I imagine that the first fellow to invite me into his home had decided that he would once and for all uncover the mystery as to who I was and why I had come there. Approaching me in my usual spot at the market square toward the closing of a fiercely sunny day, he confided in me first and foremost that this had been his daughter’s idea. He had spoken to me before once or twice, and this time I could read something different in his demeanor, in the way he wrinkled his cap and bowed his head like a child come to confess to a priest.
Having spent the day watching over children and, once, listening to a woman bemoan her horrible love life, I had my chin cushioned upon the palm of my glove. I had come to feel every bit as if these people thought me their judge, jury, and executioner –although I had taken no action toward the latter but to deprive them of my presence on occasion when their complaints seemed too overwhelmingly trivial or they attempted, once more, to goad me into removing my mask. In any case, it was with a somewhat tedious air that I watched his approach. I studied his hands and posture through my mask. The day, as I have mentioned, had been hot, and I had just been preparing to disappear for the night when—
“H-hello, friend,” he greeted me, wringing his hat as if attempting to rid it of sweat or blood.
I rearranged my feet and made a show of leaning forward over my knees to wave at him. A delicate twitch of the fingers that never failed to make children laugh.
He inclined his head uneasily. “I know you probably have somewhere to be,” he said, “or s-someplace that you go, I guess. But my daughter insisted, you see—” My silence, I have discovered, has a marvelous tendency to make people squirm and reach for explanations for any small thing. “—my daughter—She’s only eight; you probably remember her being with me the other day.— She insisted that you might be lonely for supper, and perhaps you would be interested in dining with us today?”
I fanned out my fingers and started to stand, but he hastened to toss up his hands to stop me.
“Please—” he said. “Just to entertain her and her sister for a while. They’re fascinated by you. Y-you’re, um. Qu-quite the character.” The way he leaned from foot to foot and fidgeted and fiddled made me think of an apprentice burglar being interrogated by the police. Yet I hadn’t said a word –only scarcely raised a finger. His eyes seemed frantic, but I couldn’t fathom why. If he was so affrighted of me, then why invite me into his home? Surely two disappointed daughters would be easier to handle than one masked stranger?
The bench creaked faintly beneath my feet (it had done so since I took up daily residence there) as we examined each other. It was odd to me, the idea of entering into the home of another, much more-so to be invited –begged, even– over the threshold. I felt in part compelled by curiosity, and in another part repelled by the brand of suspicion that arises out of nuance and strange things. But then again, what reason had they to hurt me? What reason had I to fear them? In truth, if some danger did befall me, all the more lessons learned. Humanity needn’t try to play nice with me anymore, I thought. And so, stepping down from the bench, I dusted myself off with a succession of quick flicks of the fingers and then straightened to tilt my head at him. I turned my hands out from my sides. Well?
He smiled, and I couldn’t help feeling in the depths of my spirit that I had made a grave mistake.
~*~
The daughters were aged eight and fifteen, and one clearly had more interest in my presence there than the other. Ginger was the name of the younger one, although she had not a spot of ginger on her. She had curly black hair which hung in graceful swirls from a ponytail off the side of her head. The darkness of her hair lit up the purplish color of her eyes which beamed with joy the moment she perceived my silhouette outlined in the doorway. “You brought him!” she gushed as she plunged past her father to gaze up at me. “Hi, Mister Jester! Teira made extra food for you. You’re gonna love it here!”
I stiffened when she grabbed my hand, but rather than try to remove the glove, she used it to draw me farther into the house. Her father gave me a look brimming with uneasiness. Perhaps he already regretted bringing me there.
The young one led me through a hall that opened onto a quaint little kitchen with a collapsible table set to one side. Scents of chicken and gravy filled the air, mingling with the freshness of cooking vegetables. I noted with some curiosity that the walls were decorated with more food splatters and stains than any sort of art, as I might have expected. Upon the table rested four place settings with napkins and glasses already filled with water, as well as three extra glasses containing a reddish-purple wine.
Noticing this latter detail, the father moved forward to dispose of one glass of wine.
Teira, the elder of the daughters, made a displeased sound, but didn’t comment as her eyes drew toward me. Hers were of the same purple color as her sister, but they had already begun to acquire the disillusioned haze of adulthood. She said nothing, but grimaced slightly and went back to slicing cooked meat from the chicken onto a platter.
“That’s Teira!” chimed the youngest as she pulled me over to a chair and seated herself beside me. Her father hastened to push the glass of wine from her plate to my own, and I tilted my head at it. “She’s a really good cook, though,” Ginger continues, unfaltering, “We’re gonna eat chicken and vegetables. The carrots are from our own yard. We pick them today!”
The little one’s eyes bore down hungrily on the food as it was brought over by her older sister and father. She perched on the very front-most edge of her seat and even then bounced upon it as if longing to leap up onto the table itself. “Go ahead and serve yourself, Mister Jester! Guests always serve themselves first.”
All three pairs of eyes turned my way as the other two took their seats. I stared back at them from the depths of my mask, then looked down at the two dishes: one bearing slices of chicken seasoned with lemon and thyme, and the other filled with diced carrots, broccoli, and onions that had been roasted in oil. The soles of my boots rested flatly on the floor, and the tips of my fingers perched on the edge of the table. I stared at the prepared meal. And stared, and stared. I knew that to help myself to anything would be to waste their food, as I had no intention of removing my mask to eat it.
We hovered in that moment for a long time, curiously enough. They weren’t quite certain what to do with my silence. It was like offering food to a breeze that had blown in the curtains and sitting there waiting for it to disappear. Ginger was expectant. Teira drummed her fingers boredly. Their father looked like a man being forced to poison a friend, so woefully did he watch me from across the table.
