#55: Masquerade / ep.7
Traditionally, waltz pieces used for ballroom dancing are slow-paced, at around eighty beats per minute. The dancers surrender themselves to the gentle three-beat rhythm, sweeping across the floor in broad, graceful movements.
But the Masquerade Waltz from Khachaturian’s suite Masquerade, chosen by Akazawa, was different. The piece was elegant and majestic, with even an eerie quality to it, yet its tempo was twice as fast, at 160 beats per minute. Even grasping the rhythm of the three-beat measure was difficult.
For Mikoto, it was uncharted territory. She had only crammed in the bare minimum. What else could one expect when someone with barely more than a beginner’s experience surrendered herself to a waltz like that?
“Come on, Mi-chan, get up, will you? Staying down there is such a waste of a pretty girl like you.”
Spotlights descended from three directions, illuminating Akazawa. From below, Mikoto could barely make out her expression against the backlight. The only thing she could see clearly was her mouth, beautiful yet ugly, twisted with anticipation and derision as though she had been waiting for this opportunity.
Mikoto fell.
She could not even properly manage the opening of the prescribed waltz figures from three years ago that Fumika had taught her, the Overturned Natural Spin Turn. She had failed to switch her feet correctly.
“They told you to replace the music!?”
After finishing her last dance with Mikoto, Kuze Fumika shouted at the staff member in the wings.
According to the programme Fumika had originally received from the Hibiya side, they were supposed to use the classic slow waltz Tennessee Waltz.
But shortly after the dance party had begun, Akazawa had apparently approached them about replacing the music with Masquerade, claiming that she had obtained approval from Fumika, the person in charge on site.
Naturally, Fumika had never given such approval. With nowhere else to direct her anger, all she could do was slam her fist against the table.
“She’ll only end up humiliating herself like this! That’s not a waltz Kurosu-sama can dance to. The tempo is far too fast!”
This was the trap Akazawa of the Secretarial Division had laid.
She had replaced the music with a piece utterly impossible for a beginner to dance to, all so that Mikoto would be humiliated in front of everyone at the exhibition.
“Quickly, replace it with the track we had planned! I’ll go apologise and tell them it was our mistake!”
As the flustered staff member hurriedly worked at the PC for the sound system, a USB memory stick was handed to him.
But the person handing it over was neither a member of the backstage staff nor Kuze Fumika. Naturally, it was not Akazawa, who was currently dancing to Masquerade, either.
“Then please replace it with this one. Waltz of the Flowers. In Japanese, Hana no Waltz.”
Emerging from the darkness was a mysterious troublemaker whom Fumika knew all too well: her former colleague from her days as an actress and hotel employee, Charlotte Gabriel.
“Senpai!?”
There was scarcely any light. Only the glow from the PC’s backlight and a small lamp illuminating the console. In that uncertain lighting, Charlotte appeared almost ghostlike. She was as beautiful as she had been four years ago as an actress, wearing a black-haired wig and the stage costume from her days as Akutagawa Alice.
Fumika caught her breath.
“I asked one of Sanae-san’s underlings to help me. Apparently, he has some experience working backstage.”
The young man Charlotte had mentioned stepped in front of the PC. He transferred the audio file from the USB memory stick and began editing it so that the tracks could be joined with a fade, without sounding unnatural.
But that was hardly the important matter.
“Wait, wait! You mean that Waltz of the Flowers!?”
“Tra-la, tra-la, tra-la. Tararatta♪”
Charlotte hummed the famous phrase in a cheerful, birdlike voice.
There was no mistaking it. The melody was both glamorous and light.
Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers, the iconic piece from the ballet The Nutcracker. But if that was what they were replacing it with, there was absolutely no point.
“Do you understand why we’re replacing the music!? Waltz of the Flowers won’t change the tempo!”
“Hehe. It’s not just any Waltz of the Flowers, you know? It’s the Karajan version.”
“Which is even faster!”
“Here’s the story. A masked woman appears before a prince who has fallen into a witch’s trap. The woman is the princess he loves, transformed into an ugly figure by the witch’s curse. If the prince recognises her true identity and swears his love, the curse will be broken. The witch’s terrifying masquerade comes to an end, and blooming flowers bless the two of them.”
“You’ve even thought up the staging plan…”
“But it’s a spectacle exhibition, isn’t it? Aren’t we the ones who are supposed to intoxicate the audience?”
Fumika considered it.
Mikoto certainly could not dance Waltz of the Flowers. And with a recording by Karajan, a conductor known for his tendency to perform pieces at faster tempos, it would be even more difficult.
