Honest Masks

by Barbra Novac

  The inspector, remembering himself, mumbled an apology and shuffled in the direction Max steered.

  At the first studio, the inspector again had reason to pause when he saw the familiar image of a Salvador Dali melting clock painted directly onto the wall, a gift from the man himself. Numerous great artists had given them similar gifts. Scores of canvases in various states of completion lay against walls or easels, some covered in loose tarps, others bare for the eye to see.

  They moved to the art library sitting between that studio and the next. An enormous room, easily the size of a small conference room, with floor-to-ceiling books. The books sat on heavy dark jarrah shelves with metal rods, which ladders on wheels used to travel the length and height of the shelves. Various priceless objets d’art lay around the room. Max caught the admiration in the glances the inspector gave as he scrawled his notes silently.

  From there they moved into the pottery and sculpture room. Large double doors led, via a small path, to a brick kiln that sat, well maintained, in the small garden off the room. The studio had every amenity, catered to every need of the artist. The inspector took his notes with enthusiasm, no doubt spurred on, Max thought humorously, by the creative energy in the air.

  From there they moved to the next library, the one, as Max explained, devoted to English literature. It had the same dimensions of the art library, though with scattered tables, desks, and chairs throughout the room. It looked very much like a beautiful, old city library. Two young people, about university age, sat working at desks, oblivious to all around them. Harrison saw them and busily took notes.

  “They’re studying hard,” he whispered to Max.

  “Yes. They’re the first of the next generation. Everyone born to any of the farm families goes to university depending on their skill level. We watch skill progression through the genes very closely here.”

  From there, they went to the foreign-language library and the two science labs. The inspector popped his head in briefly as Max encouraged him along, trying to keep to time. They passed the kitchen, filled with bustling chefs and kitchen hands, and finally arrived at an enormous room toward the back of the mansion. The inspector looked around the walls, from the large dining table stretched across the wall closest to the kitchen, to the games area off to the side, complete with full-sized billiard table, table-tennis table, and smaller card and chess tables. In the far corner sat plump, inviting lounges huddled around a colossal fireplace. The fireplace was cleaned and set up, prepared for a night of jovial company and melting roasted marshmallows.

  “Wow,” breathed the inspector.

  “We have dinner and join together in this communal room a few nights a week. On other nights, each family retires to their own homes, just farther into the farm behind the factory over there. We are five generations here now.” Max couldn’t help adding the last line about numbers. It meant so much to him that these families of geniuses were nurtured here on this farm.

  Max’s bedroom and many other bedrooms with private bathrooms held the space up the stairs. Max explained that famous artists and scientists from all over the world came to stay here, so the extra space remained important for esteemed guests. Max rattled off some of the impressive names that had been through these halls. He knew they’d passed all regulations. However, he also knew this inspection wasn’t about regulatory compliance. The list of well-known intellectuals who took refuge at the commune would be impressive under the circumstances.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Max paused on his tour. “That does it for the mansion. Did you want to see the factory as well?”

  Max could tell that he had Harrison right where he wanted him, but he also knew the entire form had to be filled out properly before the inspector could tell the council there was no need to question the integrity of the commune.

  “Yes, indeed. I need a tour of everything. I do thank you for your time. And again, I do apologise for interfering in this ridiculous fashion.”

  “Well, we’ve been here longer than any other member of the community, and yet we’re still the strangers,” Max explained. “Because we keep to ourselves and because we keep the generations very close, we are looked on with suspicion from the locals.”

  Max ushered his guest out of the house for the second part of the tour.

  “Is there ever intermarrying? That is another rumour, you know.”

  Max sighed. “Never. It interferes with our gene studies. But we do choose our partners carefully.”

  “That’s what gives your experiment cult status. This careful selection of mates.”

  Max gulped down his frustration. “Yes, but no one ever marries unhappily. If they fall in love with someone outside their IQ level, they simply leave and start their life nearby so they can see their families. We still ensure they are well educated and cared for.”

  “Have there ever been complaints about these arrangements?”

  “No.” Max smiled again, remembering his charm. “There is no need for complaints when you encourage freedom of choice.”

  The two men walked across the white gravel path in the direction of the small factory. Max sensed the inspector preparing himself for a difficult moment, and so Max did the same.

  “You know, the complaints are serious, Mr. Sebat, despite there being no real evidence. There is talk that you people are having orgies up here and that you brainwash the children in the commune and keep them against their will.”

  Max didn’t break his pace or flinch in any way, but he knew this would be at the base of the complaints. He’d tried to keep his sexuality and the sex in his community private, knowing it caused concern when outsiders got wind of certain information. However, every few years, one of the people involved would tell stories and these would leach out into society. On the international stage, it added to their mystique, but the locals would get irritated. In Max’s opinion, it was because they were never invited, but this suspicion couldn’t be confirmed.

  “It’s the same every time, and every time it is proven to be false. You’re welcome to question any of the young people here. They all attend universities all over the country and some go overseas. We currently have two at the Sorbonne, one at Cambridge, and one at NYU. There’s every opportunity for them to get out and run away were that their hearts’ desire.” Max smiled his warmest smile. “We like to conduct the inspections because it gives us a chance to show that the rumours are not true.”