Finally— “Here!” Ginger, in the brilliant boldness of youth, sat up to fork a couple pieces of chicken onto my plate, followed by a heaping spoonful of vegetables. She flashed me a bright smile before passing the utensils to her father, who only reluctantly began to serve himself.
I stared down at my plate, then. Steam rose from it, but I couldn’t feel it through my mask. I found myself puzzled as to the action of serving food to one who had made no motion to serve himself. Did she think that I had not understood? Had she determined to expose the true depths of my soul by way of forcing kindnesses upon me? Children are keen –I had no doubt about it then, and still haven’t wavered from the fact today– and so I wondered at what sort of ploy had landed me at that dinner table with a plate of food and three expectant pairs of eyes watching me.
“You can eat now, Mister Jester. It’s okay.”
“Might help if he took the mask off…” This latter comment came from Teira, with a meaningful look out of the corner of her eye as if daring me to counter the statement.
“Now, girls, be polite.” Their father looked up at me with a crinkle of the eyes. “You are welcome to eat, though. We have more than enough food for the four of us.”
It was then that I drew my hands back from the table and clasped them in my lap. The movement, I could tell, had the effect of creating a barrier between myself and them. The young girl’s smile whisked away. Teira raised an eyebrow. Their father flinched, but said nothing.
Ginger continued to watch me intently as she scooped forkfuls into her mouthful and chewed and swallowed. Her lower lip pouted slightly, and those expressive eyes had grown round and beseeching. She wanted desperately for me to partake in their meal, as much as any child would hope to befriend the Tooth Fairy or a leprechaun.
Teira frowned at me something that fell just short of a glare. Perhaps she took some offense at my rejection of her meal. I can’t know how long she had spent preparing it, but surely she had not gone that much out of her way to toss in a few extra carrots for me. What reason, then, did she have to look upon me with such disgust?
Their father’s gaze was apology over and over again on into eternity. Attempting to salvage the meal, he said, “It is an honor to have you at our dinner table, Mister Jest—” He caught himself saying it, and only then realized the error, both his daughter’s and his own. “Oh, I’m sorry! I hadn’t even realized— What is— Do you—” He flustered slightly, helpless in the face of my muteness. “Could you write down your name, perhaps?” He pushed a napkin toward me with a pen from his pocket.
I stared at the napkin for a beat, just a beat. People had presented me with plenty of writing utensils during my time observing in the square, had asked me to do so plenty of times. It was, truly, something of a relief to take up the pen in my hand, smoothing the napkin down flat in front of my plate. I tested the ink with a quick scribble in the corner –it was blue and really didn’t write all that well on the paper napkin– and then bent my head over my reply.
I sensed all three heads craning to get a look at it, and so hastened on my way to scribble it out and then turn it to them. Ginger and their father both looked confused, for I had sketched and shaded the outline of my mask upon the page: two curling horns and a face that bore only two dark spots for eyes.
Teira snorted a sharp laugh. “‘Jester’ suits him.”
“But what’s your real name?” pleaded Ginger. “Can’t you tell us?”
I leaned forward and tapped my finger insistently at the drawing, though my eyes swung from one to the other of them, curious.
“That’s not your name; that’s a picture!”
“Now, now, Ginger,” her father sighed helplessly. “He doesn’t have to tell us his name if he doesn’t want to.”
“You have to admit it’s awfully suspicious, though,” smirked Teira. I seemed to have acquired an ounce of her respect through my display.
“Hush now, Teira. You’re making him uncomfortable.”
“But what do we call you, then?” insisted the little girl, having forgotten about her vegetables in the distress of the moment.
I made a show of scratching at my chin in thought. In the short time that I had been observing the town square, I had been called any number of names –none of which were my own, and yet all of which belonged to me– and ultimately it didn’t matter to me what they thought to name me. Names are superfluous, a label stamped on a child’s forehead at the moment of birth without their so saying. A name binds a being to a particular type of personhood, a certain way of life, of culture, of existing through the steps of time. It defines them long before they have the chance to define themselves. Who, I wonder, would seek to name a block of marble before it has been carved? It is a vain thing, I imagine.
Then, shrugging up my shoulders, I pointed a finger and nodded toward the older daughter.
“Teira?”
“Jester,” amended the one being pointed to with all the confidence of one who had meditated it for weeks. Or, perhaps, two minutes.
I pointed again at Teira, nodding, and nodding, and even clapping my hands a little.
“Jester!” Ginger exclaimed. “That’s what I called you before!”
“Are you sure you’re alright being called that…?” worried their father, but I nodded emphatically and pointed this time to the picture as if to show how the name suited my drawing of my mask.
So we all agreed upon my new name, which I had expected to be a familial sort of thing –a pet-name that the three of them would take with them as a token for having invited me to dinner that night. Temporary at best. But it stuck and spread, first among those of Ginger’s age, and then among the others as well. Steadily, the whole community committed to their name for me. People who I had never seen before approached me with a friendly smile and a greeting of, “Hello, Jester!” Old folks, young folks.
Time spent at the dinner tables of strangers became a regular occurrence for me. I studied them all as they studied me. There was a sort of mutual fascination about us, although I think that they hardly saw it that way. I had come to be a sort of mascot for the people. They left offerings of food at my feet, brought me into their homes to spend evenings entertaining their children, or else they themselves. Most questioned me, but the questions came more out of habit as time went on. Having a guest, they felt the pressing need to question him, as if it was some moral obligation. But also they understood, with time, that I would provide no answers.
Over time, they came to understand me, to welcome me. I was their pet enigma.
And then I decided to leave.
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