At the same time, Fumika studied Charlotte’s expression. Not the slightest trace of tension or anxiety could be seen in the amber eyes peering out from behind her mask. They glittered with an overwhelming confidence that everything would succeed.
“…All right. I’ll leave the timing to you, Senpai.”
“Then, as planned, I’ll be counting on you, Underling-kun.”
“I’m Iida!”
The young man called Iida then used the staff intercom to give instructions to the lighting crew.
Fumika couldn’t help being impressed. As one would expect from someone employed at Hibiya, his arrangements were remarkably polished. To pull something like this off on the spur of the moment was impressive.
More importantly…
“Honestly, you really are something…”
Fumika had no choice but to smile wryly. She was utterly exasperated.
Charlotte would stop at nothing to protect and nurture Mikoto. She was suspicious of everyone around her, yet, no, precisely because she was suspicious, she would wear herself to the bone trying to love people in the most roundabout ways imaginable.
That was Charlotte Gabriel.
“How can you possibly have so much love for her and still be unable to tell her honestly? Honestly, this woman…”
“I’m shy.”
With that, Charlotte gave a little “fufu” in lieu of a farewell and walked towards the floor, where the masquerade continued.
No matter how desperately she wished for it to end, the Masquerade continued, existing solely to humiliate Mikoto.
It was her fifth fall.
Her feet were caught by the Double Reverse Spin, which turned at twice the speed they had practised, and Mikoto crashed onto the floor on her hip.
Akazawa had intended to make Mikoto fall from the very beginning. Whenever they reached a difficult step, she would deliberately manipulate the changes in tempo, using centrifugal force and inertia to make Mikoto fail.
Akazawa never fell along with Mikoto.
Through her dancing, she continued to tell the audience, as plainly as if she were speaking: I’m dancing perfectly. Mikoto is the one at fault.
“Oh, dear, oh dear. How disgraceful. You’ve failed so many times, Mi-chan. Aren’t you embarrassed?”
The waltz, or rather, Mikoto’s public execution, would not end.
“Crying won’t make it end, you know, Mi-chan?”
Mikoto’s vision was growing hazy.
It wasn’t Akazawa’s hostility that frightened her, nor was she suffering because of the humiliation. She was frustrated at her inability to dance properly. Ashamed that she had failed to make anything of what Shandy, Fumika, and Rinko had taught her. Something hot was welling up in her eyes.
“I’m not crying…!”
“Oh, really? How long do you think you can keep up that defiance?”
“…Again. From where we left off.”
“That’s more like it. It wouldn’t be any fun otherwise, would it?”
On trembling legs, Mikoto stood on the floor yet again. Closed position.
Akazawa’s back was arched as far as it could go. The more she tilted her centre of gravity, the more centrifugal force would be added to the rotation of the Double Reverse Spin.
Mikoto once again tried to internalise the tempo of Masquerade. 160 beats per minute. High tempo. Three beats to the bar.
On the first beat of the waltz, she aligned her feet with Akazawa’s and began to turn, but—
“Hehe, fufufu! You’re completely hopeless, Mi-chan!”
—Akazawa swept her leg out from under her.
Mikoto’s supporting leg lost its balance, and once again she fell to the floor. The pain in her hip where she had struck it hard only intensified her frustration, her sense of humiliation.
“Sorry, okay? I have to satisfy Kosugi. So I’m not going to go easy on you.”
“…Kosugi has nothing to do with me.”
“Who cares about that? As long as you look pathetic, Mi-chan, Kosugi will be satisfied.”
“What did he do to you…?”
“Isn’t it dance time right now? Come on. Take my hand, Mi-chan.”
It couldn’t end. It wouldn’t end. She couldn’t let it end like this.
If she gave up here, she would betray the feelings of all those who had trusted her and entrusted her with this.
Sanae had fallen into the trap, yet still spared no effort to support her. Rinko had desperately learned the steps for her. Kotone had covered for the quickstep they hadn’t practised by turning it into a sisterly performance. Fumika had taught her the prescribed figures.
And Shandy—
Shandy had arranged everything so that Mikoto could fight Akazawa.
For the sake of everyone who cared about her, she couldn’t lose.
She didn’t want to lose.
“…I’ll never lose to you. Not you!”
“Pointless. It’s all pointless. No matter how many times you try, the result will be the same. You’ll fall over and embarrass—”
That was when it happened.
The spotlights illuminating Mikoto and Akazawa went out.
A pillar of light appeared a short distance from Mikoto.
Masquerade disappeared. The murmuring of the audience could be heard.
Lying in the darkness, Mikoto’s eyes caught sight of a woman standing within the newly appeared pillar of light.
A white woman with long black hair, her eyes covered by a masquerade mask.