  Max paused before they entered the factory. “You understand that this is private property, and that I am showing you a valuable secret. Everything, the machinery included, is patented, and it is against the law to reproduce this anywhere in the world. You are not to take notes, photograph, or copy the machinery, process, or cloth that you are about to see. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. I understand this is part of the obligations of inspecting up here.”

  Max gave him another smile. “I always feel like Willy Wonka at this point. Prepare yourself. This is where alchemy is performed.”

  Max pushed open the two ornately carved doors at the same time, and the two men entered the enormous room together.

  The loom, the design of Max’s father, sat in four separate sections, all joined by pieces of taut cloth moving from machine to machine. Each section had a large spindle spinning wildly at the top of its loom. The three-storey-high factory ceiling towered above them, making the room feel like a giant bubble in which they were trapped. White fibres danced and competed for airspace. The rumble of the looms weaving together pounded so loud, it could be felt physically.

  People dotted each loom on either side, all wearing strange sorts of yellow helmets. Some monitored the cloth as it emerged from machines; others worked keys and dials on the sides. Each person working the great looms exhibited high-level concentration on the task at hand. The helmets that covered their ears had had visors that lowered to protect their eyes and mouths. Max had to shout at the inspector to be heard.

  “We work in three-hour shifts a
nd wear protective headgear that looks after our ears, eyes, and respiratory systems. Everyone in the commune takes a turn. The cloth is our masterpiece. It’s the thing that sustains us and provides us with funds to carry on the intellectual activities of the farm.” Max directed the inspector to another room, which sat behind thick glass off to the right of the factory.

  They walked through a door, Max making way for the inspector, into the room and were immediately relieved when the loud racket of machinery was reduced to a murmur behind the thick glass.

  Harrison stared wide-eyed as Max told him the story of the cloth. Across two long tables that ran the full length of the room sat the cloth that the community was famous for. They shipped it all over the world; the demand never ran out no matter what they charged. The cloth came in many colours, but the weave, the texture, and the raw material were all part of the original design.

  “It’s woven into our blood. We teach every new generation the looms first.”

  Moving among the tables, a man watched Max and Harrison closely, interested in the conversation and the outcome of the inspection. Max noticed, with a smile, the inspector’s eyes wander over to the man again and again as he went about his work.

  The man walked over toward them, and Max extended his hand to welcome him into the conversation.

  “Mr. Harrison, this is James Achor, my right hand and my life partner.”

  Max and James watched for the flinch in the inspector and none came. One of the good things about this area was its open-mindedness concerning politically correct issues. If anything, the inspector looked a little interested in James. However, this was the usual response to any person meeting James for the first time.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Achor. My apologies for the intrusion. However, I think everything is complete now. I just have a couple of questions more. By the way, that’s some beautiful cloth you have lain out there.”

  James eyed the inspector warmly, using his own charms in the same way Max could use his. James’s dark good looks were never wasted on any human being, and the inspector seemed almost flattered by the attention.

  “I’m sure Max told you that it is the very lifeblood of Genius Loci.” James’s dancing eyes would have been almost foolish if not for the obvious intelligence lying behind them. With his dark, uncombed hair interfering with his long black lashes, and his boyish charm flirting shamelessly, no one, male or female, could easily resist him.

  Max noticed with amusement that Harrison never took his eyes off James’s beautiful face as he spoke about the cloth. He was sure he could hear Harrison’s heart beating.

  “What are your questions, Mr. Harrison?” Max felt if he didn’t get a move on with this interview, Harrison would want to move in.

  As if he’d been woken from a dream, Mr. Harrison jumped and turned toward Max. “Um, yes. Sorry. I just want to know if anyone has ever actually tried to leave the farm and been forbidden to go.”

  Max retained perfect outward composure despite the increase in heart rate and faint perspiration breaking out on his palms. Harrison turned back toward James, shyly looking at him and then looking back at his notes, so he was in no position to recognise the slight change in biorhythm Max experienced. Max knew James could see it, but kept cool as he let his lover answer the difficult question.

  “No, sir. We’ve never had a runaway from the commune, and no one has been kept against their will.”

  James didn’t physically respond so as to draw attention toward Max, but his lover’s eyes moved to meet Max’s, and they had a questioning look in them.

  “Good. Then I’m done here.” Harrison looked almost sad as he turned away from James and walked toward the door to the factory. As Max moved to follow him, he caught James’s eye, the brief exchange telling him James may not approve but would support any lie he told to keep the farm alive.

