“I don’t care,” she called back. “Stop stalling. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The mask clashed with my shirt, so I took off my shirt. From behind the curtain, I said to her, “I figure you took your shirt off, I could at least do the same. Are you ready?”
“And waiting,” she called back.
I did a few push-ups real fast. If I was going to show her my body, I at least wanted my muscles flexed. Then I slipped on the mask and came out from behind the curtain, growling, and flexing.
Greta jumped back in her seat, her eyes open wide and her mouth agape.
I quickly took the mask off. “Did I startle you?”
“My goodness, that’s creepy.”
“Thanks.”
She stuck out her hand. “Let me see it.”
I handed her the mask. “I used a dyed cloth. The ripples create shadow and a bit of movement. Much better than plastic.”
“Can you see through the eyes?”
“Surprisingly well,” I said. “It’s a double layer of screen mesh, but it works.”
“You’re creative and handy, Jake.” She handed me back the mask. “I’m impressed.”
I put the mask over my face to hide my grin. She just complimented me!
“It’s missing horns,” I said. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Greta pointed to the candle on the table. “Do you have a second candle?”
“I’ve got dozens of them.”
Now, it was Greta who grinned.
I’d always enjoyed building sets and making costumes. There was something quite satisfying about working with my hands. But I’d always worked alone. Now, here I was, sitting on the floor of the workshop with Greta, a hard rain pitter-pattering against the roof, and a trunk full of odds and ends scattered about us to experiment with.
We’d melted down some wax and fashioned two stump horns for the mask. Greta suggested caking a bit of wax into the corner of the eyes and adding a touch of glitter to the mesh.
“I like my devil’s eyes to sparkle,” she said with a wry smile.
“It’s perfect,” I said, genuinely impressed with the improvement.
“And what about the rest of the outfit?”
“The rest?” I lifted my shoulders and motioned to my naked chest. “That’s it, just the mask. I’ll go shirtless and wear only boxers.”
“Hmm.” She tapped an index finger against her lips and looked me up and down.
“I’d put on body paint if I had any,” I said.
“Hmm.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at me. “What about the cages I saw here last night?”
“They’re outside. Why?”
“Weren’t their chains tied to one of them?”
I nodded.
She clasped her hands together and, like an empress ordering a servant, she issued her command, “Bring me the cages.”
For the next half hour, I was clay in the hands of an expert sculptor. I knelt on the floor, arms at my sides, while Greta wrapped my torso in chains. She experimented with wax, grease, and oils, smearing them on my chest and shoulders.