Riddle Smith, the woman she had spoken to earlier.
When they had spoken, she had been wearing a dark navy cocktail dress. Now, however, she wore a stunning black dress with a beautiful A-line silhouette, lavishly adorned with lace frills and corsages.
She looked like a masked woman cursed with the spell of death.
“What is this? This wasn’t in the plan…!”
Her figure was difficult to make out in the dimness, but Akazawa’s voice betrayed her agitation.
This surprise was not part of either the Secretarial Division’s plan or Akazawa’s.
Then light pierced Mikoto.
The spotlights that had illuminated the two of them now focused solely on Mikoto.
Two pillars of light descended onto the dance floor: one illuminating the masked woman, the other Mikoto.
“Ah! So I was right!”
The masked woman addressed the audience.
Her voice was saturated with sorrow, clear and carrying enough to reach every corner of the venue.
There was no way Mikoto could fail to recognise it.
“That person is my beloved! My prince! But the witch’s curse has transformed me into an ugly creature…! To break the curse, he must believe in me. He must love me!”
Using both hands, her entire body, the masked woman continued, giving everything she had to the audience.
Loving someone yet being unable to love them. She cried out the contradictory emotions as though they were her own.
“…Will the prince realise that I am his destined lover, even though I have hidden my ugly appearance behind this mask? Ah, I don’t know… I don’t know…!”
The masked woman approached Mikoto.
Her heels clicked against the floor. Tap, tap. Hesitantly, sometimes advancing, sometimes retreating. With nothing more than the simple act of walking, she expressed her wavering heart as vividly as possible.
The spotlights did not let her escape.
The three beams of light illuminated even the complicated turmoil within her heart, shifting restlessly around her.
“…And yet, I cannot help but trust my prince. I cannot help but love him! So at the very least, I want to test his love. I want to play a game, to see whether he can discern my true identity despite the curse.”
—Just as she thought.
Just as Mikoto had been certain.
The masked woman —the true identity of Riddle Smith—
“So! If you would consent to dance with someone like me… would you dance with me, Prince?”
Amber eyes peered through the two openings in the mask.
The tears Mikoto had been holding back spilled over.
She already knew her answer.
“…Yes. Of course.”
Mikoto wiped her tears away with the sleeve of her tuxedo. She took the hand of the masked woman as she bowed, lowering her own body and drawing close to her.
Closed position, with only their right sides touching.
The same sensation as when she had first learned it. The same warmth in the embrace.
When Mikoto placed a hand against her back, the woman slipped an arm around hers. Their free hands clasped, fingers interlocking.
Every part of it fit perfectly.
As though neither of them could have found a better partner anywhere in the world.
Masquerade began to play again.
Mikoto surrendered her body and heart to the ominous three-beat rhythm.
It was the song she had fallen to the floor to again and again. A piece a beginner could not dance.
But now, the masked woman was there.
The moment Mikoto thought that, there was nothing left to fear.
Their feet extended simultaneously.
Overturned Natural Spin Turn.
Then into Turning Lock to Right.
The tempo was twice as fast. Naturally, Mikoto’s footing was unsteady.
Even so, the only reason she could somehow keep moving was the masked woman’s lead.
It was the exact opposite of Akazawa’s.
A lead that would never let her fail. One that would make absolutely certain she succeeded.
The gentlest consideration imaginable, something only a person who loved her could give.
“…What’s with all the theatrics?”
“I dabbled in acting, once upon a time.”
“Just who are you…?”
“Even if you ask about my past?”
“You won’t answer, and I don’t even intend to ask. That’s what I told Riddle Smith.”
“Correct.”
The masked woman smiled, showing no trace of a dark past.
The smile felt comforting. Beloved.
Mikoto found herself smiling along with her.
“But perhaps I laid it on a little thick?”
“Way too thick. And you drew way too much attention.”
“Oh, are you crying?”
“…I’m not.”
“Because you’re sad?”
“Even if I were crying, it’d be because I’m happy! And I’m not crying!”
“That’s right. If you’re going to be the prince, stand a little taller.”
The waltz’s prescribed figures moved into Natural Spin Turn.
It was a step they had practised countless times.
Even the dizzyingly fast tempo felt natural with this particular partner. Mikoto couldn’t tell whether her body was finally beginning to adjust, or whether the masked woman’s lead was simply that skilful.
“Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to dance with you.”
“You’re lying again. You could just say you came to help me.”
“If you already know, I don’t have to say it, do I?”
“Which of us is the one trying to make the other say something obvious?”
“For example?”
“…That you love me.”
The masked woman laughed softly.
“Fufu.”
The figures continued.
Contra Check. Wing.