  Chapter Three

  Chloe gathered her jacket and waved good-bye to the others making their way out of the office at sign-off time. Ross had already left, wishing her luck for her date. He’d teased Chloe all day. The teasing didn’t focus so much on Gary being a loser -- more his desperate efforts to get her to have drinks with him. No one at Electricity Australia knew him very well. He kept to himself; behaviour definitely treated with suspicion in this company. Chloe had been out to drinks with Gary before, sometimes with friends, sometimes with others. He’d been present for some deep conversations she’d had with a good friend, and therefore knew some detail about her -- secrets Chloe didn’t normally make public. For Chloe, however, this didn’t constitute friendship, and she’d turned down more attempts to get her to have drinks than she’d accepted. Chloe and Gary didn’t have a regular place, and his chair rescuing indicated too much familiarity. It was annoying that he’d gotten his way this time. Perhaps tonight is the perfect time to make my position on a potential relationship clear, Chloe thought.

  Everyone in the office knew that Chloe didn’t want to date him, if for no other reason than she’d never taken up the many outings he’d suggested. No one really understood why she wouldn’t -- both Chloe and Gary came across as a little odd to their colleagues at Electricity Australia -- but he made a bit of a spectacle constantly putting it out there for a refusal. Her disinterestedness and his repeated requests made him look a little desperate, and desperation was unattractive.

  Chloe made a last-minute dash for the powder room to freshen up before hitting the pub across the road for her date. Her sleek black bob had barely lost any of its sheen during the day, and the light makeup she’d applied over her smoky, round eyes remained relatively intact.

  Emerging from the ladies’ room, Chloe glanced around the office. Even though it was five fifteen p.m., the office was empty. People may have straggled in, but everyone left on time. Seeing she was the last one in the room, Chloe moved swiftly to her desk, one last task on her mind.

  Bringing up the saved site with the image of Eva Peron, Chloe printed it and quickly closed down her computer. She grabbed her purse and the piece of paper from printer as she headed for the door.

  The sticky, warm night encouraged Chloe to remove her thin jacket as soon as she hit the Sydney air. She couldn’t get used to the heat in this city. In spring and fall, the sultriness redeemed itself; the sun beat down through gently icy air, making the senses come alive. But the torrid, lymphatic summers melted the senses. The heat sat heavy, full of liquid, yet jealously sucking fluid out of the body. Tonight, the city seemed alive with people rushing to get home as if there could still be time enough to fulfil one’s dreams before bed. People relished a full evening before having to come to work and pretend to do something meaningful again.

  Chloe sighed. God, she wished she were going home.

  She looked across at the Brothers in Arms and, for a moment, thought she could see Gary in there chatting with some people she didn’t know. The street between -- full of bustling cars, vans, and busses -- grabbed Chloe’s attention. People ran against lights, through traffic, making nuisances of themselves, committed only to getting home quickly.

  Her heart sank as she realised it would be at least an hour before she could leave while still remaining within the bounds of social decency. Absentmindedly she dipped her hand into her bag and felt the piece of folded paper in the top. Maybe she could make just a quick stop.

  Reaching past the paper for her mobile, Chloe sent Gary a fast text letting him know that she would be another fifteen minutes. She looked over to see the figure in the group of people reach for his phone and read it. It must be him.

  Letting her eyes dart to the left of the pub, Chloe saw a large sale sign in the window of her favourite haberdashery store. They’d started the sale a day earlier; she couldn’t be happier.

  Without waiting for the lights, Chloe joined the kamikaze jaywalkers and flung herself into the traffic. Cars, stuck in front of green lights with no way out, bleeped horns at her simply because she could move and they couldn’t. She reached the other side in
one piece and ran into the sore.

  “Chloe! No surprise to see you. But we close in ten minutes, love. You can’t stay here for hours!”

  Chloe smiled at Mary, the woman who ran the small store, then looked back at some white Egyptian cotton advertised for sale on a stand. Chloe held the cloth in her hands. Its softness moulded itself around Chloe’s skin. The weave had the complicated majesty of Egyptian cloth, but its drape was almost like batiste. Chloe imagined the fabric connecting fresh with her flesh and marvelled at the beauty of the cloth.

  Lost in her reverie, she didn’t notice Mary come to her side.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it, love? What’s the project you got in mind?’

  Still holding the cloth, Chloe lifted the folded paper out of her purse and handed it to Mary.

  Mary whistled softly between her teeth. “I reckon you have almost-magical taste. I don’t know where you get your talents from, girl, but this pattern is a brilliant idea. You’re wasted over there in that building. Why don’t you go back to the States, study design, and work as a designer? Your eye is the best I’ve seen.”

  Chloe missed the compliment, being completely focussed on the material. Realising Mary had stopped talking, she turned to her. “I think this is the cloth. I can’t believe you had it here, sitting in the doorway almost. I don’t even need to order it in.”

  “This is pretty expensive. I’ve had to place it at fifty-five dollars a metre, and that’s still cheap, which is why I have it on a sale stand. It’s the best Egyptian, but I know that you can see that right away.” She glanced down at the paper in her hand. “How much are you going to want?”

  “I reckon I can do this comfortably with three yards -- sorry, I mean metres.”

  “Well, you could, Little Miss No Mistakes.”

  Chloe lifted the roll out of its stand. “I’ll take it with me now.”

  Mary smiled and traded the roll for the paper. As she turned, she said, “If you’re keen to spend up, I have some gorgeous silk in the back. It just came in. I haven’t had time to put it out yet.”