Neither was about the beauty of the steps so much as the beauty of the dancers’ posture.
Mikoto straightened her back and held her close.
Within Mikoto’s arms, the woman formed an elegant arch with her back.
“I love you. I adore you—”
“It’s still too soon to say my name. I need your help first.”
“My help…? You want me to act out that story too?”
“The audience is enjoying our performance. Everything is in service of defeating the witch.”
“How much of this ending did you know was going to happen?”
“It was improvised. Just as I usually do.”
“…I can’t compete with you.”
“Then become someone who can. You’re the one I chose, after all.”
When they had finished the sequence of prescribed figures, the masked woman stood still.
The volume of Masquerade faded lower.
It was time for the opera portion, the part in which she needed Mikoto’s help, as she had put it.
“Ah! To dance in that person’s arms, to find it so dear, so achingly precious…!”
The masked woman moved away from Mikoto and once again confessed her feelings to the audience.
The spotlight illuminated her, the star of the stage.
“But I cannot reveal my name. I cannot confess that I am the ugly woman behind this mask! For he knows me only as I was when I was beautiful. I cannot bear to show him this version of myself, now that I am no longer beautiful…!”
The audience fell silent.
Every eye was fixed upon the masked woman’s every movement.
Within the pillar of light, they watched breathlessly as she acted out her anguish.
“…And so, even if I test his love, it will be pointless. This game means nothing. There is no way he could discover my true identity. Not unless some miracle occurs, a miracle that causes the red thread of fate that has become tangled through our misunderstandings to be tied together once more…”
Apart from a very small number of people, the audience would never realise what the masked woman truly meant.
Every one of her theatrical words, every carefully pronounced rise and fall of her voice, was the truth.
“I… have no choice but to wait for such a miracle…”
Having said that, the masked woman made her despair plain.
She collapsed onto the floor, captivating the audience with gestures of grief.
Then a voice came from within the crowd.
“Get a grip, you damn prince!”
It was less encouragement than heckling, almost an outright insult.
The voice of the person enjoying herself was unmistakably her younger sister, Kotone.
“Call her by her name!”
The voice that followed was probably Rinko’s.
Their cries, those of two people who knew this improvised play was not entirely fictional, acted as a catalyst, prompting the rest of the audience to shout their own encouragement.
They knew nothing.
They were merely spectators enjoying a theatrical exhibition.
And yet, their cheers directed at the prince, at Mikoto, pushed Mikoto forward and gave her the resolve to take the final step.
Mikoto drew a breath.
“You… are…”
The moment she tried to speak, nerves stole her voice.
As soon as Mikoto spoke, the floor fell silent once more.
Masquerade played softly in the background.
It was just like antiqua, the masked woman’s shop, where classical music played over a wired broadcast system.
So this was the same as always.
A game.
Mikoto straightened her posture. She stretched herself as tall as she could, lifting her chin and standing to her full height.
She performed the version of herself she wanted this woman to see, then drew another deep breath.
“Could you perhaps be someone I know well… my lover?”
“No, that is not so! My name is…”
Mikoto walked towards the masked woman.
Her knees were shaking themselves to death.
The more calmly she looked at the situation from the outside, the more ridiculous it became. Even if this was all in order to defeat Akazawa, the witch, she had somehow become entangled in an utterly surreal situation.
What she was doing was so embarrassing that she almost wanted to laugh.
And yet, this was what it meant to love her.
She was a mysterious masked woman, a woman who wanted Mikoto to look at who she was now, rather than who she had been.
Mikoto hesitated over which name she should call her.
But the answer came immediately.
The correct answer to the game was—
“…Your name is Shandy. My beloved.”
“Oh, God…!”
At once, the spotlights went out.
Every light in the venue was extinguished.
Then came a flash.
Light flooded the hall.
The floor, which until then had been illuminated only by spotlights, was filled with orange light.
Mikoto looked across the floor.
Akazawa was nowhere to be seen.
Only two people remained standing.
Mikoto, and one other.
“…Thank you, Mikoto.”
There was no way she could mistake the person she loved.
Charlotte Gabriel loved mysteries, wore countless faces, and toyed with Mikoto through her games.
This was the face she wanted Mikoto to see.
Golden hair.
Porcelain-white skin.
Amber eyes.
In the instant when the lights had gone out, Riddle Smith had transformed into Shandy.
The black dress that had seemed cursed and spellbound by death had become pure white.
The black hair had presumably been a wig. It lay discarded far away on the floor.
“Would you dance one more song with me?”
“…Yes. I’d be delighted.”
The Masquerade was over.
The opening bars of the next piece began.
It was a classical piece Mikoto recognised.
Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers, from The Nutcracker.